They arrived in Paradise in record time and he continued to follow Landry through town until they reached the eastern edge. She turned off on a private road and Puller followed. The Toyota skidded to a stop in front of a pair of impressive steel gates that looked strong enough to withstand an Abrams tank assault.
Landry jumped out of her truck. She looked back at Puller as he hurried up to her. He’d left Sadie in the truck with the windows lowered and a full bowl of water.
“You want me to go in with you?” he said.
She looked uncertain. She had asked him to follow her here. But now her dilemma was obvious, he knew.
It was about two in the morning. Why would the pair of them be together?
“I can tell Bullock I heard the explosion, saw you racing through town, and just decided to follow,” he said.
“Thanks, Puller, I appreciate that.”
Boyd was at the front gate. Puller figured Hooper was probably back at Cookie’s house securing that scene. It was good that Bullock had called Landry in. He would need the manpower. Puller doubted the Paradise Police Department was very big.
Boyd looked at Landry the way a man does a woman after he’s been rejected by her. Puller assumed that this was indeed the reason for the look. Landry had said that Hooper and all the other cops had been trying to get her into bed. And it was clear in Boyd’s look that the rejection had not gone down well. When he saw Puller right behind her, his features became darker.
“What the hell is he doing here with you?” he barked.
Before Puller could launch into his cover story, Landry snapped, “He’s here to help us work the scene, Boyd. Take it up with the chief if you’ve got a problem.”
Before he could say anything she bulled right past him with Puller riding her wake.
They first saw the remains of the Bentley. The chrome radiator-now blackened and bent — was the only part left relatively intact to show the model of the car.
Bullock was standing next to it. His crime scene tech was walking the perimeter of the blast site, apparently making some calculations.
When Bullock saw Landry and Puller he waved them over. Unlike Boyd, he didn’t bother to ask why they were here together, so Puller did not need to use his bogus explanation.
“Got here as fast as I could, Chief,” Landry said quickly.
“Looks like the bomb was right under the car,” said Bullock. “Blew out some windows in the house too.”
“This Lampert guy have enemies?” asked Puller.
“Well, it appears likely he has at least one,” replied Bullock.
“What do you know about him?”
“Came here from South Beach about five years ago. Built this place. Well, he was building it before he came here. Took the better part of three years to finish the sucker.”
“How’d he make his money?”
“Finance guy or something. Who the hell knows how those guys make money? They rob Peter to pay Paul.”
“I take it no one was in the car?” asked Puller. “No.”
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t a car bombing enough?” said Landry. Bullock said, “Two guards were attacked. One near the rear fence, the other over near the guesthouse.” He pointed in the direction of the building. “Found them both unconscious. They were pretty burly guys. Whoever took them out was a force to be reckoned with. They finally came to. We questioned both, but they never saw who attacked them.”
Puller gazed over at the guesthouse. “Anyone staying there currently?”
“No,” replied Bullock.
“Is it okay if I take a walk around the grounds?”
“Looking for what?” asked Bullock.
“I usually know it when I see it.”
He left them and walked around the edge of the property. He could see men in black shirts with sidearms and MP5S lurking here and there. Security. Who got their asses kicked tonight. And Lampert would probably kick them again.
But why blow up the car? A message? Was it a message enough?
He looked at the main house ablaze in light.
Then his gaze ventured to the darkened guesthouse. Why one would require a guesthouse when you lived in a mansion bigger than the White House was beyond him. But he supposed at that income bracket, there were no items of necessity, only items of desire.
But then certain possibilities occurred to him. Why have security at the guesthouse if no one was currently there?
He ventured to one of the windows of the structure and hit the flowerbed with his penlight.
Nothing.
He moved around the house, checking the dirt.
Nothing.
Until the third try.
Footprints. Big ones. He held his own foot over one of the prints and came up short by a lot. He estimated a size sixteen. A big man. He took a picture of it with his cell phone.
Maybe just a yard worker cleaning the flower beds.
He looked through the window. Clean shot into what appeared to be a bedroom.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t as simple as a yard worker. And the print was on the house side of the flower bed. Why get so close to the building?
The footprint didn’t look particularly recent. It was hard to say, but they must have irrigation here. So he doubted it had been here longer than a day. Otherwise the water would have dissolved the print.
Now he needed to see what it was the person was looking at.
CHAPTER 51
The door was unlocked. The interior was dark. Puller used his penlight to see where he was going.
Technically he probably wasn’t supposed to be in here, and he didn’t want to call attention to the fact that he was. In his mind he figured out what room that window looked into.
A few moments later he stepped into the room.
Now he had confirmation that it was indeed a bedroom. If this had been a hotel room it would have been one Puller could never have afforded.
He eyed the bed. It was made, but Puller was used to the military precision of square comers and a bed tight enough to bounce a quarter off. This bed was not to that level. And it had a discernible imperfection.
There was a slight bump near the footboard. In the light it would have been hard to make out. In the dark, it was pretty much invisible. But not to Puller.
He carefully lifted up the bedcovers and shined his light under it.
It was a pair of women’s panties. He snapped a picture with his cell phone camera. Someone had made the bed in haste and forgotten this item.
He put the bedcovers back down and glanced at the window. Perfect sightline to here.
He noted the two glass ring marks on the nightstand and sniffed them. Some of the liquid had spilled.
Not a big drinker, Puller still knew what it was by the smell.
Scotch.
It had been a favorite of his old man’s.
He next scrutinized the bedposts and saw the scratches on one of them. Fingernails maybe? He went into the adjacent bathroom, checked out the trash can, vanity, toiletries, shower, and toilet.
All of these things together were telling Puller a lot about what had happened in here.
When he went back out he saw it in the front room. He shined his penlight over it.
Someone had written on the wall in magic marker: Your time is almost up, Pete.
Puller glanced back at the bedroom door and then his gaze returned to the writing. He took a picture of it with his cell phone camera.
Now there was a message that was even more direct than blowing up your super-expensive car.
He had no doubt that the message had been seen. And he was certain it would have been erased in time. Bullock had made no mention of this, so obviously Lampert, if he had been in here, didn’t want the police to know about it. And there was no reason for the police to come into the guesthouse.