It was a testament to the intensity of her faith in her convictions—or perhaps a testament to her obsession—that she didn’t ask me anything about myself, just gave me her address. Luckily, it ended up being only twenty-five minutes away from where I’d parked, and I was soon in what looked to be a family-style neighborhood of old wooden houses.
No fancy landscaping, but the lawns were neatly cut and scattered with brightly colored kids’ toys. A few houses boastedbasketball hoops attached to garages, and one had a Persian carpet hanging over the verandah railing, as if they’d been expecting sun, only to be hit by a cloud-heavy afternoon.
The scents that drifted through my open window told me someone was cooking dinner, and it involved a combination of spices unfamiliar to my tongue. Two kids who looked to be around seven or eight rode bicycles beside their T-shirt-and-tights-clad mothers; both women were laughing, delighted by some inside joke.
The group of four stopped in front of another house, waved to the older man who was out there washing his car.
A little black dog with a white muzzle ran out to greet the kids, its tail wagging.
Hands tight on the steering wheel as the small group retreated in my rearview mirror, I realized I was nearing Andrea Smithy-Carr’s home. Slowing down, I soon found myself pulling up in front of a small house with peeling gray paint and an overgrown lawn.
Chapter 50
Private notes: Detective Callum Baxter (LAPD)
Date: Jun 10
Time: 13:07
Had an extra hour today so pulled out the file again, to see if we’d missed anything. There’s one thing. That neighbor who found Virna Musgrave? He mentioned that he’d had a guest staying with him that week who’d just left—that was why he was walking his dog later than he usually does. He’d dropped off his friend at the airport.
We never interviewed the guest. Seemed no reason to since they were gone well before the accident, but since it looks like this file is staying cold, I might as well see if I can track them down to tie off the loose end. Wife says she’ll divorce me if I don’t give up the obsession, so I’ll have to do it while at work—can’t even mention the name Tavish Advani at home without riling her up.
Chapter 51
A board mounted on two thick posts stood amid the weeds in Andrea Smithy-Carr’s front yard. Hand-painted on it were the wordsJustice for Rhiannon. Below the blocky header flowed tiny writing in what looked like marker pen that had been traced over and over as it faded. From what little I could read, it was a diatribe against the authorities for covering up the murder of her daughter.
I’d already figured out that Andrea Smithy-Carr wasn’t exactly stable, but I hadn’t realized the depth of her obsession until this instant. But I was here now, and she was opening her front door even as I set foot on the mossy and cracked path through the grass, so she’d clearly been watching for me.
A brace covered her left leg to the knee.
“Don’t mind the grass,” she said. “The boy who cuts it has been sick this past week.”
The grass was knee height; it hadn’t been mowed for months. Given that this seemed like a friendly neighborhood to the outside eye, I wondered if her neighbors had been put off from helping her because of her unrelenting obsession—the board, for one, was aneyesore for a street that seemed to be trying its best to keep up a certain level of appearance.
But I just nodded. “I’m Tavish.”
“Andrea.” Gait halting but stable, she invited me into the house.
The carpet was a dingy and faded beige, and the furniture had the appearance of charity shop goods, but no dust covered any of the surfaces, and—alongside the delicious smell of fresh baking—I could smell a lemony scent I associated with cleanliness. The fireplace was empty and filled with pine cones, the mantel above it lined with trophies that had been polished to a shine.
The trophies sat alongside photos of a smiling black-haired girl.
“Rhiannon won those.” Andrea pointed at the trophies. “Swimming and dance.”
“She was talented.”
“Would’ve been on the national team if she’d been allowed to live.” Her face was hard when I glanced at her, but she said, “I made scones. I’ll put on coffee.”
“I can help. Your leg…”
She waved me down. “Almost healed now.” From the slow way she walked toward the kitchen, however, I figured that for a significant exaggeration. “Just got home from the rehabilitation unit two days ago. They bunged me in there forfivedays.”
At least that cleared up one small fear of mine: Andrea Smithy-Carr might be unstable, but she was physically incapable of having harmed the Prasads. “What happened to your leg?”
“Fell,” she called out from the kitchen. “Stupid little hole in the backyard. Must be a rat or something. I’ll be putting poison out, don’t you worry.”
I made noises of sympathy while thinking about that little dog.
