The Murderer's Daughter

Chapter 46

Needing to turn herself cold, cruel, collected, Grace lay on the sagging bed in the Olds Hotel and dredged up just enough pain and rage and sorrow to light the spark.

Primed, she drove out of Berkeley, south to Emeryville. At an independent sporting goods store she paid cash for beach sandals, insect repellent, black rubber-soled walking shoes, a black ski mask with eyeholes. The mask and shoes were the relevant purchases, the others an attempt to bury them within a larger context.

Returning to the hotel, she dined on jerky and trail mix, drank water, peed, drank some more, drained her bladder again, then did some stretching and push-ups and took a nap.

No need to set an alarm. She wouldn’t be going out until after dark.

By seven p.m. she was up, energized, alert. Thirty-eight minutes later, she’d parked the Escape three blocks from the house on Avalina and was walking. The new shoes squeaked, so she turned in the opposite direction and worked them silent.

Cool night, which made the jacket with the four pockets visually and functionally appropriate. Her wigs were back at the Olds. Her clipped hair felt tight and right under the knit cap she’d bought at the surplus store.

Green contact lenses this time. Like a cat.

She began prowling.

No sounds issued from the big homes atop their slopes. Most were dark and that made sense, if what Grace had observed in L.A. held true here: the larger the mansion the less likely it was to be used full-time, rich folk traveling or enjoying satellite homes.

Malcolm and Sophie had lived in one big house and had rarely ventured far. They’d reminisced about foreign travel but hadn’t used their passports since taking in Grace.

A case of been-there-done-that? Or wanting to be there for her?

Grace’s eyes began to ache and she scolded herself; distraction was the enemy. As the big brick house neared, she slowed her pace.

When she got there, she took a position slightly past the hedge that arched over the driveway. The house was lit scantily, haphazardly, randomly placed low-voltage bulbs creating a crazy quilt of illumination and black patches.

Only one window in the mansion was backlit: top floor, right of center. Someone home or a security play. No other obvious signs of self-protection — alarm sign, camera, trespassing warnings, motion detectors.

Confident fellow, Dion Larue.

Only one black Prius in the driveway tonight. Same license plate as Walter Sporn’s ride. Did Sporn live here? That fit a cult situation. If so, Larue was deviating from his daddy; Arundel Roi had limited his acolytes to women and the children he sired with them. Then again, this was the age of equal rights... or maybe Grace was getting overimaginative and Sporn was nothing more than in-house security during the boss’s absence.

Or a babysitter; talk about a gruesome contingency.

Did Larue and his wife even have kids?

God, I hope not.

The fact that Grace had no idea — knew so little about Larue — drove home how much needed to be accomplished.

She walked to the dead end, receded into the shelter afforded by an unlit berm, and studied the street from a new perspective. Convinced she hadn’t been spotted, she returned to the Escape, locked the doors, and waited.

Forty-eight minutes later her patience was rewarded when another black Prius rounded the corner. As it neared the big brick house, Grace got out and jogged after it.

She arrived just in time to see the second vehicle pull in behind Sporn’s.

Head- and taillights died. A man got out at the driver’s side. The inconsistent lighting made gleaning details difficult, the figure flickering in and out of her visual field in strobe-flash fragments.

Like watching a light show; with each freeze-frame, data accumulated.

Tall.

Long-haired.

And there was the beard, fuller and longer than the stubble he’d sported in the fund-raiser photo, Grace could see an outer rim of hair haloed by freckles of light.

Flowing garments — a knee-length tunic. Over what appeared to be tights.

Slim legs. Slim overall build. Head held high — and there was his profile again, the beard-tip aiming forward like a lance ready for battle.

He began walking toward the house, his carriage suggesting nothing but confidence.

No doubt about it, this was him, and Grace watched as he strode up the long drive toward his front door.

When he was halfway there, the Prius’s passenger door swung open and a woman got out. Nearly as tall as Larue. A dress hanging just below her knees.

But less confidence here — stooped posture, rounded back.

Grace prayed for her to illuminate herself and finally she did, showing her profile.

Unmistakable flash of uncannily sculpted cheekbone.

The wife, what was her name...

Azha.

She began trailing Larue’s approach to the house, shoes crunching on gravel. Dion Larue didn’t turn or acknowledge her, just the opposite, he picked up his pace.

The woman followed at a widening distance, as if that was her custom.

Was well away from the door when Larue closed it.

Locking her out? Tense night for the golden couple?

Azha Larue continued trudging, as if being shut out of her own home was business as usual, and when she reached the door, she opened it with a mere twist of her hand.

Larue had left it unlocked. Delivering some sort of message? Or simply asserting his authority by making her go through the effort?

Whatever the motive, the few moments Grace had just observed reeked of arrogance and hostility on Larue’s part.

Subservience on Azha’s, which could prove relevant.

Grace copied down the plate number of the second Prius then crept forward and dared a look inside the vehicle using whatever ambient light was available. As luck would have it, a bulb wired to a tree shone directly onto the front seat.

As luck would have it, nothing but seats and dashboard.

Retreating to the shadows, Grace watched the brick house for another quarter hour, spent an additional hour in her SUV, making sure no one came and went, finally returned to her hotel.

No more sleep. Calculation.