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“You still there, boss?” the dispatcher asked.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll head out to the house. Keep that info to yourself for now, will you?”
“Roger that, boss.”
Sandy knew he’d have to be careful with the details of his investigation. All around him were members of law enforcement who could be manipulated and influenced by the Margolises, including the Highway Patrol and the accident investigation unit. He’d have to be selective with whom he shared details of his investigation, because as soon as word broke that Annabelle Margolis’s car had been found near the scene of the hit-and-run, he’d feel pressure from every direction.
At just past six in the morning, as the sun was brightening the horizon, Sandy twisted his cruiser in a U-turn and headed into town to find Annabelle Margolis. He was about to go toe-to-toe with the Margolis mob.
Cedar Creek, Nevada
Saturday, June 24, 1995 10 Days Prior . . .
HE PULLED UP TO ANNABELLE AND PRESTON MARGOLIS’S HOUSE, A new-construction Victorian that overlooked Lake Harmony on the south end of Cedar Creek. So new, in fact, that the property was still under construction. Preston, the youngest son of Reid and Tilly Margolis, was fresh out of Stanford Law and an up-and-coming star at the Margolis & Margolis law firm. That he was building an obnoxious lake house was no surprise. As a junior associate at the firm, there was no way he made an income to support the home Sandy was looking at. But Sandy knew that family money financed the home’s construction, not Preston’s income.
The house itself looked shored up, but earth-moving equipment—bulldozers and backhoes—sat in the backyard. A pool, Sandy figured, was being installed. The four-car detached garage was still under construction. An extension ladder leaned against the side of the garage where a man stood perched on the upper rungs and painted the eaves.
It was still early, just after six in the morning, and Sandy was greeted by an oxymoronic stillness as he stood from his car. The early morning offered the calm chirp of bluebirds and cardinals, the still reflection of clouds on the lake’s surface, and a gentle breeze of summer. But the calm, Sandy knew, was about to be shattered. He headed over to the garage.
“You start early,” Sandy said to the man on the ladder.
The man looked down. “Promised Mrs. Margolis I’d have the garage painted by tomorrow.”
“Sandy Stamos.”
“Lester Strange.”
He wore cargo pants and a T-shirt under an apron covered by a lifetime of paint. He couldn’t have been older than twenty.
“The Margolises home?”
Lester shrugged. “Not sure. I just got started.”
Sandy smiled. “Have a nice day.”
Lester waved his brush and went back to work.
Sandy climbed the front steps and knocked loudly on the door. He waited a full minute, noticing Lester the painter glancing his way a few times, before he knocked again. Finally, Preston Margolis appeared, peeking through the glass to the side of the front door before opening it.
“Sheriff,” Preston said. “Something the matter?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Is your wife home?”
“She’s in bed.”
“Could you let her know I need a word?”
Preston, ever the attorney, stepped onto the front porch as he pulled the door closed behind him.
“What’s going on, Sandy?”
“I just need to speak with Annabelle. Will you tell her I’m here?”
“Not if you don’t tell me why you need to speak with her.”
Sandy had no intention of getting into a legal argument with Preston Margolis, who would prop himself up as Annabelle’s attorney and deny Sandy access without taking her to the sheriff’s department for formal questioning.
“Look, Preston. There was a situation overnight. A hit-and-run up on Highway Sixty-seven. Annabelle’s car was found down the road from the body. There’s obvious damage to the front headlight.”
