Beyond that was a scatter of houses, single-story and moderately sized with plenty of acreage between them. Tree-shrouded residences arranged in a horseshoe on the north side of blue-green water. Wooden bollards planted in the ground a hundred feet from the shore blocked further car travel but, again, foot entry was easy, the view expansive and welcoming.
A single sign was staked to the left. Caution: Lookout Lake’s Waters Can Rise Above Banks.
Not this morning; the level was a good yard below shore.
Milo parked in front of the bollards and looked at his Timex. “She should be here soon, let’s take a look.”
We trod firm, dry ground to the water’s edge. The south side of the lake was forest. The houses facing that green-black wall were furnished with canopied docks, some empty, others housing canoes, kayaks, and rowboats.
No motorcraft explained a quiet that went beyond the absence of noise. This was an active aural calm, as if a room had been hushed. Nothing, then a few birdcalls. Then the occasional kiss of breeze on foliage.
As if the air molecules themselves had been altered.
I said, “Not exactly Hollywood grit.”
Milo said, “But apparently no safer.”
Moments later, engine noise made an entry and the birds went mute.
A red Chevy Tahoe pulled next to Milo’s Impala. The woman who got out and waved at us wore an aqua top, jeans, and running shoes. Five-four, square-shouldered, and curvy, with honey-blond hair drawn back in a ponytail.
She walked to us quickly and confidently. Up close her youth was obvious — not yet thirty, with a smooth, almost child-like face and small, well-placed features. Mocha complexion, bright-hazel eyes.
Civilian clothes, but a Sheriff’s I.D. badge above her right breast read S. Flores.
“Lieutenant? Shari.”
“Deputy Flores.” Milo shook her hand and introduced me.
She gave my hand a brief pump. “Nice to meet you, Doctor. Shari’s fine.”
Milo said, “Alex and Milo. Day off or plainclothes?”
Shari Flores smiled and looked out at the lake. “The former. I hope it was worth you coming out here.”
“Always good to see the scene. Good job discovering the ballistics match.”
“No big deal, I try to keep up with the bulletins,” she said. “Yours came through and I said, ‘Whoa.’ Because you don’t see a lot of rifle murders. Hunting accidents, sure, but nothing deliberate. So I got our bullet from the evidence room, drove it down to Hertzberg, and managed to get them to test it quickly.”
Milo grinned. “Ever think of moving down to L.A.?”
“Actually,” said Shari Flores, “it would be moving back. I grew up in Boyle Heights, got my first assignment working for the L.A. sheriff on my old home turf. Then I met my husband, he was working Westmont and had enough, so when we saw two openings here, we moved.”
“Westmont.” He shook his head. “Tons of fun.”
“Exactly, it was horrible for Miguel. People getting shot walking across the street for no reason. He’s in Camarillo now and I got this. I get a lot of animal calls and once in a while a burglary. This” — staring at the lake — “was different.”
Milo said, “You’re on the case yourself?”
“Except for preserving the scene, I wasn’t on it at all,” she said. “They called in the heavy-hitter detectives but then they got distracted by a big gang thing near Oxnard so it went cold pretty fast. It bothered me but what could I do? Then I saw your .308 report and figured hmm, that doesn’t happen often, can’t hurt to find out.”
“Great job,” said Milo, “but seeing as true love’s a factor, I won’t repeat my offer for an LAPD gig.”
She laughed. “I’ll tell Miguel I impressed someone. So what can I tell you?”
“Start at the beginning.”
“All right.” Flores removed her name tag and slipped it into a pocket. “I responded to a 911 from Dispatch of someone in the middle of the lake, drifting in a boat and not moving with a little kid crying. I figured it was some sort of illness call, asked for the EMTs and a diver. When I got here, it was just like they said, a little rowboat — that one.”
She pointed to a pale-green craft in the dock of an A-frame midway along the horseshoe. “And sure enough, this tiny little boy was in there, wailing away, next to an adult just lying there. I called out but she didn’t move and my main concern was him falling in. He had a life jacket on but with the cold, it could get bad even if he floated. From this distance there wasn’t anything I could do without jumping in so I got my binocs and kept a close eye on him, prayed the diver would show up.”
She flinched. “Poor little thing, listening to him was torture.”
I said, “How old of a child are we talking about?”
“I figured two and I was close,” said Shari Flores. “Twenty-seven months. His name is Jarrod.”
“How far was the boat from the shore?”
“Three hundred eighty feet. As you can see, the lake’s not that big — more of a big pond, you could say. Later, I looked it up and total area is a little over an acre and a half. If the diver didn’t show up soon, I was ready to try out my swimming but luckily he did, was able to attach a rope and get close enough for the EMTs to pull the boat to shore.”
She shook her head. “She was dead. Obvious bullet hole.”
Milo said, “In the neck, just off center to the right.”
Shari Flores stared at him. “That was yours, too? Only thing I got from your report was the likely weapon and the full metal jacket ammo.”
“Same deal in both of mine,” said Milo. “Happy to get into the details but could you give me yours first?”
“Sure, sure... if you want we can go over to the house, sit outside, there’s a table with shade. It’s not the scene per se, but it’s where the scene started.”
The three of us walked along the lake, passing through the spacious unfenced backyards of three houses. Tarps cloaked barbecues and watercraft, windows were whitened by curtains. The same open plan applied to every property. No sign of habitation anywhere along the water. The quiet had returned but had taken on another flavor.
Oppressive.
We followed Shari Flores to the rear of the A-frame with the green boat. Small cedar structure, maybe built from a kit, the wood splintering in spots and in need of restaining.
Three railroad-tie steps took us up to a small, flagstone patio. A weathered, bird-specked redwood table was shaded by a tilting yellow umbrella past its prime. Four aluminum-and-plastic chairs offered a full-on view of water, trees, and sky.
I said, “All the houses look unoccupied.”
Shari Flores said, “It’s mostly second-homers and they don’t come here a lot. Some of the properties rent out during the summer. That was her situation. Whitney’s. She had a two-month lease, July and August.”
I’d read the basics. Whitney Lara Killeen, thirty-four, five-five, one thirty-two, brown and brown.
I said, “There’s no fencing between the properties. That plus the vacancies says shooting her right here would’ve been easy.”
“The openness was originally the attraction,” she said. “Fifties charm, the rental ad called it. And it’s always been safe, no one locked their doors until this happened.”
“No cameras that I can see.”
“There’s one at the far end, that house with the blue roof. But it wasn’t working and it’s aimed down at the lawn, not the lake.”
I thought: ideal setup for a casually paced murder.
Milo said, “Any idea where the shot came from?”