“What do you want?”

Marty’s greeting wasn’t intended to be impolite—it was simply the obvious question in light of the fact that Smith didn’t make a lot of purely social calls to him.

“For you to take a look at something.”

“What?” he said, the curiosity audible in his voice. The problems that Smith brought him in the past had nearly gotten him killed on a few occasions, but there was no denying that they were interesting.

“Maybe we could talk in person? We’re on our way.”

“We?”

“Randi’s with me.”

“Randi? She’s with you right now? And you’re coming to my house?”

“She insisted. Been dying to see you.”

Randi took her eyes off the road long enough to give him the same withering stare her sister used to, but he ignored it.

“She said that?” There was a pause that seemed long even for him. “How long until you’re here?”

“Less than fifteen.”

Another silence.

“So Jon. Are you wearing old clothes by any chance?”

It was an odd question, but Smith was used to odd questions from his old friend. “Muddy running clothes. She’s in jeans and a sweatshirt.”

“Are the jeans tight?”

“Focus, Marty.”

“Do you have guns?”

“What?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“Are you taking your meds?”

“Yes.”

Smith looked over at Randi. “Do we have guns? Mine’s still in the glove box of the Triumph.”

The roll of her eyes suggested it was a stupid question.

“Yes.”

“Extra clips?”

“I have no doubt.”

“Bring them.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Fine. I just need your help with something. Call it the cost of my inestimable services.”

“Can’t I just pay your fee?”

“No.”

The line went dead.

*  *  *

PARK HERE,” SMITH SAID. “Let’s not get too close.”

Randi pulled to the curb of the quiet street and they continued on foot, quickly covering the remaining two hundred meters to a gate protecting Zellerbach’s driveway. Out of habit, neither stood in front of it, instead ducking behind a sign that read, “Private property—keep out. No trespassing. No soliciting. No collectors. Go Away.”

“Marty, it’s us,” Smith said, holding down the intercom button. “Open the gate.”

No response.

“Marty! Open the damn gate.”

Nothing.

“Shit,” Smith muttered.

What the hell was going on? The intercom wasn’t broken—Marty was physically unable to tolerate electronics that weren’t state of the art and in perfect operating condition.

“Do you think there’s a problem?” Randi said. “Is this why he told us to bring guns?”

Smith shrugged and then let out a long breath—something he did a lot when Marty was involved. “We’re going to have to go in.”

“I have a better idea. Let’s call the police and let them do it.”