“Do they know why he was at the library in the first place?” she asked, grasping at straws.
“He’s been there a lot lately, actually,” Dolan said. “They think he’s trying to bone up on new financial regulations that came down while he was behind bars, so he can ace those job interviews.”
“That’s weird,” Jessie mused.
“What is?”
“In all my years with him—in college, living together after graduation, as a married couple—I never knew him to be much of a studier. He was always more of a ‘scrape by’ kind of guy.”
“Maybe prison really did change him,” Dolan suggested teasingly.
“Don’t even say that in jest, Jack,” she told him. “I will come to your office and beat you down if I have to.”
She heard him chuckling at his ability to get a rise out of her.
“I’m just kidding,” he said. “Of course it’s all an act. But he’s convincing some other people, kiddo. You should prepare yourself for him to be surveillance-free by the end of this week.”
“Great,” Jessie muttered. “Now I’ve got to add that to the worst to-do list in history: keep your recently discovered sister in good mental health, solve the murder of your mentor, and now, keep an eye out for your murderous ex-husband. What happened to the list with stuff like going to the market and replacing your air filter?”
“Hey, you chose this life,” he reminded her.
“Did I though?” she asked.
Before he could answer, she heard a buzz and looked at her phone. It was Jamil, the researcher from MBPD.
“I gotta go, Jack. Let me know if Kyle makes any moves,” she said before unceremoniously clicking over to the other line and asking, “What have you got?”
Jamil was clearly excited as he answered.
“Something good, I think.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The woman, whose name was Nancy, kept giving Jessie nasty looks.
Her first words upon their arrival were “The MBSHOA offices usually close at six p.m. and it is highly unusual to conduct business outside normal operating hours.”
Clearly, she’d lost whatever contest the Manhattan Beach Strand Homeowners Association office staff had held to determine who had to stay late and she was letting Ryan and especially Jessie know it.
Luckily, Jamil Winslow, the polite police researcher from MBPD, had called prior to their arrival and specifically requested that a staffer stay late to walk some LAPD folks through a few documents. Even Nancy knew that refusing a direct request from the police wasn’t an advisable option. But that didn’t mean she had to be nice about it. So she wasn’t.
Her answers were largely monosyllabic and when she was asked for documents, she tossed them over without explanation. Jessie suspected that part of Nancy’s animosity was related to the D.A.’s request for the search warrant to access unoccupied homes, which was still pending. Despite being on opposite sides in that dispute, Ryan tried to be cordial with her, but Jessie was losing her patience quickly.
“So this is every person who lost a home or sold one under duress along the Strand in the last year?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“I can’t get into people’s heads to determine if they were under duress during the time of sale,” Nancy said officiously.
Jessie sighed deeply for about the fourth time during their visit. She fought the strong desire to tug on one of the many tight gray curls bouncing tauntingly off the woman’s heavily permed head.
Nancy was in her early sixties, with sharp, mean features and cold, light blue eyes. She wore a long floral dress that seemed far too fussy for the summer weather. The foundation on her pinched cheeks was starting to crack slightly after a full day of scowling at people. She was obviously used to being home by now, probably judging the contestants on Wheel of Fortune as she sipped rośe in her garden room.
“By duress, I mean folks who sold their homes at well under market value,” Jessie said, trying again to be agreeable.
“Those sales are included, as are home losses due to foreclosures, bankruptcy, divorce settlements, and the like. All Strand residents agree to financial transparency in exchange for the privilege of living in such a desirable neighborhood. It’s a sacrifice that I’m sure folks from your…locality are happy not to have to make.”
Jessie felt her fists clench into tight little balls, furious with this imperious woman and angry at herself for being baited.
“Do you live on the Strand?” she heard Ryan ask with a tone of studied, insincere civility she had no idea he was