Halfway Gone by Mike Ryan

Author:Mike Ryan [Ryan, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: www.mikeryanbooks.com

16

Thrower pulled up to DeMille Jr.’s house, examining the outside for a moment. It was a nice place. Stone statues on both sides of the brick driveway, along with an iron fence nestled between brick on the top and bottom that went around the rest of the property, except for the driveway. There were several cars parked in front of the house. They all were expensive-looking.

Thrower pulled up the driveway, though not too far. If there were any problems, he didn’t want to have the motorcycle blocked in. Of course, if there were problems, he’d probably be knee-deep in it well before he got back to the bike anyway.

Thrower got off the motorcycle and cautiously walked up to the door. He rang the doorbell. Someone answered about a minute later.

“Can I help you?” a woman answered.

She was in her mid-sixties and had the look of a maid. She wasn’t wearing the black-and-white clothing one usually associated with the profession, but she had that vibe going on.

“William DeMille Jr?”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Uh, no. But I have some business to discuss with him.”

The woman opened the door a little further, then invited Thrower in. Once she closed the door, she led him into a room off the entryway. It looked to be a sitting room. There was no TV, but there was a fireplace, along with some comfy chairs, a couch, and some paintings along the wall.

“I will tell Mr. DeMille you’re here. Your name?”

“Uh, just tell him it’s an old friend,” Thrower said, not wanting to give his name out yet.

While he waited, Thrower went over to the paintings and inspected each of them. He didn’t know a lot about art. But he did know expensive paintings when he saw them. And these looked the part. He bet there wasn’t one that wasn’t worth at least a hundred thousand.

About five minutes later, the door opened up again, and Thrower quickly turned around. He saw DeMille walk in. His black hair was slicked back, going down to just above his shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a suit, but the polo shirt, pants, and shoes matched the extravagant lifestyle the man seemed to enjoy.

DeMille stopped short of Thrower, not bothering to shake hands. He seemed to be sizing Thrower up.

“I was told an old friend was waiting for me. Funny. I don’t seem to know you at all.”

Thrower smirked. “Well, maybe I stretched the limits of our relationship.”

“And what relationship is that?”

“Do you know who I am?”

DeMille shook his head. “No. Should I?”

“When you try to kill someone, you should really know them better.”

DeMille had a blank stare on his face. “Kill you? Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Are you gonna try and deny it?”

“I don’t have to try and deny anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if this line of questioning continues, I have a few more friends inside who will be more than willing to help you outside.”

“I’m sure you do,” Thrower said. “What about Maggie Holloway? I assume you know her?”

“Of course.

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