Against advice, Madelyn decided to remain alone on her sailboat. Something told me she didn’t like authority or being told what to do. I was pretty sure we weren’t followed to her location. But I wondered about Sebastian’s motives. If what she said was true, he couldn’t meet the Consortium’s demands without her.
I pulled to the curb behind the medical examiner’s van. JD and I hopped out and made our way to the scene. Emergency vehicles and squad cars lined the streets. Red and blue lights flickered.
By that time, Paris Delaney and her crew were soaking up footage and interviewing onlookers. A crowd of curious neighbors had gathered, gawking and gossiping.
We followed the trail of responders up the driveway and around to the back patio.
The home was a nice French Colonial in Whispering Heights. It had a large veranda and a second-story terrace.The lawn was perfectly manicured, and a white picket fence surrounded the property.
On the patio, wrought-iron furniture surrounded a small pool. A high fence kept the area enclosed—a private oasis.
A man lay face down in the grass by the air conditioning unit. It was unseasonably hot and humid at the moment. Judging by his tool belt, he was making a late-night house call. The panel was off the AC unit—the control board exposed.
In his early 50s, the victim had been shot twice in the back of the head with a small-caliber weapon. Probably a .22. There wasn't an exit wound. The bullets had rattled around his brain, turning it to sludge.
I couldn’t be certain, but this had all the hallmarks of a professional hit. The victim’s fancy watch was still on his wrist. I figured his wallet was still in his pocket. That sparked my curiosity. Who would want to take out an HVAC repairman in the middle of the night?
The sheriff looked on with a grim face. He gave us the side eye when we stepped to the scene. "Glad you could join us,” he quipped.
"Sorry. We were… Nevermind."
Brenda hovered over the remains, wearing pink nitrile gloves. Forensic investigators processed the scene.
The terrified homeowners looked on with tortured faces—a man and woman in their mid-40s.
"Do we have an ID on the victim?" I asked.
"Ray Coleman. RC’s AC and Heating.”
I’d seen the van parked out front on our way in. It had a colorful yellow wrap with Ray's logo on the side and the statement24-hour servicein bold red lettering. The caricature of Ray on the side of the van was dripping with frost and icicles. It was a cartoon version that resembled Ray quite accurately. He was a fit guy with a friendly face. Disarming. Approachable. A guy’s guy. His curly brown hair had largely lost the battle against the gray.
"What happened?" I asked.
The sheriff deadpanned, "Somebody shot him."
"I see that.”
"He came out on an emergency call. Went to work on the AC unit. The homeowner went out to check on him and found him like that. Or so they say.”
"Any connection between the homeowner and Ray?" I asked.
“They said he's been out to service the unit a few times.”
"No social connection?”
"Not that they are admitting to.”
"We have a time of death?" I asked.
"I’d say about an hour and a half ago," Brenda replied.
JD and I stepped to the homeowners. I flashed my badge and made introductions. “Tell me what happened.”
"Ray had installed a new unit for us a few years ago,” Mrs. Welling said. “This is the second or third time we've had trouble with it.”
“A power surge knocked out the capacitor,” Mr. Welling added. “But the way they build these units now, you have to replace the entire motherboard. Everything is integrated. Thank God it's under warranty. That motherboard is a $3,000 part!”
Mr. Welling was late 40s with short brown hair, dark eyes, and a bit of a belly. His wife had curly light-brown hair and hazel eyes. Her brow was knitted with sorrow and horror as she glanced at Ray’s body.
