"Why?"
His phone went dead. It always did in the back alley of his apartment; it was a dead spot in the cellular net. He slipped the phone into his shirt pocket; he'd call in a few minutes. He drove down the alley, and pulled into his garage space.
He walked up the back stairs to his apartment and unlocked the door.
And stared.
The apartment was a mess. Furniture torn apart, cushions slashed open, papers all over the place, books tumbled out of the bookshelves and lying scattered on the floor.
He stood in the entrance, stunned. After a moment he walked into the room, straightened one of the toppled chairs and sat down in it. It occurred to him that he had to call the police. He got up, found the phone on the floor, and dialed them. But almost immediately the cell phone in his pocket began to ring. He hung up on the police and answered the cell phone. "Yes."
It was Lisa. "We got cut off," she said. "You better call Sarah right away."
"Why?"
"She's over at Morton's house. There was a robbery there."
"What?"
"I know. You better call her," she said. "She sounded upset."
Evans flipped the phone shut. He stood and walked into the kitchen. Everything was a mess there, too. He glanced into the bedroom. Everything was a mess. All he could think was the maid wasn't coming until next Tuesday. How could he ever clean this up?
He dialed his phone.
"Sarah?"
"Is that you, Peter?"
"Yes. What happened?"
"Not on the phone. Have you gone home yet?"
"Just got here."
"So...did it happen to you too?"
"Yes. Me too."
"Can you come here?"
"Yes."
"How soon?" She sounded frightened.
"Ten minutes."
"Okay. See you." She hung up.
Evans turned the ignition of his Prius and it hummed to life. He was pleased to have the hybrid; the waiting list in Los Angeles to get one was now more than six months. He'd had to take a light gray one, which wasn't his preferred color, but he loved the car. And he took a quiet satisfaction in noticing how many of them there were on the streets these days.
He drove down the alley to Olympic. Across the street he saw a blue Prius, just like the one he had seen below Margo's apartment. It was electric blue, a garish color. He thought he liked his gray better. He turned right, and then left again, heading north through Beverly Hills. He knew there would be rush hour traffic starting at this time of day and he should get up to Sunset, where traffic moved a little better.
When he got to the traffic light at Wilshire, he saw another blue Prius behind him. That same ugly color. Two guys in the car, not young. When he made his way to the light at Sunset, the same car was still behind him. Two cars back.
He turned left, toward Holmby Hills.
The Prius turned left, too. Following him.
Evans pulled up to Morton's gate and pressed the buzzer. The security camera above the box blinked on. "Can I help you?"
"It's Peter Evans for Sarah Jones."
A momentary pause, and then a buzz. The gates swung open slowly, revealing a curving roadway. The house was still hidden from view.
While he waited, Evans glanced down the road to his left. A block away, he saw the blue Prius coming up the road toward him. It passed him without slowing down, and disappeared around a curve.
So. Perhaps he was not being followed after all.
He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
The gates swung wide, and he drove inside.
HOLMBY HILLS
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5
3:54 P. M.
It was almost four o'clock as Evans drove up the driveway to Morton's house. The property was crawling with security men. There were several searching among the trees near the front gate, and more in the driveway, clustered around several vans marked anderson security service.
Evans parked next to Sarah's Porsche. He went to the front door. A security man opened it. "Ms. Jones is in the living room."
He walked through the large entryway and past the staircase that curved up to the second floor. He looked into the living room, prepared to see the same disarray that he'd witnessed at his own apartment, but here everything seemed to be in its place. The room appeared exactly as Evans remembered it.
Morton's living room was arranged to display his extensive collection of Asian antiquities. Above the fireplace was a large Chinese screen with shimmering gilded clouds; a large stone head from the Angkor region of Cambodia, with thick lips and a half-smile, was mounted on a pedestal near the couch; against one wall stood a seventeenth-century Japanesetansu, its rich wood glowing. Extremely rare, two hundred-year-old wood-cuts by Hiroshige hung on the back wall. A standing Burmese Buddha, carved in faded wood, stood at the entrance to the media room, next door.
In the middle of the room, surrounded by these antiquities, Sarah sat slumped on the couch, staring blankly out the window. She looked over as Evans came in. "They got your apartment?"