Nevertheless, I was at the station before dawn. I scooped up the keys to an unmarked cruiser, grabbed a quick cup of coffee, and made the short drive to Cypress Street. I parked a few houses down from the Martins’, and waited for the excitement of the day to begin.
Despite the news vans still parked along the side streets, Point Reina felt abnormally quiet. Shortly before eight, a Mustang rounded the corner and skidded to a stop in front of Ravenwood. Dean exited the car and removed a few reusable grocery bags from the trunk before making his way inside. I thought the staff had Saturdays off….
Usually, when the sun shows its face between storms, Point Reina is alive with activity. Especially on weekends. Most residents take advantage of the break in the weather and hit the beach. Dog walkers hike through the grove. Housekeepers whisk in and out of front doors, brooms and mops under their arms. Private chefs carry heaping bags of groceries into immaculate homes. Women in leggings strut down the sidewalk, pushing babies in strollers with one hand and chugging Starbucks with the other. But the parade seems to have been called off today, and somehow everyone but me received the memo.
When the clock on the dash clicks over to noon, I tip back my coffee cup and drink the last cold drops of breakfast. I should’ve brought some food to tide me over. I suppose my eagerness—or frustration, perhaps—overruled my logic. Trying to ignore the growling in my stomach, I scan the street.
Rachael’s Porsche Carrera, red as a cherry with the sun beating on it, is parked in her driveway. Travis’s car is either in the garage where I can’t see it, or he’s not home. Dean’s Mustang is still parked in front of Ravenwood. Strange…
Exiting the cruiser, I head down the sidewalk toward the Martins’ glass home. Why they’d want a house where everyone could see what was happening at all hours of the day, even in their most relaxed moments, is beyond me.
Today, though, their transparency suits my needs.
I keep my pace slow as I walk by and peek inside. Rachael is curled up on one of the big couches, blond hair spilling over the edge of a pillow, a white blanket pulled up to her chin. A wine glass rests on the table in front of her, and even from here I can detect the blood-red remnants of her drink pooling at the bottom. A little early to be hitting the bottle, I muse. She must’ve had a rough Friday night.
Movement near the grove catches my eye. It’s Colleen, striding down the steps that lead to the beach. I almost call out to her, but something warns me not to. Another glance into the Martins’ home tells me Rachael is still crashed on the couch. I’m here to keep tabs on her, not Colleen, but what are the chances she’ll wake up in the next few minutes?
I follow Colleen, and run through all the case’s contradictions. Gold necklace with a religious symbol around her neck. Atheist. Struck in the back of the head. No murder weapon. Everyone loved her. But someone wanted her dead.
Perhaps Patel is right. Perhaps I’m looking at the facts too closely to see any of them clearly. Studying the trees instead of the forest.
I let my attention drift into the enormous canopy of the Monterey cypress grove. Killing time while I waited this morning, I did a quick Google search on my cell and learned that there are only two natural Monterey cypress groves in the world. The trees need moist weather and near-constant fog, which makes Point Reina a perfect fit. On days like today, when the sun shines through the tangled green canopy, it’s peaceful. Other days, like the day Joanna Harris’s body was discovered, dense fog wraps around the spindly branches, and the forest becomes eerie. As if something evil is lurking in it, beyond the line of sight.
Moving toward the edge of the cliff, I peer down onto the narrow stretch of beach below. The sand is