Page 20 of Dirty Looks

CHAPTER SEVEN

It wasn’tlong after that Jenny’s mother arrived, and Martinez and I left them to find comfort in each other. We got back into Martinez’s SUV, both of us soaked to the skin, and his phone gave a shrill ring.

It was connected to Bluetooth and the call came out over the speakers. “Martinez,” he said.

“You were right about the medic call,” Plank said. “Kitty Lidle was found unresponsive this morning by the house manager, an Astrid Nielsen. She’d already called 911 by the time your call came through.”

“Is she still alive?”

“Barely,” Plank said. “The EMTs weren’t sure what happened to her, but her BP and pulse were dangerously low, and she’s not responsive. They’re taking her to King George Memorial.”

“Anyone else in the household harmed?” Martinez asked.

“Not that we’re aware,” he said. “I’ve cordoned it off as a crime scene for now. The house manager and chef were both on the premises this morning. I’m not sure about other staff.”

“We’re on the way there,” Martinez said. “Should take us about fifteen minutes. Don’t let anyone in. That house is the last place Evie Lidle was seen alive.”

Martinez disconnected and then flipped on his sirens before doing a 180 in the middle of the road and heading back toward Bloody Mary. The senior Lidles technically lived in Bloody Mary, but if their house had been built on the opposite side of the street they would have been in another county entirely.

Caledon Road wasn’t far from the house where Jack and I lived. It was a curvy road and snaked an outline next to Caledon State Park. It was one of the most beautiful areas in the entire state and it was all framed by the majesty of the Potomac River. It was easy to see why the homes were large and far and few between.

We’d had a murder off Caledon Road not too long ago, and it was hard not to think about all the things that could have gone wrong during that op. Jack and I both could’ve been killed, and it had been a closer call than I was comfortable with.

“I hate having to come out here,” Martinez said, echoing my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m starting to think leaving my weapon at home was a bad idea. Who knew the most expensive area in the entire county would become the most dangerous?”

We arrived at the Lidles’ property in ten minutes instead of fifteen, but it took us another five to drive past the white rail fence and the acres of rolling hills. I assumed the Arabians the Lidles bred and raised were all in the barn since the rain hadn’t let up.

“I hope they get paid well,” I said, pointing to the cameramen and reporters that were set up under a tent across the street.

“Bottom feeders,” Martinez scoffed. “They would have heard the call go out from dispatch after the 911 call. The Lidles are always news.” He got on the radio and said to dispatch, “Could you get Fish and Wildlife on the phone and let them know the media has taken up residence on federal land?”

I shook my head, but couldn’t help but smile. There were times to work with the media. But other times they got in the way more than they helped.

The estate was gated, and Martinez pulled in, prepared to show his badge to the guard in the gatehouse.

A man standing in the gatehouse held up his hand for us to stop. He was dressed in jeans and a black anorak with a hood. It was covered in droplets of water.

“Cop?” I asked.

“Not that I know,” Martinez said, rolling down his window. He held up his badge and the man looked closer, studying it intently.

“They’re expecting you inside,” he said, and then the gate opened.

Martinez smiled. “Who are you?”

“Alan Goble,” he said. “I’m head of the security for the Lidles.”

Alan Goble stood just under six feet and held himself like a fighter. His shoulders and arms were well defined in his T-shirt, and a tattoo wound intricately up his left forearm and under his sleeve.

His face was chiseled in an interesting way, and his nose had been broken at some point. His hair was almost black and his eyes a shade lighter. I recognized eyes like his. They were eyes that had seen some things over the course of his life. I was pegging him as either ex-military or cop, but I wasn’t sure which.

“Who was on shift last night?” Martinez asked.

“I have a round-the-clock team, six men on every shift. I can get you a list of who was on duty. You’ll see guards at all the perimeter gates and two who ride in black vehicles covering the property grounds. They change position every two hours.”

He looked past Martinez to me, sizing me up with a quick look. I arched a brow back at him.

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