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“That’s quite a coincidence,” she said. “Our second victim was at the home of the prospective lawyers for our first victim the very night after she was murdered?”
“It could be a coincidence,” Ryan pointed out. “They do live right near each other. Maybe they’re friends.”
“Let’s find out,” Jessie said.
He shook his head.
“It won’t even be dawn for over two hours,” he reminded her. “I think we can wait that long.”
“Fine,” she conceded reluctantly. “Dawn, and not one second later.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
When Jessie and Ryan rang the Kirby’s bell at 6:30 a.m. on the day before Thanksgiving, the first rays of sun were just streaking across the Brentwood sky.
Jessie had wanted to nap in the downtime before coming here but found that she was too restless to close her eyes. Ryan, who hadn't encountered that problem, looked halfway rested. Luckily, he offered to drive, so she got a few extra minutes of shuteye on the darkened trip from downtown to Brentwood.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” she told him groggily as they stood at the large oak front door of the angular-designed, contemporary mansion, “if we ever did have kids, you’d be doing solo duty opening presents with them on Christmas morning. I’ll be tucked under the covers.”
Ryan stared at her in disbelief. She immediately realized her mistake. What was intended as an offhand quip about a very-unlikely scenario wasn’t being received that way. The look in his eyes indicated that he believed she was now more open to the idea than she had been up until now.
Damn this lack of sleep!
“I didn’t mean it that way,” she said quickly. “I was just saying that I’m tired. I should have used another example—."
The door opened before she could finish. Standing in front of them was a tall, strapping man that Jessie knew to be Rhett Kirby. His jet-black hair was jutting out in multiple directions. He wore athletic shorts and a burnt orange t-shirt emblazoned with the word “TEXAS” in white letters, He was sipping coffee from a giant mug and had a sleepy smile on his face.
“Kind of early to get me to accept the lord, isn’t it?” he asked playfully.
Though Jessie admired both his chipper early-morning demeanor and his willingness to open his door without demanding to know who was calling on him, she kept a stern face so as not let on.
“That’s not why we’re here, Mr. Kirby,” Ryan said, holding up his badge and ID. “Is your wife available to speak with us?”
“Oh, wow,” Kirby said, his smile fading somewhat, but not completely. “Yeah, I guess. Do you want to come in while I get her?”
“That would be great,” Ryan said.
They stepped inside. Kirby opened his mouth, about to call out for his wife, when she rounded the corner from the hallway into the foyer. She was wearing a pink robe and tying her short, blond hair in a tight ponytail.
“I heard you talking,” she said before her husband could speak, “and I recognized the other voice. I’d like to say it’s nice to see you again, Detective and Ms. Hunt, but I have a feeling that if you’re here to see me this early, it’s not for a social call.”
“I’m afraid not,” Ryan told her, getting straight to the point. “Do either of you know Gabriella Silva?”
“Of course, she lives in the neighborhood,” Nina said before her eyes darkened. “Why?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Jessie asked, wanting to share the news on their terms rather the those of the people they were questioning.
“Absolutely,” Rhett Kirby said. “Sorry for the rudeness. We’re not totally awake yet. Come into the living room.”
He led them down the hall, past a giant formal, drawing room and into a more casual living space, then directed them to one of the couches.
“Can I get either of you anything—coffee, tea, juice, water?”
“No thanks,” Ryan said as Jessie shook her head. “If you could both sit as well, we’ll explain why we’re here.”
The Kirbys sat on the adjacent sofa and waited nervously.
“Gabriella Silva was murdered last night,” Ryan said flatly.
