He opened the mudroom door and entered the pink stucco house high up on Cliff Road. The Farleys were out for the night, so secure in their cocoon of wealth and privilege that they never even bothered to lock the door.
The mudroom led into a glassed-in kitchen that was glowing with the last rays of sunset.
This is just surveillance, the Watcher reminded himself. Get in and out in under five. Same as always.
He took his camera from the inside pocket of his soft leather jacket and panned the room, taking a series of digital photos of the many tall glass panes, the mullions wide enough for a person to enter.
Zzzzt, zzzzt, zzzzt.
He moved quickly through the kitchen to the Farley family room, which cantilevered out over the mountainside. Amber light filled the woods, giving the shaggy eucalyptus bark an almost human presence, the trees like elderly men watching his movements. As though they understood and approved.
Just surveillance, he told himself again. Things were too complex, too hot right now to go forward with their plans.
He rapidly mounted the back stairs to the bedrooms, noting the steps that creaked the loudest, the solid banister. He proceeded down the hallway of the second floor, stepping inside each of the opened doors, taking his photos, memorizing the details. Frisking the rooms as if he were a cop patting down suspects.
The Watcher checked his watch as he entered the master bedroom. Nearly three minutes gone. He quickly opened the closets, sniffed the scents of Vera Wang and Hermès, closed the doors.
He ran down the steps to the kitchen and was about to leave when he thought of the basement. There was enough time for a quick look.
He opened the door and skittered down.
There was an extensive wine cellar to his left, and the laundry room was in front of him. But his eyes gravitated to a door on his right.
The door was in shadow, secured with a combination padlock. The Watcher was good with combination locks. He was very good with his hands. He turned the dial left until he felt the minute resistance, then right and left again. The lock sprung open, and the Watcher unlatched the door.
He identified the equipment in the basement’s half-light: the computer, the laser printer, and the reams of high-quality photo paper. The video and digital cameras with night vision capability.
A thick stack of photo prints sat neatly on a counter.
He stepped quickly inside and closed the door behind him. Flipped the switch that turned on the lights.
It was just a harmless surveillance mission, that was all, one of many.
But what he saw when the lights went on almost sent him over the edge.
Chapter 125
MARINARA SAUCE WAS IN the air as I came up the walk to Carolee’s Victorian live-in schoolhouse. I shielded my eyes against the last rays of sun flashing off the many-paned windows and dropped the brass knocker on the big front door.
A dark-skinned boy of about twelve opened up and said, “Greetings, police lady.”
“You’re Eddie, right?”
“Ready-Eddie,” he said, grinning. “How’d you know that?”
“I’ve got a pretty good memory,” I told him.
“That’s good, since you’re a cop.”
A cheer went up as I entered the “mess hall,” a large open and airy dining room facing the highway.
Carolee gave me a hug and told me to sit at the head of the table. “That’s the ‘honored guest’ spot,” she said. With Allison grabbing the chair to my left and Fern, a small red-haired girl, fighting for the chair to my right, I felt welcomed and at home in this huge “family.”
Bowls of spaghetti and a tub of salad with oil and vinegar journeyed around the table, and chunks of Italian bread flew across it even as the kids pelted me with questions and riddles—which I fielded and occasionally aced.
“When I grow up,” Ali whispered, “I want to be just like you.”
“You know what I want? When you grow up, I want you to be exactly like you.”