Stop, Ben. Shake out the nerves.
I walk up onto the driveway and my heartbeat cranks up a level. The closer I get to this house, the less easily I can turn back. I walk slowly along the driveway and go around to the back of the home.
My favorite Garcia movie is Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead. Great cast. I loved Keaton in Batman, a small guy to be playing that kind of a role, but he had those eyes. Pacific Heights was a pretty freaky flick, but it had that scene with the bugs, and I hate bugs.
I get to the back of the house, and it’s got to be an acre if it’s an inch. I found the listing online earlier today, and it mentioned the “spectacular grounds.” You know you’re rich when they call your backyard “grounds.” If you have “grounds,” you probably also have an aging butler with a dry English accent who goes by a name like Hughes or Jeeves.
Actually, that’s a point I hadn’t considered. There might be more than one person in this house right now.
It’s dark back here; not necessarily what I would have expected. That probably means there’s a burglar alarm.
An alarm, possibly multiple people in the house. What else lies ahead for me?
I look over the place. Two stories, fancy enclosed deck. The listing that’s still online described the ornate furnishings inside—no surprise.
Jonathan Liu paid $4.9 million for this place eleven months ago. He’s made a fortune representing Chinese industries. He’s made a career out of playing both sides. He’s had a good life.
He’s not going to have a good night. This time we’re having a Q and A on my terms.
Chapter 41
I try the back door. It’s locked.
I wrap my fist into my shirt and punch a hole through the pane of glass. Then I step back. Smashing glass alone could trigger some people’s alarms.
Nothing. Nothing but the thumping of my pulse.
I reach through the broken pane and unlock the door. Now, opening a door would trigger most people’s alarms.
And there’s such a thing as a silent alarm, though I never saw the logic. So it’s a calculated risk.
The door pops open and I hold my breath. But no sound comes, no whiny shriek or bullhorn. As far as I can tell, Jonathan Liu didn’t set his alarm.
The interior is huge, as the online description of the house advertised. I tiptoe through the to-die-for kitchen, which is perfect for entertaining, with its soapstone countertops and designer cabinets, past the charming half bath, with its imported marble pedestal sink—everything imported—and make my way into the living room, with its built-in bookcases, picture windows, pitched ceiling, and fireplace, which boasts a mantel of marble that was probably also imported, though they never mentioned it in the listing.
Then I hit the staircase. I take each step carefully, transferring my weight with caution. I can spare the two or three minutes of time. I can’t spare Jonathan Liu hearing a creak on the staircase and popping awake and reaching for the pistol on his bedside table—
Stop, Ben.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. What am I doing? What am I going to do, put him in a choke hold?
I take another step. Another. Get him out of his comfort zone, that’s what I’m doing. Catch him off guard and interrogate him. Right. This could work.
I reach the top of the staircase. I could turn in either direction, but it looks like the master bedroom is down to the left.
Then I smell something. I can’t place it, but it triggers memories from long ago.
I am an eight-year-old boy. I am home from school but I don’t call out. I don’t know why but instead of heading into the kitchen, I go immediately upstairs. I walk into the master bedroom, Mother and Father’s room, and I see Mother’s hair cascading across the bathroom floor in the small corner of the bathroom that is visible to me.
And then I see Father stepping out of the bathroom in a white undershirt, holding a garbage bag full of something.
Benjamin, he says. You’re…home early.
My feet keep moving forward, even as Father tries to block my view of the bathroom, and I see her lying prone, a pool of blood coming from her head, a handgun two, maybe three, feet away from her on the bathroom tile—
No! No! No! I say it so many times I lose count. And then Father catches me, and he holds me by the shoulders so he can see me eye-to-eye. There’s been a terrible accident, he says. He picks me up and carries me out of the room and locks me in my room. I scream and plead and slam my fists against the door and lose my breath.
As I approach Jonathan Liu’s bedroom, my pace begins to slow. My heart is hammering, sounding a gong between my ears.
The door reopens. Father lets me out and holds me tight, walking me back into the master bedroom. As I said, there’s been a terrible accident, Ben. I’m sorry you had to see this. But I guess you have to.