topped coffee table, and several framed prints that Steve had seen before in one of those shopping mall galleries completed the living room furnishings. A camera with a massive telephoto lens was mounted on a tripod facing the closed drapes.
He parted the drapes, opened the glass doors, and stepped out onto the narrow deck overlooking the yachts in the marina. He wondered how many starlets Stryker had photographed sunning themselves on the decks of their boats.
The sky was impossibly blue and picture-perfect, sail boats drifting through the channel and seagulls appearing to float on the breeze that wafted in off the sea. He couldn't see the ocean from the deck, but he could smell the salt in the air.
Or at least that's what he thought it was. Considering how much toxic runoff ended up flowing into the sea, perhaps what he'd grown up assuming was the scent of salt air was actually industrial solvent, insecticide, and raw sewage.
On that sobering thought he stepped back inside to continue his task.
The kitchen was surprisingly clean and orderly, leading Steve to suspect that Stryker had a regular maid service. He opened a few cupboards and drawers, saw nothing unusual, and moved down the hail to the bedrooms.
One of the bedrooms served as a home office. The walls were lined with shelves filled with past issues of all the major monthly and weekly gossip and celebrity magazines, going back years.
The desk was simple and sleek, with no drawers. It held a slim computer, flat-screen monitor, printer, scanner, shredder, wireless router, and an iPod bay.
There was an empty slot in the computer where the hard drive had once been. It was unlikely that Stryker had ripped it out of his own computer.
Someone had been here before Steve.
He continued searching the office, but without much effort. He knew he wouldn't find any external hard drives, disks, CDs, DVDs, or a laptop. Whoever took the hard drive would have taken them, too.
He spent an hour searching the master bedroom, the closets, and the bathrooms and came up with nothing but a sore back. If Stryker had met his violent end here, there were no obvious signs of it.
Before he left, Steve called the crime lab and asked them to give the condo a more thorough ransacking, and to pay special attention to uncovering any hidden compartments or safes. He then called homicide and asked a junior detective to pull Stryker's phone records for his home, his cell, and his office for the last month, as well as a list of his recent credit- card transactions, and have them on his desk by morning. On his way out, he checked Stryker's parking spot. His Escalade wasn't there.
It was after eight p.m. when Steve walked through the front door of the beach house and found his father at the kitchen table, barely visible behind stacks of files.
"It's not like you to bring your work home," Steve said.
"It was waiting for me when I got here," Mark said with out lifting his gaze from what he was reading.
"What's your take on coincidences?"
"No such thing."
"Then this will interest you," Steve said. "Somebody torched Nick Stryker's office last night. I think he's been murdered."
"So do I," Mark said, still absorbed in the papers and pictures in front of him.
"You do?" Steve said. "You must have been talking to Amanda."
"I haven't seen Amanda all day," Mark said.
"Then how do you know Stryker was killed last night?"
"He wasn't," Mark said.
Steve rubbed his temples, trying to massage away his exasperation. "But you just said you thought he was."
"I think it's likely that he's been murdered," Mark said. "But it didn't happen last night."
"I've got a burned corpse that says otherwise," Steve said.
"It's not Stryker," Mark said.
"How can you possibly know that?"
"The post office doesn't move that fast," Mark said.
"You think the post office put out a hit on him?" Steve said. "They must really be cracking down on people who send letters without sufficient postage."
Mark finally looked up,
He parted the drapes, opened the glass doors, and stepped out onto the narrow deck overlooking the yachts in the marina. He wondered how many starlets Stryker had photographed sunning themselves on the decks of their boats.
The sky was impossibly blue and picture-perfect, sail boats drifting through the channel and seagulls appearing to float on the breeze that wafted in off the sea. He couldn't see the ocean from the deck, but he could smell the salt in the air.
Or at least that's what he thought it was. Considering how much toxic runoff ended up flowing into the sea, perhaps what he'd grown up assuming was the scent of salt air was actually industrial solvent, insecticide, and raw sewage.
On that sobering thought he stepped back inside to continue his task.
The kitchen was surprisingly clean and orderly, leading Steve to suspect that Stryker had a regular maid service. He opened a few cupboards and drawers, saw nothing unusual, and moved down the hail to the bedrooms.
One of the bedrooms served as a home office. The walls were lined with shelves filled with past issues of all the major monthly and weekly gossip and celebrity magazines, going back years.
The desk was simple and sleek, with no drawers. It held a slim computer, flat-screen monitor, printer, scanner, shredder, wireless router, and an iPod bay.
There was an empty slot in the computer where the hard drive had once been. It was unlikely that Stryker had ripped it out of his own computer.
Someone had been here before Steve.
He continued searching the office, but without much effort. He knew he wouldn't find any external hard drives, disks, CDs, DVDs, or a laptop. Whoever took the hard drive would have taken them, too.
He spent an hour searching the master bedroom, the closets, and the bathrooms and came up with nothing but a sore back. If Stryker had met his violent end here, there were no obvious signs of it.
Before he left, Steve called the crime lab and asked them to give the condo a more thorough ransacking, and to pay special attention to uncovering any hidden compartments or safes. He then called homicide and asked a junior detective to pull Stryker's phone records for his home, his cell, and his office for the last month, as well as a list of his recent credit- card transactions, and have them on his desk by morning. On his way out, he checked Stryker's parking spot. His Escalade wasn't there.
It was after eight p.m. when Steve walked through the front door of the beach house and found his father at the kitchen table, barely visible behind stacks of files.
"It's not like you to bring your work home," Steve said.
"It was waiting for me when I got here," Mark said with out lifting his gaze from what he was reading.
"What's your take on coincidences?"
"No such thing."
"Then this will interest you," Steve said. "Somebody torched Nick Stryker's office last night. I think he's been murdered."
"So do I," Mark said, still absorbed in the papers and pictures in front of him.
"You do?" Steve said. "You must have been talking to Amanda."
"I haven't seen Amanda all day," Mark said.
"Then how do you know Stryker was killed last night?"
"He wasn't," Mark said.
Steve rubbed his temples, trying to massage away his exasperation. "But you just said you thought he was."
"I think it's likely that he's been murdered," Mark said. "But it didn't happen last night."
"I've got a burned corpse that says otherwise," Steve said.
"It's not Stryker," Mark said.
"How can you possibly know that?"
"The post office doesn't move that fast," Mark said.
"You think the post office put out a hit on him?" Steve said. "They must really be cracking down on people who send letters without sufficient postage."
Mark finally looked up,
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