He’d made the call to Atlanta just after returning from consoling Paul Zimmerman’s widow. The private phone number stayed safely stored in his address book, used only at negotiation time when he knew the call was expected. The man on the other end was cordial and agreed to be at his house in the Row by 6:00P.M.
A series of asphalt roads spiderwebbed through the manicured forests and carried familiar names. Lee Trail, Hughes Drive, Bozin Way, along with the more descriptive Quail Run, Deer Park, and Hickory Boulevard, the widest leading in from the main entrance.
Mill electricians routinely worked at the Row, though the facility employed a private staff of three electricians on a separate payroll. Consequently, Hank was kept informed as to its daily happenings.
He followed Hickory Boulevard to the first intersection and turned left. Half a mile later he found the concrete drive lined with a knee-high stretch of trimmed hedges. The house beyond was an odd structure, specially designed to reflect the unique personality of its owner. There were no outside walls and at first glance it appeared all roof. The few walls that did exist, along with the roof, were sheathed in cedar shingles stained a dark green. Brick piers supported all sides forming a cloister at the main entrance.Strategically placed windows were trimmed in dark green and blended indiscriminately with the roofline. It was every bit of five thousand square feet, the architecture severe, dark, and restrained, long shadows from the surrounding hickories and pines adding to its somberness. He knew the sense of drama had been intentional and accounted both for the house’s notoriety and nickname the employees gave it.
Dracula’s Place.
6:30P.M.
FRANKBARNARD WORE A PAIR OF MAROON RUNNING SHORTS, Awhite Georgia Bulldogs T-shirt, and a pair of dingy Reeboks. He slowly jogged down the street, a block over from where Hank Reed lived. For more affect he sported earbuds and a phone strapped to his arm.
He casually checked his watch.
Reed was now twenty miles away at the north end of the county. De Florio had called two hours ago and told him when and what needed to be done. His boss had also briefed him on the layout of Reed’s house, describing the list of numbers to be found and instructing him, while there, to place listening devices in the outside office and on the phones. A fairly simple operation and, given Reed’s preoccupation and the fact that he lived alone, he should have a couple of uninterrupted hours to accomplish the task.
He rounded the corner, jogged to the next block, and passed directly in front of Reed’s house. It was a split level, wood-sided, painted white with charcoal shutters and a walnut-stained front door. A thick brush of grass covered the front yard under a shady canopy of oaks and pines, the scattered beds full of ivy and summer flowers. No cars filled the drive, the double cedar gate leading to the rear of the house and the carport closed. But De Florio had said that wasn’t unusual. Reed and most of his visitors used a rear entrance.
He jogged over to the next block and turned west, followingthe curb until he found the narrow right-of-way that ran back south between two wooded lots. De Florio explained how Reed had paved the alley while mayor, claiming a municipal need for a rear entrance to his property.
He trotted down the shady lane. Another cedar gate waited open at the end. He stopped and spied the rear of the house. Reed’s truck was gone, his mill car nestled in the carport. Only part of the house could be seen, the oversized carport and attached office blocking the majority of first-floor windows. Just the top of the screened pool enclosure peeked up from behind the carport. No sounds emanated anywhere. The second story likewise appeared quiet. He knew there were no external cameras.
He looked around. No one was in sight, though he heard and smelled what apparently was a barbecue a few backyards over. Quickly, he scampered through the back gate and headed straight for Reed’s outside office.
He approached the half-glass door and removed the pick from his pocket. Fifteen seconds and the lock tripped. He gripped the knob through his T-shirt, opened the door, and slipped inside. De Florio had also told him that there was no burglary alarm wired for the office.
The space was quiet and smelled of chlorine and coffee. A makeshift Formica counter spanned one wall. Two filing cabinets abutted another. Open cardboard boxes resting on the linoleum overflowed with magazines. Paper was everywhere. Some bound to clipboards, some fastened in binders, most stacked loosely.
This was going to take a while.
A shrill ring pierced the silence.
His eyes shot to the phone on the counter. He froze and waited. After two rings it stopped. Strange. Suddenly, from inside the pool enclosure, a door opened then closed.
What?
The house was supposed to be empty.
Footsteps approached across the pool’s concrete deck. He remembered what De Florio had said about the layout and knew the person could only be headed his way. De Florio also made clear thatdetection in any manner was unacceptable. He needed to leave the office fast. He spun toward the door he’d just come through, a view of the driveway and subsequent alley clear through the open slats of the mini blinds covering the door’s glassed half. He was just about to leave when a red Chevy rolled through the back gate.
Can’t go that way.
He turned and stared across the narrow office toward the door at the other end. It too was half glass, the cobalt blue of the pool just outside.
Inside, directly next to the outer door, was a tiny bathroom. He shot straight for it and pushed the wooden door nearly shut as the outside door opened and someone stepped into the office.
He peered through the cracked-open door.
The visitor was a woman. Mid-thirties, blond, cute. He remembered what De Florio told him about Reed and assumed she was his daughter. What was she doing here? She shuffled through the paper on the counter, then lifted the handset for the phone.
“Sir, according to the court’s scheduled amount, that bond will be $385. The bondsman’s not here right now, but I can get in touch with him and have him stop by the jail tonight.”
Reed had a sideline business as a local bail bondsman. De Florio had briefed him on that too. The woman stood silent, listening, while the party on the other end spoke. Then she said, “That’s fine. He’ll be in touch.”
She hung up and immediately opened the outside door leading to the driveway. Two car doors opened, then closed.
“I’m in here,” she called out. “Was Lori Anne any trouble?”
