A Gambling Man David Baldacci (reading eggs books .TXT) 📖

a red-and-black Bentley with a topless front compartment for the chauffeur. Next to that was a silver-and-black Rolls-Royce Phantom.

As Dash got out he said, “Hey, now your ride’s in good company.”

“I’d say so,” replied Archer. “Nice place the Kempers have.”

“Didn’t you note the letter A on the gates? Sawyer Armstrong built this place for his daughter as a wedding present but couldn’t resist putting his ‘name’ on it.”

Dash breathed in the sea air that rose up from below like it had taken an express elevator car to get there. “Smell that, Archer?”

“Yeah. Fish.”

“Bet you never seen a house this big before?”

“I have.”

“Get outta here, you’re having one on me.”

“The one I saw back in Poca City was bigger than this place, but not by much. But it was also phony and so were the people in it. The jury’s still out on this one.”

“It won’t be much longer. But I wouldn’t call Beth Kemper a phony.”

“How do you know she’ll see us?”

“I phoned Connie from Midnight Moods and had her set up an appointment. She called back to confirm it. That’s what I was waiting on.”

They walked up to the massive double front doors. They, too, were embossed with an A, but here each door held its own letter.

Archer said, “Boy, the guy likes to remind people of the origins of this place.”

Dash said, “For me, it’s a sign of insecurity, but I could be wrong.”

He poked at a buzzer. From somewhere distant they heard the peal of a bell, its sound dulled by distance.

About twenty seconds later footsteps approached.

The opening door revealed a Chinese man who wore a waist-long white tuxedo jacket, black pants with lighter black stripes down the sides of the trousers, and a bow tie the color of the pants. His skin was tanned, and he had three moles that marched across his forehead like a line of ants. His dark hair was trimmed with silver at the temples, like the best character actors in the movies, and was slicked back. He had a long, tapered mustache that dovetailed around his mouth and ended in a stringy goatee. He had the sort of face that made it hard to guess the correct age. Archer put the range at forty to sixty.

“Willie Dash and Archer to see Mrs. Kemper. We’re expected.”

“May I see identification, please?”

“Oh, so you’re one of those butlers? Okay, pal, feast your eyes.”

Dash held out his ID card and the man examined it long enough to have copied out all the information it contained three times over. He handed it back and motioned them in. He closed the door, and they followed him down a marble hall that had a cushiony Oriental rug running right down the middle of it for what seemed like miles. The walls were festooned with enough paintings that Archer could have been forgiven for believing he had mistakenly stepped into a museum. They passed large rooms that were all furnished with just the right amount of furniture and not a smidgen more. White, gray, and pale blue were the dominant colors. Archer could see how that scheme would play well off the California sun that was streaming in through all the windows and French doors that also lined the rear of the home.

The interior was as quiet as a tomb and nearly as joyful, Archer thought as he walked next to Dash. Even with all the beautiful things, he couldn’t imagine living here.

The man stopped at double curved doors made of walnut, which shone with elbow-greased polish, and knocked on one of them.

“All right,” said the voice within. To Archer it sounded dulled and joyless, like a knife blade left outside to rust.

He steeled himself to meet Beth Armstrong Kemper.

Chapter 26

THE MAN OPENED THE DOOR and stepped to the side for them to pass through. They did so and he closed the door, and Archer heard his soft footsteps moving away.

Archer glanced around the room. He didn’t have to be a world-class shamus to deduce that this was the library. Three walls of floor-to-ceiling shelves bursting with books would have been his first and only necessary clue. The carpet was white with subtle dashes of orange and muted teal done up in a breaking-wave pattern. It felt deep and springy, like he was standing on a trampoline. The furniture was large and tasteful and well laid out over the room’s expanse. A fireplace at one end was mounted in stone and topped by a mantel consisting of one enormous worm-eaten piece of blackened and distressed timber that someone could have built a boat out of with wood left over. Despite the warmth outside, it was deliciously cool in here, and a small fire flickered in the hearth. There were two camel-haired wingback chairs set in front of the fireplace. One of them was occupied.

When Beth Kemper rose and turned to them, Archer had to catch his breath and almost dropped the notepad and pen he’d taken from his pocket. She was not the most beautiful woman or the one with the finest figure he had ever seen. Yet he wasn’t sure he had ever been in the presence of a lovelier woman, and right now he couldn’t explain the distinction. It was just a feeling, an overpowering one.

She was tall and slim, with blonde hair that had not come out of the bottle. It skimmed her shoulders like a shade tree does its underlings. Her skin wasn’t pale in keeping with her hair. It had a healthy glow that radiated right up to her eyes, which were cornflower blue but seemed enhanced by something inside the woman that transformed soft cornflower into electrically charged sapphires.

Her features were classical in the sense that there wasn’t a flaw to be detected or criticized. The cheek bumps, the jawline, the slender, plum, line-straight nose, the shallow sockets the eyes rested in, the high forehead without trace of wrinkle or brow furrow, all seemed molded by the sure hand of a sculptor