3.

No traffic to speak of. Los Angeles doesn't tend to wake up early on weekends. Almost exactly thirty minutes after hanging up the phone, Sam pulled his 10-year-old Civic into the circular driveway in front of a long, low, expensive house in the Pallisades. Karen's Jetta was the only other car on the circle, but a three-car garage presumably housed whatever the owner of this multi-million dollar hacienda tooled around town in. Feeling both self conscious and pissed about being made to feel self conscious, Sam rang the front door bell. A Big Ben style chime began its "Bong-bong-bong-bong..." somewhere in the back of the house, and Karen opened...