Blood Defense

FIFTY-SEVEN

Alex had coffee waiting. We gulped it down and got on the road by eight o’clock. There were a few things I’d forgotten to ask Alex to pick up, so we had to stop at my apartment. Alex wanted to go in for me, to spare me the bummer of seeing how badly it’d been thrashed, but that would take longer, and I didn’t want to waste the time. Alex had put a padlock on the door because the flimsy door-handle lock had been broken. When I got the padlock off and pushed the door open, I stood there, frozen.

It was a horrible sight. The place had been turned upside down, and a violent energy still hung in the air. It felt as though the burglar was still there. I got out as fast as I could. I’d have to call the police and report it soon. But there was no point wasting time with it right now. Anyway, a report was just a formality. The odds of them catching the burglar were about as good as my winning the lottery. And I’ve never bought a ticket.

I got back to the car within minutes, and we headed for Malibu. The good thing about doing this on a Sunday was that there was no traffic. We’d make good time, and it’d be easier to see if we were being followed. We watched for any suspicious cars all the way to Pacific Coast Highway. The road behind us was clear.

It was one of those sparkling fall days when all the colors seem too vivid to be real-the cornflower-blue sky, the golden sunshine, the azure ocean that shimmered like glass.

The beauty of the day and the hope for our mission buoyed our spirits. We started our search at the northern edge of the Colony, energized and optimistic. We drove up one street and down another, working our way up the coast, sure we’d be able to find the house in the background of Marc’s photo in no time. But as we traveled up and down block after block, our spirits sank like a punctured air mattress.

By noon, we were tired, stumped, and demoralized. And I was starving. I spotted a sandwich shop across the highway from the ocean. “Let’s take a break. I’m buying.”

We ordered at the counter and took our sandwiches to the little metal table on the front patio. There was an older couple at the table next to ours who wore the unflashy tans and bleached cotton T-shirts and shorts of locals. I told them we were looking for a house that our friend had visited and asked if they might recognize the area from a photo. They said they’d give it a try. I showed them the photo on Paige’s phone.

The woman squinted at it and tilted her head. “I don’t know where this is, but it’s not this neighborhood.” She passed the phone to her husband.

He stared at it for a few beats. “I couldn’t tell you what street this is, but it kind of reminds me of Broad Beach. You know where that is?”

I’d heard of it. Broad Beach was multimillionaire territory, where humongous mansions sat right on the sand. Mega-celebrities like Barbra Streisand and Danny DeVito lived there. “It’s a little north of here, right?”

“Yeah. Just head up the coast.”

I thanked them and we got back into Alex’s car. “There you go. Progress at last.”

Michelle gave me a tired look. “Unless there’s more than one street in Broad Beach.”

I sighed. “And more than one house on that street. But at least we’re getting closer.”

We found the road the man had told us about. It was exotically named Broad Beach Road. But we couldn’t find a spot that looked like the one where Marc had been. We showed the photograph to everyone we saw, but none of them recognized the area.

It was almost five o’clock, and we were running out of energy-and daylight. I suggested a last-ditch effort across the highway, where there was a Rite Aid, a liquor store called Beachside Bevs, and a gas station.

The clerk at the liquor store, a tall, skinny young guy with acne, studied the photo, then shook his head. “Nah. Doesn’t look familiar to me.”

We struck out with all the clerks at the Rite Aid, too. The gas station was our last chance. I showed the photo to the cashier. She stared at it, and I could see she was really trying. But she shook her head. “No, sorry.”

We were about to leave when I noticed a mechanic working on an old Mercedes. I nodded toward him. “What the hell, it’s worth a try.”

Alex and Michelle followed as I headed toward the service bay. He had a tat on his neck that said LIVE FREE OR DIE, and he wore a leather necklace with what looked like an animal tooth.

I asked him if he might recognize a street in a photo I had. I held up the phone, and he wiped his hands on a dirty rag as he studied it. His face brightened. “Yeah. I know that place. It’s at the end of Sea Smoke Drive.”

A jolt of electricity ran through me. I tried to act casual. “You know the address?”

“The last house at the end of the road. It’s one of the smaller cribs in this community. You can’t miss it. Sits by itself out there.”

“How do you know the place?”

“Been taking care of their cars for the past couple of years. I pick ’em up and deliver ’em.”

“Then you know the people who live there?”

“Sure. Cory and Sarah Larsen. But if you’re looking for them, you’re out of luck. They’re in Thailand. Took off at the end of January. Won’t be back till next year.”

The end of January was right around the time Marc had taken the photo. But that meant these people-the Larsens-had been gone for months by the time he and Paige got killed. Marc and Paige wouldn’t have gone there if no one was home. Unless someone else was staying in the house. “Has someone been house-sitting for them?”

“Nope. They told me they were locking it up, asked me to check the place when I had a chance. Matter of fact, I’m storing their cars for them.”

How could this be? I felt like an anchor had lodged in my chest. I’d been so sure I was about to hit gold. Not only didn’t I hit gold but my one solid hope had been crushed.

Depressed, I thanked the mechanic and we trudged back to Alex’s car.

Alex leaned over the steering wheel and stared at the ocean. “Someone else might still have access to the place.”

I sighed. “I suppose.”

Michelle rallied. “And maybe Crocodile Dundee over there was wrong. Maybe it’s another house.”

Alex nodded. “She’s right. Either way, it couldn’t hurt to look.”

“Sure,” I said. “We’re here. May as well.”

It took us a while to find Sea Smoke Drive, and when I saw the house at the end of the road, I knew he’d pegged the right place. This was where Marc had taken the photo. The mechanic hadn’t been exaggerating when he said the house sat out there by itself. There were an easy fifty yards between it and the next-to-last house on the street.

Alex drove past the house, then parked farther up the road. “Let’s get out and look around.”

By now the sun was close to the horizon, and the ocean had a red glow. I wandered down the street behind Alex and Michelle, trying to figure out if there was still a way to resurrect the Marc angle. But without some evidence that Paige had been here with Marc that night, I didn’t see how it could work. It’d just come off sounding like a flimsy distraction. Which it was.

Alex and Michelle were circling around behind the house to the backyard-fifty feet of sand that led straight to the ocean, a private beach. I walked up to the front of the house and looked for a gap in the drapes. I found a small one a few feet to the right of the door, but it was completely dark inside. I couldn’t see a thing. Just for the hell of it, I knocked on the door. No answer.

Then, without thinking about what I was doing, I grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it. It gave. It wasn’t locked? How could that be? The mechanic had said no one was house-sitting for them. Something was wrong. My palms started to sweat. I didn’t want to call out to Alex and Michelle. It didn’t look like anyone was home, but it’d be bad to get busted for breaking and entering. I looked around. I didn’t see anyone nearby.

I put my head to the door and listened for signs of life, but I didn’t hear anything. I pushed the door open as slowly and quietly as I could and peered inside. The house was dark. All the drapes were closed. I made out a large sunken living room on my right. Straight ahead was a dining area, with a small kitchen to the right. There was a gap in the drapes on the wall of the dining area that let in a sliver of light, and I could see that they covered sliding glass doors that opened onto the private beach.

Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The place had been trashed. Table lamps lay broken on the floor, couch cushions were thrown around, and the drawers in the coffee table had been pulled out. I stepped inside, leaving the door open behind me. As I walked into the foyer, I stepped on something that crunched under my shoe. It sounded like glass. I noticed a broken vase lying on the floor a few feet away.

Someone had busted in, that was for sure. But I had no way of knowing if anything had been stolen. I moved through the living room and headed for the hallway that led to the rest of the house. My heart thudded in my chest as I made my way through the gloom, my ears straining for any sounds of movement-maybe by the person who’d busted in here. I came to a bedroom on my right. It was a mess, but it wasn’t thrashed like the living room. Clothes were strewn around, the carpet was coated in sand and dirt, the bed was unmade, and there was a sleeping bag on the floor. That, and the empty fast-food wrappers and bottles, showed someone had been staying here, but I couldn’t tell how recently.

I paused again to listen for movement. Nothing. I headed farther down the hall. When I got to the end, I saw what looked like the master bedroom on my left. It was big, and it, too, was a mess. There was another sliding glass door at the far end of the room. Drapes covered the view, but from the sand caked into the carpet, I surmised it also opened onto the beach. The duvet on the king-size bed was pushed to the side, the sheets looked rumpled and dirty, and the pillows were squashed. Someone was sleeping here, too. But nothing was thrown around or broken. I stepped inside and opened my phone to give myself more light. To the right of the bedroom door was a walk-in closet. Ahead, just past the bed, was a half wall that separated the bedroom from a large marble-floored bathroom. I was about to go and have a look at the bathroom when I heard a scrabbling sound coming from the sliding glass door. My throat tightened. Then a latch clicked open. Whoever was camping here had come back.

I ran to the closet. I couldn’t risk them seeing me close the closet door, so I had to leave it open. I hunkered down against the wall and tried not to breathe.