Insidious
Page 21
Daniel said, “It’s ahead of us, a small bungalow, about halfway down, very nicely remodeled five years ago when Markham bought it as a weekend getaway place. Not waterside. The neighbors who’d met Connie said she seemed like a levelheaded, friendly young woman. Never saw her behave like Markham’s mistresses, but who knew? I can show you the layout, but like I said, all the evidence we have was collected and processed weeks ago.”
“That’s for later. I want to see it for myself, get the feel of it. Do you see that house we just passed? That’s my folks’ house, where I grew up.”
The Wittier house was on the ocean side, not palatial, but not a small bungalow like Morrissey’s, either. It was an older, well-maintained two-story house. If not for its exclusive location, it would have solid middle-class standing. A big bruiser of a palm tree sprawled in the front yard, its giant fronds stretching to the road.
Daniel said, “That’s a really nice house. The Colony’s wildly expensive.”
“My folks say the prices zoom higher every year. Back in the day, Mom and Dad managed to score some really good roles at the same time, enough to afford a good deal they found here in the Colony. They plunked down the cash, moved in, and had me. I think they paid off the mortgage three years ago.”
“No siblings?”
“They tell me they had their hands so full with me they didn’t have the time or energy to make any more kids.”
“That’s what my dad thought, but Mom kept getting pregnant. It always seemed to surprise my dad. Go figure.”
“How many siblings?”
“Four, I’m the oldest. There’s Morrissey’s bungalow. Hey, what’s this? I didn’t expect these guys.”
A dark green moving van with bright white stars all over it, the signature of the Starving Actors moving company was parked out front, a large buff man in dungarees looking over them from a ramp at its rear.
“Well, it has been six weeks since Morrissey’s murder,” Daniel said. “The D.A.’s office must have given Markham full access. We’ll let these guys have a break, and I’ll show you around. I wonder if Markham sold the cottage or rented it out to some other actresses in need of nurturing. Let’s see if the starving actors know.”
“Hang on a second,” Cam said, and punched a number on her cell. “Mom, hi. Yes, that was me and Detective Montoya driving by. We’ll come back in a little while. A question. Do you know who’s moving into Constance Morrissey’s house?” A couple of seconds passed, some more questions, more hmms, then, “Okay, thanks.” She looked over. “Theo Markham was evidently so broken up by Connie’s murder that he sold the bungalow to a special-effects software guy from Seattle last week. It went for just under three mil, Dad said. He heard the family was moving in next month, but they must be moving in some of the furniture in early.”
Daniel was impressed. “Three mil for that little bungalow?”
“Don’t forget, it was remodeled.” She gave him a grin. “That room on the left? That’s where the master bedroom is, biggest room in the house, but of course you know that. Let’s go check it out. There was a security system?”
Daniel said, “Yeah, it was a good system, but naturally not foolproof, if you know how to disarm it. The Serial knew to cut the wires.”
A hunk named Lance, who didn’t look much like he was starving, met them at the door. He didn’t seem surprised when they told him who they were. “Really a bummer, that poor girl getting killed like that,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know her.” He waved a hand over his shoulder. “Bart and Jules didn’t, either. You want us out of here for a half an hour? Fine by me, we’ll take a break and have a swim while you look around.” He waved the other two starving actors over. Cam and Daniel watched the young eye candy jog down the road together toward the state park. By the time they reached the end of the road, they were wearing only cutoffs.
Cam stepped through the open front door, painted a bright red lacquer, into a small Mexican-tiled foyer. To her right was a small living room, modern furniture piled in the middle and boxes stacked high against the walls. She walked into the room and looked around, easily picturing the Connie Morrissey she knew from her photos enjoying this lovely airy house, all windows and light. The walls were painted a pale yellow, and the oak floors were buffed to a high shine. She followed Daniel down the short hallway to the master bedroom, en suite after the remodel. She walked slowly into the room and stood quietly, surrounded by boxes and light rattan furniture. She closed her eyes, pictured where the bed had been, the bloody violence, Connie’s surge of fear, if she’d had time to even realize she was going to die, hoping it would bring her closer to what had happened and why. Two years ago at a murder scene, she’d stood over the chalk outline of the victim, an older man who’d been stabbed in the heart, and felt a sort of wrinkling in the air itself and a numbing coldness that had scared her to her toes. Then she’d felt the same coldness pouring off the great-nephew and known she’d met the killer. But she hadn’t found the proof to nail him, and what she believed, what she was sure about, wasn’t enough. It still burned.
But here, now, in Constance Morrissey’s lovely bedroom, its pale blue walls and pavers accented with Mexican tiles, she felt nothing like that, only sadness. There was nothing of Connie here anymore, only an empty room with cardboard boxes stacked against the walls.
The bathroom was very large, no expense spared, evidently, the countertops a lovely pale Italian marble, the double washbasins painted with Spanish scenes. Big shower, Jacuzzi. There was a roll of toilet paper on the countertop. There was no trace of Connie here, either.
Daniel touched her arm, made her jump. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Let me take you through it.” He led her to the second bedroom, this one smaller, its walls a mellow pale green. He pointed to the window. “After the Serial disabled the alarm, he broke that window and walked down the hall to her bedroom. This was something new for him. He usually breaks in through the kitchen door, but here it’s too exposed. Everything else was the same. He walked quietly to the bed, grabbed her by the hair and sliced her throat. The medical examiner said it happened so fast she never knew she was dead. And doesn’t that sound comforting?
“He took her cell phone off its charger by her bed and the computer from the second bedroom, where the router is, and left the same way he came in, through the broken window. He could have been back in the state park in just a couple of minutes.”
“That’s for later. I want to see it for myself, get the feel of it. Do you see that house we just passed? That’s my folks’ house, where I grew up.”
The Wittier house was on the ocean side, not palatial, but not a small bungalow like Morrissey’s, either. It was an older, well-maintained two-story house. If not for its exclusive location, it would have solid middle-class standing. A big bruiser of a palm tree sprawled in the front yard, its giant fronds stretching to the road.
Daniel said, “That’s a really nice house. The Colony’s wildly expensive.”
“My folks say the prices zoom higher every year. Back in the day, Mom and Dad managed to score some really good roles at the same time, enough to afford a good deal they found here in the Colony. They plunked down the cash, moved in, and had me. I think they paid off the mortgage three years ago.”
“No siblings?”
“They tell me they had their hands so full with me they didn’t have the time or energy to make any more kids.”
“That’s what my dad thought, but Mom kept getting pregnant. It always seemed to surprise my dad. Go figure.”
“How many siblings?”
“Four, I’m the oldest. There’s Morrissey’s bungalow. Hey, what’s this? I didn’t expect these guys.”
A dark green moving van with bright white stars all over it, the signature of the Starving Actors moving company was parked out front, a large buff man in dungarees looking over them from a ramp at its rear.
“Well, it has been six weeks since Morrissey’s murder,” Daniel said. “The D.A.’s office must have given Markham full access. We’ll let these guys have a break, and I’ll show you around. I wonder if Markham sold the cottage or rented it out to some other actresses in need of nurturing. Let’s see if the starving actors know.”
“Hang on a second,” Cam said, and punched a number on her cell. “Mom, hi. Yes, that was me and Detective Montoya driving by. We’ll come back in a little while. A question. Do you know who’s moving into Constance Morrissey’s house?” A couple of seconds passed, some more questions, more hmms, then, “Okay, thanks.” She looked over. “Theo Markham was evidently so broken up by Connie’s murder that he sold the bungalow to a special-effects software guy from Seattle last week. It went for just under three mil, Dad said. He heard the family was moving in next month, but they must be moving in some of the furniture in early.”
Daniel was impressed. “Three mil for that little bungalow?”
“Don’t forget, it was remodeled.” She gave him a grin. “That room on the left? That’s where the master bedroom is, biggest room in the house, but of course you know that. Let’s go check it out. There was a security system?”
Daniel said, “Yeah, it was a good system, but naturally not foolproof, if you know how to disarm it. The Serial knew to cut the wires.”
A hunk named Lance, who didn’t look much like he was starving, met them at the door. He didn’t seem surprised when they told him who they were. “Really a bummer, that poor girl getting killed like that,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know her.” He waved a hand over his shoulder. “Bart and Jules didn’t, either. You want us out of here for a half an hour? Fine by me, we’ll take a break and have a swim while you look around.” He waved the other two starving actors over. Cam and Daniel watched the young eye candy jog down the road together toward the state park. By the time they reached the end of the road, they were wearing only cutoffs.
Cam stepped through the open front door, painted a bright red lacquer, into a small Mexican-tiled foyer. To her right was a small living room, modern furniture piled in the middle and boxes stacked high against the walls. She walked into the room and looked around, easily picturing the Connie Morrissey she knew from her photos enjoying this lovely airy house, all windows and light. The walls were painted a pale yellow, and the oak floors were buffed to a high shine. She followed Daniel down the short hallway to the master bedroom, en suite after the remodel. She walked slowly into the room and stood quietly, surrounded by boxes and light rattan furniture. She closed her eyes, pictured where the bed had been, the bloody violence, Connie’s surge of fear, if she’d had time to even realize she was going to die, hoping it would bring her closer to what had happened and why. Two years ago at a murder scene, she’d stood over the chalk outline of the victim, an older man who’d been stabbed in the heart, and felt a sort of wrinkling in the air itself and a numbing coldness that had scared her to her toes. Then she’d felt the same coldness pouring off the great-nephew and known she’d met the killer. But she hadn’t found the proof to nail him, and what she believed, what she was sure about, wasn’t enough. It still burned.
But here, now, in Constance Morrissey’s lovely bedroom, its pale blue walls and pavers accented with Mexican tiles, she felt nothing like that, only sadness. There was nothing of Connie here anymore, only an empty room with cardboard boxes stacked against the walls.
The bathroom was very large, no expense spared, evidently, the countertops a lovely pale Italian marble, the double washbasins painted with Spanish scenes. Big shower, Jacuzzi. There was a roll of toilet paper on the countertop. There was no trace of Connie here, either.
Daniel touched her arm, made her jump. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Let me take you through it.” He led her to the second bedroom, this one smaller, its walls a mellow pale green. He pointed to the window. “After the Serial disabled the alarm, he broke that window and walked down the hall to her bedroom. This was something new for him. He usually breaks in through the kitchen door, but here it’s too exposed. Everything else was the same. He walked quietly to the bed, grabbed her by the hair and sliced her throat. The medical examiner said it happened so fast she never knew she was dead. And doesn’t that sound comforting?
“He took her cell phone off its charger by her bed and the computer from the second bedroom, where the router is, and left the same way he came in, through the broken window. He could have been back in the state park in just a couple of minutes.”
