Serious Moonlight(90)

“This place is huge. I can’t image what it takes to keep it clean. Just look at all the shrubbery and trees back here. His lawn has one of those golf course patterns mowed into it.”

“Unbelievable,” he murmured, something close to disgust in voice. “And what the hell are we doing? If the maids turned on the alarm, then no one’s home. Which means this trip may be a bust. I mean, we already knew he lived near here, logically, since he walks the dogs every morning. And we already knew he was rich. How does this help us figure out what he was doing in the hotel?”

“Detective work is slow,” I said. “But there’s lots to learn if you observe. It’s four p.m. on a Friday, and he isn’t home. Is he never home at this time? Is that why the maids are scheduled to come? They know the passcode, so they’re used to working alone in the house. Where does he go during the day? He doesn’t need a second job, clearly, and he doesn’t make public appearances as a writer. Is he shopping? We know he likes to go to Tenor Records early in the morning. Is that because he’s doing something else in the afternoon?”

“Whoa,” Daniel said. “I’m impressed, Nora.”

“Books are great teachers, Nick,” I said. “But all of this is speculation. What would be better is if we could figure out a way to see inside the house.”

Daniel surveyed the driveway. “A camera’s above the garage. What about that gate in the bushes?”

It was next to a small shed on the far side of the driveway, perhaps used for lawn equipment. No camera. No lock.

I looked at Daniel. He looked at me.

“We’d need a cover story, in case we get caught,” I said. “Maybe we should come back later with props or disguises or something.”

He shook his head. “No way. Luck’s on our side today. We need to go for it. What about . . . ?” He took out his phone and pressed the screen until he’d pulled up a photo of Blueberry the Enormous Cat and practiced an impromptu script. “So sorry to bother you. We’re staying with friends down the street, and their cat escaped this morning. We’ve been helping them scout the neighborhood and thought we spotted it back here, but now it’s disappeared, and, sir? Have you seen a cat that looks like this?”

“You are really good at lying,” I said. “It’s scary.”

He kissed my forehead. “Misdirection, Birdie. While I say all this, you call out for Twinkle Toes, the lost cat, and we apologize for trespassing before leaving.”

“Okay. It’s not the worst plan. Let’s see what we can find.”

Heart hammering, I walked up the driveway with him, careful to keep away from the camera’s eye. We moseyed on up to the side gate, and Daniel reached over it to lift the latch. Boom. We were in the backyard.

And what a yard. Beautiful grass. Lush trees. And the entire city of Seattle at our feet.

“Good God,” Daniel whispered. “Now, this is what I call an eight-million-dollar view. Look at the Space Needle, Birdie. We see it every day, but how many times have you gone up top?”

“Once, when I was a kid.”

“Exactly. Jaded hipsters would tell you that it’s just a tourist trap, and maybe it is. But it’s our tourist trap. It’s weird and iconic, and it’s a freaking engineering miracle with a flying-saucer deck on top, so it kicks the Eiffel Tower’s ass any ol’ day. Now, tell me you wouldn’t want to go up there with me.”

“I may, possibly, just a wee bit, see the appeal.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” he teased. “What’s changed your mind, Birdie?”

I gave him a brazen look, and he gave me one in return, and we were both smiling like idiots, so I blew out a breath and changed the subject. “Can you imagine the parties they have back here?” I said, shielding my eyes to take in the entire lawn. “Tea cakes and champagne. Pretty dresses. Classical music. Important people.”

“Who all know him as Bill Waddle, the husband of Seattle designer Fran Malkovich? Why does he live like that? If I were a megaton author, I’d be wearing a sign around my neck that said, ‘Yeah, it’s really me, motherfuckers.’?”

“He probably tells his maids to never look him in the eye,” I said. “Oh! I wonder if that’s why they come when he’s away. Protecting his anonymity.”

“What about all his awards or whatever? Wouldn’t housekeepers see those and think, ‘Hey, this is Raymond Darke’s house!’ I mean, don’t they give writers giant gold books or some shit to hang on their wall? Musicians get Grammys. Actors get Oscars. What do writers get?”

“No idea. Whenever I see photos of a writer’s office, it’s filled with books and things they like, not awards.”

Once we got over the thrill of standing around in Darke’s backyard, we summoned the nerve to move a little closer to the house. The bottom floor was built into the hill; it had tiny windows, too high to see into, and a small patio flanking the back door. The top two floors had balconies. But the second floor had an enormous wraparound deck and tons of windows. It was accessible from a curved set of patio stairs that spilled onto the lawn.

Maybe it was all that sunshine rotting my brain, but I felt reckless and said, “Bet we could see straight into the house from up there.”

Daniel hesitated, raised a brow, and said, “All right. Let’s find out.”