any given house or where to reach the homeowner. It makes enforcement challenging.”
Worse, according to some, it changed the “vibe” of the community. One retired widow described it in coded terms that made Jessie squirm uncomfortably.
“Suddenly our charming beach town gets overrun with strangers, and not just the ones expected during the day when the masses swarm the beaches. But also in the evenings, when leisurely evening strolls lead to encounters with people who don’t value the ‘specialness’ of the community.”
“It really sucks to go to the local coffee shop in the morning and not recognize half the people there,” one irked, forty-something bleached blonde woman wearing a massive diamond ring said obliviously. “It detracts from the homey feeling I like.”
Jessie got a distinct NIMBY sensibility from almost everyone she spoke to. Sometimes there was a racial undercurrent. But other people seemed to want to keep the place clear of anyone who wasn’t local, no matter where they came from.
She could feel the angst rising in her again. Even though most people she interviewed were pleasant, chill folks who simply enjoyed the slower pace of living by the beach and walking around their neighborhood barefoot, there were the others. Approximately every third interviewee reminded her of the people who made her Orange County existence so fraught.
Part of why she’d chosen to live downtown was because even the wealthy folk there embraced a kind of grittiness that felt more real than the plastic lives of these people, living in their cookie cutter mansions and worrying that they might encounter an interloper in the line for coffee.
She reached the last home before Bruce’s Beach, a park which served as a kind of informal dividing line before the next stretch of homes. The closest mansion was a good hundred yards farther north and it seemed unlikely that anyone that far away would be of much use as a potential witness. She decided that after this house, she’d turn around.
The place was set farther back from the Strand than many of the others. It had an actual, full-sized yard with a beautifully landscaped garden than ran on either side of the walking path to the front door. To get to that door, she had to open the wooden gate and walk up a series of uneven pavers. She felt very exposed, especially so far from the Strand and its constant crowds.
She knocked and waited, marveling at the work it must take to keep the yard in such immaculate shape. She was tempted to walk around the side of the house to see just how far back the foliage went. But just then, the door opened to reveal a thirty-something man with a burly chest and an even burlier belly. He wore board shorts, a loosely buttoned Hawaiian shirt, and a thick, gold necklace that disappeared under the shirt. She wouldn’t have been surprised if it dangled all the way down to his navel.
“Yeah?” he said by way of greeting.
“Hi. My name’s Jessie Hunt. I consult with the LAPD, which has been brought in to help investigate the recent deaths in your neighborhood. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
“Some cop already came by yesterday,” he said, sounding somewhere between agitated and surly. “I already told him we don’t know anything. He said this all happened on Monday night, early evening, right? We were on our boat out of Redondo Harbor then.”
“Yes, sir,” she said non-combatively. “We appreciate those details and we’re running them down. Of course, there was more than one death.”
“But I heard the other one was in the middle of the night. How am I supposed to give you proof of an alibi when I was asleep?”
“We’re not asking for an alibi at this time, Mr.…?”
“Jules. Cory Jules.”
“Okay, Mr. Jules,” Jessie continued. “As I said, right now, I’m not trying to lock down resident alibis so much as get a feel for the area. My understanding is that during the summer, there are a lot of extra renters.”
“That’s an understatement,” Jules muttered. “I can’t keep track of the East Coast usurpers who come out here every June to muck the place up. If it’s not them, it’s an army of entitled fraternity brothers who want to see if they can break the Guinness record for keg stands or some Wisconsin tractor company owner and his five kids with cheese coming out of their pores.”
Jessie didn’t comment on the irony of the rotund man in front of her commenting on