Aldridge was on his back deck with coffee and the Wall Street Journal, tall, silver-haired, in pressed slacks and fleece vest. He had the unhurried bearing of a man accustomed to being the most powerful person in any space he chose. He saw the vehicles and rose from his chair slowly. He looked at Dellray once, but said nothing.
He allowed himself to be led with the composed, almost contemptuous silence of a wealthy man whose attorneys were already on the phone. His daughter appeared at the glass door in a bathrobe, phone to her ear, face white. A grandchild, perhaps eight, appeared behind her, staring at her grandfather in the driveway.