I woke at six and eased out of Amber’s arms without waking her. I found coffee in the cabinet, so I made a pot, then checked the fridge for something to cook. She had milk, a fresh bunch of celery, two small limes, and one leftover slice of pizza.
I rummaged through the cabinets and found a box of stainless steel cut oats. I put the water on to boil and placed three bowls and three spoons on the counter as I poured myself a cup of coffee.
Amber said, “Morning, gorgesome.” I took her a cup and sat beside her, feeling happy and content. By the time Hondo arrived I had the table ready with steaming bowls of oatmeal, coffee, and whole-wheat toast.
We ate without talking. I put the dishes in the sink, and we loaded into Shamu to start across Los Angeles to Holmby Hills. Hondo asked Amber, “Have you talked to Bodhi since the wedding?”
“No. I tried a couple of times, but she didn’t pick up. I left a voicemail telling her to call, but she hasn’t.”
“Has she been on Facebook?” I asked.
“No, I checked.”
The street traffic looked heavy but moved well, and we made it to the Artell Mansion in record time. I noticed the gate standing open, and felt a thread of une
ase. Hondo looked at me but didn’t say anything. We both felt it.
I drove onto the grounds, and because of the disturbing feeling, I used the circular drive and parked at the front of the mansion. When we got out I said to Amber, “Stay behind me.” She didn’t argue, but she looked afraid.
Hondo reached the door and pushed on it with one hand. It swung open, making no sound. I touched my pistol but didn’t pull it, then followed Hondo inside.
We saw it at the same time: a spot of red the size of a quarter on the bannister where the stairs made an ellipse to the second floor. Our weapons came out and I reached behind me to touch Amber, who did the right thing by staying close to my back.
Hondo used hand signals to indicate he would go upstairs. I showed him which hallway I would take. We nodded and started our silent recon of the mansion.
Scattered spots and hand-sized smears of blood dotted the hallway floor, showing evidence of a desperate fight that had taken place as some people advanced and others retreated down the hall. The blood smears covered so much of the floor and walls I smelled it, a humid, copper-like odor.
Amber whispered, “Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“Soon, we’re looking for anyone alive because the bad guys may still be here, too.”
“You think they’re all dead?” Amber said, and fear made her voice break.
“Stay close,” I said, and continued toward Sylvia’s office. The doors stood open, and part of the blood trail led inside.
The room looked like a tornado went through it. Someone had overturned the large desk, and papers lay scattered on the floor. A broken computer leaned against the bottom of the wall below a raw hole showing where it hit. Chairs lay in chaotic piles.
A cool, steady breeze came off the pool area and passed through the broken window into the room. We saw no bodies. We left Sylvia’s office and moved down the main hallway, checking rooms as we went.
We found Wilson’s security man, Donovan, sprawled face down in a drying red puddle in the small gym. Stab marks, a lot of them, showed on his torso and face. A kitchen knife pinned the gray suit jacket to Donovan’s back. One hand had been chopped off and rested against the wall beside a stained machete.
Two other blood pools stained the carpet, and red streaks leading out the door told me two bodies had been pulled from the room. I figured Donovan got two before they killed him.
Amber made a slight whimper, then remained quiet. I felt her hand on the back of my belt, the tips of her fingers hooked inside, lightly touching it but not letting go, either.
I led us out of the gym and continued down the hall, every nerve on high alert. The last doors were French doors and I opened both.
I passed through the doorway and straight into a slaughterhouse. Blood in several large, red pools spotted the floor, and long streaks of drying crimson and rust smeared the walls, as if the back of someone’s bloody head slid along it in a struggle.
Franco Torelli’s blood-soaked form lay atop a table. His white shirt looked red and sodden. I saw what must have been twenty knife wounds through the shirt, all in the torso, his arms and hands.
A small wall separated the main room from the next. I edged around it and felt the air go out of me.
Derek Pozza and Sylvia Artell lay on the floor, both dead. Derek must have fought like a berserker. Blood showed everywhere, and it wasn’t all his by a long shot. A red smear ten feet off the floor showed where someone’s back hit the wall and the body slid down to a large, clotting pool on the floor. Derek’s body showed so many cut and stab wounds I couldn’t count them, plus what looked like four bullet wounds.
Sylvia had one round hole in her forehead. Derek’s arm lay across her body as if trying to protect her. Several blood trails led from the room and out a side door into the yard.
Crude red messages written in blood stood out on the wall: