Gated Prey (Eve Ronin #3)(49)

The first person he pointed to was Scott Peck, the reporter for The Acorn. He was Eve’s age and eager to get on to the staff of a major newspaper. “Thank you, Sheriff. You’re presenting this investigation as a success, and yet within hours of the Calabasas shootings, you reassigned Captain Moffett from Lost Hills station to the Men’s Central Jail and replaced him with Captain Shaw from Compton, effective immediately. That seems punitive.”

Lansing smiled. “Not at all, Scott. The realigning of personnel was in the works for weeks and, unfortunately, it just happened to fall on the same day as these events unfolded.”

That was a lie, Eve thought, and Lansing wasn’t fooling anyone. It was a game he and the press played.

Beside Peck was Zena Faust, a heavily tattooed blogger for Malibu Beat, and the last person Lansing would ever call on for a question, so she immediately shouted out, “So you’d planned to demote Moffett before this happened? If so, why? Was it because of the Great White scandal?”

Gotcha, Eve thought.

Lansing’s smile wavered. “It’s not a demotion, it’s a lateral move that better utilizes the unique talents of both of these fine captains. Shaw is a terrific leader who will build on the strong foundation left by Moffett, who will make operations at the jail even more efficient, while following through on my commitment to the safety and security of individuals in our care.” He quickly pointed to Kate Darrow, a TV reporter who looked like a supermodel, a quality she often used to disarm her prey into thinking she wasn’t tough and smart. “Yes, Kate?”

“Does that mean deputies won’t be putting rival gang members in the same cell anymore and betting money on who survives?”

“That’s all for today, thank you, everybody, for coming,” Lansing said and turned his back to the audience.

Eve couldn’t blame Darrow for baiting Lansing with that last question. He deserved it for shoveling so much bullshit on them.

She tugged Duncan’s sleeve. “Let’s go before we get dragged into any more PR stunts or a reporter tries to ask us a question.”

Duncan and Eve hopped off the stage and walked toward the parking lot, which was between city hall and the Hilton. He checked his watch and smiled. “There’s still time to catch the breakfast buffet at the Hilton before it closes.”

“No, there isn’t. We need to get to Oakdale right away and follow up on the pregnant maid. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Fine, but if I pass out from low blood sugar, it’s on you.”

“Stop whining,” Eve said. “You already had a big breakfast. I can see it on your tie.”

He checked his tie and saw an egg yolk stain. “Damn.”



They took Duncan’s Buick, since it was parked at city hall, and he drove them up to Oakdale’s guard gate. The same guard Eve had seen the previous morning was on duty again. He was young and looked like he’d slept in his uniform and combed his hair with a swipe of his hand. His name tag read HARVEY MAPES. Duncan badged him.

“I’m Duncan Pavone, and this is my partner, Eve Ronin. We’re detectives with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.”

Mapes said, “Everybody wants to know why you’ve had a patrol car parked in front of the McCaig place all night.”

“It’s a speed trap. Tell everyone to slow down or they’ll get a ticket.”

Eve took out her phone and found the screengrab of the pregnant woman. “Do you know who this woman is?”

Duncan took the phone from her and held it up to Mapes, who nodded.

“That’s Priscilla. She’s a cleaning lady.”

“Do you know her last name?” Eve asked. Mapes shook his head. “Is she here today?”

“No, she only works here once a week, on Tuesdays, for the Grayles up on Park Positano.”

Duncan took out his notebook and pen. “What are their full names?”

“Lester and Daphne Grayle.”

Duncan wrote it down. “Are they home?”

“Mr. Grayle left for work a few hours ago. Mrs. Grayle is home.”

“Can we have their address and phone number?”

Mapes looked it up on his computer and gave Duncan the information, which he wrote down in his pad.

“Thanks. You can open up the gate and lower the drawbridge over the moat. We’d like to go up and see them now.”

Mapes hit the button, and as the gate started to roll open, he said, “Do you want me to call ahead? We’re a gated community. People here don’t usually open their doors if they don’t know who is coming, especially after all the home invasions.”

“Sure, give her a call.”

Duncan thanked Mapes and they drove up to the Grayle house, which was the same model as the McCaigs’, only flipped and with a southwestern-style facade.

They walked up to the front door, careful not to sting themselves on one of the cacti in the rock garden along the path, and rang the bell. The door was answered by Daphne Grayle, an athletic-looking woman in her thirties, wearing a paint-spattered white T-shirt and torn, paint-spattered jeans. Her long brown hair was pinned up in a bun to keep it from getting in the paint.

“Please forgive how I look. I’m repainting the family room. What can I do for you?”

Duncan glanced at Eve, once again handing her the baton, as he often did with women. Eve introduced them.