Tropical Depression (Billy Knight Thrillers 1)

More than that, though, it was probably a combination of frustrations. The son of a bitch was a cop, and he was getting away with something he shouldn’t, and that made me mad.

When I had been a cop I hadn’t felt this kind of anger at anybody I busted. They were playing their parts, I was playing mine. There’s a funny kind of understanding between cops and crooks. They both stick to an odd set of rules.

But Doyle wasn’t playing by those rules. He was trying to play both sides. I wanted him to pay for that. So I decided to do something against all the rules, too.

After breakfast I drove over to Hancock Park and pulled up in front of Doyle’s gigantic Tudor-style house.

If there were no loose ends sticking out for me to pull on, maybe I could snag some of my own. I wanted to hammer at Doyle’s smug sense of safety, push him off balance, make him do something he shouldn’t. And then, of course, hope I survived to nail him on it.

I looked at the house. I didn’t know if he was at his office or at home. But I could find out.

I parked the car well down the block, under a large oak tree that shielded my spot from Doyle’s house. I got out, crossed the street, and approached his house.

There was no sign that anyone was there. The garage, attached to the house and off to one side, was closed. I moved into the neighboring yard and approached Doyle’s house from the side.

It was a nice house, nicer than anything I’d ever seen this close. Nobody I knew had ever lived in a house that nice. I pushed through a hedge and got closer. I tried to move quietly, carefully, the way Uncle Sugar had taught me to move through jungles. This wasn’t much of a jungle. Aside from the hedge there was almost no cover, except for the big oak tree with the tree house in it.

I slipped over to the tree and stood with my cheek against it, watching the house. There was still no sign of life in the house.

I thought about what to do next. While I thought there was a rustle and a soft thud behind me.

I turned fast, but the guy behind me was faster. He had his gun in my face before I was more than halfway around. It was a Glock 9mm with a silencer, the twin of Phillip Moss’s piece.

And this guy was almost Phillip Moss’s twin. He was large and looked fit. He had thinning light brown hair and wore a camouflage suit instead of a Hawaiian shirt.

I put my hands up. “Neighborhood Watch?” I asked him.

He gave me a nasty smirk. “Tree patrol.” He jerked his head up at the treehouse above us. “We thought you might be coming. Thanks for making it easy.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He took a half-step back, very careful, and waved the gun toward the front door of the house. “Move along.”

I moved. He marched me across a manicured front lawn and right up the four steps to the door.

“Knock,” he said.

There was a massive door knocker shaped like an eagle’s head. I could lift it without a winch, but just barely. I let it crash down, listening for distant thunder or the scream of terrified horses. All I heard was a huge echo ringing through the house.

After a few moments the door swung open.

I was ready for a lot of things. Sudden violence, certainly. Surprise, fear, hate, no question. I was ready for a picture I had of who Doyle was and what he had done and might do.

I was not ready for Doyle.

Warren Francis Doyle filled the doorway. He didn’t do it with his size, although he was a big man, maybe six-two, and broad across the back and shoulders, with short reddish hair. He was wearing a tank top and a pair of sweat pants. A light sheen of sweat covered his skin. He looked very fit, very strong, and completely in charge of everything in sight. If he told the trees to bow I would expect them to obey.

There was something in the way he stood, something in his eyes, some special quality that just seemed to come out of his pores. It made you want to drop to one knee and put a knuckle to your forehead. Doyle filled the doorway with his presence.

Presence: It’s a word for romance novels. It’s a quality so rare and undefinable, most people have never really seen it. If you haven’t, all anyone can tell you about it is, you had to be there.

I was there. I’d had a lot of things I was going to say. Doyle’s presence took them all away from me. So did his action.

If he’d pulled a gun I would have been ready. Instead, with a pause so slight I couldn’t be sure it was there at all, he looked at me, nodded twice and said, “Good. You’re here. Come on in.” And he held the door wide, nodding to the guy with the gun, who turned and headed back for the treehouse.

I stepped into Doyle’s house. I was thinking about the old rhyme, the spider and the fly, trying to remember how it ended for the fly. I didn’t think it was a happy ending.

The door opened into a wide marble hall, white and cool, accented with soft grays and a few pieces of oak furniture. Doyle closed the door and led me toward the back of the house. He didn’t say anything more, and didn’t seem to mind turning his back on me. His confidence was so overwhelming I started to take it for granted, too. Of course I couldn’t hurt him; why shouldn’t he turn his back on me?