The monk peered inside the window. Astor was seated on the bed inside, his back facing him. The monk continued to watch, hoping to catch a glimpse of a second person if there was one. He placed a hand against the wall, feeling for vibrations within the home. All was quiet. This close he could sense Astor’s energy. The man was strong, aggressive. A fighter, but too arrogant and headstrong for his own good. Still, it was a powerful energy, and the monk would find pleasure in defeating a formidable adversary. He looked more closely into the room, drawn by Astor’s spirit. It was then that he observed the mirror and noted the dark triangle in the lower quadrant that was his face and hair.
A moment later Astor saw it, too, and jumped to his feet.
50
Astor broke out of his reverie, his attention caught by a flash in the mirror. Warily he walked to the window behind him. He looked outside and saw nothing. And yet he sensed something. A presence. He opened the door to the terrace, stepped outside, and walked the length of the deck, unsure what he was looking for. Below, in the gravel drive, Sully stood by the car, taking a call.
“Sully, you see anything out here?”
John Sullivan lowered the phone. “Like what?”
Astor looked to either direction. It had been a bird, he decided. Something that had landed on the railing and flown away. “Forget it.”
“Find anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t take too long. I don’t like this.”
Astor reentered the bedroom, taking in everything with an investigator’s eye. It was immaculate and showed no sign of a rushed departure. He guessed that Penelope Evans had stayed behind when his father traveled to Washington, D.C., and that she had cleaned up after him.
He walked into the bathroom. It, too, was neat and orderly. Shaving cream, aftershave, and deodorant were missing from the medicine cabinet. It had been an overnight trip. On the top shelf were prescriptions for Lipitor and Viagra. Astor smiled. Dad was getting some.
Astor entered the closet. One wall was taken up by suits. Dark gray, light gray, gray pinstripes, gray Prince de Galles, summer weight, winter weight…but gray. He turned, expecting to find the opposite wall similarly racked with clothing. Instead he found himself looking at dozens of framed photographs, laminated articles, and mementos running from floor to ceiling. It was the trophy wall Astor had never given himself. There were photos of Bobby as a preteen, playing baseball and football, and older, skiing in Colorado and the Alps, and of Bobby in high school at the beach in Martha’s Vineyard and the Hamptons. There were plenty of more recent photographs, too, nearly all of him arm-in-arm with Alex or playing with Katie.
And then there were the articles, taken from numerous newspapers and magazines, chronicling his rise to the top. Astor smiled, seeing the front-page piece from the Wall Street Journal with the stipple-pen portrait that made him look like a leering zealot. There was even a framed invitation from his first clambake, which his father had neither attended nor acknowledged.
Everything about him.
Astor felt his throat tighten. Confusion and comprehension battled. He stared at his life in pictures, and he knew, maybe for the first time, that his father had loved him.
Astor turned away. It was too much. A distraction. Emotion merited no place today.
A dresser stood at the far end of the closet. He opened the top drawer. A polished wooden box with the word Beretta engraved on a corner sat on the jumble of socks. The name jarred him back to reality. He set the box on the dresser and flipped open the lid. A stainless steel pistol lay cradled on a bed of black velvet inside. It was a 9mm with a tapered snout and a crosshatched grip. He freed the pistol. It was heavier than he expected, and he noted that the magazine was in and the safety was on. Sully had taught him more than he ever wanted to know about firearms. He racked the slide. A copper-nosed round lay in the chamber.
Ready to fire.
Astor regarded the pistol. His father had been a fire-breathing liberal and no friend of the NRA. Imagining him with a gun was like picturing Mother Teresa brandishing an M-16. There was only one reason for him to possess any kind of weapon. Edward Astor was frightened for his life.
Astor slipped the pistol into his belt. If his father had needed a weapon, so did he. And Penelope Evans? Nothing could have protected her against an assailant so stealthy he could get within an inch of her in broad daylight without her knowing.
Astor left the bedroom. If he were to find answers, he would find them in his father’s office.
The monk leaped the railing, retreated across the roof, and slid down the drainpipe to the back porch. A check around the corner confirmed that the driver remained next to the car. Astor called out from the second floor, asking if the driver had seen anything. The driver responded that he had not. The monk heard Astor cross the terrace, then retrace his steps and reenter the bedroom. Content in his knowledge that Astor was on the second floor and confident that he had not been seen, the monk used a penknife to jimmy a kitchen window and climbed inside the house. A block of cooking knives sat on the counter. He selected a short, slim instrument, ideal for jabbing. Despite its size, the knife had heft. He swung it back and forth, gaining a feel for it. He ran his tongue delicately across the blade and tasted blood. The knife would do.