Fatal Connections

Chapter 2

I arrived at the house at about 6:00 am, a simple brick rambler with a trim lawn in front. Hanging back in the car, I wondered what might be going down.

Clients usually had needs I could understand and meet with a minimum amount of face time. My one IRL meeting with the Harcourts had been at a local coffee shop, and after that, our contact was either by phone or email. I'd never seen the Harcourt's house. Its humble appearance surprised me.

Ron and Marian Harcourt were a power couple, sort of. They were Instagram stars or "influencers," which is kind of odd because I'd never heard of them before this. Apparently, it had all started with a blog. They had both quit their jobs to travel the world, sometimes bringing their two children along and other times leaving them with their nanny.

Things took off rather quickly because they attracted sponsors from the hotels, restaurants, and resort facilities where they stayed. The couple had just signed a book contract about their experiences going from rags to riches by using the internet. And they had probably amassed a small fortune by not spending any money on their house.

I wondered about this so-called emergency. The neighborhood was as quiet as a morgue. I was still wondering why Marian would call me but not the police.

I was actually in the process of wrapping up my background check on their candidate for a personal assistant. Before I started the job, Nick told me that the Harcourts had a publicist and a business manager. I wondered why they needed yet another assistant, but who was I to judge? And money is money.

So I took the gig. Even though I was adding final touches to the written report, I had the distinct sense that I had missed something.

I tucked my handgun—a Sig Sauer P320—into my waistband, careful to hide the gun's bulge under my jacket, and left my Fiesta parked on the street. I doubted that many people were out this early on a Saturday morning, but with my luck, the neighborhood could be rife with morning joggers or other early risers. Scanning the grounds, I eased toward the front door. Anticipation made me a little itchy.

It was just past mid-March. Too soon for the warmer part of spring. I gave the door three raps and clutched my jacket against the chill air as I waited. Time passed. Then I rang the doorbell. Still no answer.

I pressed my ear to the door and thought I heard an indistinct murmuring inside. The only other sound was that of distant traffic from the main road.

This time I knocked and rang the bell, feeling a little foolish. Still no response, so after a couple of minutes, I dug out my cell phone and called Marian. Straight to voicemail. I could feel a knot forming deep in my belly. This wasn't right.

Reluctantly, I tried the door knob. Unlocked. Fuck. My fingers sprang off the knob, as if it were molten metal. An unlocked door likely meant trouble, unless the Harcourts had intentionally left it unlocked, which I doubted.

I returned to my car and retrieved my leather driving gloves, plus one of the spare napkins I'd collected over the course of many take-out meals.

Back at the door, gloves on, I wiped the only evidence of my ever having been there off the knob and its door. And, as a resident of a place called Paranoia, I gripped the door knob with the napkin, turned it, and entered. Inside, it felt as airless as King Tut's tomb.

The heat was understandable given the weather, but the air felt stuffy, as if the house had been sealed. Of course, it was nowhere near as stifling as the heat in the desert locations where I'd served as a Marine in Afghanistan. Even so, the temperature and its suffocating effect did not evoke pleasant memories or sweet dreams.

The place was too quiet, apart from what sounded like a television burbling from within. Where the hell are the Harcourts? My hand, on autopilot, moved to my Sig.

Hand over the pistol grip, I moved further inside, all senses on high alert. I was halfway past the living room, aimed toward the kitchen when I stopped. Should I continue? Was I in some sort of danger here? I had my gun, but frankly, I try to avoid using it for legal reasons: I'm on probation for a misdemeanor offense. And I don't usually do the kind of business that requires me to meet clients armed for protection.

After a few more seconds of wrestling with my thoughts, I made my way further into the house, ignoring the feeling of being suffocated by the overheated air pressing in around me.

My eyes swept the living room, the kitchen, and the dining room. Then there was the hallway leading to the bedrooms and bathrooms. As I inched toward them with tortoise-like speed, a few random thoughts popped up. Maybe it was a prank call that brought me here. Maybe the Harcourts were on vacation. And maybe I had imagined that earlier phone call. Yeah, right. Three bedrooms, two baths. I checked them all. Nothing but the drone of the TV. Where was that coming from?

The only place left was the basement. After stumbling across a closet or two, I found the basement door. Upon opening it, the TV's volume blared. I paused before going down the steps, but not nearly long enough to prepare myself for what awaited me.