Cobb grinned, “You have no idea how much this has helped, Tibby.”
He turned and hurried from the room, picture in hand as he called Theo’s name.
I watched him go, pressing my fingers to my lips, which were still tingling from the residual sensations of the kiss. I wondered just when the hell we would get to do that again, and I sure hoped that it was soon.
CHAPTER 26
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Marion Burnes livedin a clean, ranch-style rambler in the suburbs of Elk Grove, California. Everything about the neighborhood was clean and orderly, from the fresh paint on the houses, to the neatly trimmed green lawns. Marion’s house had a thin walkway leading up to a cheerfully painted blue front door, and a little rainbow pinwheel was staked into a pot next to the door. It spun merrily in the light afternoon breeze, and it was hard to believe that the person who lived at this house was the mother of one of the most prolific mass murderers in American history.
Stepping out of my car, I used my hand to shield my eyes as I stared up at the house. After two days of ignoring calls from the FBI, we had decided to try a different tactic.
Heading up to the front door, I pressed the doorbell, plastered the friendliest smile that I could muster on my face, and relaxed my shoulders. After about thirty seconds, the door opened to reveal a well-dressed older woman. Even though I knew that Marion was well into her eighties by now, you wouldn’t be able to tell it just by looking at her. She had clearly taken very good care of herself over the years and that, paired with a phenomenal plastic surgeon, had kept her looking like she was only in her sixties rather than nearing ninety. Her face was lined, but each line looked intentional and elegant—like the surgeon had taken a putty knife and had carved them into her face. Her hair was a shimmering silver and was pulled into a french twist that was secured with a bronze pin. Even her clothes spoke of how well she had done for herself, despite her son’s criminal activities, she was dressed in a pair of khaki slacks and a white, cashmere sweater.
Marion Burnes oozed wealth and refinement, so how the hell had she spawned a monster like Hezekiah Jordan? There wasn’t much information about the woman other than the basics, she had worked as a secretary for most of her life and had been married three times. Hezekiah or, as she had named him at birth, Raymond, had been the product of her first marriage at sixteen. After her husband left her, she reverted back to her maiden name of Burnes, and had changed her son’s name as well.
Two husbands later, one an accountant that had lasted fifteen years and most of Hezekiah’s childhood and, the second, a well-known Sacramento businessman who was almost twenty years older than Marion. They’d married shortly after Hezekiah Jordan had left the house and had stayed married until the businessman’s death twelve years ago.
These were all of the things that the FBI had managed to pull on her in the last forty-eight hours since we’d learned about the existence of Jamie Jordan, Hezekiah’s son. There were no records of the grandson in any of Marion’s files. She had never filed for custody with the state of California and, as far as the state was concerned, Jamie Jordan didn't exist.
“Can I help you?” Marion asked with a pleasant expression, but the dark eyes that matched her son’s took in my appearance with a sharpness that belied her intelligence and calculating nature. I was dressed in a linen suit that was far more casual than anything I usually wore, and was carrying a folder full of real estate fliers. Anything to make me seem as non-threatening as possible in the old woman’s eyes.
“Hi there! I’m really sorry to bug you like this on such a gorgeous afternoon, my name is Bernard Olsen, and I was actually at an open house this morning just up the street.” I leaned back and pointed in the general direction of the house that was for sale.
“Are you talking about the house that the Hernandez family is selling?”
“Yep, that’s the one. I’ve been on the hunt for the better part of a year, but the problem is that I’m really picky about finding a good neighborhood for my family. I told the realtor this, and he suggested I talk to you to get the inside scoop on the neighborhood...?” I let the question hang purposefully in the air, waiting for her to take the bait.
In reality, the realtor had spent the better part of the open house complaining about the old woman in front of me. The house had been on the market for five months, and she’d scared off any and all potential buyers with her inability to mind her own business. She was apparently the self-appointed neighborhood watch and took her jobveryseriously.
“Oh my, and he sent you to me?” Marion pressed a hand dramatically to her chest, “I was wondering when that realtor would take his head out of his backside and finally start to work with me rather than against me. Won’t you come in? I’ve just set out some iced tea and cake for myself and can set another place for a handsome man such as yourself.”
“I’d be much obliged.” I had to force myself to keep a friendly smile on my face as I stepped over the threshold and into the house. The inside was decorated in varying shades of gray and white. The front room was a formal living room with crisp white sofas and armchairs. It probably had never been sat in. Elegant paintings and other pieces of art line the walls of the hallway that she led me through to the kitchen which was far more welcoming.
The kitchen was in the corner of the large open concept living area. Honey oak cabinets lined the walls and were broken up by a white and gray marble countertop that extended into a matching backsplash. The living room was definitely more lived-in than the front sitting room. A gray sectional sofa bisected the room, splitting the space up, and faced a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall over the massive marble fireplace that matched the kitchen counters. Two bookshelves were placed on either side and, on them, sat exactly what I was looking for: pictures.
