Jessie smiled malevolently.
“How do you think that’s going to go for you?”
“I’m confident that I’ll hold up,” he said, as he walked toward their bedroom. “But first I’m going to take a shower.”
“You know that stalling tactics will only work for so long,” she shouted as he disappeared from sight without responding.
Jessie stared at the door, wondering if she could perhaps burn it to ashes with her eyes alone.
“Ahem,” Hannah muttered tentatively. “I hate to pile on when you’re already so salty, but the lamb I was going to broil smells funny. I think we’re going to have to toss it out, which means we have no dinner plan.”
Jessie felt her shoulders sag involuntarily. This day was ending as badly as it had started.
“I’ve got it covered,” she finally said.
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to try to cook something?” Hannah said, sounding genuinely concerned.
“You know, I managed to get dinner on the table almost every night for years before you started living here. Have a little faith.”
“Almost every night?” Hannah repeated.
“Some nights I wasn’t that hungry,” Jessie said defensively.
“Right,” Hannah said, unconvinced. “You’re ordering pizza, aren’t you?”
Jessie felt a twinge of shame as the words came out.
“Yes. I’m ordering pizza.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
By the time Garland crested the hill, the sun had already set.
As he made the now-familiar drive down into Manhattan Beach, he could still see the ocean where the waves broke close to the beach. But it didn’t have quite the same majesty as last night, when dusk was only starting to take hold.
He told himself that it didn’t matter, that he had come back here for the second night in a row because of the investigation, not because of the view. But even he wasn’t totally convinced. Yes, something about the crime scene was eating at him. But the truth was, he was also looking for an excuse to walk along the breezy surfside streets with their patio restaurants and wine store tastings.
He found a parking spot near the main drag and got out, wandering up Highland Avenue to the police station. Along the way, he could smell what he thought were short ribs wafting out of a café on the corner. He passed a newsstand with papers from New Zealand and India and fought the urge to stop and peruse them.
Instead he walked the final block to the station, giving the desk sergeant his name. Officer Timms from the prior night came out and gave him the key to the home of Charles and Gail Bloom, where Priscilla had died.
“I can go with you if you like,” the young officer offered. “I’m on overnight duty and it’s been pretty quiet.”
“Thanks,” Garland replied. “But sometimes I like to walk through the scene on my own, without any distractions. I find it helps me uncover things I might have missed before. But I promise to return the key within a few hours.”
After he left the station, Garland strolled casually down the steep walking path to the Strand. At this hour, approaching 9 p.m., it was mostly quiet. There were a few runners and some people taking their dogs on the last walk of the night. In fact, he had to sidestep the urine trail of one particularly sloppy canine.
He ambled the last half block to the Bloom house, taking in the sound of crashing waves and gulls calling out to each other. He knew that once he walked in that house, his brain would go into overdrive and all the little pleasures he was currently appreciating would be immediately forgotten. He was just trying to delay the inevitable.
When he arrived, he slipped under the police tape, making sure to stay in the shadows so recent widower Garth Barton wouldn’t see him if he happened to be looking out a window. Just because the man had been cleared didn’t mean he wasn’t a jerk. Garland was happy to let the locals handle that headache.
He unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house was dark, though he could still see the chalk outline where Priscilla Barton’s body had been found. Looking at the spot, he recalled the conversation Detective Hernandez had described having with the homeowners earlier in the day.
It amazed him that even learning a woman had died in their foyer wasn’t enough to get them to return from their vacation. Unfortunately, with them and the husband eliminated as suspects, he was hitting a wall. That’s why he was here: to find a fresh perspective.
He did a cursory walk through the first floor before going to the second, which was the reason he’d returned in the first place. Something had been bothering him all day but he hadn’t put his finger on it until he was driving home. Once he realized what it was, he was almost home. Instead of continuing, he’d turned the car southward and headed back to the Blooms’ mansion. Along the way, he called the MBPD to tell them he wanted to check out the scene again and was informed that a key to the house would be left for him.
At the top of the stairs, he turned on his small flashlight and made his way down the hall to the master bedroom. After allowing himself a moment to take in the large room with the canopy bed, he moved over to what he assumed was Gail Bloom’s dresser. Though he felt like a bit of a pervert, he slid on his gloves and pulled open the top drawer, which he assumed held her undergarments. Sometimes the job called for unusual choices.
He shined the flashlight into the drawer as he delicately moved around the woman’s delicates. After a thorough going-through, he pulled out his phone to once again look at the apparent murder weapon used on Priscilla Barton—the stocking. The brand, called Only the Best, which he’d learned after doing some online research, was very high end.
But looking through Gail Bloom’s drawer, he had found no pairs of that brand or any other hose at all, for that matter. Nor did he find a solo stocking, either in the drawer or on top of it. He knelt down to see if it might have fallen under the dresser but found nothing.
He got out his notepad and briefly noted his conclusion—that Bloom didn’t seem to own these stockings. That was odd and potentially helpful news. If the stocking wasn’t hers, then the killer hadn’t just grabbed it on the fly and used it as a makeshift weapon. He or she must have brought it into the house.
But why? Who walks around with a single, fancy piece of women’s hosiery?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a creak on the floorboard behind him. He slid his notepad back into his jacket pocket and stood up slowly, though his thoughts were racing wildly.
He could hear the sound of muffled, heavy breathing several feet away and actually sensed the body heat emanating from someone else in the room. He gripped the small flashlight hard, well aware that it was the only thing close to a weapon he had.
He tried to remember his training from his youthful FBI days but that was over forty years ago. The closest he’d gotten to a physical altercation recently was when a skateboarder accidentally knocked him over last year while zipping past him on the sidewalk.
In the end, Garland decided to simply let adrenaline and instinct do their work. But he wasn’t going to wait for the attack to come to him. So, as quickly as his aching bones would allow, he spun around and flashed the light in the direction of the heavy breathing.