seventeen p.m.”
“The Benedict Canyon neighborhood,” I considered. Etched at the foot of the Santa Monica Mountains, between Coldwater and Franklyn Canyons, Benedict Canyon is one of the high-end neighborhoods of Beverly Hills. Surrounded by sycamores, majestic oaks, and palm trees, single-family homes rise above the pollution of downtown and enjoy crisp mountain views and clear skies. An expensive privilege in Los Angeles County.
“Who found them?”
“A neighbor called nine-one-one at five twenty-three this morning. He was awakened by loud growling and found the vics’ yellow Labrador roaming and yapping in his backyard. Can you imagine? The poor thing.”
“Yeah, that early in the morning I’d be pissed too.”
Nelson’s forehead rippled. “Jeez, Track. I meant the Labrador. He must’ve been so scared!” Female cops. You can have ten victims in a room, yet if there’s a dog, they’ll run for the pet first. “The neighbor phoned the vics. Nobody picked up, so he walked the pup home. He got suspicious when nobody answered the gate either—that’s when he dialed nine-one-one. The responding officers found husband and wife dead in the master bathroom: Robert Tarantino, age fifty-five, chemical engineer and executive vice president at Chromo Inc., and Tamara Tarantino, age forty-eight, housewife.”
“How many shots? Does it say in the log?”
“One each, both to the head.”
“And the neighbor was awakened by the dog’s growling but not by two shots in the middle of the night?”
Nelson shrugged. “People mind their own business. The dog had trespassed his property.”
“Hmm. We’ll have to talk to this guy. This Chromo Inc., what does it do?”
“Let’s see, what did they give me here… ‘The company specializes in genetic sequencing, gene expression, and gene therapy’—whatever that means, I’m reading from the log.” She let the papers flop on her lap and stared at the road. “The lieutenant said you’ve been investigating the owner of the car turned up on the cc camera. Do you think your missing lady did it?”
A workaholic woman who every evening lets a geek walk her to her car so she can pretend she’s going home when in fact she’s sneaking back to work? One day she vanishes and her car turns up at a double murder scene. “Nelson, this woman is as dead as the two bodies they just found.” And with that, I plunged the vehicle into the Two-Ten and effortlessly swerved into the carpool lane, feeling the ecstasy of a Sunday-morning-deserted freeway.
* * *
Tall hedges splashed with magenta bougainvillea blossoms circled the property, their height a claim of privacy and a statement of wealth. In L.A., poverty is for everybody to see, yet affluence is hidden away and left to the imagination. By the wrought iron gate, a uniformed officer from the West L.A. station checked our badges and radioed the responding team about our arrival.
“Who’s in charge in there?” I asked, as he returned the tins.
“Detectives Spencer and Donoghue,” he replied, lifting the yellow tape. “Go ahead, Detective. They’re waiting for you.”
I bet they are , I thought, recognizing the names.
Red and white oleanders bordered the driveway. It wound uphill through the lush green of a manicured lawn, until, surrounded by cypresses, a Tuscan style villa in light pink stucco loomed into view against a stark blue sky. Speckled with sage bushes and chaparral evergreen shrubs, the rust-colored hills of the California scrubland painted the background. Both the ambulance and the SID—the Scientific Investigation Division—field unit van were already on the premises, carelessly parked at the top of the driveway. I pulled in next to two patrol cruisers, got out of the car, and stared at the façade of the house. A long pergola propped over Corinthian pillars encircled the ground level and extended into a portico above the main entrance. Twin lions flanked the stairs to the door, both
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