“I’ll follow up on the neighbor,” I said to Clive.
I turned and headed out onto the valet drive. A teenage boy sat there, a rain hat on his head. I moved past him. Found the gap in the oleander bushes and stepped through it, onto the property of Edward Burrows.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
As I went through the hedge, the rain fell thick on my arm. I glanced up and saw cumulus clouds the color of slate. Heavier rain was coming fast. I emerged onto a back lawn, the patter of water on my forearms loud.
If Burrows owned dogs, surely they would find their way through the hole in the hedge and over to the hotel. With this in mind, I moved freely across the thick Bermuda grass.
The property was enormous. A line of banana palms had gotten so big they were growing sideways—the diameters of their leaves at least four feet, with burn marks running down the centers and giant orchids growing all around them.
It was almost midnight. I stepped from the lawn onto a pathway that led east between the Olive and the Burrows estate and pulled my Glock, raising my voice.
“Mr. Burrows,” I called. “FBI on your property.”
But I heard nothing.
The rain came harder now. An oversize banana palm leaf brokeoff and flew across the yard, hitting a second-floor window with a slapping noise.
I studied the house but saw no access from the rear yard and no lights on. Moving farther east, I came alongside the structure toward the water. Giant purple jacaranda trees lined this side of the house. They’d formed a canopy over the walkway and seemed to be choking each other. I padded carefully past them, coming out onto the beach.
There was no moon on the water, but I could hear the waves crashing hard. Somewhere to the north, boats banged against a dock. I turned to my right, sure I’d heard a noise, but saw nothing.
In front of me were the bright red flowers of a royal poinciana, a tree my mother would point out when she visited Anna and me years ago. Through the dark, I could smell the fragrance coming from the spoon-shaped flowers.
Pieces of the puzzle were coming together, but giant parts were still missing.
I thought of the drug Richie was injected with. It caused hypotension, or low blood pressure. It also caused respiratory depression, which would calm the victim almost to the point of immobility. All of that began at injection and lasted for three or four hours.
El Médico needed that time to do something. What?
I came along the beach side of the house and saw the front of the estate. A pair of enormous double doors with decorative wooden moldings loomed on each side. One of the doors was hinged closed at the bottom, and it rattled with every passing gust of wind.
But the other door swung wildly on its hinges, open, then closed.
Slam.
A black rectangle of darkness marked the inside of the house each time it swung inward.
A twenty-million-dollar estate—open at night?
I glanced up. No lights on in the house. It might not qualify as exigent circumstances, but given the death of Natalie Kastner and my concerns about Edward Burrows, I moved forward, onto the concrete landing.
I felt for my penlight.
Nothing. I must have left it on the bed when I put down my bag.
The wind flung the right side of the door open. Then bang. Closed.
I stepped closer.
Another gust. The door swung inward, and I stepped across the threshold.
Just inside, someone had taken flowers from the royal poinciana and trimmed them, placing them in an enormous round bowl. But weeks must have passed, because the flowers were rotten and shriveled.
“FBI,” I hollered.
The house creaked under the storm, the interior dark with shadows. I took a step forward, my thoughts assembling and disassembling.
