The Kaisho Read Free

invisible companion as he heard the dog coming fast at him. He let go of the corpse and opened the car door in almost the same motion.
    The rottweiler, ears flat back, teeth bared, was already upon him. The frightening, stubby muzzle was white with saliva. Do Duc led with his left hand, catching it between the dog’s snapping jaws as it leapt, flinging him back against the car roof.
    The long teeth penetrated into the rubberized glove, and while the animal was thus occupied, Do Duc took the bloody blade and inserted it into the rottweiler’s left ear, punching it right through to the other side.
    The teeth almost came through the padding then, as the dog bit down in reflex. Do Duc stepped away from the fountain of blood, holding the twitching beast at arm’s length, grunting at its weight, but happy at the resistance in his biceps and deltoid muscles.
    In the end, he was obliged to slip off the glove because, even in death, the rottweiler would not relinquish its hold. Do Duc bent, extracting the blade from the dog. He wiped it on the leg of the guard’s jeans, then climbed back into the car, resuming his journey up the driveway to the massive porte cochere.
    The mock Doric columns rose above him as he pulled in, turned off the ignition. He took the physician’s bag from the seat beside him, went up the brick steps to the front door.
    “Mr. Goldoni?”
    The well-dressed man standing in the doorway shook his head. “Dominic Goldoni is, ah, away.”
    Do Duc frowned, consulting papers on a steel clipboard; papers that were meaningless to the situation. “This the Goldoni residence?”
    “Yes, it is,” the well-dressed man said. He was handsome in a large-featured Mediterranean manner. His brown eyes were hooded, liquid. He was pushing fifty and seemed foreign, almost courtly in his rich Brioni suit, Roman silk shirt, and thousand-dollar loafers. “Are you the Lilco man?”
    “Right,” Do Duc said, flashing his ID briefly as he stepped across the threshold.
    The man’s eyes tracked the plastic badge. “I’m Tony DeCamillo, Mr. Goldoni’s brother-in-law.”
    “Yeah, I know,” Do Duc said, burying his fist in DeCamillo’s solar plexus. He held the man up almost gently as DeCamillo retched and gasped for air. Then he brought a knee up into DeCamillo’s chin, snapping his head back.
    Do Duc let DeCamillo’s unconscious form slide to the floor. While so bent over, he took the time to inventory the man’s gold jewelry—rings, watch, cuff links, tie pin. Then he took DeCamillo under the arms and dragged him into the coat closet in the huge marble-floored foyer. Do Duc used flex he produced from his bag to tie DeCamillo’s wrists and ankles. He took a scarf from a shelf, balled it up, and stuffed it in DeCamillo’s mouth, then secured it with more flex.
    There was no cook; Margarite DeCamillo prided herself in being a first-class chef. But there was a live-in cleaning woman. Do Duc found her in the kitchen pantry, preparing her own dinner. He came up silently behind her, looped a piece of flex around her neck, and exerted pressure. She gasped, tried to cry out. Her nails flailed the air, scratched him down one burly forearm before her breath gave out and she pitched forward into the cans of Redpack tomatoes. He left her there, hunched over, cooling quickly. He crossed to the phone on the wall next to the enormous built-in refrigerator, cautiously picked up the receiver. It was not in use, and he dialed a local number, listened while the electronic clicks and relays sent it on its way out of state. He counted off the requisite five rings before the call was answered, then said into the silence, “I’m in.”
    Back in the foyer Do Duc mounted the wide mahogany staircase. The wood was polished to such a high gloss he could see himself reflected in it. His shoes made no sound on the Persian runner.
    Margarite DeCamillo was luxuriating in a steamy bath in the master bedroom wing. Her head was back against a rubber