Page 22 of Tide and Seek (Dr. Maxwell Thornton Murder Mysteries #8)
Royce
Later, as Max and I headed to the sheriff’s station to view the security footage, a red sports car caught my eye, parked on the narrow lane between C.J.’s home and James’s house. The afternoon sun glinted off its polished hood, and a man sat behind the wheel, scrolling through his phone.
“Do you know that guy?” I asked Max.
Max shielded his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. “No. I don’t recognize him or the car.”
Considering all the things that had happened recently at Ocean Whisper Estates, I decided it couldn’t hurt to see who this stranger was. “Let’s go find out who he is.”
Max hesitated but then followed me toward the sports car.
Before we reached it, the driver opened his door and climbed out.
The guy looked to be early thirties, blond and impeccably dressed in a crisp white button-down, charcoal slacks, and Italian leather shoes.
His brown eyes were congenial beneath perfectly groomed brows.
“Hello,” he called out cheerfully before either Max or I could speak.
“Afternoon,” I said, stopping in front of him. “Are you here visiting someone in the colony?” I tried to keep my voice friendly and not suspicious.
He nodded. “I sure am. I’m Stiles Westbrook, Luke’s brother.” My expression must have shown my surprise at the contrast between him and his brother because he laughed. “I know, Luke and I are nothing alike. He’s a free spirit, while I went the evil corporate route.”
I smiled. “I’m Royce and this here is Maxwell.”
“Nice to meet you.” Stiles gestured toward Luke’s beach house. “It seems Luke’s not home. I knocked on his door, but he’s not answering. I was trying to decide if I should wait around or go grab lunch and come back later.”
“Unfortunately, I saw Luke heading toward the ocean with his surfboard about ten minutes ago,” Max volunteered, gesturing toward the beach path on the side of Luke’s home. “He might not be back anytime soon. He usually stays out quite a while when he surfs.”
“Damn.” Stiles sighed, the ocean breeze ruffling his perfectly styled hair.
“Timing is everything, isn’t it?” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Luke’s been struggling lately, I thought I’d come by and give him a pep talk.
Mom is worried about him, but she’s not feeling great, so I volunteered to come see him. ”
“That’s good of you,” I said, catching the faint scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the salt air.
He shrugged. “Family’s everything, right? I don’t like seeing my little brother having a hard time. He’s missed a few NA meetings, and that always gets us worried.”
“So you’re aware of his… drug issues?” Max asked, squinting slightly as the afternoon sun beat down on the pavement between us.
“Oh, yeah. We’re well aware. He’s struggled his whole life, but it’s gotten worse the last year.” He winced. “But we’re not giving up on him.”
“Of course not.” I nodded. “It’s good he has his family’s support.”
Stiles’s smile was pensive. “He’s a good kid. I just know he’ll turn his life around.”
“I’m sure he will if he has you guys in his corner,” I said gruffly.
He gave an appreciative smile, then his expression became more serious. “Luke told me about all the stuff going on here lately.” He widened his eyes. “I mean a dead body and a burglary. That’s terrifying.”
“It’s been very stressful.” Max grimaced. “We’re actually headed to the Lost Hills sheriff’s station to view footage of the burglary right now.”
Stiles’s brows shot up. “Wait, it was your house that was broken into?”
“Yes.” Max sighed. “I’m the lucky one.”
“Whoa, that’s awful. I’m sorry to hear that.” Stiles shook his head. “I’d have thought a gated community like this would be safer.”
“I thought the same thing,” Max murmured.
At the sound of the mechanical security gate opening, all three of us turned.
We watched as it slowly opened to admit a black truck with “American Pool and Spa” painted on the side in red, white, and blue lettering.
The truck’s engine rumbled as it drove into the colony and parked in front of my house, its brakes squeaking softly.
“Looks like the pool guy’s here to work on the pool heater,” Max said, frowning. “I thought he was coming tomorrow.” He turned and strode toward the middle-aged man climbing out of the black truck.
When I turned back to Stiles, he was staring at the pool guy with what looked like annoyance. But when our eyes met, that easy smile returned, so I assumed I’d read him wrong.
“Well, if Luke is surfing, I think I will go get some lunch and then swing back by later.” Stiles held out his well-manicured hand and his pricey gold watch glinted in the sun. “It was nice meeting you, Royce.”
“Likewise.” I shook his hand and then went to join Max and the pool guy.
Stiles got back in his sports car and his engine purred to life. Then he drove out through the gate, giving a nonchalant wave of his hand.
A short while later, Max and I were on the road to the Malibu Lost Hills Sheriff’s Station.
The twisting canyon curves reminded me how far I was from the wide-open prairies and two-lane highways of North Texas.
Maxwell sat hunched beside me, not enjoying riding in the Hummer this time around any more than he had the first.
We pulled into the modest parking lot of the sheriff’s station, scattered with black-and-whites and unmarked cars.
The station itself looked more like a small-town civic building than the nerve center for policing some of the wealthiest real estate in America.
It was a modest single-story structure of brick and stucco with a low-pitched peaked roof over the entrance, and a plain sign marking it as the Lost Hills Sheriff’s Station.
Two flags hung limply in the still afternoon air, adding to its unpretentious, functional appearance.
The moment I stepped through the glass doors, the familiar rhythm of law enforcement washed over me.
Radio chatter punctuated the steady hum of voices, keyboards clicking, phones ringing.
The fluorescent lighting cast everything in that particular institutional glow I knew from my own station back home.
Though, surprisingly, this place felt more cramped, every square foot utilized out of necessity.
A young deputy with dark, close-cropped hair and the eager demeanor of someone still proving himself approached the reception desk. “Sheriff Callum? I’m Deputy Martinez. Deputy Gonzalez asked me to get you set up to see the security footage.”
I shook his hand, noting the firm grip and the way his eyes briefly assessed both Maxwell and me. “Appreciate that, Deputy.”
“Detective Jones will be the one actually showing you the footage, but I’ll escort you to his workspace.”
“Thanks.” I smiled.
“No problem.” He led us through a maze of cubicles where deputies hunched over paperwork and fielded calls.
The walls were institutional gray-blue, decorated with the usual mix of wanted posters, community event flyers, and department notices.
It reminded me of home, just compressed into a tighter space with better equipment.
The surveillance room felt almost claustrophobic after the bustle of the main floor.
Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in a hard white glow.
A long table ran along the wall beneath several mounted monitors, each one displaying grainy security footage with date and time stamps flickering in the corners.
The steady hum of equipment filled the quiet, layered with the faint whir of a printer and the smell of burnt coffee lingering in the air.
A detective sat hunched at the table, clicking through camera angles on a battered keyboard.
He was a lanky man, all sharp angles and jutting elbows, with thinning sandy hair combed carefully over the top of his head.
Piles of manila folders and a half-empty Styrofoam cup of coffee competed for space at his elbow.
“Detective Jones, Sheriff Callum and Mr. Thornton are here to see the footage from the Ocean Whisper Estates security cameras,” Martinez said.
Jones glanced up as we entered, his face drawn with fatigue. He gave us a congenial nod. “Howdy, gentlemen.”
“Thanks for taking the time, Detective,” I said.
“Sure thing.” Jones gestured to two folding chairs positioned in front of the monitors.
“Yes, thank you,” Max said, dusting off the folding chair with a handkerchief.
Jones gave Max a quizzical look and then said, “In addition to the security footage from Bright-Eyed Security, we’ve also pulled a lot of outdoor security tape from Monday at the colony.
Camera coverage is pretty good for that area—multiple angles on the main entrance, some interior shots of the community. ”
Once we were settled into our seats, Martinez dimmed the lights slightly, and I felt Maxwell tense beside me. The screens came alive with grainy but clear footage, and I found myself leaning forward as the first images began to play.
“This footage is from the outside security cameras provided by the Ocean Whisper Estates,” Jones said, his fingers moving across the keyboard. “The time is around 3:00 p.m. I thought it would be good to scan the video earlier in the day to see if anyone was watching the place.”
“Not a bad idea,” I said.
The timestamp in the corner read 2:55 p.m. as we watched the main entrance gate. With only four homes in Ocean Whisper Estates, there wasn’t much traffic. A few luxury sedans and SUVs came and went, along with the occasional service truck or delivery van.
“I don’t notice anyone loitering,” I said.
“No, me neither.” Jones nodded. “They could be parked up on the highway, though, watching through binoculars. Unfortunately, there are no cameras that would capture that.”