Gated Prey (Eve Ronin #3)(55)

“Is that a question or a confession?” Duncan said. “Because if it’s a confession, we need to read you your rights first.”

Daphne took a step forward so she and Duncan were almost nose to nose, defying his attempt at intimidation. He stood firm.

“You’re a fucking monster,” she said. “How could you think that about me?”

“You’re desperate for a baby and you chose the day Priscilla disappeared to paint your living room,” he said. “Was it the beige you couldn’t stand to look at anymore or the blood spatter?”

“You’re sick.” Daphne reached into her back pocket for her iPhone. “I’m calling my husband. He’s a senior partner at the law firm of Lappin, Guillerman, and Boze. He’ll have your badge for this.”

“You’re welcome to it. I’m retiring in three months and I have all the paperweights I need.”

Daphne shouldered past them and out to the street to make her call. Eve studied Duncan. This was not the man she knew.

“I can’t tell if this asshole is a role you play,” Eve said, “or if it’s actually a side of your personality.”

He met her gaze. “Does it matter?”

“Only if you enjoy it.”

Duncan didn’t answer. He turned his back to her and went inside the house, leaving Eve to decide for herself.



Two hours later, the lack of sleep was beginning to get to Eve. She wasn’t feeling particularly tired, nor was she fighting to stay awake. It felt more like she was trapped between dimensions, not entirely occupying the space she was in or moving at the same speed as the world around her.

Perhaps, she thought, the infrared camera that Nan Baker was using to photograph Daphne Grayle’s recently painted family room walls could also capture the dissonance Eve was feeling. Would she show up in the image as crisp, while the world around her was a blur?

“Do you see anything behind the paint?” Eve asked.

Nan studied the image on her camera. “Just more paint.”

“How many layers can that camera see through?”

“A lot,” Nan said. “There’s no blood here or anywhere else. This house is almost as clean as the McCaig place.”

“Almost?”

“I’m not including Mrs. McCaig’s couch,” Nan said. “The Grayles have old dog pee they haven’t been able to clean out of the hallway carpet. Could have been there for years. Probably has been, since there’s no dog around. But dog pee persists. That’s a fact.”

“Good to know.”

Eve walked through the family room to the french doors that opened out to the backyard. The Grayles had a small lawn and a lap pool, the yard bordered with roses, bushes, and small trees. Duncan stood under the retractable awning watching CSU technicians poking at the dirt with poles. She stepped outside and joined him.

“How’s it going?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. If anything had been found, word would have spread immediately.

“The dirt up here is as hard as concrete. Nothing is buried here, not even acorns.”

“The house is clean,” Eve said, though he had to know that, too.

“We’re both screwed,” he said. “You more than me.”

“How do you figure that?”

“My career as a sheriff’s detective is already over,” he said. “But you still cling to the ridiculous hope that you can have one.”

“We’ve got the TV show to fall back on.”

“In other words, if you can’t make it as a cop in the real world, try make-believe instead.”

“At least on TV, we can decide how the case ends,” she said.

“Perhaps we need to explore other avenues of investigation, one that isn’t Daphne Grayle Boulevard or Anna McCaig Street.”

Eve could only think of one remaining option. “I asked Deputy Clayton to run the license plates of all the cars that left Oakdale between the time Grayle says Priscilla left here and when McCaig called 911.”

“Get the list,” Duncan said. “That’s where we should look next before—”

“Anna’s 5150 runs out,” Eve interrupted.

“I was thinking before the captain gives Crockett and Tubbs our case, sidelines me until retirement, and the sheriff reassigns you to patrol Metrolink trains.”

With that possible future hanging over her head, Eve left the Grayles’ house, carefully avoiding Daphne, her angry husband, and their lawyer, and walked around the corner and down the street to Anna McCaig’s place.

She saw Deputy Clayton leaning against his patrol car, arms crossed under his chest, his eyes hidden behind his wraparound sunglasses.

He tilted his head toward her. “How’s it going over at the other house?”

“Same as this one,” she said. “Did you get a chance to run those plates?”

He opened the driver’s side door of his car, leaned inside, and came out with several sheets of paper.

“Here you go.” Eddie handed her the sheets.

She thanked him and glanced at the paper. His handwriting was neat and precise, almost as if it had been typewritten.

He said, “Catholic school.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were puzzling over my handwriting. Catholic school is the answer. Good penmanship is a reflection of your character. That’s what the teachers used to say, right before they smacked your knuckles with a wooden ruler.”