Page 19

Dinah

Yesterday, I didn’t have a good chance to study the exterior of Reese Bishop’s home, but this afternoon, the coroner and crime scene vans are gone, no black-and-whites cluttering the curb.

Her street is the sort of Californian hodgepodge that occurs when flippers start creeping in.

Half the houses are updated with new landscaping, pavered drives, and the sort of inexpensive updates that fool buyers into paying twice as much.

The polished-up homes stand alongside overgrown lawns, shoddy architecture, and a few boarded-up places.

In the middle of the mayhem is Reese Bishop’s house. It’s a one-story ranch with a flat black roof, a yellow mailbox, and the impression that someone recently stopped trying. Maybe that’s what happens when your heart stops showing up for work.

Yard care becomes unimportant.

Gutters overflow.

Trash bins don’t always make it to the curb or back to their spot.

I park in Reese’s driveway and use the emergency brake. After grabbing my bag, I ignore her front door and cross over to the adjacent house. It’s 5:35 p.m., and her neighbor has a new Prius in the driveway, a bright-orange extension cord plugged into its back end.

I almost bought an electric car last year.

Between my department-issued Lincoln and Joe’s SUV, we didn’t need a third vehicle, but I wanted something that would be good for the ranch and easy on our gas budget.

I ordered a Subaru Outback hybrid with every bell and whistle.

Two weeks later, I solved a murder investigation by tracking the suspect’s activity using his car’s Starlink system.

I canceled the Subaru the next day. It wasn’t about being guilty of anything; it was about the unknown future. If there’s ever a reason I don’t want my actions to be known—either by the police, a government entity, or my spouse—the last thing I’ll want is a vehicular tattletale.

Joe’s SUV is a twenty-two-year-old Ford Excursion, a beast that guzzles gas, is impossible to park, and can transport a church choir without breaking a sweat or needing anyone to share a seat belt.

It doesn’t make financial, environmental, or common sense.

I’ve brought up the idea of trading it in for something else, but he refuses, renting a car whenever he needs something more sensible or incognito.

Incognito is the last word I’d use to describe this neighbor’s Prius, which is lime green with large daisy stickers all over it.

There’s no way the owner of this car has invested in security cameras, but I still press the doorbell and try.

I smile when the woman answers the door, gesture toward Reese’s house, ask the question, and try not to smile when she shakes her head.

I continue on, hitting the houses to the left, all the way up to the four-way stop at the entrance of her street.

I get nothing. There’s not a single camera that faces the street or can provide helpful footage of who might have come and gone that Thursday.

I return to my car and sit in the driver’s seat for a moment, unwrapping a chocolate-and-oatmeal protein bar and then taking a bite.

It’s one of the ones from Joe’s clinic, and tastes like cardboard with a faintly medicinal aftertaste.

There’s still some ice water in my thermos tumbler, and I wash down the final bite.

My blood sugar recovers, and I ball up the wrapper and tuck it into the pocket of my blazer.

I open the door and head across the street, to the houses on the other side.

I hit pay dirt on the second one.