Authors: Marcia Clark
FIFTY-SEVEN
A
lex had coffee waiting.
We
gulped it down and got on the road by eight o’clock. There were a few things I’d forgotten to ask Alex to pick up, so we had to stop at my apartment. Alex wanted to go in for me, to spare me the bummer of seeing how badly it’d been thrashed, but that would take longer, and I didn’t want to waste the time. Alex had put a padlock on the door because the flimsy door-handle lock had been broken. When I got the padlock off and pushed the door open, I stood there, frozen.
It was a horrible sight. The place had been turned upside down, and a violent energy still hung in the air. It felt as though the burglar was still there. I got out as fast as I could. I’d have to call the police and report it soon. But there was no point wasting time with it right now. Anyway, a report was just a formality. The odds of them catching the burglar were about as good as my winning the lottery. And I’ve never bought a ticket.
I got back to the car within minutes, and we headed for Malibu. The good thing about doing this on a Sunday was that there was no traffic. We’d make good time, and it’d be easier to see if we were being followed. We watched for any suspicious cars all the way to Pacific Coast Highway. The road behind us was clear.
It was one of those sparkling fall days when all the colors seem too vivid to be real—the cornflower-blue sky, the golden sunshine, the azure ocean that shimmered like glass.
The beauty of the day and the hope for our mission buoyed our spirits. We started our search at the northern edge of the Colony, energized and optimistic. We drove up one street and down another, working our way up the coast, sure we’d be able to find the house in the background of Marc’s photo in no time. But as we traveled up and down block after block, our spirits sank like a punctured air mattress.
By noon, we were tired, stumped, and demoralized. And I was starving. I spotted a sandwich shop across the highway from the ocean. “Let’s take a break. I’m buying.”
We ordered at the counter and took our sandwiches to the little metal table on the front patio. There was an older couple at the table next to ours who wore the unflashy tans and bleached cotton T-shirts and shorts of locals. I told them we were looking for a house that our friend had visited and asked if they might recognize the area from a photo. They said they’d give it a try. I showed them the photo on Paige’s phone.
The woman squinted at it and tilted her head. “I don’t know where this is, but it’s not this neighborhood.” She passed the phone to her husband.
He stared at it for a few beats. “I couldn’t tell you what street this is, but it kind of reminds me of Broad Beach. You know where that is?”
I’d heard of it. Broad Beach was multimillionaire territory, where humongous mansions sat right on the sand. Mega-celebrities like Barbra Streisand and Danny DeVito lived there. “It’s a little north of here, right?”
“Yeah. Just head up the coast.”
I thanked them and we got back into Alex’s car. “There you go. Progress at last.”
Michelle gave me a tired look. “Unless there’s more than one street in Broad Beach.”
I sighed. “And more than one house on that street. But at least we’re getting closer.”
We found the road the man had told us about. It was exotically named Broad Beach Road. But we couldn’t find a spot that looked like the one where Marc had been. We showed the photograph to everyone we saw, but none of them recognized the area.
It was almost five o’clock, and we were running out of energy—and daylight. I suggested a last-ditch effort across the highway, where there was a Rite Aid, a liquor store called Beachside Bevs, and a gas station.
The clerk at the liquor store, a tall, skinny young guy with acne, studied the photo, then shook his head. “Nah. Doesn’t look familiar to me.”
We struck out with all the clerks at the Rite Aid, too. The gas station was our last chance. I showed the photo to the cashier. She stared at it, and I could see she was really trying. But she shook her head. “No, sorry.”
We were about to leave when I noticed a mechanic working on an old Mercedes. I nodded toward him. “What the hell, it’s worth a try.”
Alex and Michelle followed as I headed toward the service bay. He had a tat on his neck that said
L
IVE
F
REE OR
D
IE
, and he wore a leather necklace with what looked like an animal tooth.
I asked him if he might recognize a street in a photo I had. I held up the phone, and he wiped his hands on a dirty rag as he studied it. His face brightened. “Yeah. I know that place. It’s at the end of Sea Smoke Drive.”
A jolt of electricity ran through me. I tried to act casual. “You know the address?”
“The last house at the end of the road. It’s one of the smaller cribs in this community. You can’t miss it. Sits by itself out there.”
“How do you know the place?”
“Been taking care of their cars for the past couple of years. I pick ’em up and deliver ’em.”
“Then you know the people who live there?”
“Sure. Cory and Sarah Larsen. But if you’re looking for them, you’re out of luck. They’re in Thailand. Took off at the end of January. Won’t be back till next year.”
The end of January was right around the time Marc had taken the photo. But that meant these people—the Larsens—had been gone for months by the time he and Paige got killed. Marc and Paige wouldn’t have gone there if no one was home. Unless someone else was staying in the house. “Has someone been house-sitting for them?”
“Nope. They told me they were locking it up, asked me to check the place when I had a chance. Matter of fact, I’m storing their cars for them.”
How could this be? I felt like an anchor had lodged in my chest. I’d been so sure I was about to hit gold. Not only didn’t I hit gold but my one solid hope had been crushed.
Depressed, I thanked the mechanic and we trudged back to
Alex’s car.
Alex leaned over the steering wheel and stared at the ocean. “Someone else might still have access to the place.”
I sighed. “I suppose.”
Michelle rallied. “And maybe Crocodile Dundee over there was wrong. Maybe it’s another house.”
Alex nodded. “She’s right. Either way, it couldn’t hurt to look.”
“Sure,” I said. “We’re here. May as well.”
It took us a while to find Sea Smoke Drive, and when I saw the house at the end of the road, I knew he’d pegged the right place. This was where Marc had taken the photo. The mechanic hadn’t been exaggerating when he said the house sat out there by itself. There were an easy fifty yards between it and the next-to-last house on the street.
Alex drove past the house, then parked farther up the road. “Let’s get out and look around.”
By now the sun was close to the horizon, and the ocean had a red glow. I wandered down the street behind Alex and Michelle, trying to figure out if there was still a way to resurrect the Marc angle. But without some evidence that Paige had been here with Marc that night, I didn’t see how it could work. It’d just come off sounding like a flimsy distraction. Which it was.
Alex and Michelle were circling around behind the house to the backyard—fifty feet of sand that led straight to the ocean, a private beach. I walked up to the front of the house and looked for a gap in the drapes. I found a small one a few feet to the right of the door, but it was completely dark inside. I couldn’t see a thing. Just for the hell of it, I knocked on the door. No answer.
Then, without thinking about what I was doing, I grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it. It gave. It wasn’t locked? How could that be? The mechanic had said no one was house-sitting for them. Something was wrong. My palms started to sweat. I didn’t want to call out to Alex and Michelle. It didn’t look like anyone was home, but it’d be bad to get busted for breaking and entering. I looked around. I didn’t see anyone nearby.
I put my head to the door and listened for signs of life, but I didn’t hear anything. I pushed the door open as slowly and quietly as I could and peered inside. The house was dark. All the drapes were closed. I made out a large sunken living room on my right. Straight ahead was a dining area, with a small kitchen to the right. There was a gap in the drapes on the wall of the dining area that let in a sliver of light, and I could see that they covered sliding glass doors that opened onto the private beach.
Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The place had been trashed. Table lamps lay broken on the floor, couch cushions were thrown around, and the drawers in the coffee table had been pulled out. I stepped inside, leaving the door open behind me. As I walked into the foyer, I stepped on something that crunched under my shoe. It sounded like glass. I noticed a broken vase lying on the floor a few feet away.
Someone had busted in, that was for sure. But I had no way of knowing if anything had been stolen. I moved through the living room and headed for the hallway that led to the rest of the house. My heart thudded in my chest as I made my way through the gloom, my ears straining for any sounds of movement—maybe by the person who’d busted in here. I came to a bedroom on my right. It was a mess, but it wasn’t thrashed like the living room. Clothes were strewn around, the carpet was coated in sand and dirt, the bed was unmade, and there was a sleeping bag on the floor. That, and the empty fast-food wrappers and bottles, showed someone had been staying here, but I couldn’t tell how recently.
I paused again to listen for movement. Nothing. I headed farther down the hall. When I got to the end, I saw what looked like the master bedroom on my left. It was big, and it, too, was a mess. There was another sliding glass door at the far end of the room. Drapes covered the view, but from the sand caked into the carpet, I surmised it also opened onto the beach. The duvet on the king-size bed was pushed to the side, the sheets looked rumpled and dirty, and the pillows were squashed. Someone was sleeping here, too. But nothing was thrown around or broken. I stepped inside and opened my phone to give myself more light. To the right of the bedroom door was a walk-in closet. Ahead, just past the bed, was a half wall that separated the bedroom from a large marble-floored bathroom. I was about to go and have a look at the bathroom when I heard a scrabbling sound coming from the sliding glass door. My throat tightened. Then a latch clicked open. Whoever was camping here had come back.
I ran to the closet. I couldn’t risk them seeing me close the closet door, so I had to leave it open. I hunkered down against the wall and tried not to breathe.
FIFTY-EIGHT
I
heard the sliding glass door open.
The sound and smell of the ocean poured into the room. My lungs ached for air. If they decided to hang out in the bedroom, they’d catch me for sure. My only hope was that they’d head into the kitchen.
I heard footsteps on the carpet. Then a voice. “Why would they leave it open?”
It was Michelle. Light-headed, I leaned back against the wall of the closet and let in a long, deep breath. It took a few seconds before my rubbery legs would let me straighten up out of my crouch. I took another deep breath before I walked out into the bedroom. “Hey, guys. Nice place, huh?”
Alex and Michelle jumped, then stared at me. Michelle pointed to the closet. “What were you doing in there?”
“Hiding. It looks like someone—maybe a few someones—are hanging out here. And it doesn’t look like they’re invited guests. I thought you were them.”
It was really dark now. I moved to the doorway, found the light switch, and flipped it. The lights came on. I was surprised. “Kind of weird that they left the electricity on if they’re gone for a year. Seems like a waste.”
“Maybe it’s on a timer,” Michelle said.
“I guess. Did you guys see the rest of the place?”
Alex shook his head. “We didn’t think it’d be open. I just tried that sliding glass door for the heck of it. The hasp on the latch is broken.”
Michelle moved through the bedroom toward the hallway. “What does the rest of the place look like?”
“Like Whitesnake and Ratt partied hard. Come on.” I turned off the bedroom light. I didn’t want to attract any attention—from the squatters or any security patrol. I held up my phone and led the way out to the living room. Now that I could see better, I noticed this was more than just a really bad mess. I moved around the room, looking at everything closely. The broken vase in the foyer had sent glass flying into the living room. And the table lamp seemed to have fallen off a side table that was knocked over.
Michelle took in the scene. “Kinda looks like the squatters had a disagreement.”
“Does.” I moved around the room and took some pictures, but I was getting nervous about hanging around this place. “We should get going. I have a feeling we don’t want to meet whoever camps out here.”
Michelle followed me down the hall. “Assuming they still are. Don’t you think it’s weird they haven’t been caught? A ’hood like this must have some kind of security.”
“Some kind, sure. But we didn’t notice anything wrong from the outside, so unless security patrol actually checked doors and windows—which obviously they didn’t—they wouldn’t know. And the nearest neighbors aren’t that close.” The more I thought about what we’d seen in that house, the more sure I was that the squatters still called this place home. Which meant they could come back any minute. I wanted to get out of there. I motioned for Michelle to follow me and headed back to the master bedroom.
Alex had turned the light back on. He was standing on the bed and staring at the ceiling.
“You okay?”
He glanced down at us. “See this smoke alarm?” I looked up at the round plastic fixture Alex was studying. I nodded. “It looks just like the one my uncle uses at his workplace.”
“So? Look, Alex, we need to get out of here. This is someone’s crash pad, and they might be back any second.” And with the lights on in this bedroom, the squatters would know they’d been invaded even from a distance.
Alex reached up and pulled on the plastic casing. “Just give me
a sec.”
I took a closer look around the bedroom. The flat-screen television on the wall facing the bed looked fairly new. The furniture was average, nondescript—somewhere between high-end and yard-sale quality. I wondered if this was a summer home. It had the look of a place that got secondary attention. When I got to the nightstand on the left of the bed, I saw a notepad. There was a phone number written on it. I snapped a photo.
I noticed a couple of framed photographs on the dresser. One showed a slim, not necessarily pretty, woman, with long hair parted on the side that dipped over one eye. She was wearing a short sarong skirt with a bikini top, and she was sitting on a man’s lap with her legs crossed. He had a hand wedged between her thighs. It was just a few inches shy of a crotch grab. They looked like they were in their twenties. The photo next to it showed the same couple, but older—by about twenty years. The man was standing behind the woman. An arm wrapped around her waist held her against his body, and she was bent slightly forward, half sitting on his leg. They both wore broad smiles. The poses in both photos were obviously intended to be sexy, but something about them felt kind of . . . creepy. I took pictures of them, then looked through the drawers. When I got to the bottom right drawer, I found a stack of what looked like color printouts. I pulled them out. One showed a picture of a woman on her hands and knees with a dog mounted on her back. Jeez. I looked through a few more and saw that they were of the same ilk—some with horses. After the first few, I didn’t need to see anymore. I held one of them up. “Whoever these owners are, they’re real sickos. Check it out.”
Michelle came over, looked, and made a gagging sound. “Put those things away.” She moved to the closet and turned on the light.
I put the printouts back and closed the drawer. “Anything in there?”
Her voice was muffled. “Just some old clothes.” Michelle came out. “Thank God, no dog collars—”
I stood up. “Or bridles.”
Michelle made a face. “You’re disgusting.”
I gave a short laugh. “
I’m
disgusting?
I
—” I stopped. I heard voices. Male voices. They were coming from just outside, near the front of the house, and they were getting closer.
Michelle’s eyes got wide. “Holy shit.”
Alex was still fiddling with the smoke alarm. I tapped his leg and whispered, “Alex, forget that thing. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Turn off the light. You guys go. I’ll be okay. It’ll just be a minute.”
I turned off the light, but I wasn’t about to leave him there by himself. “Michelle, take off. They won’t see you if you go out that way.” I pointed to the sliding glass door at the far end of the room that opened onto the beach.
She looked from me to Alex. I could tell she didn’t want to go, but her face had drained of color, and she was shaking. I could feel my heart pounding, too. If the condition of that living room was any indication, these guys were not the peaceful type. And I didn’t have my gun. The voices got louder. It sounded like they were nearing the front door.
Alex looked down at me. He whispered, “Can you get me a pair of tweezers? There might be some in the bathroom.”
Michelle pulled on his pants leg. “No! Alex, forget it. We’ve got to get out of here.”
But Alex shook his head. There was no point wasting time arguing. I ran to the bathroom and searched the drawers, found an old pair, raced back, and handed it up to him. “Hurry. Please.”
Alex used the edge to unscrew the plastic plate. But the alarm was attached to the ceiling by wires. “Alex, I don’t know what you think that is, but it looks like a real smoke alarm to me. Let it go.”
And then I heard the front door open. Heavy footsteps thudded on the wooden floor and headed into the kitchen. I heard a male voice say, “Put this in the fridge for later.” Another male voice laughed. The refrigerator opened, then closed.
Michelle moved toward the sliding glass door and whispered, “Come on, Alex!” She opened the door and took a step out. Then suddenly, she jumped back inside. Her voice shook as she said, “There’re two more right outside.”
“Two more . . . what?” I asked.
“Guys.” Michelle was so white I thought she was going to faint. “And they don’t look like they belong in this ’hood.”
I pulled Michelle away from the door, slid it, and shoved her toward the closet. “Alex, we’ve got to go!”
“Just one more sec. Almost got it.”
I wanted to yank him off the bed and drag him out of there, but I was afraid to make noise. Exasperated, I went over to the bed and held my phone up to give him light. I whispered with as much heat as I could, “Wrap it up, Alex. Or we might not live to see whatever you think you’ve got there.”
I listened for the voices of the men outside the house. They were faint. It was hard to tell how close they were over the sound of breaking waves. Should we wait? If we did, maybe they’d move on. But I could hear the others moving around in the kitchen. If they decided to come and kick it in the bedroom, we were toast. And that could happen any second now. “Alex, come on!”
Finally, Alex pulled the alarm free. “Got it!” But he’d spoken out loud.
A voice just down the hall said, “What the fuck was that?”
There was no choice now. I went to the closet, grabbed Michelle by the hand, and headed to the sliding glass door. I listened again. The voices outside sounded like they were coming from the right. I turned back to Alex and pointed to the left. He nodded.
I slid the door open and stepped out as quietly as I could. Michelle was right behind me. I whispered to Michelle over my shoulder, “Go!”
I ran as fast and hard as I could. But running through sand feels like one of those nightmares where your feet are lead weights and the monster’s breath is hot on your back. I heard the men shouting behind me, but I kept going. Over my right shoulder, I could hear Michelle wheezing as she tried to keep up. My throat and chest were burning and I noticed that I was wheezing, too. When I glanced back, I saw that Alex was at least twenty feet behind Michelle. I knew he was faster than both of us. He was deliberately hanging back to give us cover.
I kept running, though now every breath felt like a knife scraping through my lungs. Finally I reached the nearest neighbor’s backyard. I ran through it on purpose, hoping someone might see us and call the police but I didn’t see any lights on inside. No hope there. It was getting too painful to breathe, and I could feel my footsteps slowing. When I got to the far edge of the property, I turned left and headed for the street. Michelle was right behind me. As I neared the street, the shouts grew louder. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw two rough-looking men coming up fast behind Alex.
The car was only twenty yards away, but they were gaining on him—and he had the car keys. I did the only thing I could think of. I pushed a button on my phone to make the screen light up and held it over my head. I took a deep, searingly painful breath and screamed, “I’m calling the police!”
The men slowed, but they didn’t stop. I glanced at the nearest houses. Surely the neighbors must’ve heard me? If they did, they were ignoring me. No one came out. I tried to yell again, but my throat was raw and I could barely breathe. All that came out was a strangled croak. The only thing I could think to do was to keep holding my phone up as I backed toward the car. Alex was running at full speed, and I saw that he was finally pulling away from the men. As he drew near, he reached out, the remote in his hand, and I heard the beep beep of the car alarm. We were only ten yards away from the car, but the squatters had started to run again. I tried to yell, “Hurry!” but my voice was shot. Frantic, I waved my arms at Alex, then turned and raced to the car. Michelle had already run past me; she was getting into the back seat. I turned back and saw that Alex had made it out to the street, but one of the men was right behind him.
I got to the car and stopped. What could I do? Frantic, I looked around for something to throw. I saw the extra bottle of Diet Coke I’d bought at lunch on the passenger side floor. I yanked open the door, snatched it up, and hurled it at the man. It was the Hail Mary pass of all time. But somehow, I managed to hit him on the head. It startled him—probably more than it hurt him. But it stopped him just long enough to give Alex time to get to the car. We both jumped in. Alex fired up the engine and hit the door lock just as one of the men slammed his body into the rear driver’s-side door. Michelle screamed. But Alex punched the gas and the man fell back. We sped out of there.
I lay back in the seat, gasping for air. I didn’t have enough wind to talk until we turned on to Pacific Coast Highway. My voice sounded like sandpaper scraping concrete. “Alex, that smoke alarm better be linked to the Pentagon or I’ll kill you.”
“I don’t know what it’s linked to. Maybe nothing. But I do know this much: it’s definitely not a smoke alarm. It’s a camera.”