The Face

Probably the best that could be hoped for were bloodstained articles of clothing or locks of their hair.
        Often, a man of Laputa’s position in the community, a man with a prestigious job and many material possessions, if driven to commit a murder or two, might keep no memento. Motivated not by psychopathic frenzy but rather by financial gain or jealousy, their type had no burning psychological need to relive their crimes repeatedly in vivid detail with the aid of souvenirs.
        Hazard had a hunch that Laputa would prove an exception to that pattern. The uncommon savagery with which Justine Laputa and Mina Reynerd had been beaten suggested that within the upstanding citizen resided something worse than a mere hyena, a Mr. Hyde who relived his brutal crimes with pleasure if not glee.
        The contents of the walk-in closet were organized with military [513] precision. Several boxes on the shelves above the hanging clothes were of interest to him. He studied the position of each before he moved it, hoping to be able to return all the boxes to exactly the position in which he’d found them.
        As he worked, he listened to the house. He checked his watch too often.
        He felt that he was not alone. Maybe this was because the back wall of the closet featured a full-length mirror, repeatedly catching his attention with reflections of his movements. Maybe not.

CHAPTER 81
        
        IN THE RAIN AND FOG, THE RUINS OF THIS HOUSE recalled for Corky the final scene in du Maurier’s Rebecca: the great mansion known as Manderley ablaze in the night, the inky sky “shot with crimson, like a splash of blood,” and ashes on the wind.
        No fire had touched these ruins high in Bel Air, nor was there currently either a wind or blown ashes, but the scene excited Corky nonetheless. In this rubble, he saw a symbol of greater chaos to come in the years ahead.
        Once this had been a fine estate, where grand parties had been thrown for the rich and famous. The house, in the style of a French chateau, had been designed with graceful proportions, executed with elegant details, and had stood as a monument to stability and to the refined taste distilled from centuries of civilization.
        These days, among the new princes and princesses of Hollywood, classic French architecture was passé, as in fact was history itself. Because the past was not fashionable, nor even comprehensible, the current owner of this property had decreed that the existing house must come down, to be replaced by a swooping-sprawling-glassy-shining residence more in tune with contemporary sensibilities, more hip.
        [515] In this community, after all, the value is in the land, not in what stands on it. Any real-estate professional will confirm this.
        The house had first been stripped of all valuable architectural details. The limestone architrave at the front entrance, the carved window pediments, and numerous limestone columns had been salvaged.
        Then the wrecking crew had been brought in. Half of their work had been completed. They were artists of destruction.
        Minutes before seven o’clock, Corky had arrived on foot at the estate, having parked the four-year-old Acura several blocks away. He had purchased the Acura cheap, under a false identity, for the sole purpose of using it in this operation. Later, he had one more use for it, then would abandon it with the keys in the ignition.
        At the entrance drive to the three-acre property, a two-panel construction gate with a steel-pipe frame and chain-link infill barred the way. A chain had been wound between the two panels and secured by a heavy padlock with a virtually indestructible case and a thick, titanium-steel shackle highly resistant to a bolt cutter.
        Corky ignored the padlock and cut the chain.
        Shortly thereafter, at the open gate, posing as NSA agent Robin Goodfellow, wearing a small backpack that he had taken from the trunk of the Acura, he had greeted Jack Trotter and his two-man prep crew, who arrived in a thirty-eight-foot truck. Corky directed them along the curved driveway, where they parked close to the house.
        “This is madness,” Trotter had declared as he climbed out of the truck.
        “Not at all,” Corky disagreed. “The wind has died completely.”
        “It’s still raining.”
        “Not furiously. And a little rain provides some covering noise, just what we