centuries old, built by a 17th-century Thorvaldsen ancestor who smartly converted tons of worthless peat into fuel to produce fine porcelain. By the 19th century Adelgate Glasvaerker had been declared the Danish royal glass provider. It still held that title, its glassware reigning supreme throughout Europe.
He followed a grassy drive lined by trees bare to winter. The manor house was a perfect specimen of Danish baroque—three stories of brick-encased sandstone, topped with a curving copper roof. One wing turned inland, the other faced the sea. Not a light burned in any window. Normal for the middle of the night.
But the front door hung half open.
That was unusual.
He parked, stepped from the car, and walked toward the entrance, gun in hand.
Collins followed.
Inside, the warm air reeked with a scent of boiled tomatoes and a lingering cigar. Familiar smells for a house that he’d visited often during the past two years.
“Henrik,” Collins called out.
He glared at the younger man and whispered, “Are you a complete idiot?”
“They need to know we’re here.”
“Who’s they?”
“The door was open.”
“Precisely my point. Shut up and stay behind me.”
He eased across polished flagstones to the hardwood of a nearby corridor and followed a wide hall, past the conservatory and billiard parlor, to a ground-floor study, the only light courtesy of a three-quarter winter moon stealing past the windows.
He needed to check something.
He threaded his way through the furniture to an elaborate gun cabinet, fashioned of the same rich maple that encased the rest of the salon. He knew that at least a dozen hunting rifles, along with several handguns, a crossbow, and three assault rifles were always displayed.
The beveled glass door hung open.
One of the automatic weapons was gone, as were two hunting rifles. He reached for one of the pistols. A Welby target revolver—blued finish, six-inch barrel. He knew how Thorvaldsen admired the weapon. None had been made since 1945. A bitter scent of oil filled his nostrils. He checked the cylinder. Six shots. Fully loaded. Thorvaldsen never displayed an empty gun.
He handed it to Collins and mouthed, You can use it?
The younger man nodded.
They left the room through the nearest doorway.
Familiar with the house’s geography, he followed another corridor until he came to an intersection. Doors framed with elaborate molding lined both sides of the hall, spaced sufficiently apart to indicate that the rooms beyond were spacious.
At the far end loomed a pedimented entrance. The master bedchamber.
Thorvaldsen hated climbing stairs, so he’d long ago occupied the ground floor.
Malone stepped to the door, slowly turned the knob, and pushed the slab of carved wood open without a sound.
He peered inside and inventoried the silhouettes of tall, heavy furniture, the drapes open to the silvery night. A rug filled the center, its edge a good five paces from the doorway. He spied the duvets on the bed and noticed a mound, signaling where someone may be sleeping.
But something was wrong.
Movement to the right caught his attention.
A form appeared in a doorway.
Light flooded the room.
He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the burning rays and caught sight of Thorvaldsen, a rifle muzzle pointed straight at him.
Jesper appeared from the walk-in closet, gun leveled.
Then he saw the bodies.
Two men, lying on the floor at the far side of the bed.
“They thought me stupid,” Thorvaldsen said.
He did not particularly enjoy being caught in a trap. The mouse never did have much fun. “Is there a reason I’m here?”
Thorvaldsen lowered his weapon. “You’ve been away.”
“Personal business.”
“I spoke to Stephanie. She told me. I’m sorry, Cotton. That had to be hell.”
He appreciated his friend’s concern. “It’s over and done with.”
The Dane settled onto the bed and yanked back the covers, revealing only pillows beneath. “Unfortunately, that kind
He followed a grassy drive lined by trees bare to winter. The manor house was a perfect specimen of Danish baroque—three stories of brick-encased sandstone, topped with a curving copper roof. One wing turned inland, the other faced the sea. Not a light burned in any window. Normal for the middle of the night.
But the front door hung half open.
That was unusual.
He parked, stepped from the car, and walked toward the entrance, gun in hand.
Collins followed.
Inside, the warm air reeked with a scent of boiled tomatoes and a lingering cigar. Familiar smells for a house that he’d visited often during the past two years.
“Henrik,” Collins called out.
He glared at the younger man and whispered, “Are you a complete idiot?”
“They need to know we’re here.”
“Who’s they?”
“The door was open.”
“Precisely my point. Shut up and stay behind me.”
He eased across polished flagstones to the hardwood of a nearby corridor and followed a wide hall, past the conservatory and billiard parlor, to a ground-floor study, the only light courtesy of a three-quarter winter moon stealing past the windows.
He needed to check something.
He threaded his way through the furniture to an elaborate gun cabinet, fashioned of the same rich maple that encased the rest of the salon. He knew that at least a dozen hunting rifles, along with several handguns, a crossbow, and three assault rifles were always displayed.
The beveled glass door hung open.
One of the automatic weapons was gone, as were two hunting rifles. He reached for one of the pistols. A Welby target revolver—blued finish, six-inch barrel. He knew how Thorvaldsen admired the weapon. None had been made since 1945. A bitter scent of oil filled his nostrils. He checked the cylinder. Six shots. Fully loaded. Thorvaldsen never displayed an empty gun.
He handed it to Collins and mouthed, You can use it?
The younger man nodded.
They left the room through the nearest doorway.
Familiar with the house’s geography, he followed another corridor until he came to an intersection. Doors framed with elaborate molding lined both sides of the hall, spaced sufficiently apart to indicate that the rooms beyond were spacious.
At the far end loomed a pedimented entrance. The master bedchamber.
Thorvaldsen hated climbing stairs, so he’d long ago occupied the ground floor.
Malone stepped to the door, slowly turned the knob, and pushed the slab of carved wood open without a sound.
He peered inside and inventoried the silhouettes of tall, heavy furniture, the drapes open to the silvery night. A rug filled the center, its edge a good five paces from the doorway. He spied the duvets on the bed and noticed a mound, signaling where someone may be sleeping.
But something was wrong.
Movement to the right caught his attention.
A form appeared in a doorway.
Light flooded the room.
He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the burning rays and caught sight of Thorvaldsen, a rifle muzzle pointed straight at him.
Jesper appeared from the walk-in closet, gun leveled.
Then he saw the bodies.
Two men, lying on the floor at the far side of the bed.
“They thought me stupid,” Thorvaldsen said.
He did not particularly enjoy being caught in a trap. The mouse never did have much fun. “Is there a reason I’m here?”
Thorvaldsen lowered his weapon. “You’ve been away.”
“Personal business.”
“I spoke to Stephanie. She told me. I’m sorry, Cotton. That had to be hell.”
He appreciated his friend’s concern. “It’s over and done with.”
The Dane settled onto the bed and yanked back the covers, revealing only pillows beneath. “Unfortunately, that kind
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