“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?”
“Somewhere across the lake but our C.S.I.’s couldn’t be sure exactly because they could never get a fix on the distance and that affects the trajectory.”
She pointed across the lake. “Somewhere in those trees.”
“Where was the bullet found?”
“In her,” said Flores. “Stuck up against her cervical spine.”
“Both of ours went clear through,” he said. “For yours to lose that much velocity, it was a helluva distance.”
“We—the detectives—got estimates based on where the boat was found but there was a wide range—a hundred or so feet. Another problem was that just because she was found in that spot doesn’t mean she was shot there.”
“The boat could’ve drifted.”
“For sure.”
“Who spotted her?”
“A neighbor coming by to check her own place. Lives mostly in Santa Barbara, eighty years old, not exactly a prime suspect and in no shape to try to rescue Jarrod, so she called 911. She was totally freaked out, hadn’t seen any strange cars near the entrance.”
I said, “A car parked farther down wouldn’t have drawn her attention.”
“Exactly. The detectives canvassed like half a mile down. They actually did a good job. But you know.”
She shrugged.
Milo said, “What time of day was Whitney discovered?”
“Just after noon.”
