When Riggs rounded a curve, the mansion suddenly appeared directly in front of him. His truck resembled a plain, squat tug bearing down on the QEII. The mansion stood three stories tall, with a double doorway spanning at least twenty feet.
He parked his truck in the wraparound drive that encircled a magnificent stone fountain that, on this cold morning, was not operating. The landscaping was as lush and as carefully planned as the house; and where annuals and even late-blooming perennials had died out, evergreens and other hardy foliage of all descriptions filled in the spaces.
He slid out of his seat, making sure he had the piece of paper with the license plate numbers still in his pocket. As he walked up to the front door, he wondered if a place like this would condescend to have a doorbell; or would a butler automatically open the door at his approach? Actually, neither happened, but as he cleared the top step, a voice did speak to him from a brand new–looking intercom built into the side of the wall next to the door.
“Can I help you?” It was a man’s voice, big, solid, and, Riggs thought, slightly threatening.
“Matthew Riggs. My company was hired to build the privacy fence on the property’s perimeter.”
“Okay.”
The door didn’t budge, and the tone of the voice made clear that unless Riggs had more information to impart, this status was not going to change. He looked around, suddenly conscious that he was being observed. Sure enough, above his head, recessed within the back of one of the columns, was a video camera. That looked new as well. He waved.
“Can I help you?” the voice said again.
“I’d like to use a telephone.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not possible.”
“Well, I’d say it should be possible since I just crashed my truck into a car that was chasing a big charcoal gray BMW that I’m pretty sure came from this house. I just wanted to make sure that the woman driving the car was okay. She looked pretty scared the last time I saw her.”
The next sound Riggs heard was the front door being unbolted and thrown open. The elderly man facing him matched the six foot one Riggs in height, but was far broader across the shoulders and chest. However, Riggs noted that the man moved with a slight limp as though the legs and, perhaps, the knees in particular were beginning to go. The possessor of a very strong, athletic body himself, Riggs decided he would not want to have to take this guy on. Despite his advancing age and obvious infirmities, the man looked strong enough to break Riggs’s back with ease. This was obviously the guy seen at the school picking up Lisa Savage. The doting linebacker.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Riggs pointed toward the road. “About ten minutes ago, I was out doing a preliminary survey of the property line in advance of ordering up men and equipment when this BMW comes bolting down the road, a woman driving, blond from what I could see, and scared to death. Another car, a black Honda Accord, probably a 1992 or ’93 model, right on her butt. A guy was driving that one and he looked determined as hell.”
“The woman, is she all right?” The elderly man edged forward perceptibly. Riggs backed up a notch, unwilling to let the guy get too close until he had a better understanding of the situation. For all he knew, this guy could be in cahoots with the man in the Honda. Riggs’s internal radar was all over the place on this one.
“As far as I know. I got in between them and took the Honda out, banged the crap out of my truck in the process.” Riggs briefly rubbed his neck as the recollection of his collision brought several distinct painful twinges to that location. He would have to soak in the tub tonight.
“We’ll take care of the truck. Where’s the woman?”
“I didn’t come up here to complain about the truck, mister—”
“Charlie, call me Charlie.” The man extended his hand, which Riggs shook. He had not underestimated the strength the old guy possessed. As he took his hand back Riggs observed the indentations in his fingers caused by the other man’s vise-like grip. Whether he was merely anxious about the safety of the woman, or he mangled visitors’ fingers on a routine basis, Riggs didn’t know.