A short driveway curved around neat lawns and planters of geraniums, shockingly red in the December weather, to some architect’s fevered dream of a Mediterranean villa that shouted nouveau-riche. “I’ll do the talking,” Chang said. “All I want you to do is take a good hard look at him, and assure yourself that this really is the guy you saw with Paterson out on Morning View. We don’t want to find out later that the snapshots didn’t develop right on that particular trip.” And King would tear her a new one if she landed them in hot water with this visit, but she kept that to herself. Bronze doors offered Biblical scenes and a choice of an enormous knocker that would have had her spanking Eve’s derriere—take that, you naughty apple pusher—or a more conventional doorbell. Chang chose the latter. Chimes somewhere within did an impressive imitation of Big Ben. After only a brief pause (had their arrival been announced, despite the open gate?) an olive-skinned young man in tight black silk trousers and a white linen tunic opened it and looked them up and down with limpid eyes that seemed not at all pleased with what they saw.
