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He turned the screen so I could see O’Mara’s photo and her address.
“We can be there in fifteen minutes,” he said.
“Let’s try for ten.”
Jacobi backed the car away from the curb and, with tires scraping the concrete, cut around the scene-mobile and into the traffic lane.
I flipped on the grille lights and the siren as we shot up Leavenworth toward O’Mara’s house in the tony enclave of Sea Cliff.
Chapter 128
NUMBER 68 SEAVIEW TERRACE was a mango-colored Mediterranean-style villa with an unobstructed view of the bay, the bridge, Sausalito, and maybe Honolulu for all I knew.
Birds chirped in the shrubbery.
Jacobi and I mounted the porch, my mind seething with vivid images of the carnage at Garza’s house and the cyclone of questions whirling in my mind.
Come on, Maureen. Please be home.
I pressed the doorbell, and a no-nonsense buzzer blatted loudly at my touch. I heard no answering voice, though, no footfalls coming toward the door.
I shouted, “Police,” pressed the buzzer again, stood back as Jacobi stepped in and banged the door with his fist.
No answer. Nothing at all. C’mon, Redhead.
That creepy feeling came over me again—the horrors of death playing my vertebrae like a xylophone.
O’Mara was missing, and her secretary didn’t know where she was. We’d already played fast and loose with exigent circumstances once today. I was going to chance it again.
“I smell gas,” I lied.
“Take it easy, Boxer. I’m too old to walk a beat.”
“Garza’s place looks like a slaughterhouse, Warren, and O’Mara’s car is there. It’s my ass if we screw up.”
I wrenched the doorknob, and it turned in my hand. I let the door swing open slowly, as if a breeze had given it a tap.
We took out our guns. Again.
“This is the police. We’re coming in.”
The entranceway opened into a bright, many-windowed living room with tropical printed furnishings and large, brilliant oil paintings. I was looking for trouble inside O’Mara’s house, but as far as I could see, nothing had been disturbed.
We swept the ground floor, calling out to each other.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
We found one bright room after another, empty and spotlessly clean.
As we climbed the stairs, a scent I’d thought was potpourri got stronger, leading us to the master bedroom.
The bedroom was painted peach. A life-size oil-on-canvas painting of an entwined couple doing the deed faced the king-size bed. I don’t get this kind of “art” in bedrooms, but obviously some people must like it. Apparently, Maureen O’Mara was one of them.
To the left of the bed was a wall of windows with a view to die for.
