the sharp
blue of the clear October sky hovering overhead. Mountains rose dramatically in
the distance, backdropping the homes across the lake. A few ducks and geese provided
the only visible motion on the otherwise placid water.
On land, there were no moving cars or people
anywhere in sight. There were plenty of million-dollar homes, though, each one
garnished with a carefully-designed array of vegetation. These very large
houses were clearly populated by people with even larger bank accounts, who
would no doubt regard me with deep suspicion if they ever noticed me traipsing
around in their perfectly-manicured, walled-off world.
In fact, just the sight of my eleven-year-old car
contaminating their immaculate streets might well have sent some of them
running for their phones.
After taking a wrong turn inside the gate, I
finally found the Blake house. The crime scene tape was down, there was no
lockout cover on the doorknob, and no cops anywhere. A big maroon BMW sedan sat
in the driveway. I parked on the street, making the short walk to the house.
The house itself was about average size for
Beachview, which is to say, enormous. Peach-colored stucco three stories tall,
with high, draped windows all along the front of the ground floor. Overstated
bay windows graced the corners of the second floor. A four-car garage sat to
the left, and even that rose two stories. It was the kind of house that would
stand out as garish in a lesser neighborhood, but here hardly raised an
eyebrow. On the expanse of the deep green lawn, a line of tall desert palms
swayed gently in the morning breeze moving in off the water.
Before approaching the front door, I walked around
the perimeter of the house, looking for evidence of forced entry. No broken
windows, no jimmied doors, nothing at all out of the ordinary. With all its
furniture undisturbed, the rear patio lay still before the shimmering lake.
Back around front, I knocked, and the arched door
opened almost immediately. A guy about my age stood silently in the doorway, his
gaze demanding to know who I was, as well as my reason for being there. A quick
look at his clothing and his haircut told me he probably belonged in a house just
like this one.
"My name's Jack Barnett," I said. "I'm
a private investigator."
I flashed my ID just long enough for him to glance
at it, but not long enough to absorb any of its details. It was a duplicate
license I got before my trouble in California. I kept it, surrendering the
original when they yanked it from me.
It was his move. While I waited for his response,
I noticed another man in the background, standing in the large foyer. Both men
were in their early-to-mid-thirties, slender and well-groomed, with short,
nondescript brown hair. They wore high-end dark suits and looked like they
could have been, in their younger years, prototypes for the original
Starbuck's-slurping yuppies.
The one who answered the door stood tentatively in
front of me, uncertainty all over his pallid face. My arrival was evidently
causing them some inconvenience. The one in the background looked at me through
hard eyes and tight features.
Finally, Mr Doorway demanded, "What do you
want?"
"I'm investigating the murder of Sandra
Blake. I was under the impression this was her house."
"It is — was."
"Then, who might you be?"
"The police have already concluded their
investigation at this house, Mr — Mr Barnett. I don't think there's
anything for you here." He started to close the door.
I put up an arm, blocking it. "Well, you just
never know what they might have overlooked, so I'd like to come in and have a
look around, if that's okay with you."
"It's not okay. You may not come in." He
tried for some authority in his voice, but missed by a wide margin. My arm
still blocked the door.
"You know, I didn't catch your name. What was
it again?"
"I didn't say."
I shot him a smile. "Hey, if we're going to
be friends, we have to know each other's name, at the very least. Now,
blue of the clear October sky hovering overhead. Mountains rose dramatically in
the distance, backdropping the homes across the lake. A few ducks and geese provided
the only visible motion on the otherwise placid water.
On land, there were no moving cars or people
anywhere in sight. There were plenty of million-dollar homes, though, each one
garnished with a carefully-designed array of vegetation. These very large
houses were clearly populated by people with even larger bank accounts, who
would no doubt regard me with deep suspicion if they ever noticed me traipsing
around in their perfectly-manicured, walled-off world.
In fact, just the sight of my eleven-year-old car
contaminating their immaculate streets might well have sent some of them
running for their phones.
After taking a wrong turn inside the gate, I
finally found the Blake house. The crime scene tape was down, there was no
lockout cover on the doorknob, and no cops anywhere. A big maroon BMW sedan sat
in the driveway. I parked on the street, making the short walk to the house.
The house itself was about average size for
Beachview, which is to say, enormous. Peach-colored stucco three stories tall,
with high, draped windows all along the front of the ground floor. Overstated
bay windows graced the corners of the second floor. A four-car garage sat to
the left, and even that rose two stories. It was the kind of house that would
stand out as garish in a lesser neighborhood, but here hardly raised an
eyebrow. On the expanse of the deep green lawn, a line of tall desert palms
swayed gently in the morning breeze moving in off the water.
Before approaching the front door, I walked around
the perimeter of the house, looking for evidence of forced entry. No broken
windows, no jimmied doors, nothing at all out of the ordinary. With all its
furniture undisturbed, the rear patio lay still before the shimmering lake.
Back around front, I knocked, and the arched door
opened almost immediately. A guy about my age stood silently in the doorway, his
gaze demanding to know who I was, as well as my reason for being there. A quick
look at his clothing and his haircut told me he probably belonged in a house just
like this one.
"My name's Jack Barnett," I said. "I'm
a private investigator."
I flashed my ID just long enough for him to glance
at it, but not long enough to absorb any of its details. It was a duplicate
license I got before my trouble in California. I kept it, surrendering the
original when they yanked it from me.
It was his move. While I waited for his response,
I noticed another man in the background, standing in the large foyer. Both men
were in their early-to-mid-thirties, slender and well-groomed, with short,
nondescript brown hair. They wore high-end dark suits and looked like they
could have been, in their younger years, prototypes for the original
Starbuck's-slurping yuppies.
The one who answered the door stood tentatively in
front of me, uncertainty all over his pallid face. My arrival was evidently
causing them some inconvenience. The one in the background looked at me through
hard eyes and tight features.
Finally, Mr Doorway demanded, "What do you
want?"
"I'm investigating the murder of Sandra
Blake. I was under the impression this was her house."
"It is — was."
"Then, who might you be?"
"The police have already concluded their
investigation at this house, Mr — Mr Barnett. I don't think there's
anything for you here." He started to close the door.
I put up an arm, blocking it. "Well, you just
never know what they might have overlooked, so I'd like to come in and have a
look around, if that's okay with you."
"It's not okay. You may not come in." He
tried for some authority in his voice, but missed by a wide margin. My arm
still blocked the door.
"You know, I didn't catch your name. What was
it again?"
"I didn't say."
I shot him a smile. "Hey, if we're going to
be friends, we have to know each other's name, at the very least. Now,
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