Page 48 of Wild Escape

I spoke to her in Spanish. "Can you think of anyone who had access to the house that knew about Mr. Caldwell’s valuables?"

She frowned and shook her head. "I'm only there one day a week, but I've been working for Mrs. Caldwell for 25 years now. Is Mr. Caldwell going to be okay?"

I shrugged.

It seemed unlikely that Constance had any involvement. But I didn't rule out the possibility that she’d tipped someone off in exchange for a kickback. She didn't strike me as a criminal mastermind. But she clearly had the ability to leave a window unlocked. She probably knew the code to the alarm when it was working.

"I take it you were at home around 3:00 AM last night?”

"Si.”

"You live alone?"

"No. With my husband," she said.

“I’ll need contact information for him.”

She nodded.

“Have you seen anyone suspicious around the property lately?”

She shook her head.

I thanked her for the information, gave her a card, and told her to get in touch if she recalled anything helpful.

JD and I strolled the walkway and hopped into the Porsche. We headed over to Palm Haven, where we caught up with Mr. Martinez, thanks to Isabella. Mowers hummed, and leaf blowers buzzed as they worked the lawn.

The trio made short work of the lawn and landscaping. Martinez worked with his son and daughter. His son was a young man in his mid-20s with a medium build. His daughter was petite. Maybe 19. It was possible this could have been the crew, but for Mr. Martinez. He didn’t have the build of a lineman.

Martinez was about 45. After a lifetime in the sun, his tanned skin had its fair share of lines.

Theories swirled in my mind.

It wasn't Texas hot in Coconut Key, but it was hot enough. At 83°, wearing long-sleeve work shirts, doing manual labor, this crew certainly earned their paychecks. No wonder they were out here at the ass-crack of dawn.

I wondered if maybe they went after a little unearned revenue.

The logo on his black truck read: Martinez Family Lawn Care.

Mr. Martinez used a weed wacker to edge the curb and walkway. The gas motor rumbled, and the noxious exhaust from it and the leaf blower filled the air.

I parked across the street. We hopped out of the Porsche, and I displayed my badge as I approached Mr. Martinez.

Concern rounded his eyes. He cut the engine and flashed a smile, hoping this was not bad news. “Buenos dias.”

“Buenos dias,” I replied.

“We’re hoping you can help us with a case,” I said in a disarming tone.

He looked cautious but agreeable.

"When was the last time you were at the Caldwell residence?"

"I think last Thursday. No, it was Friday. We usually go on Fridays, but it really depends."

"Where were you last night around 3:00 AM?"

His face tensed. "Why?”