I quickly went to work. If I was going to commit this crime, I was going to at least get in and out as fast as possible. I hustled through the laundry room and into the kitchen, looking for anything that might tell me more about Al Del Luca. There was a stack of opened mail on the counter. I rummaged through it but found only common bills and such. I ducked into the next room, found a dining table with a half-finished puzzle of the Eiffel Tower. Another hallway led me to the living room, where I felt the most uncomfortable because of the front window. I paused to look outside and make sure no one was coming up to the house. There wasn’t much of anything downstairs, so I found the stairs and bound up two steps at a time. There were three bedrooms upstairs. I entered what looked like the master with a king-size bed and two nightstands. On one nightstand was a stack of romance novels. I circled the bed and searched the other nightstand. There were a couple of Tom Clancy novels and several sports magazines. But still nothing that told me much about Del Luca, other than he liked sports and thrillers.
Stepping through the master bathroom, I entered a long and cluttered closet. It was stuffed full of hanging clothes. On one side hung an assortment of dresses and colorful sweaters. On the other side were slacks, jeans, button-downs, sport coats. I sorted through the men’s clothes, searched a few pockets on the sport coats, but didn’t find anything of relevance. At the end of the closet was a tall dresser. Sitting on top of the dresser was a jewelry box filled with women’s costume jewelry. There was also a clay bowl with cuff links, some random keys, loose change, and finally something that mattered to me—an ID card stuck inside a plastic holder with a metal clip on it. Picking up the ID card, I stared at a profile photo of Al Del Luca. Then I read where he worked: Central Intelligence Agency, United States of America.
CIA? The guy was CIA? The rest of the ID card showed several clearance codes and other assorted security information. I took out my phone, snapped a quick photo of the front of the ID card. Why were Joe, Greta, and Ethan meeting with a CIA agent? And why was the same agent now following me? I again thought about the old photo in Joe’s small safe box that showed Greta standing on the CIA emblem. But there had been zero mention of her being CIA in anything related to her husband’s campaign. What the hell was going on? Could Joe have secretly been CIA? It would certainly add credence to how he managed to go from being Daniel Gibson to Joe Dobson. But it still didn’t feel right. I’d never noticed any odd behavior from my father-in-law that told me he could have had a secret career as an intelligence officer. Joe didn’t even travel much.
I suddenly heard a door open and shut somewhere downstairs. Panic gripped me. Someone else was inside the house. And I was standing in a closet upstairs about as far removed from an exit as possible. What should I do? I stepped back into the master bedroom, listened. I thought I could hear activity downstairs in the kitchen. Was it Gloria Del Luca? Or was it the CIA agent himself? Would he be carrying a gun? Was I about to get myself shot? I rushed over to the bedroom window, peered into the backyard. Right below the window was a concrete patio with a table and several lawn chairs. I considered it for a moment. The drop wouldn’t kill me, but I might break an ankle or something. I wasn’t ready to do that just yet. There had to be an easier way out of the house.
Moving out into the hallway, I stood a few feet away from the top of the stairs. I could hear things more clearly now. The noise was definitely coming from the kitchen. Sounded like grocery bags being unpacked. The kitchen did not have a direct view to the front door. I wondered if I could quietly manage my way down the stairs and leave straight out the front without being caught. It was risky. But how else was I going to get out of here? I couldn’t hide in a closet all day. One careful step at a time, I began to descend the stairs. The old wood creaked beneath my feet. I had to pause with each step and wait to see if the noise drew suspicion from the kitchen. I eventually made it all the way to the bottom. My heart was pounding, and sweat was dripping from my forehead.
I took a step toward the front door and then froze in place when I heard whoever was in the kitchen enter the dining room. I had a split second to make my next move. I knew there was a clear view of the front door from the dining room. That was no longer an option. And I sure as hell wasn’t going all the way back upstairs. So I stepped fully into the short hallway of the downstairs and pressed my back against the wall. On one end of the hallway was the front door and living room. On the other end was the kitchen. Directly behind me, on the opposite side of the wall, was the dining room. I could hear whoever was in the house messing around in that room. I felt stuck in limbo until the person made a move in one direction or the other. A phone rang loudly in the dining room and sent a shiver straight up my spine. Then I heard a female voice answer. It had to be the wife, Gloria.