Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective Read Online Free PDF Page A

two stories of stone and
ivy with stately rooflines, occupying probably an acre of its own.
I could spot the roofs of several smaller structures buried in the
trees and I could imagine the rest: luxury pool, maybe a tennis
court or two, several acres of lawn and flowers, lots of exotic
shrubbery.
    In a neighborhood of the very rich, the
Highland estate quietly proclaimed its status among the
superrich.
    I was impressed.
    But I would have been surprised to find less
after my morning foray into confidential government files.
    Joseph Highland, at his death, had been one
of the richest men in the world. The full extent of his personal
fortune could only be estimated, even by his own accountants. The
estate had been in probate for more than ten years and still all
the numbers were not in.
    The founder of this kingdom seemed to have
had fingers into just about every big pie in the world, and a fist
or two into some of the hottest ones—transportation, motion
pictures, petroleum, commodities of every sort, electronics,
aviation, international banking on a grand scale, stocks and bonds
to dazzle the mind, insurance, on and on; the list seemed
endless.
    Apparently he had been a very private man,
almost secretive, running his worldwide business empire from behind
those very walls, seldom venturing physically into the world
beyond—a shadowy figure who never publicly attached his name to his
holdings—that name actually concealed at great lengths beneath
layer upon layer of corporate identities, never appearing on
social registers or listed in connection with the various
philanthropic foundations in which he was heavily involved.
    Heavily, yeah—old Joe Highland had given
away more than a billion bucks just during the final ten years of
his life. That much, at least, was documented.
    The official record—what I could find of it—
revealed but one marriage and one child, a son—Thomas James
Highland—who seemed to have been as reclusive as his father and who
had, himself, expired within a year of the death of the father.
    Karen, it seemed, was Thomas's only child,
Joseph's granddaughter and sole heir to all that mentioned
above.
    That understanding had
jarred me, bringing forth a dozen or more fanciful scenarios to
explain the unsettling events of the previous twenty-four hours.
And I was glad that I had not overreacted to that latest event
starring Karen Highland, heiress to an international financial
empire. I would have had a sweet time trying to establish a
"kidnapping" from my beach cottage of a lady who apparently did not
exist in the official system, and an even sweeter time after a
supposed police trail led to this palace in Bel Air.
    That kind of money also spells power of a
very special kind—a power that ordinary citizens seldom get a sniff
of—the kind of which you and I, pal, do not wish to run afoul.
    Not that I was running scared. It just
seemed logical, to me, that a Karen Highland—any Karen Highland, by
any other name—would enjoy (or suffer) a rather elaborate security
system that could not tolerate aimless wanderings about the
countryside and/or casual overnight flops here and there.
    It seemed obvious to me,
in that hindsight, that Bruno Valensa had been Karen's personal
bodyguard, that he'd probably accompanied her everywhere outside
the palace—and I could picture the consternation at home when the
princess failed to arrive at a reasonable time and the bodyguard
turned up dead at the county morgue.
    I was considering myself fortunate that
those guys had not marched me into the surf and ordered me to swim
to Catalina with my hands bound behind me.
    But there are scenarios and scenarios.
    I had to at least see the lady in her
natural habitat and satisfy myself that she was in good hands. Then
I would run, not walk, to the nearest exit and leave the entire
experience happily behind me.
    Didn't work out that way.
    The guy at the gatehouse gave me no trouble
whatever. I identified myself, told him I was