Page 12 of Pretty Broken Dolls
“That guy high-tailed it out of here after dropping off all the information.”
“Hmm.”
“What?” she asked.
“He strikes me as a micro-manager.”
“Maybe. But my money is on him being back at his nice big office in Sacramento by now.”
“Agree to disagree.”
Katie laughed. “Okay. That’s such a weird term every time I hear it.”
McGaven reduced his speed and turned off the main road, driving until he reached a faded sign indicating Fox Hunt Road. It was an older part of town with houses more than thirty years old, more acreage, and most properties seemed well maintained.
They crept along, the overhanging tree limbs making it feel dark. Looking for number 167, McGaven searched the mailboxes…163…165…finally coming to the end of the road.
Craning her neck, Katie said, “Is this it?”
“Matches the photos and address.”
“Yeah, but it looks worse than when the photos were taken.”
McGaven parked on the street across from the driveway.
Cisco whined, wanting to get out and work.
Still looking at the small house with boarded-up windows, Katie got out and stood on the road, taking everything in. “Stay, Cisco.”
McGaven cracked the windows for the dog and exited the vehicle. He stood beside Katie as they scrutinized the house and property.
Katie studied the short single-car driveway leading up to the small, blue, one-story house. Heavy plywood and some metal reinforcement secured the home tightly. Katie noted the overgrown bushes and peeling paint. The drainpipes and gutters were disconnected from the corners and hung precariously. The fence was leaning and the gate stood open. The entire property appeared oddly out of place compared to the rest of the homes in the neighborhood—almost as if it belonged in a war-torn country. It was clear that it would be a hard sale if the house were put on the market.
“What do you think?” she said. “Can we learn anything new?” She began to think that they had wasted a trip.
“You can always learn something new,” he said.
“Really?”
“Of course. You told me that at our first crime scene.”
Katie chuckled. “Gav, you always keep me on my toes.”
McGaven opened the trunk and retrieved a few tools: two screwdrivers, a crowbar, and two flashlights.
“Good idea.” Katie took one of the flashlights. She adjusted her holster and gun, slipped her cell into her pocket, and shed her jacket. “From the looks of the yard, we may need a machete,” she said, with some humor.
“I’ll have to remember that next time I pack my gear.”
They walked across the street and headed to the front door.
Katie stopped and listened. This was a routine approach for her when walking into any unknown area, knowing how important it was to listen and feel a situation and not just use your eyes. It was a tactic she had adopted in the military on so many occasions. She noticed that it was extremely quiet, even during the day—there wasn’t the sound of any traffic and the road wasn’t close to any freeway. She imagined the killer knew the area and used the quiet and seclusion to their advantage. The next-door neighbor was approximately a half-acre away and there were three large pine trees blocking the direct view of the house.
Leaning up against the fence were several bamboo poles that appeared to have been used for a sprinkler system instead of the usual PVC piping. A shovel and post-hole digger leaned up against a tree. There was a small narrow trench leading to the house, but that had long since been abandoned without any of the bamboo poles laid.
Katie focused on the cottage and walked up to meet McGaven, who was already looking at the door. He pried the metal away from the frame using the crowbar.
“The door is still intact and it looks like the key will work.”
