One of Those Malibu Nights Read Free Page B

looked like a pewter coffin lid and without a knob or a handle of any sort. A discreet button set into the wall invited the visitor to Press.
    Mac did so but heard no distant electronic chime. Even the doorbell was silent.
    Over the top of the steel slab of the gate he could see the ruffled fronds of a couple of tall palms and some branches of bamboo. Like most of the houses in the Colony he guessed the gate led into an entrance courtyard, beyond which would be the front door proper.
    He pressed the bell again and glanced round, waiting. No cars were parked on the yellow lines in front of the house that marked the owner’s parking spaces, and the blank steel door to the garage was shut. He wondered what kind of car Ron Perrin drove. A silver Porsche? A Bentley? A red Ferrari, perhaps? It was sure to be expensive and flashy because that’s the way the man was.
    At last a male voice answered. “Who is it?” He sounded out of breath.
    “Mac Reilly,” he said into the speaker. “Your neighbor.”
    A pause, then, “Come in,” the voice said.
    The steel slab slid to one side and disappeared into a recess in the limestone wall. No crazy paving for RP, only a straight dark blue concrete walkway leading past a midnight blue reflecting pool, through a tropical courtyard where the jungle foliage reached out to grab Mac as he walked by.
    Perrin was waiting at the glass entry. He was a short man with the wide shoulders and hard stare of an aggressive primate. He also had the slight forward stoop of a man who lifts weights, as though permanently about to bend and pick up a two-hundred-pound barbell.
    Perrin’s brow was wide, his hair was dark with a slight wave; his eyes were a light molten brown and his thick eyebrows were what a writer like Dickens might have termed “beetling.” That is to say, they joined over his nose in a distinguished frown. His nose had a sharp look to it but his mouth was full-lipped and sensual. He was in good shape and even now, in a sweat-stained tee and gym shorts, Mac could tell he was definitely a man who knew his Dolce from his Italian ice cream. He was also attractive in an offbeat way and Mac could see why beautiful Allie Ray would have been drawn to him. Power combined with money made a formidable combination.
    Perrin said, “I know you. I’ve seen you on TV. Come in.”
    Mac stepped inside and took a quick look around. The entry soared thirty feet to a beveled glass dome. The house itself was open plan and sleek. An all-steel kitchen to the rear; a jutting staircase of free-floating steps with no visible means of support to the left; and in front a wall of glass through which Mac could see, though not hear, the crashing ocean waves. All the windows were closed and the air-conditioning was blasting, as was a recording of Roxy Music’s
Avalon
.
    Perrin’s expensive Malibu walls held a collection of even more expensive art, whose value was apparent even to a nonconnoisseur like Mac. And the furnishings were unbeachy, with serious antiques, soft leather chairs and fine silk rugs on the dark, lacquered-concrete floors.
    An odd feature was the model railroad that ran around all four walls, vaulting over the glass doors, undulating through the open-slab stairs, sneaking along the baseboards and climbing the limestone in layers of splendid, and pricey, miniature rolling stock. It was a child’s, or in this case a grown man’s, dream. Mac was immediately intrigued. But Mr. Perrin had matters other than model railroads on his mind.
    “Take a seat, Mr. Reilly,” he said.
    Mac perched on the edge of a slippery green leather chair. He glanced at the place where he’d been standing when the redhead took a shot at him. There was a large chip in the polished concrete floor. The remains of the crystalvase had been removed but he guessed the ricocheting bullet was still buried in the back of the bronze velvet sofa where Perrin now slumped opposite him. He looked distinctly pale as well as haggard and