Full Black - Brad Thor [6]
“Do you want me to come in for a while?”
The older man shook his head. He unlatched his seat belt and searched for the door handle.
Ralston put a hand on his friend’s arm. “Skip the nightcap, Larry. Okay?” The movie producer had already consumed enough alcohol.
“Whatever you say,” the man replied, waving him off. “The guesthouse is free if you want it.”
The younger man looked at his watch. They had left Salomon’s car at the restaurant when it became apparent he wasn’t in a condition to drive. “I’ve got an early morning run with friends,” said Ralston. “I’ll call you when I’m done and we’ll work out getting your car back.”
The producer grasped the handle and opened the door. “Don’t bother. I’ll figure it out,” he said as he climbed out of the car.
There was an edge to Salomon’s voice. He was making the alcohol-induced transition from maudlin to angry.
Ralston shook his head. He shouldn’t have let his friend consume so much booze. But, at the end of the day, that’s what sorrows were meant to be drowned in. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked as the producer shut the car door and began to walk away.
Salomon didn’t bother to turn; he just waved over his shoulder and mounted the steps to the entrance of his home.
Ralston knew him well enough to know that he’d probably go inside and keep drinking. There was little he could do about it. “Try to get some sleep,” he recommended as the producer reached the top of the stairs and opened his etched glass front door.
Ralston waited and watched until his friend was safely inside before putting his Porsche in gear and pulling out of the motor court.
On his way down the winding drive, he wondered if he should turn back. Of all the nights of the year, this was the roughest for Salomon.
Had she not been murdered three years ago, it would have been his daughter Rachael’s twenty-first birthday. Within a year of Rachael’s murder, Larry’s marriage had fallen apart. Losing a child was a pain no parent should ever have to bear, having been abandoned by his spouse in the process was almost too much.
When his wife left him and moved back east, Larry never fully recovered. Though actresses, some very well known, threw themselves at him, he hadn’t been with another woman since. He had no desire. The only thing that had kept him going was his work.
What if this time he does something stupid? Ralston wondered. Alcohol and depression were a very bad combination.
The thought plagued him all the way down to the gate, and probably would have bothered him all the way home, had something else not captured his attention. Tire tracks.
How could there be tire marks on top of his? Ralston slowed down to study the tracks. They were different than those of his Porsche and appeared to have veered off to the left, taking the service drive that led to the rear of the property.
Salomon was one of the few wealthy Hollywood people he knew who didn’t maintain around-the-clock domestic staff. And while it was well after midnight and therefore technically “morning,” it was still too early for landscapers or any of Salomon’s other help to have arrived. Someone had to have come in through the gate behind them. Ralston decided to take a look.
Backing up, he killed his lights and turned onto the service drive. In a town like L.A., where you are what you drive, the red 911 had suited him perfectly. Because of the distinct engine whine, though, this was the first time Ralston ever wished he was driving a whisper-quiet Prius.
The service road was far less dramatic than the estate’s main drive. Instead of a lushly landscaped serpentine approach, it was a boring, blacktopped lane with two switchbacks abutted by cinderblock retaining walls.
After the second switchback, the service road opened up onto a darkened view of the far side of Salomon’s house and the silhouettes of outbuildings that supported the estate.
Ralston brought his Porsche to a stop using the parking brake so as not to illuminate his tail