CHAPTER 15

.15.

The Cadillac climbed Mulholland Drive like a black beetle scaling a wall of dirt. When we finally cleared the last curve, the Karlsen House didn't just appear; it loomed. It was a Mayan Revival fortress that looked like someone had uprooted a temple from the Yucatan and dropped it on a Hollywood hill to intimidate the neighbors.

Massive stone blocks – carved with geometric patterns that looked like ancient, unblinking eyes – formed walls that were built to last a thousand years or hide a thousand secrets. It was a modern-day temple dedicated to flour, sugar, and the kind of wealth that makes a man want to live in a bunker.

“Nice place,” I muttered as the car hissed to a stop. “If you’re planning on human sacrifice.”

Jimmy didn't answer. He was staring at the house with a look I didn’t quite get. To him, it seemed this wasn't an architectural marvel; it was something else, a mausoleum with windows perhaps.

We stepped inside, and the California heat vanished, replaced by a tomb-like chill that seeped out of the terrazzo floors. The air was a complex cocktail: polished mahogany, the lingering ghost of the late Danish King’s expensive cigars, and the faint, dusty scent of a house that had been closed up for a funeral.

The great room was a cathedral of angular shadows. Two-story ceilings rose above us, with clerestory windows casting geometric patterns of light across the floor like a code I couldn't crack. Every piece of furniture was dark, lacquered, and looked like it would hurt you if you sat on it the wrong way.

I looked at the clerestory light dancing on the stone and thought about my lanai back in Waikiki. Out there, the light was a gift. In here, it was a choreographed performance.

“He’s in the study,” Riccard whispered, but his voice still echoed too loudly in the hollow space. He pointed a manicured finger toward a set of massive wooden doors at the end of the hall.

Jimmy took a breath, his shoulders squaring under the black wool of his mourning suit. He looked at me, and there was a silent plea in his blue eyes. I gave him a short, sharp nod; the "Stingray" version of a salute.

We walked toward the study, our footsteps sounding like a loud countdown on the terrazzo. I kept my hands in my pockets, my fingers itching for a notebook and a pencil or a Leiomano, not sure which one I’d need first.

Uncle Ole was waiting. And in a house built like that kind of temple, I had a feeling we were about to find out who was being offered up on the altar.