who tortured him for three days off and on to get him to tell him what this message meant and where the money was. They got away from me.”
“Which means they’ll try to question him again.”
“Him or his sister. I hired Mogensen and Akers to keep an eye on her home. Gary Marks is going to be spending the day at Dr. Clayton’s private hospital in Santa Monica, so he should be safe.”
“You didn’t tell me how much money was involved.”
Easy moved to the door. “A million dollars.”
“That’s a lot.”
CHAPTER 12
T HERE WAS M OGENSEN’S THREE year old Mustang, with the plastic Jesus standing on the dash, parked across the road from Gay Holland’s mansion. But the operative wasn’t in it.
Easy drove on by.
The house rose up at the top of several slanting acres. There was a man-high adobe wall, whitewashed and topped with bright red tiles, circling the entire estate. From where Mogensen was parked he’d be able to see through the wide wrought-iron gate in the wall and get a pretty fair view of the front of the house.
The spreads on either side of Gay’s home were even vaster. There was nothing but shrubbery and trees showing on the neighboring grounds. Only one other auto was parked on this block, a Mercedes 220S which had been repainted a fire engine red.
“Maybe he’s only relieving himself in the greenery somewhere,” said Easy. “But …”
He turned uphill at the corner. Leaving his dusty VW some distance up and away, he started on foot toward the rear of the estate.
Blue jays were squabbling in a laurel tree near the backside of the adobe fence. Somebody’s Siamese cat was watching them from a clump of brush. There were no people on the sidewalks, no cars on the street.
Easy unbuttoned his jacket, ran straight at the wall. He gripped its top with fingers as his right foot hit it about three feet from the ground. He went sailing over it, landing in a bed of scarlet and gold flowers.
Twenty yards ahead of him loomed a huge greenhouse. Its door hung open and several of the squares of glass near the doorway were cracked and fragmented.
The inside of the big glass-walled building reminded him of both a steambath and a funeral parlor.
He found Mogensen spread out on a gravel walkway, his head resting on a snaking green water hose. Long strips of white surgical tape had been slapped over the detective’s mouth, he was tied with fresh new clothes line. His eyes were closed.
Easy squatted beside the man, nudged him. “Mogensen. Hey, what happened?”
The detective did not stir, his eyes remained shut.
He was alive, but unconscious. Easy left him where he was.
He found another tied-up man in the garage building. Chauffer apparently. Bound and gagged, out cold.
“Chatto and McBernie must have only recently arrived,” Easy said to himself. He stayed in the doorway of the garage, watching the rear of the house.
Several of the windows to the left had white cafe curtains with a pattern of tiny strawberries.
Easy came out into the bright afternoon, moving carefully toward that side of the house. He held his .38 revolver in his hand.
Hundreds of flickering white butterflies came swooping low over the grass and shrubbery. They surrounded Easy for an instant, then swirled away.
Inside the house Gay cried out.
Easy continued to move cautiously. The cry had come from the part of the house he was aiming at, the kitchen.
The floor of the large kitchen was covered with forest green indoor-outdoor carpeting. Lying in front of the olive green refrigerator was a middle-aged black woman in a white uniform. She was tied and gagged in the familiar Chatto-McBernie style.
Through the gap in the curtains on the furthest right window Easy could also see McBernie himself. The black man was holding Gay Holland from behind. His hands gripped her arms just below the elbows. The gauze and tape on his left arm didn’t seem to keep him from exerting considerable pressure.
“Let me make one thing perfectly
“Which means they’ll try to question him again.”
“Him or his sister. I hired Mogensen and Akers to keep an eye on her home. Gary Marks is going to be spending the day at Dr. Clayton’s private hospital in Santa Monica, so he should be safe.”
“You didn’t tell me how much money was involved.”
Easy moved to the door. “A million dollars.”
“That’s a lot.”
CHAPTER 12
T HERE WAS M OGENSEN’S THREE year old Mustang, with the plastic Jesus standing on the dash, parked across the road from Gay Holland’s mansion. But the operative wasn’t in it.
Easy drove on by.
The house rose up at the top of several slanting acres. There was a man-high adobe wall, whitewashed and topped with bright red tiles, circling the entire estate. From where Mogensen was parked he’d be able to see through the wide wrought-iron gate in the wall and get a pretty fair view of the front of the house.
The spreads on either side of Gay’s home were even vaster. There was nothing but shrubbery and trees showing on the neighboring grounds. Only one other auto was parked on this block, a Mercedes 220S which had been repainted a fire engine red.
“Maybe he’s only relieving himself in the greenery somewhere,” said Easy. “But …”
He turned uphill at the corner. Leaving his dusty VW some distance up and away, he started on foot toward the rear of the estate.
Blue jays were squabbling in a laurel tree near the backside of the adobe fence. Somebody’s Siamese cat was watching them from a clump of brush. There were no people on the sidewalks, no cars on the street.
Easy unbuttoned his jacket, ran straight at the wall. He gripped its top with fingers as his right foot hit it about three feet from the ground. He went sailing over it, landing in a bed of scarlet and gold flowers.
Twenty yards ahead of him loomed a huge greenhouse. Its door hung open and several of the squares of glass near the doorway were cracked and fragmented.
The inside of the big glass-walled building reminded him of both a steambath and a funeral parlor.
He found Mogensen spread out on a gravel walkway, his head resting on a snaking green water hose. Long strips of white surgical tape had been slapped over the detective’s mouth, he was tied with fresh new clothes line. His eyes were closed.
Easy squatted beside the man, nudged him. “Mogensen. Hey, what happened?”
The detective did not stir, his eyes remained shut.
He was alive, but unconscious. Easy left him where he was.
He found another tied-up man in the garage building. Chauffer apparently. Bound and gagged, out cold.
“Chatto and McBernie must have only recently arrived,” Easy said to himself. He stayed in the doorway of the garage, watching the rear of the house.
Several of the windows to the left had white cafe curtains with a pattern of tiny strawberries.
Easy came out into the bright afternoon, moving carefully toward that side of the house. He held his .38 revolver in his hand.
Hundreds of flickering white butterflies came swooping low over the grass and shrubbery. They surrounded Easy for an instant, then swirled away.
Inside the house Gay cried out.
Easy continued to move cautiously. The cry had come from the part of the house he was aiming at, the kitchen.
The floor of the large kitchen was covered with forest green indoor-outdoor carpeting. Lying in front of the olive green refrigerator was a middle-aged black woman in a white uniform. She was tied and gagged in the familiar Chatto-McBernie style.
Through the gap in the curtains on the furthest right window Easy could also see McBernie himself. The black man was holding Gay Holland from behind. His hands gripped her arms just below the elbows. The gauze and tape on his left arm didn’t seem to keep him from exerting considerable pressure.
“Let me make one thing perfectly
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