Weatherspoon opened the door to exit.
Albert nodded. “Oh, Detective, just out of curiosity, what did the thief steal?”
The detective sighed. “Nothing special. The bank logs say that it was just something in a safe-deposit box. We’re trying to get in contact with the owner as we speak. But I’d remind you that there’s a woman who lost her husband of forty-five years last night, and she’s depending on you to figure out this problem. Like I said, don’t dawdle.”
Chapter 4
Eva set her red-ribboned fedora down on the entry table of her lavish Malibu home. She had loved this place from the moment she’d toured it. It was the first and only home she had lived in since leaving her mother’s house, and she knew that it would always be a part of her.
The open, high-ceilinged space suggested transparency and order, while the carefully appointed minimalist décor echoed elegance and modernity. Steel appliances, white walls, and light wood were offset by dove-gray upholstery and marble. There were no pets, no plants, no clutter. The floor-to-ceiling windows and wraparound deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean spoke to her of limitless possibilities. Beyond the aesthetic trappings, however, her Southern California enclave represented something even more inspiring: freedom.
Eva’s father had succumbed to a heart attack when she was an infant. Consequently, she had lived alone with a powerful and domineering mother for her entire childhood. Eva loved her mother and deeply appreciated all of the sacrifices that she had made in raising her, but her strict rules and boundless expectations had always made the girl feel more like a student in a reform school than a loved only child.
She remembered how one day in the fourth grade she had run home from school infused with joy at the “99/100” she had received on her recent math test. She burst through the door of her mother’s study and giddily told her of the triumph. Her mother slowly looked up, took her glasses off, and said, “That’s great, Evalita. What was the one you got wrong?”
Eva could still feel the pangs of frustration and subordination that she experienced that day. This feeling worsened as she grew into womanhood and assumed her mother’s beauty. She felt empowered by the way boys worshipped and girls envied her tanned Latin skin and long black hair, and she longed to test the limits of that power. But her mother insisted on a regimen of early curfews, conservative clothing, and scheduled study that served as a constant reminder of her captivity.
Freedom finally came a decade ago on her eighteenth birthday when, in celebration, her mother announced that it was time for Eva to have her own place and handed over the keys to the stunning house right off the Pacific Coast Highway. In addition to her dream house, Eva had received formal entrance into the Society. And as she rose in the Society’s ranks, this house had served as the last bastion of independence in her life.
But today, even the replenishing effects of the Pacific Ocean could not rinse away the wretched feeling in Eva’s chest.
Fresh air. That’s what I need.
Eva unbuttoned her double-breasted black pinstriped blazer and opened the sliding glass door. As the cool ocean air slid past her damp skin, bringing the smell of salt and marine life, she stared out at the glittering water and thought about the previous night.
“Not your best work, soldier,” hissed a voice on the balcony behind her.
Eva jumped back, startled.
“General? What are you doing here?”
The general eased forward. Tall and lean, with a bullet head and a nose that jutted forward like the prow of a ship, the general was an impressive figure. Smoke slithered up from his unfiltered cigarette and drifted across his face. His voice was quiet and penetrating. “Tell me, what is the third rule?”
“Wha-what?” stammered Eva.
The general slid forward further, backing Eva up against a railing.
“What is the third rule of the Society?”
Eva swallowed hard. “Our reasoning is only as strong as our information. But, General . . . I mapped out every possible scenario. The security guard, security system . . . everything.”
The general stared past Eva out at the Pacific and took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke through pursed lips like a blow dart. “Not everything.”
Eva shrugged. “But I did. I got every piece of information.”
The general turned and leaned in closer to Eva, practically pushing her over the railing with his lithe body. She could smell the nicotine on his breath as his tongue slid across his lips.
“Then why is there a dead security guard in the lobby of Bank of Princeton with a logic tree in his hand?”
“What? What are you talking about?” Eva reached into her blazer pocket and rifled through the papers inside. “I just chloroformed him. I didn’t kill him.”
The general’s face grew red, and a powerful vein bulged from the center of his forehead underneath his cropped, receding silver hair. He pulled a folder out from under his arm and slapped her chest with it to punctuate each sentence. “If you had properly researched the security guard, you would know his name is Wally McCutcheon.” Slap. “He had a heart condition, which is why the chloroform killed him.” Slap. “And he is also a former state wrestling champion, which would explain how he pulled a logic tree from out of your pocket!” Slap.
Eva ripped through the pages.
No, no, no!
“Oh God, the prima facie. He must have grabbed it. What time is it? Five p.m. That means the police have it.”
The general clasped Eva’s shoulder with his long, bony hand. She looked back at the waves crashing behind her. She felt his grip digging into her clavicle.
“As you well know, Eva, the Society frowns on murder.
