Page 9 of Wicching Hour

“Do I need to?” I asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

“No,” she said before taking a bite and wrapping up the rest of muffin, wedging it into her cup holder. “I guess I’m just off balance when I see you do fantastical things. It’s cool, though. I’m getting used to it.” She checked the time on the dashboard. “I’m not sure if we have time for both crime scenes. I’ll take you to the first and we’ll see from there.”

I nodded, finishing the muffin. “Hey, any news on the little creep who killed Christopher and Ana?” That series of abductions and murders was the first time I’d worked with Detectives Hernández and Osso.

She shook her head, flicking on her turn signal. “Still awaiting trial. He’s undergoing psychiatric testing. His lawyer is claiming trauma response from losing his parent. The DA and our doctor say psychopathy.”

Poor Christopher and Ana. The death of a child, that destruction of innocence and potential, cut deep. Staring out the window, I said, “I agree with your DA and doctor.”

“Yeah,” Hernández said, her voice heavy. It was hard to think of the case and not be weighed down by it.

She drove us into a wealthy neck of the woods and pulled into a circular drive in front of a Spanish Colonial mansion.

“Nice,” I said, noting the lush landscaping and the grand home. The only thing marring the picture was the yellow crime tape at the door.

Hernández climbed out, and I joined her. A prickle ran down my spine. I looked in the usual places and saw lenses. “She has security cameras all over. You guys didn’t see anything?”

The detective shook her head and led the way to the front door. Bypassing a special lock, she opened the door and let us in. It was beautiful, with large terra-cotta tile floors, creamy stucco walls, and dark wood beams on the cathedral ceilings. A curved staircase to the right circled up from the foyer to the second floor.

“A lot of house for one person. I assume this is the judge’s house.”

Hernández nodded. “Her husband passed last year. Their kids are grown and moved away. Friends say she was thinking about moving, of scaling down, but the house held so many good memories, she was having a hard time moving forward.”

“Real estate agents know how to clean up and make everything look presentable,” I said. “Maybe the killer was someone she’d just met about her house.”

Hernández nodded again. “I’m looking into it, but she doesn’t appear to have contacted any agencies. A house like this would only list through a handful of firms. This place will go for three or four million.” She shrugged. “The responding officer’s wife is a real estate agent and that was his guess.”

“Given the neighborhood, the property size—wait. Is that a golf course out the back window?” I shook my head. “This place is going for a lot more than that.” I walked through the foyer, past an office and a sitting room, into a huge living room with windows onto a slate patio, with flowering shrubs and tall trees. A well-dressed man and his caddy moved into the fairway to take a shot.

Lowering my voice, I said, “Are we sure this judge wasn’t on the take? This house seems way fancier than a judge could afford.”

“I wondered the same,” she said, “but her husband was a surgeon and came from money. There are no marks on her record, no whispers of questionable rulings.”

I walked around the living room, easing down my defenses. She had photographs everywhere, some posed, some candid. I leaned in close to study a family portrait. The judge was a beautiful Black woman who exuded reliability. She was not one to forget a birthday or recital. Steady. Her husband was a tall, thin Asian man whose eyes smiled even in photos. He was the one who got her to shake off a hard day and play Scrabble with him or go for a long walk. Their two children—boy and girl—were almost as tall as their father, though the son had his mother’s serious mien.

“Can you stand in the kitchen or something?” I asked. “I want to walk the whole house and see what I pick up. Okay?”

“Sure.” Hernández left the room, retreating the way we’d come. Lowering my mental blocks even more, I opened myself up. Echoes of laughter and raised voices, tears and shrieks of joy. It was a home.

When I walked past the tall glass doors leading out onto the patio, I felt a chill run down my spine. Moving closer, I felt a wave of barely suppressed rage wash over me. This was where the killer had entered.

FIVE

Probably Shouldn’t Have Eaten That Muffin

Itook off a glove, blew out a breath, and braced for it.

Fucking bitch thinks she’s so much better than me.

A dark-gloved hand reaches for the knob. He pauses to look through the glass door. Reflected in the picture frame on the wet bar, he sees a green glowing light.

He pulls a leather case from his pocket and selects a thin, shiny instrument. Moonlight glints off the tool in his hand as he hunches over to use it. The lock clicks open. Dressed all in black, he steps in, his gaze going to the alarm system. Unarmed. Perfect.

A laser-thin beam of light sweeps the large living room, the artwork and expensive knickknacks. He has no interest in valuables.

Stupid cow is sitting on a fortune here and she’s too dumb to turn on the alarm.

Moving swiftly, he checks each room on his way toward the front of the house. He moves in a slow circle, making sure he hasn’t missed anything. No cameras inside. Only out on the grounds.

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