“Enough,” Rain said. “Delilah. Larison. Go.”
chapter
seventy
DELILAH
Delilah drove the Porsche along Mountain Home Road, the sky hard blue behind a canopy of autumn colors, the gray pavement dappled in alternating sunshine and shade. The engine was growling, and she could feel the car practically begging to be unleashed, but a GT4 looked like it was racing even parked at the curb, and she had to keep to the speed limit. Still, what a waste.
She was wearing a vintage Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress: clingy fabric, open plunging neckline, and a skirt that would naturally fall open to expose a good amount of leg, especially while getting in and out of the car. High-heeled boots, gold hoop earrings, and most importantly a gold necklace to draw the eye to the décolletage. The whole thing was a throwback to the ’70s, but it was in again. And besides, Delilah always liked vintage, which was why she had packed the outfit in Paris.
The road curved to the right and she slowed. There it was, on the left, a break in the thick foliage and the beginning of a stone driveway. Grimble’s Japanese Shangri-la. She downshifted and turned in. Ten meters down, on the left, was the guardhouse, itself looking like something straight out of ancient Kyoto. And just beyond it, a closed electronic gate.
She stopped alongside the guardhouse, cut the engine, and got out, shouldering the Shinola leather market tote she was carrying. A middle-aged guy she made immediately as a former cop looked her up and down through the window, barely even noticing the Porsche. “Can I help you?” he said.
He seemed in no way alarmed—the Porsche, the clothes, and the fact that she was an attractive woman all tapping into a preexisting understanding of how the world worked. But she needed to get him out of the booth and away from the video feeds inside it.
“Thank you so much,” she said, laying on a heavier-than-normal French accent. “I know this is irregular, but I have come a long way and I would be so grateful for an opportunity to interview Monsieur Grimble.”
The guard shook his head as though confused. “Uh, I’m sorry, I can’t really help with that.”
“Are you sure? Don’t you know him? Or at least see him?”
“Well, yes, sometimes I see him, but . . . who are you?”
“Ah, forgive me. Let me give you a card.” She moved a few items around inside her bag. “Merde. I thought I had one. Just a moment, please.”
John and the rest would know this was their moment. The perimeter of the property was blanketed with cameras. And there was a camera inside each guard booth, too. It was a thoughtful setup: a problem in or outside of one guard booth would be instantly visible in the other. The solution was speed, coordination, and distraction.
She went to the Porsche and leaned far inside, making sure he enjoyed a long and hopefully alluring view. Then she eased out and walked back to the booth, holding a card.
“My name is Laure. Laure Kupfer. I am a freelance writer and photographer, and I hope to place an interview with Monsieur Grimble and a photo shoot of his fabulous taste in Architectural Digest magazine.”
He glanced at the card, but she didn’t proffer it. “I don’t think Mr. Grimble does many interviews, Ms. Kupfer . . .”
“Please, call me Laure. And what is your name?”
The guard hesitated, as though the non-male/ego/narcissist part of his brain recognized he was being manipulated. Delilah had seen the reaction many times in her career, along with the override that almost always immediately followed.
He stepped back from the window. A moment later he came through the door. He was wearing blue pants and a matching windbreaker that identified him as Gorgon Security. An earpiece and lapel-mounted push-to-talk microphone. And a pistol in a belt holster.
“I’m Larry,” he said.