“What? Where are we going?”
“To an address on Chambers Street. That’s just down the beach from the pier where Miss Adams was killed.”
“Have you found another witness?”
Miguel shook his head. His expression grew serious. “Not exactly. There’s been another murder.”
The house on Chambers street was a small but well-kept rancher that overlooked the Pacific. Next to the house was a public stairway. Rosa recognized it as the same one she had witnessed a man trying to kiss Florence Adams, the same man who’d been watching Rosa when the body was found.
Two marked police cruisers were parked in the driveway, and an officer beside the front door snapped pictures of the house and yard. Rosa gently took Diego and placed the sleeping kitten on the seat beside her.
“It might get too hot in the car for the cat,” Miguel cautioned. “This isn’t London.”
Rosa nodded, scooped up the kitten, and opened the door.
“Good morning,” Miguel said to the man as they approached. “This is WPC Rosa Reed on loan to us from the London Metropolitan Police.”
The officer with the camera, a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting uniform, stared at Rosa and then down at Diego with disregard. He refused to meet Rosa’s eyes when she shook his hand.
“Where’s the body?” Miguel said.
The officer pointed to the back of the house. “On the deck overlooking the beach. We just got here fifteen minutes ago and are still searching the place.”
Rosa placed Diego on a padded chair in the living room. The kitten sneezed once, rubbed its paw over its nose, and then fell back asleep.
The house consisted of one bedroom just off the hallway, a bathroom, and a combined living room and dining room with an attached galley kitchen. A full bay window presented a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean and the sandy beach that extended for miles on either side.
On the sundeck, two more officers stood over a prone figure on its back, clothed in khaki shorts, a green Hawaiian shirt, and a thin-knit cardigan partially torn off.
After making introductions, one of the officers handed rubber gloves to both Miguel and Rosa. “His name is Jason Brewster. We’ve been watching this guy for a while. Works as a chartered accountant, but we suspect he dealt cocaine to Santa Bonita’s wealthier folk. An early morning jogger coming up those stairs from the beach spotted him through the rail.”
Rose leaned over the body as she pulled on the gloves then glanced at Miguel. “This is the man I saw with Florence Adams on the night of her murder.”
“You’re sure?” Miguel asked.
“Quite. He had on the same shorts and sandals, only I think his Hawaiian shirt was blue.”
Miguel bent down to examine the neck. “Same scratch marks on the throat.” He then picked up the man’s left hand and pulled out a magnifying glass from a small kit he had brought along. “Blood traces. My guess—his own.”
He handed the magnifying glass to Rosa, who examined the fingers and then nodded in confirmation. After gently prying open the mouth, she looked inside with the magnifier then checked the eyes—bloodshot. She glanced at Miguel. “Mystery asphyxiation.”
Paying close attention to the exact route one would take from the sliding glass doors to where the body lay on the floor, Rosa studied the sundeck. Her father had taught her that a detective should notice every detail, no matter how small, when coming into a fresh crime scene. Anything out of place, a picture askew on the wall, an unfinished cup of coffee, or a note scribbled on a scrap of paper, you never knew what would tell the story.
Rosa returned to the living room and headed for the galley kitchen. Miguel followed her.
“He may have started choking here.” Rosa pointed to the refrigerator door, not quite closed shut. “Then, walked, or rather stumbled past this sideboard, or buffet, as you call it.” An embroidered runner balanced from the edge of the wooded sideboard as though a hand had haphazardly swiped at it. On the floor was a turned over plate with two broken chocolate cookies strewn beside it.
“He bumped against this lamp.” Rosa glanced at a table lamp with the lampshade askew and then walked to the sliding glass doors. “Before going out on to the deck and collapsing . . . perhaps he intended to cry for help to anyone on the beach below.”
Rosa noticed all the officers in the room had stopped to stare at her. Miguel had a slight smile on his lips.
“Well,” she continued hesitantly, “this means if he was poisoned like Florence Adams was, it had a delayed reaction. There’s no overturned glass, so if he drank the poison, it didn’t hit him immediately. Neither cookie on the floor has any bites taken out of them, so if the poison was in a cookie, he had already eaten the whole thing. There are no other half-eaten foods here that I can see and no bits of food in his mouth. So, he either drank or ate the poison, and it took a while to take effect. We can guess he was looking into his refrigerator when the effect of the poison hit him because it’s ajar. He then stumbled out to the sundeck clawing at his throat.”
Before anyone could respond, a loud crashing sound came from the bedroom. Rosa and Miguel rushed to the room. On the wooden floor, a drinking glass had broken into several pieces. A little of what appeared to be orange juice was splashed across the hardwood floor. On the top of the dresser sat Diego, calmly staring down at the mess. He then looked up at Rosa with his head slightly cocked to one side and meowed.
“Oh no, Diego!” Rosa cried. She reached for the kitten and picked him up. To Miguel, she said, “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot about him.”
Miguel joined Rosa, who now stared at the spilled juice. They looked at each other.
Miguel turned to Officer
