The Prince of Risk A Novel(39)

“Looks like she’s home,” said Astor.

“Give her another call,” said Sullivan.

For the past ten minutes, Astor had been calling to alert Evans of their impending arrival. She had not answered. He was worried. Sullivan drew the Audi up behind the parked car and killed the engine. Astor opened the door. “Wait here.”

“Sorry, boss, you got no say in this one.” Sullivan climbed out of the car, moving like a man twenty years younger. The two men walked to the front door. A welcome mat said “Keep Calm and Drink Scotch.” Astor had been right about the sense of humor. He knocked and met Sullivan’s gaze as they listened for a response inside the home. He knocked again. No one came to the door.

“What do you think?”

“Nothing good,” said Sullivan.

Astor retreated down the walk and approached the Range Rover. He noted a parking sticker for 12 Broad on the windshield. “It’s her car,” he said. He looked back at the house. The silence he’d remarked upon earlier no longer pleased him. To his ear, it wasn’t quiet. It was deadly still. “I think the case could be made for us to assume that Miss Evans is in danger. Isn’t there some law allowing us to…”



“Break in?” suggested Sullivan.

“Gain access to administer aid.”

“She could be at a friend’s house or taking a walk. Maybe she has two cars.”

“Bullshit, bullshit, and bullshit,” said Astor. “She knew we were coming.”

“I’m just making you aware of the situation before we do anything we might regret.”

Astor crossed the lawn and tramped through a flowerbed fronting a bay window. The curtains were not drawn, and he had a clear view into Evans’s living room and past it, into the foyer. The house appeared clean and orderly. There was no sign of activity within. He placed his ear to the glass. He caught a distant rumble that might be voices.

“Anything?” asked Sullivan.

“Maybe something from upstairs. TV or radio.”

Astor continued around the side of the house, opening a latched gate and sliding past the garbage cans, then walking another few feet to the back yard. A portable sprinkler attached to a garden hose irrigated the lawn. The grass was waterlogged and soggy. Water spurted from a leak at the head of the hose, flooding a 10-square-foot expanse of lawn.

“Someone isn’t worried about their water bill,” said Sullivan.

Astor jumped onto the red-brick veranda at the rear of the house. The sliding doors opened easily. “Hello,” he called, sticking his head inside. “Miss Evans?”

Sullivan pushed past him, his service pistol drawn and held at the ready. “Stay behind me,” he commanded. “And don’t touch a thing.”

“Whatever you say, detective.”

Sullivan passed through the dining room and into the foyer. The air inside the house was warm and close. Clipped voices drifted from upstairs.

“Miss Evans? Penelope? This is Robert Astor. Are you home?”

No one replied.

Sullivan started up the stairs, the pistol held stiff-armed in front of him. Astor followed at his shoulder. It was the television that Astor had heard through the window. With every step, the voice of a news commentator grew louder. The master bedroom was situated across a landing at the top of the stairs. The wood floor groaned beneath their steps.

Sullivan halted at the doorway. “Oh boy.”



Astor looked into the room and immediately turned away.

Ten steps away, a woman with long brown hair lay on the floor next to the bed, eyes wide open. She wore only panties and a brassiere. A thin line of blood trickled from a knife wound to her chest.

“Is she… ?” asked Astor.

Sullivan knelt down and felt her neck. He nodded, then looked more closely at the wound. “Whoever did this was some kind of pro.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look. There’s relatively little blood. This guy managed to get the knife into her and puncture her heart so quickly it instantly stopped pumping. That takes practice.”

“What do we do?”

“Stay put.” Sullivan checked the bathroom and closets, then ducked into the hall. “No one here.”

Astor stepped inside the bedroom. An open suitcase sat on the bed, half filled with clothing. He looked at the television and noted that it was tuned to CNBC. A magazine lay half hidden beneath the bed covers. He tugged at the corner and saw that it was a professional journal titled Information Technology Today. The journal was opened to an article about something called “application software frameworks in the energy management sector”: “Our platforms allow for building and managing complex monitoring, control, and automation solutions…”