Guardians of the Night (A Gideon and Sirius Novel) Read online

  Her tone made it clear it was a question she would have preferred not asking. “It’s a dubious distinction,” I admitted, “but it is mine.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Mr. Corde is tied up with meetings right now, but he says if you would like to talk later, he is available.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll give you my mobile number so he can call me when he’s free.”

  I heard the uncertainty in her voice again. “Mr. Corde would prefer a face-to-face meeting, and he’s hoping you would be amenable to doing it at his residence.”

  “What day is today?” I asked. “I only jump through hoops on Tuesday and Thursday.”

  “I am—”

  I cut off her apology. “I’m just kidding. I don’t shoot the messenger, especially when she has a boss who loves to posture more than a bodybuilder. When and where does he want to meet?”

  She gave me an address on Mandeville Canyon Road and said, “Mr. Corde will be available to talk at seven o’clock.”

  “Yeah, but will he be available to listen?”

  I got a last laugh out of her, and we said our good-byes.

  Mandeville Canyon road runs for five miles, starting at Sunset Boulevard and ending just short of Mulholland Drive. Because the two roads don’t meet up, Mandeville Canyon is said to be the longest paved dead-end road in L.A. Even with darkness about an hour off, the road was full of bicyclists.

  Corde’s house was in Brentwood. Even though it’s been almost twenty years since O.J. Simpson was accused of murdering his wife, people still associate Brentwood with O.J. For a time his 360 North Rockingham home was a huge tourist draw, much to the displeasure of Brentwood residents. When the house was bulldozed in 1998, O.J.’s former neighbors were delighted. As the crow flies, Corde’s house was about a mile from where O.J.’s had been.

  A security gate controlled admittance. There was no guard on duty, but the signage didn’t welcome the curious. Potential trespassers were told they were facing armed response, dog patrols, and prosecution if they survived their intrusion.

  “Liens and snipers and scares, oh my,” I told Sirius.

  I pushed an intercom button; at least it wasn’t labeled DEFCON 1. There were several cameras trained on me. I waved to the nearest one and flashed my badge.

  A woman’s voice responded. Even over the tinny speaker, her voice sounded clear and beguiling: “May I help you?”

  “Detective Michael Gideon here to see Mr. Corde,” I said.

  The gate opened, and we passed through. In Los Angeles, multimillion-dollar properties are often situated on postage-stamp lots. Expansive driveways are rare, but I drove at least a quarter of a mile before pulling up to Corde’s colonial house. Away from the home was a tennis court and what looked to be an Olympic-sized pool. In the distance I could see a barn as well as a horse paddock. The house was on a canyon, with walking and riding trails leading into the chaparral.

  There was a four-car garage separate from the house, but apparently that didn’t suffice. Parked next to it was a silver Honda Odyssey with tinted windows. The sunroof was cracked open, but it was impossible to tell if anyone was in the car.

  I brushed the dog hairs off my coat and took a stab at fixing my tie, before deciding to hell with that. Corde had arranged for me to visit him at a time and place of his choosing, and I suspected he wanted me to be witness to his affluence and power. He was used to having others jump to his tune, but cops don’t do subordinate very well. It’s the reason we became cops. I loosened my tie and decided it was a good time to make a phone call. Lisbet and I had been playing phone tag all day.

  Caller ID identified me, prompting Lisbet to answer the phone with, “How come there’s never a cop around when you need one?”

  “Maybe you should move closer to a doughnut shop.”

  “It was a rhetorical question.”

  “You mean like, ‘Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?’ ”

  “That question is more ridiculous than rhetorical.”

  “How about this, then; the cop in me wants to know: ‘If a kid refuses to take a nap, is he guilty of resisting a rest?’ ”

  “That’s a terrible pun, not a rhetorical question,” she said. “Where did we get so off-track?”

  “Now that’s a rhetorical question.”

  “Here’s a regular old question then: Are you coming by tonight?”

  “If you’re okay with a late-night visitor, I’ll be there with bells on.”

  “I don’t know about you and bells.”

  “How about if Sirius wears the bells, and I bring the food?”

  My partner’s ears perked up, and he opened his mouth into what I think of as his smile. He enjoys being acknowledged and responds to that particular note in my voice when I am attempting humor. Best thing of all, he doesn’t heckle.

  “That works for me. I have no doubt but that Sirius can pull off the bell look better than you.”

  “What if I told you my nickname is Pavlov?”

  My partner’s head swiveled, and I followed his gaze. A man wearing jeans, boots, and a form-fitting madras shirt walked out to the porch. His look was designed to be casual—at about a thousand-dollar price tag. The casual unkempt look extended to his facial hair and tousled locks, but I was willing to bet he tended to his stubble and goatee with the kind of care you should only give to a Bonsai.

  When Drew Corde pointedly looked at his watch, I turned my head away and continued talking with Lisbet. My exaggerated smiles and hand gestures made it clear to him I wasn’t having a business conversation.

  “What kind of food are you in the mood for?” I asked.

  “Surprise me.”

  “Eye of newt it is.”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Corde approaching my window, but I pretended he was in my blind spot.

  “I’m on an amphibian-free diet,” Lisbet said.

  “I suppose that means no toe of frog either?”

  Corde knocked on my window. My partner is not a fan of people who do that. Sirius snarled and showed his teeth. I didn’t say, “Good dog,” but I did run a hand through his raised hackles. It was clear Sirius didn’t like the vibe that Corde was giving off, or maybe he was just picking up on how I was feeling.

  I lowered the window an inch and stared at Corde. “I’m a bit pressed for time, Detective Gideon,” he said.

  My partner growled. I couldn’t have said it better. I held up a “just a minute” index finger and went back to Lisbet.

  Speaking just loud enough for Corde to hear, I said, “It’s a shame some people don’t exercise their right to remain silent. Now where were we?”

  “I was just about to rule out toe of frog for dinner.”

  “You really make things difficult, but I’ll do my best to find something pleasing to your palate.”

  “In that case, I might greet you in something other than my flannel nightgown and granny panties.”

  “Are we talking about an evening of ‘Vicars and Tarts’?”

  “Not unless you’re bringing the priests and the pastries.”

  I decided Corde had cooled his heels for long enough. “I hope to see you before too long,” I said, and she replied, “Make it faster, pastor,” and clicked off.

  I was still getting used to Lisbet always having the last word. That had been my domain.

  I cracked all the windows open to allow for adequate ventilation and told Sirius to stay. My partner made a plaintive noise, which translated to, “Oh, come on.”

  “Cool your jets and chill,” I said.

  He exhaled an aggrieved compliance and then grumpily settled into the seat. Apparently I wasn’t going to get the last word with anyone.

  Corde didn’t hide his annoyance at having been kept waiting. In person he reminded me of a fighter pilot: the cock of the walk, with a confiden
t swagger.

  “Hope I didn’t rush you,” he said. His smile only added to his sarcasm.

  “You didn’t,” I said.

  “Company and dinner are both due to arrive within the hour. Your meter’s running.”

  “I’d hate to get a ticket,” I said. “Lead on.”

  CHAPTER 7:

  TYGER TYGER, BURNING BRIGHT

  Corde turned around and looked at me when we entered what he referred to as the great room. Most hunters probably would have called it a trophy room, but monstrosity room might have better described it. Corde continued to study me, but he wasn’t alone; there were at least a dozen other sets of eyes following me. As I made my way further into the room, all the eyes seemed to be tracking my movements. Art aficionados marvel at the way the Mona Lisa’s gaze follows them. These eyes seemed to be doing the same, and it gave me the creeps.

  “Why don’t we get comfortable?” said Corde.

  I doubted that was possible. Maybe a serial murderer would have found the room cozy. One display—and two of the eyes—featured a male lion with a huge mane. And in the middle of the room, a tiger was staring out from behind a bamboo curtain, its green-yellow eyes sizing me up.

  Corde was still watching me. His eyes didn’t seem very different from the glass eyes of the predators appraising me. We sat down on dark leather sofas perpendicular to one another.

  “Few people enter my inner sanctum,” he said, “but I thought it would be a good place to talk to a fellow hunter.”

  “I am not a hunter.”

  “Of course you are. You bagged the Weatherman. There is no bigger game.”

  “That was my job.”

  “We all choose our vocation—and avocation.”

  “It’s not always a choice. Sometimes people just fall into certain situations.”

  “I’ve always wondered why you didn’t just kill him. No one would have known.”

  “I would have.”

  “If anyone ever deserved death, don’t you think the Weatherman did?”

  “I’m glad those kinds of decisions are way above my pay grade.”

  “From what I’ve read of him, he’s still laughing at your mercy. He finds it amusing playing the system. That’s why he’s in town now, isn’t it?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “So, you do wish you’d killed him?”

  I shook my head. “If I had, my partner would have died. I needed Haines to help carry him out.”

  “It’s been my experience that no good deed goes unpunished.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  My tone made it clear I had no interest in continuing the conversation, and that clearly disappointed Corde. I hadn’t come to talk about Ellis Haines. Since Corde seemed to prefer me seated, I decided to get up and walk around the room. I was betting there were more dead animals on display than there were in most hunting lodges. In addition to the tiger and lion, there were a Cape buffalo, leopard, bull elephant, rhinoceros, and grizzly bear. Lining one wall were mounted trophy fish that included a marlin, a swordfish, a great white shark, and a hammerhead shark.

  “You killed all these animals?”

  “I did.”

  “Aren’t some of your—victims—endangered?”

  “You can still hunt the big five in Africa, even though it’s becoming more difficult to bag rhinos.”

  “I thought it was illegal to hunt tigers.”

  “It is, but the animal you are looking at was deemed a nuisance, and special arrangements were made.”

  His expression told me that his special arrangements meant a lot of payola. “That sounds expensive.”

  “Oh, it was.”

  “You ever consider taking up photography?”

  “Hunting is in my DNA. It is my passion. I can happily spend hours talking about guns and rifles, tracking game, and how to deliver the best kill shot. I shot my first duck when I was four and my first deer when I was five. Most hunters going after deer settle for a shot to what’s called the ‘boiler room,’ the heart and lungs. That wasn’t good enough for me. I put a bullet in the deer’s brain.”

  He sounded overly proud.

  “Are you the one who nailed Bambi’s mother?” I asked. “I’m still trying to overcome my childhood trauma.”

  “You don’t approve of the right to bear arms?”

  “I would rather we armed bears.”

  “If you watched the DVD of my bear hunt, you would see the bear in question was already amply armed.”

  He gestured toward his ursine victim. “Imagine a ten-foot, thousand-pound giant with five-inch incisors and three-inch claws charging you at a speed of forty miles an hour. That’s what happened to me.”

  “Were you backed up by the First Infantry?”

  “There was no second rifle waiting to bail me out. I took the bear in one shot. Watch the DVD if you don’t believe me.”

  I could tell he was about to give me all the particulars of the hunt, but I didn’t care to hear about conditions, the rifle he used, the type of bullet, or how he delivered his kill shot, so I interrupted with another question.

  “Do you tape all of your hunts?”

  Corde nodded and gave me an insinuating smile. “They are very well documented.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by knocking, and then a door opening. A head showed itself, revealing eyes that reminded me of the blue you only see in certain icebergs. The permafrost orbs took me in, and there was no thawing in them. The visitor had a pronounced cleft in his chin, the kind usually seen in animated superheroes. He turned his gaze toward Corde and nodded.

  “Excuse me,” said Corde, and exited the room.

  In his absence I decided to go on a self-tour and began examining the framed photographs lining the walls of the trophy room. Corde and his kills were featured in the majority of shots. Some of the photos had clearly been taken from a high vantage point. As Corde had implied, it didn’t look as if he believed in large hunting parties. In many of the shots there was only one other person, the same man who had just shown himself at the door.

  When Corde reentered the room, I was still looking at his hunting pictures.

  “Trouble?” I asked.

  “Only an annoyance,” he said.

  “I think I recognized your visitor in some of these pictures.”

  “You probably did.”

  “So who is your hunting companion?”

  “He is Orion Zenith’s director of security. I suppose he thinks it’s his job to make sure I come back from my hunts alive.”

  “Does your Man Friday have a name?”

  “Rick Novak,” he said.

  “Let me guess: you can beat him in a footrace.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Two hunters are tracking a huge bear,” I said, “and suddenly they realize the bear is tracking them, so the first hunter changes out of his boots into running shoes. The second hunter says, ‘You don’t think you can outrun that bear, do you?’ And the first hunter said, ‘No, but I know I can outrun you.’ ”

  “As long as whatever I’m hunting can’t outrun a bullet, I won’t be packing running shoes.”

  “I’m surprised you can spend so much time away from work going on hunting expeditions,” I said.

  “Why would you think I spend that much time away?”

  I gestured to the room.

  “I hunt smart,” said Corde. “I know everything about my game before I go in. It always helps to have insider information.”

  “And how do you get that insider information?”

  “I believe in scouting out the object you’re targeting. And I know where to go, and when to go, and what to do once I get there. I am usually in and out before anyone even knows it.”

  “That sort of sounds like someone des
cribing a sniper.”

  “That sort of describes what I am.”

  I studied another of his hunting pictures. A dead lion was stretched out in the grass, its massive head listing to one side. I wondered if it was the same lion in the room. Corde’s right leg was planted atop the lion’s back. Wrong Pauley had said the angel killer had exhibited an unforgettable arrogance and postured in much the same way.

  Next to the lion’s picture was a black and white sea shot of a large yacht. I could just make out the lettering Wizard of OZ. The running lights on the yacht could be seen, as could the lights on deck. Corde was visible, along with Novak and another man. Their features were illuminated by the monitor they were staring into. Removed from the threesome was a woman seated on the deck.

  “Night shot?” I asked.

  “Helped by the light of a full moon,” he said.

  “That’s quite the clarity.”

  “I have friends in high places,” he said, sounding entirely too smug.

  I turned to face him. “Did you take your Tesla out for a drive the night before last?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “It’s a police inquiry. Did you, or someone you know, drive your Tesla in the vicinity of Venice Beach at about three in the morning?”

  “I am sure, as a matter of course, my lawyer would advise me to say nothing.”

  “I thought you didn’t need backup.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

  “A witness said he saw a murder. It’s possible a black Tesla roadster might have been in the vicinity at the same time as that murder.”

  “I don’t remember hearing about a homicide in Venice Beach the day before yesterday.”

  I was certain Corde was playing me, and just as certain he knew I was holding a bust hand.

  “It wasn’t a homicide per se.”

  “What was it?”

  “An incident occurred that we’re investigating.”

  “I thought you said a witness saw a murder.”

  “He saw what he thought was a murder.”

  Corde looked amused. “You’re talking about that crazy homeless man, aren’t you? You’re talking about that drunk I saw on the news who said he saw an angel being murdered, right?”