Devoted(101)
Because the staff had been chased out so unceremoniously, Cromwell found four doors wedged. Just as he secured the last one, the clatter of a helicopter announced the imminent arrival of the Great Man.
He went out to the rear terrace to watch the craft land and to greet his employer with more dignity than would be appreciated. Then he would depart for a long weekend of golf, pampering at a spa, and fine dining in Pebble Beach. He was booked into a five-star resort where they might have enough excellent wine in stock to heal the trauma of having to spend five minutes in Dorian Purcell’s company.
109
A mile south of the Bookman residence, Verbotski, Knacker, and two of their partners in Atropos—Speer and Rodchenko—gathered in the garage of the house where Charles Oxley lay dead in the cellar. In addition to Oxley’s vehicle, the garage housed the black Suburban in which Speer and Rodchenko had driven from Reno.
Among other items that the newcomers brought in the Suburban were white-vinyl stick-on block-style letters in two different sizes, large and extra large. They didn’t have the entire alphabet, only multiples of F and B and I. They required time and patience to align the letters and apply them to the roof, each front door, and the tailgate of the vehicle. The result was convincingly official.
Alexander Gordius called to say that the sheriff’s deputies were no longer providing protection to Megan Bookman and her son.
Verbotski, Knacker, Speer, and Rodchenko were in agreement that they should wait until four o’clock to proceed to the Bookman place. To act any sooner would be to make it obvious that their arrival was a direct consequence of the deputies’ pullout, which might make the widow wonder if they were in fact FBI.
After they rigged the simple device to blow the furnace in the basement, leaving only one connection to be made later, they agreed to pass the time playing poker at the kitchen table. A thousand-dollar buy-in was required. They were drinking men, but not when a job was pending. Verbotski brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and Knacker set out a package of a dozen chocolate-covered doughnuts that he found in the bread box.
Having never seen the body of anyone strangled with an extension cord, Speer was curious about what the ligature marks might be like. He went to the basement to have a look at Charles Oxley’s throat, and he returned to say he was suitably impressed.
They had been playing poker only half an hour when Alexander Gordius called again to report that, according to a friendly deputy who had been on the security detail, Megan and Woodrow Bookman were not the only people in the house. A thirtysomething Latina woman was there, as well, and a thirtysomething man who had arrived in a Range Rover with a golden retriever. At one point, the man had moved the Latina’s Lincoln MKX and his vehicle into Mrs. Bookman’s garage. No one had instructed the deputies to be curious about Mrs. Bookman’s visitors, and they had lacked the initiative to record the license plate numbers of the Rover and Lincoln. There was no way to know who these people were or if they would still be in the house when the boys from Atropos arrived.
After three minutes of discussion, the killers agreed that this development was of no concern. Operating in concert, they had once subdued eleven civilians for interrogation and had subsequently shot all of them to death. They were professionals.
As they returned to poker, Rodchenko said, “These are damn good doughnuts.”
“One dozen for four of us,” said Speer. “Your share is three.”
“What? If I eat four, you’ll shoot me?”
“We could do the job with just three of us,” Speer said.
“Easily,” said Knacker.
“If we had to,” said Verbotski.
Because none of those present was a man known for his sense of humor, Rodchenko did not take a fourth doughnut.
110
From a Crestron screen embedded in a kitchen wall—they were placed throughout the house—Dorian Purcell engaged the security system, which covered not just all doors and windows but also the five acres of grounds. If anyone tried to scale the front gate or the spike-topped estate wall, combined heat-and-motion detectors would identify a human-size figure. The alarm would sound, segmented steel shutters would roll down over all windows, and the police would be summoned. Through his charitable foundation, Dorian donated $30,000 a month to the Police Benevolent Fund, so local authorities tended to answer an alarm from this property six times faster than one from any other. He had tested them.
He came here to Tiburon not merely to think deep thoughts about technology and culture, and not just to brood about what new sexual adventures he might be able to get away with in this place, but also to kick back and enjoy himself without the annoyance of people. He poured chocolate-flavored vodka over ice. With the drink in hand, he toured his sleek ultramodern palace, not sure if he wanted to play pinball or a video game, or pilot an F-18 fighter in his virtual-reality flight simulator, or take his air rifle up to the roof deck to shoot crows in flight, doves if there were any.
He came to the library. An enormous, antique Kashan carpet, with an intricate pattern in shades of coral and sapphire and deep amber, seemed to float on the pale limestone floor as if waiting for the genie who knew how to spell it into flight. The bookshelves were crafted from quarter-cut anigre, a rich golden wood that seemed to glow. He had contracted with a book scout to search for and acquire six thousand important first editions at a cost in eight figures.