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“I’m saying it’s one possibility. A strong one,” Paterno admitted, rubbing his chin as he stared at the bed trying to envision the crime.
She too, looked at the bare mattress, the spot where Brindel had drawn her last breath. Regan’s throat closed as she considered those final moments. Had her sister known her attacker? Seen the gun before it went off? Recognized her killer? Or had she been blissfully unaware, sleeping soundly when her life had been ended so violently? Pescoli let out her breath slowly and realized Paterno was still talking about the plot.
“If that’s what happened. The idea of the simultaneous shots is that neither victim has the time or presence of mind to wake up and try to get away, or confront the attackers or scream or even call the police. It’s also less likely that anyone close enough to hear the shots would think it was necessarily a firearm going off.” He made his way to the French door and tried the handle. It didn’t budge. “And it worked. Forrester thought the sound was from a truck. Rinaldo wasn’t sure what she’d heard but because it was over quickly, she ignored it and went back to sleep.”
“No one could have saved them,” she said.
“No. Don’t think so. But if any of the neighbors had looked through the windows, maybe they could have seen something. As it is, so far, no one saw anything.” He sounded frustrated and probably was, though, of course, it was very early in the investigation.
“Too bad,” she whispered, reining in her emotions and eyeing her sister’s private bedroom, trying to view it with a cop’s eye rather than that of a sibling. Gauzy window coverings, a marble fireplace, vases of flowers and a spa-like bathroom with separate shower and tub, as well as a closet as large as the nursery in Pescoli’s own home, surrounded the bed with its padded headboard, now spattered with Brindel’s blood. French doors, identical to those in Paul’s room, opened to the veranda connecting the two suites.
What the hell had happened here? She agreed with Paterno. The victims weren’t random. Someone knew how to get in and that there were safes with valuables and a closet full of guns, and they’d come armed. Probably with intent to kill. Her blood ran cold. Why in the world was Brindel so mercilessly murdered? And who would do it? Who would let the killers in or provide a key? Had it been carelessness, a key loaned to a friend or repairman or the housekeeper? Or were the murders intentional? Planned? The robbery only part of the cover-up, to throw the police off? How insidious was this crime?
Her gaze was caught by a large portrait of Brindel’s daughter, hung on one wall, the picture taken when the girl was about seven, it seemed. Blond, with wide green eyes, and teeth slightly too large for her heart-shaped face, Brindel’s daughter was poised on the edge of a gold chair. Wearing a dress that had a shimmery white skirt and black velvet bodice, she was half turned toward the camera. Her little legs were encased in white tights and dangled a bit, not reaching the floor. At first glance the picture was one of wide-eyed innocence, but if you looked a little deeper, past the pasted-on smile and curling blond hair, you could catch something more, just a subtle hint of something slightly darker than intended in the obviously posed shot.
Once more Pescoli thought of the hidden, malevolent forces she’d felt at her home in Montana, and her skin crawled.
What you thought you felt on your deck near the Bitterroots has nothing, nothing to do with what’s going on here, she chided herself.
Jaw tight, she managed to push that disturbing idea aside. Tamped it down. What was wrong with her? Yes, her sister was one of the victims here, but Pescoli was a cop, a detective, no less. If not always capable of separating her emotions from a case, Regan Pescoli had always been able to work through them, to keep doing her job. But this . . . this, of course, was different. This was her sister after all, no matter how far they’d drifted from each other. She cleared her throat and forced her attention to the details, the evidence that would help crack this case. “Did you find any footprints—something indicating the size or make of a shoe?”
He shook his head. “Nothing distinct, not in or out. No trampled flowers with a perfect impression of a boot print in the soil. No dirt tracked on the white tile in a perfect image of a shoe.”
She almost smiled. “Nothing easy.”
“Not like on TV. As I said, no forced entry.”
“So we’re back to the key and who had one, or who unlocked the house and let the killers in.”
“Looks like. We’re checking to see if any keys are missing. According to the housekeeper, only she and the family members had keys, but who knows? Also, there was an unlatched window in the powder room downstairs, but it’s small, none of the vegetation outside disturbed. At least one of the killers would have to be small, slight.”
“A woman?”
He didn’t answer, but nodded slightly, still mulling the scenario over in his mind.
“But this was a robbery, right?”
“Yes.”
“They might have just wanted to insure that there were no witnesses.”
“Then they’re not just robbers.”
She agreed. Most thieves wouldn’t cross the line and commit a homicide, some wouldn’t even get into assault, at least until they were threatened, but to kill two people in cold blood, execute them in what had to be a premeditated plot, that was something far darker than burglary or theft. “This is . . .”
“Evil,” he supplied, as if he, too, had experienced that skittering of dread that had danced upon her spine.
They wrapped up the tour, going through the main floor, eyeing the dining room, butler’s pantry, living area, foyer, bath, and kitchen. Paterno showed her a hidden staircase straight out of Nancy Drew that led from behind the bookcase in the library to a private wine cellar in the basement. Also downstairs was the garage with its two cars, one parked behind the other, the laundry facilities, and a room with a TV, rowing machine, stationary bike, and treadmill.
She thanked Paterno for the tour and, as he locked up, used the app on her phone to secure another ride through Uber. Once she was in, the small Toyota took her to the nearest car rental office, and once there she rented a Ford EcoSport. Uber was all well and good, but she needed to be more mobile. With a baby in tow, an investigation to work on, a college campus or two to view, the rental seemed necessary. And now, after traveling the city streets and with the aid of GPS, Pescoli was confident she could navigate her way around San Francisco and
the Bay Area.
Climbing behind the wheel of the white SUV, she drove first to a grocery store to pick up a few supplies, then back to the apartment where she found Bianca dealing with a fussy Tucker. “He’s hungry,” Bianca said. Her hair was a mess and she was still in pj’s though it was going on noon. “I didn’t feed him because you texted that you were on the way.”
“Good. There’s breakfast for you, too, or lunch,” she added, recognizing the time. She left the two grocery bags on the small counter, then took the baby from her daughter’s arms. “Hey, fussy britches, what’s the problem?” she asked her son, and was rewarded with a toothless grin and bright eyes. “Yeah, you’re a charmer, aren’t you?” she said, then once more attempted to nurse. Again, it was a no-go.
And while Bianca fixed a bowl of yogurt, orange slices, and granola, Pescoli finally gave up the fight. “I guess you’re going to be a formula baby from here on in.”
