HAWK AND PIDGE left the car around the corner from the huge Victorian house in Pacific Heights, the biggest in a neighborhood of impressive, multi-multimillion-dollar homes, all with stunning views of the bay.
Their target house was imposing and yet inviting, so American it was iconic - and at the same time, completely out of reach for everyone but the very wealthy.
The two young men looked up at the leaded windows, the cupolas, and the old trees banked around the house, separating it from the servant quarters over the garage and the neighbors on either side of the yard. They had studied the floor plans on the real estate brokers’ Web site and knew every corner of every floor. They were prepared, high on anticipation, and still cautious.
This was going to be their best kill and their last. They would make some memories tonight, leave their calling card, and fade out, blend back into their lives. But this night would never be forgotten. There would be headlines for weeks, movies, several of them. In fact, they were sure people would still be talking about this crime of all crimes into the next century.
Do I look okay?” Pidge asked.
Hawk turned Pidge’s collar up, surveyed his friend’s outfit down to the shoes.
You rock, buddy. You absolutely rock.
You too, man,” Pidge said.
They locked arms in the Roman forearm handshake, like Charlton Heston and Stephen Boyd in Ben-Hur.
Ubi fumus,” said Hawk.
Ibi ignis,” Pidge answered.
Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.
Pidge twisted the gold foil tight around the bottle of Cointreau, and then the two boys advanced side by side up the long stone walkway toward the front porch. There was a card taped to a glass panel on the front door. “To the members of the Press: Please, leave us alone.
Hawk rang the bell.
Bing-bong.
He could see the gray-haired man through the small-paned living room windows, followed his silhouette as the famous figure walked through the house, turning on the lights in each room, making his way to the front door.
And then the door opened.
Are you the boys who called?” Connor Campion asked.
Yes, sir,” Pidge said.
And what are your names
Why don’t you call me Pidge for now, and he’s Hawk. We have to be careful. What we know could get us killed.
You’ve got to trust us,” Hawk said. “We were friends of Michael’s, and we have some information. Like I said on the phone. We can’t keep quiet any longer.
Connor Campion looked the two boys up and down, decided either they were full of crap or maybe, just maybe, they’d tell him something he needed to know. They’d want money, of course.
He swung the door open wide and invited them inside.
