CHAPTER 6By the time I got to Beverly Hills, the sun was hotter and less sweet. I stopped and shed my jacket before making the climb up one of the more exclusive canyons toward the place to which Joe Caccelli had summoned me. The house stood on its own hill, and the drive mounted sharply from the road. There were parking slots on the level at the top. One of them housed Abigail’s red Jaguar, and in another stood a black Continental about half a mile long. I slid my year-old Impala in beside the Jaguar and reached for my jacket, wondering whether the presence of Abigail’s car indicated that she would be with us.
Probably not, I thought. Probably indicates the thing won’t run.
The house was ranch style, unostentatious, surrounded by a lot of trees and shrubbery. All was on one level. Much
