Read Online Over the Edge by Jonathan Kellerman - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
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Where are you located?'
'Don't fuss with directions, Doctor. I'll have someone pick you up.'
At eight the doorbell rang. I opened it and came face-to-face with a chauffeur in grey livery. He was in his early thirties, tall and rangy, with a strong nose and a weak chin. In the shadow of the nose a thick black moustache had sprouted, covering most of his mouth. His face was pale and freshly shaved and bore several razor nicks along the jawline. His peaked cap had been pushed back so that it rested precariously atop a thatch of long brown hair that flowed over his collar. Satin-edged trousers tapered to needle-toed bullhide cowboy boots. His eyes were dark and, at first glance, lazy. But when they locked onto mine, I sensed plenty of analysis despite the absence of movement.
'Dr. Delaware? I'm Tully Antrim, here to take you to Mr. Souza. I didn't wanna scratch the car, so I parked it a ways down.'
I followed him off my property and down the access road, walking quickly to keep up with his long stride.
A hundred yards above Beverly Glen was a turnaround
shadowed by tall trees. On it sat twenty feet of Rolls-Royce - a gleaming, black Phantom IV limousine, I'd seen a picture of one like it in a spread on Prince Charles and Lady Di's wedding. That car had belonged to the mother of the groom.
The chauffeur held open the door to the passenger area and, when I was settled, closed it carefully, walked around, and got into the driver's seat.
The car was big enough to dance in. The interior was grey felt with the feel of cashmere and lots of wood, all of it madly burled and polished to a mirror finish. Crystal bud vases in silver filigree holders were bracketed to the cloth behind each passenger door. Each held a fresh American Beauty rose. The side windows were etched lightly with a floral motif and partially concealed by pullback velvet drapes.
The glass partition separating driver from passenger was closed. Locked in hermetic silence, I watched the chauffeur go through a series of pantomimes: straightening his cap; turning the ignition key; fiddling with the radio; swaying to what I assumed was the ensuing music.
The Rolls wheeled smoothly toward Beverly Glen. Morning commuter traffic from the Valley was thickening; Antrim was skilful, edging the huge car seamlessly into the flow. He drove south to Wilshire and headed east
I sat back, feeling like a child amid the grand scale of the limousine. The chauffeur's shaggy head was bopping to music I couldn't hear. There were several ivory buttons on the armrest, each labelled with a tiny silver plaque. I pushed the one that said DRIVER
'Yes, sir?' he responded without looking back or breaking rhythm.
'Why don't you open the partition? I'd like to hear the music'
'You've got an automatic tape system back there. Controls right on the armrest. Easy listening.'
'That'll put me back to sleep. What are you tuned to?'
'KMET. ZZ Top.'
'I'll take it.'
'Yo.' He pushed a button, and the glass slid open. The car was filled with eardrum-rupturing rock-and-roll - the Texas trio rhapsodising about a girl with legs who knew how to use them. Antrim sang along in a whiny tenor.
The song was followed by a commercial for an abortion clinic selling itself as a feminist health centre.
'Some car,' I said.
'Yeah.'
'Must be pretty rare.'
'Probably. Used to belong to some Spanish guy, buddy of Hitler.'
'Franco?'
'That's the one.'
'How does it drive?'
' 'Sail right for a big car.'
Van Halen came on the radio and demolished the potential for further conversation. We hit a red light at Rexford during a news break. While he lit a cigarette, I asked him, 'Is this typical treatment?'
"Whaddya mean?'
'Picking people up in limousines.'
'Mr. Souza tells me to do something, I do it,' he said irritably, then found another rock station and cranked up the volume.
We passed through Beverly Hills and the Miracle Mile and entered the mid-Wilshire financial district. The buildings lining the boulevard
'Don't fuss with directions, Doctor. I'll have someone pick you up.'
At eight the doorbell rang. I opened it and came face-to-face with a chauffeur in grey livery. He was in his early thirties, tall and rangy, with a strong nose and a weak chin. In the shadow of the nose a thick black moustache had sprouted, covering most of his mouth. His face was pale and freshly shaved and bore several razor nicks along the jawline. His peaked cap had been pushed back so that it rested precariously atop a thatch of long brown hair that flowed over his collar. Satin-edged trousers tapered to needle-toed bullhide cowboy boots. His eyes were dark and, at first glance, lazy. But when they locked onto mine, I sensed plenty of analysis despite the absence of movement.
'Dr. Delaware? I'm Tully Antrim, here to take you to Mr. Souza. I didn't wanna scratch the car, so I parked it a ways down.'
I followed him off my property and down the access road, walking quickly to keep up with his long stride.
A hundred yards above Beverly Glen was a turnaround
shadowed by tall trees. On it sat twenty feet of Rolls-Royce - a gleaming, black Phantom IV limousine, I'd seen a picture of one like it in a spread on Prince Charles and Lady Di's wedding. That car had belonged to the mother of the groom.
The chauffeur held open the door to the passenger area and, when I was settled, closed it carefully, walked around, and got into the driver's seat.
The car was big enough to dance in. The interior was grey felt with the feel of cashmere and lots of wood, all of it madly burled and polished to a mirror finish. Crystal bud vases in silver filigree holders were bracketed to the cloth behind each passenger door. Each held a fresh American Beauty rose. The side windows were etched lightly with a floral motif and partially concealed by pullback velvet drapes.
The glass partition separating driver from passenger was closed. Locked in hermetic silence, I watched the chauffeur go through a series of pantomimes: straightening his cap; turning the ignition key; fiddling with the radio; swaying to what I assumed was the ensuing music.
The Rolls wheeled smoothly toward Beverly Glen. Morning commuter traffic from the Valley was thickening; Antrim was skilful, edging the huge car seamlessly into the flow. He drove south to Wilshire and headed east
I sat back, feeling like a child amid the grand scale of the limousine. The chauffeur's shaggy head was bopping to music I couldn't hear. There were several ivory buttons on the armrest, each labelled with a tiny silver plaque. I pushed the one that said DRIVER
'Yes, sir?' he responded without looking back or breaking rhythm.
'Why don't you open the partition? I'd like to hear the music'
'You've got an automatic tape system back there. Controls right on the armrest. Easy listening.'
'That'll put me back to sleep. What are you tuned to?'
'KMET. ZZ Top.'
'I'll take it.'
'Yo.' He pushed a button, and the glass slid open. The car was filled with eardrum-rupturing rock-and-roll - the Texas trio rhapsodising about a girl with legs who knew how to use them. Antrim sang along in a whiny tenor.
The song was followed by a commercial for an abortion clinic selling itself as a feminist health centre.
'Some car,' I said.
'Yeah.'
'Must be pretty rare.'
'Probably. Used to belong to some Spanish guy, buddy of Hitler.'
'Franco?'
'That's the one.'
'How does it drive?'
' 'Sail right for a big car.'
Van Halen came on the radio and demolished the potential for further conversation. We hit a red light at Rexford during a news break. While he lit a cigarette, I asked him, 'Is this typical treatment?'
"Whaddya mean?'
'Picking people up in limousines.'
'Mr. Souza tells me to do something, I do it,' he said irritably, then found another rock station and cranked up the volume.
We passed through Beverly Hills and the Miracle Mile and entered the mid-Wilshire financial district. The buildings lining the boulevard
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