“I know. Some people consider that an invasion of privacy.”
“Listen to me,” he said softly. “The state of California photographs every car and license plate that passes under those cameras along with the day of the week and the time of day. It’s all recorded.”
“I know,” I said patiently, “and that’s why—” I gasped. “Oh my God! They photograph the cars at the Lighthouse Cove turnoff.”
“I know,” he said, imitating me.
“We might be able to track down the shop owners and see if they came to town on the same days as the break-ins happened.” I jumped across the console and kissed him soundly on the lips. “You’re a genius! That’s brilliant!”
I moved back to my seat, but he yanked me over to his side. “I’m a genius, remember?”
His kiss lasted longer and I had to admit it was much more satisfying than my first exuberant smack on the lips.
It was a few minutes later that he told me he’d requested and received a dozen grainy photos of cars belonging to Stephen and Ned Darby, Bob Madderly, and two of the shop owners I’d told him about. He’d put in a request for information on Althea, too, but her car didn’t show up in any photographs.
That evening when I got home from work, Mac brought copies of the traffic photos over to my place. I ordered a pizza and we went through them together. We were able to see the comings and goings of those four people over the last month. Each photo was time-stamped. On the surface, there was nothing to get suspicious about.
But it was the absence of one person that raised my suspicions.
“Why doesn’t Althea’s car show up in any of the records? I know she must drive a car.”
“Maybe it’s registered under a different name,” Mac said. “Was she married before?”
“I don’t know, but I guess I could find out easily enough.” I studied the other photos for another minute. “It might just be a case of her not liking to drive the freeways. Plenty of people don’t.”
Mac pulled out his phone, turned on the GPS navigation app, and followed it all the way to Blue Point. “Mileage-wise, Highway 1 is probably closer for her. But if she’s driving at night, it’s a lot more dangerous than the 101.”
“True,” I admitted. “But she might like the slower pace.”
Highway 1 skirted the treacherous cliffs along the coast of much of Northern California. It was two narrow lanes often bordered on one side or the other by a sheer cliff that dropped hundreds of yards down to the ocean. There were hairpin turns that would cause even a professional driver some anxiety. On a clear day it could be terrifying, but it was even worse after a rainstorm when parts of the highway would tend to crumble and disappear down the cliff. One lane might be closed for miles and stay that way for months. The 101 was infinitely easier, wider, and safer, but it was a whole five miles inland. Many locals didn’t bother to travel that “enormous” distance just for safety’s sake.
“I’m going to go back over my calendar and double-check the dates of the break-ins. And I wonder if Jesse had a calendar that he wrote on.”
“We can check.”
“Should I still bother checking mileage? I was thinking if Jane could get into Stephen’s car . . .”
“Good luck with that,” he said.
“I’m really overcomplicating things, aren’t I?” I realized that even though Jane thought Stephen was weird, she might not be willing to help me prove that her “guest” had been lying. “I’m going to let this theory go.”
“Probably a good idea,” he said reluctantly.
“I’m so tired,” I said, realizing I’d been up since five that morning.
“Your eyes look a little red,” Mac said, adding quickly, “But otherwise you’re beautiful.”
I laughed. “Thanks for qualifying that. No woman wants to hear how tired she looks, even if she’s falling asleep at the table, which is what I’m about to do.”
He, on the other hand, looked handsome and masculine and just a touch dangerous. He flashed me a wicked smile that made me want to melt, if only I weren’t already dead on my feet.
“I’d better let you get some sleep,” he said. “We’ve got that Planning Commission meeting tomorrow morning. Should be all kinds of fun.”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.”
He chuckled and stood to leave, but paused to rub my shoulders.
“Please don’t stop,” I whispered, relaxing in my chair. He had strong arms, as I’d learned the first time we ever met, months ago when he picked me up and carried me to his car. My hero.
“You’ve got muscles, Irish.”
“Some days they take a beating.”