Estelle covered her mouth and turned away from the door, repulsed by what she saw, and walked away.
Eve shook her head at Duncan. “Did you have to pull out the box while she was standing there?”
Duncan shrugged. “These things happen. At least now we know he didn’t have a girlfriend.”
He pulled out another box that contained a carton of bullets and a bunch of burner phones, identical to the ones they’d found at Dalander’s house.
Eve picked up one of the Rolex watches and dangled it in front of Duncan. “Looks like Paul kept some bling for himself.”
“We can leave this for CSU to process and collect as evidence.”
“Maybe they can unlock his computer, too.”
“It’s probably full of porn,” Duncan said. “I’ll make the call.”
Eve took photos of everything so she could create a virtual tour of the room if she needed to, then went out to find Estelle Colter, who was sitting on the couch again, her back straight and stiff. She’d made herself a drink.
“We need to go,” Eve said, “but two officers will stay here and wait for the forensic team to arrive to take photos and remove evidence from your son’s room. You can’t go in until they say it’s clear.”
“But it’s our home.”
“That room is a crime scene now. I may be contacting you again with more questions. In the meantime, please feel free to call me if you have any questions or concerns.” Eve handed her a card and turned to the front door.
“What Paul did . . . what happened to him . . . it’s on the news?” Estelle asked. “Everybody already knows?”
Eve looked back at her. “His name hasn’t been released yet.”
“But it will be?”
Eve nodded, and dreaded having to inform the next of kin about the deaths of Dalander and Nagy, who might be as in the dark about their criminality as Estelle was about her son’s.
Estelle took a long, big gulp of whatever she was drinking and looked at Eve again. “How are we supposed to live with this?”
Eve had no answer for that, so she went outside, where Duncan was giving instructions to the two uniformed officers. She went to the Explorer, got inside, started the engine, and radioed the dispatcher that they were on their way to Santa Monica. Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. Her agent again. She let the call go to voice mail.
Duncan joined her a moment later. Neither of them spoke until they were on the San Diego Freeway, heading south over the Sepulveda Pass into the smog-choked LA basin. The sun was setting, giving the smog a sickly glow that made the landscape look to Eve like an alien world populated by creatures that breathed radiant vomit.
She said, “Maybe Colter was the guy who cased the neighborhood and picked the homes to rob.”
“What makes you think that?”
“If he really is an Uber or Lyft driver, he could have circled Calabasas all day to pick up rides that originated or ended inside gated communities. That would give him an opportunity to get behind the gates and cruise the streets. We could get his plates and the gate logs to see when, and how often, he came into the communities where houses were hit.”
“Sure we could. But even if that is true, I’d like to know how they were getting in and out for their invasions.”
“They could have come up the ridge on foot from the golf course on Parkway Calabasas or from behind the car dealerships on Calabasas Road. All they have to do is climb the fences. A child could do it and there’s zero security. They could leave the same way.”
“In broad daylight? Carrying armfuls of Versace clothes and Chanel bags stuffed with jewelry, gold, cash, and credit cards down steep hillsides? I don’t think so. Besides, they’d be out in the open, easily spotted by people in the homes on the ridge, the car dealership, the street, or even in cars on the freeway.”
“I don’t think people pay that much attention to who is on the hillsides,” Eve said. “They could have had a getaway driver waiting somewhere, like in the Commons parking lot, for their call to pick them up when they hit the street.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Duncan said.
“But you don’t buy it.”
“Nope and neither do you.”
He was right.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Greg Nagy lived in a block of new apartment buildings on Seventh Street in Santa Monica. It seemed like everything had been torn down and replaced with apartments since Eve had last been in the area. Even the fire station next door to Nagy’s building had a sign out front announcing it would soon be razed for more apartments.
A plain-wrap Dodge Charger, a standard make for unmarked police cars, was parked in the red zone. Eve pulled up behind it. The man who stepped out of the Charger wore an off-the-rack suit that could have come from the same rack that Duncan’s suits came from at Men’s Wearhouse. He was in his forties, with a nose that had been flattened by fists more than once, a receding hairline, and a tan that matched the unnatural brown color of his hair.