Her headlights moved over tree trunks, over the gated fences of the expensive properties that lined this dark stretch of highway. Most were second homes of affluent people from the San Francisco Bay Area and beyond — used only a few times a year by their owners and frequently rented out by various local realties. Rho couldn’t imagine allowing strangers to occupy her precious space, use her things, and sleep in her bed, but she supposed if she were carrying a huge mortgage on pricey oceanfront property she wouldn’t be so fastidious. As it was, her little house on the ridge ate up a disproportionate chunk of her paycheck.
After she’d driven for a few minutes it grew cold in the cruiser and she raised the window. The radio continued its drone, and the white lines of the highway threatened to hypnotize her. California Highway 1, which ran unbroken from the state’s northernmost town, Crescent City, to the Mexican border.
The citizens of Soledad County had a peculiar relationship to Highway 1, she reflected, and in a way it was justified. The two-lane strip of pavement was dangerous: Vehicles spun out of control on its curves and crashed over the cliffs; pedestrians who crossed on the wrong stretch were frequently picked off by speeders and logging trucks; rock- and mudslides, thick fog, blinding rain — all did great damage. But the highway was also the artery that connected them and allowed the county’s lifeblood to flow from isolated ranch to small town, from primitive forest to tiny hamlet. In that way it also nurtured. When a mother warned her child, “Don’t you dare cross that highway,” or a seasoned trucker announced, “No way I’m driving that highway in this weather,” their voices held a curious combination of awe and affection.
The radio nudged her consciousness with her car number, and she keyed the mike.
“What’s your location?” the dispatcher asked.
“North of Deer Harbor, passing Mulzini Acre.”
“Proceed to the Lindsay house and see the man about a ten-six-five.”
Missing person. “Ten-four.”
Interesting. The Lindsays were second-home people. Alan was a powerful sports attorney in San Francisco, and his wife, Samantha, had a successful jewelry-designing firm. The local grapevine said that Samantha made frequent trips to the oceanfront estate without her husband, during which she picked up men at bars from Calvert’s Landing to Westhaven, and apparently she wasn’t above such behavior when Alan was in residence. Will Scurlock, who was designing an elaborate system of decking on the Lindsay property, had told Rho that things seemed a bit strained there recently. And she herself had seen Samantha leaving the hotel bar last night with a guitarist and singer who had a long-running gig at Tai Haruru. If Samantha was missing, Rho would have to exercise extreme tact in interviewing her husband.
The gates to the estate appeared on the left: large and ostentatious, set into a high stone wall. Rho turned in, spoke into the intercom; a man’s voice answered and after she identified herself, the gates swung open. She drove across a flat, unlandscaped bluff toward a sprawling cedar-shingled house where lights shone in every window. All that space for two people who didn’t even live there full-time.
The front door opened as she parked, and a man came out, shielding his eyes against the headlights’ glare. Rho recognized Alan Lindsay’s wavy dark brown hair and cleft chin. He wore jeans and an Irish-knit sweater; his body was in as fit a condition as most of the athletes he represented. As she walked toward him she saw that his chiseled features were warped by anxiety.
“Thank you for getting here so quickly,” he said. Without giving her the chance to reply, he ushered her into a foyer that was more expensively furnished than her own living room. “This way,” he added, moving along a hall. It ended in a great room that was larger than her entire house, with a massive stone fireplace and a wall of glass facing the sea. At Lindsay’s urging she took a white leather chair, perching on its edge.
Before she could speak, Lindsay said, “My wife, Samantha, is missing. She’s been gone since around four this afternoon.”
Rho noted the time: nine forty.
Lindsay added, “I know it doesn’t seem long enough to be concerned, but given this rape-and-murder—”
“You’re right to be concerned. Your wife left here at four?”
“Yes. She was going to the organic market in Westhaven. I called there and one of the checkers confirmed she’d been in and done her shopping.”
“Perhaps she had other errands? Or ran into a friend? Stopped for a drink?”
Something flickered in Lindsay’s eyes, vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Samantha told me she was coming straight home. She doesn’t have any friends up here, and I’ve already called... her usual haunts. No one’s seen her.”
“These usual haunts — what are they?”
Lindsay had been pacing in front of the glass wall. Now he glanced at his reflected image, looked away as if he didn’t like what he saw, and sat down on the sofa. “Restaurants, shops — you know.”
“Can you provide me a list of where you called?”
“Try the phone book,” he snapped. Then he blinked, hearing what he’d said. “Ah, hell. What’s the use? I’m sure you know about Samantha, Deputy Swift. The entire Soledad Coast knows about her. She’s beautiful, rich, talented, and a mistress of indiscretion.”
“Meaning?”
“Do I need to spell it out for you? The usual haunts I called were bars and the homes of men she’s slept with — those I know about, that is.”
Rho looked away from his pained face and studied the notebook she had balanced on her knee. “I understand, but I’ll still need that list. Tell me: When the two of you are staying here together, does she customarily go off by herself?”
“Not frequently, but she’s been known to.”
“Yet you’ve never reported her missing before?”
“No.”
When Rho looked up at Lindsay he’d composed himself. In fact, his face was masklike. She asked, “Is there something different about tonight — besides the murder — that leads you to believe your wife might be in danger?”
“Yes.” He licked dry lips, hesitated. “God, I hate going into private things like this.”
“If at all possible, we’ll keep what you say confidential. And remember, anything you tell me may help us locate Mrs. Lindsay.”
He sighed, big shoulders rising and falling. “All right, then. I know what Samantha is, but I still love her. And in her way, she loves me. If she’s not coming home, she always calls. Always. But tonight she hasn’t. If she were off with... someone else of her own free will, she would’ve let me know by now. That’s the way it works with us, especially at a time like this.”
Guy sat at the hotel bar, his beer untouched, brooding over the events that had changed the course of his life. Guilt, strong and bitter tonight, assailed him.
Diana, he thought. If only I hadn’t taken on that particular project. If only I hadn’t persuaded you to help me. If only I’d used better judgment—
“Mr. Newberry?”
He started, swiveled toward the source of the voice. Lily Gilardi, dressed in black jeans and a heavy turtleneck sweater, her dark hair caught up in a ponytail. She registered surprise at the intensity of his look and took a step backward.
“I... um, I wanted to thank you,” she said. “You prevented a real bad scene last night.”
“Don’t mention it. I gather your brother doesn’t much care for your boyfriend.”
“Wayne hates him. By the way, have you seen Alex? I was supposed to meet him, and he’s nearly an hour late.”