“It’s a nice car,” Armstrong said. “That’s why I remembered it. You don’t see many of them. I guess Mrs. Lopez liked it anyhow.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well.” Armstrong hesitated. The sound of the garage in the background dimmed as she must have closed the office door. “Mr. Lopez killed himself. In his car. Same car.”
Cloister braked hard at the light and waved an absent apology out the window as a car behind him honked.
“Maybe she got the same car?” he said.
“That’s what I thought,” Armstrong said. “But I checked. It’s the same VIN.”
“Do you have her address?” Cloister asked. He knew the area she lived in—a gated community in what passed for the hills on the north side of town—but not the house number. “Text it to me?”
“I heard she lawyered up.”
“I don’t plan to arrest her. She has the right to change her mind.”
Armstrong sighed. “I’ll send it,” she said. “If you get to the hospital, tell Tancredi I’m thinking of her.”
The line went dead, but Cloister hung on to the phone as he drove until the text from Armstrong pinged onto the screen—430 Ginger Blvd. Cloister knew how to get there. He tossed the phone over his shoulder into the back seat and got his good hand back on the wheel.
Bourneville whined as the car sped up.
“You’re right,” Cloister said. “In future I’ll trust your instincts.”
CLOISTER FLASHEDhis badge to the guard at the gate. The man leaned out to check the shield and pushed his hat back on his head. His face had an ombre tan that started at his stark-white forehead and darkened down to his sunburned chin.
“Police business?” he asked.
“Police badge,” Cloister pointed out. “Deputy Cloister Witte. I need to speak to Mrs. Lopez.”
“Cristina Lopez?” The man tutted. “Hope she’s not in trouble. Lovely woman. Generous.”
He opened the gates for Cloister. A quick glance in the mirror as he drove on through the entry confirmed Cloister’s suspicion. The guard was already on the phone to give the generous tenant a heads-up.
Ginger Grove was as far away from the shore as it was possible to get and still be part of the town. Yet for some reason, it had been built to mimic the shore, with long, low dunes of sea grass to delineate the roads and scooped white houses that looked like shells behind sea blue fences.
It looked sterile to Cloister, like an eerily swanky holiday camp, with expensive cars nudged up to the gates like caged dogs. Of course it probably wasn’t meant for the sort of man who happily lived in a trailer.
He drove through the dune-lined lanes until he reached the Lopez manor at the dead end of a cul de sac. A teenager in cutoff jeans and a football shirt drove into view around the corner of the house on a riding tractor. He stopped and wiped his face on his forearm as though it were manual labor.
“Yeah?” he yelled over through the fence as Cloister got out of the car and held the door for Bourneville.
“I need to talk to Cristina Lopez,” Cloister said. He held up his badge. “Sheriff’s Department.”
The boy snorted and twisted around on the lawnmower’s saddle. “Hey, Cristina! Mom’s called the cops on you again!”
A splutter of curse words drifted from around the side of the house. Mrs. Lopez stomped into view, poured into a black-and-white and slightly inadequate swimsuit and with sunglasses propped on her nose.
“Go home, call her, and tell her your dad gave you permission to be here,” she said as she flapped her hands at the teenager. The teen killed the lawn mower and hopped off to head toward a gate into the garden next door. Mrs. Lopez yelled after him, “Tell her you asked him.”
She swung around to Cloister, mouth open to rant, and then she recognized him. She pressed her lips together in an annoyed line.
“I told you,” she said. “I’m not speaking to you without a lawyer.”
“It’s not about the Janet Morrow case,” Cloister said. “It’s about your husband.”
She looked startled and then curious. After a second she stepped forward and pushed the gate open.
