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The house did not fit with the architecture of the neighborhood. It was an adobe-style construction with a flat roof and brown clay walls rounded at the corners. It saiddesert,notbeach. Ballard entered through the open door into a hallway that stretched straight through the house to a rear deck with a view of the Pacific.
“Hello?” she called.
She stepped farther in. The Spanish-tiled hallway branched off to the right into a step-down living room with an adobe-style fireplace and an open wood-beam ceiling. There were no sharp corners, just blunt angles.
The furnishings of the room didn’t match the architectural style. The couch and chairs were thickly upholstered in bright blues, yellows, and whites. The coffee table was glass-topped with chrome legs, and beside the couch was a standing lamp with a chrome base and stem. The wall hangings were modern rip-offs of Rothko, not O’Keeffe. Ballard guessed that the owners or prior tenants had movedout and Bennett had staged the house using furniture that didn’t quite fit. There probably wasn’t a lot of call for staging adobe houses in Laguna, and he had made do with what he had.
She moved farther down the hall.
“Anyone here for the open house?” she called.
The hall led past a staircase going down, and Ballard understood that it was what she called an upside-down house. It had been built into a hillside, and the communal spaces were on the entry floor on top and the bedrooms were down below.
Ballard came to the end of the hall, which gave onto a large living space with a den on the right and the kitchen and dining area on the left. The rear wall was all glass sliders leading to a deck that ran the width of the house. Out there was a built-in grill and plenty of space for outdoor furniture and tables. Every house had a special spot, and this deck with its unblocked view of the ocean was what would sell this place.
On a kitchen counter was a stack of fliers for the property and a sign-in sheet on a clipboard with a pen attached by a string. The box she had seen Bennett pick up earlier was open on the opposite counter. Next to the pastries were paper plates and napkins. Bennett’s briefcase and Yeti were on a kitchen island, but there was no sign of Bennett.
“Hello?” Ballard said loudly. “I’m here for the open house.”
No response. Ballard looked around and realized the opportunity she had. She quickly went to the briefcase, unzipped it, and opened it to check its contents. What she saw changed the trajectory of her plan. As she reached in, the house started to vibrate, and she knew that someone—Bennett—was opening the garage door. She quickly finished with the briefcase, zipped it closed, and headed for the deck.
Ballard unlocked one of the doors and slid it open. As she stepped out, she heard a door slam and guessed that the ocean breeze she’d allowed into the house had pushed the front door closed. She knew that should get Bennett’s attention, wherever he was.
She kept her eyes on the ocean as she stepped all the way out to the deck’s railing. She then looked down and saw a sub-deck with similar views that extended from the bedrooms below.
“Uh, we’re not open yet.”
The voice came from behind her. Ballard turned to see Andrew Bennett standing in the doorway.
“The signs all say twelve to four,” he said. “We still have forty minutes till we open.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” Ballard said. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d just sneak in for a quick look. I mean, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, since you’re already here… could you come sign in first?”
“Sure.”
She followed him into the house.
“You’re down from Los Angeles?” he asked.
“How do you know that?” Ballard asked.
“I was in the garage, tidying up, and I thought I heard a car pull in. When I opened the door, I saw you have a Galpin frame on your license plate. That’s the dealership up in Van Nuys, right?”
“Oh, yes, right.”
“I’m from up that way. I remember Galpin ads on TV from when I was a kid.”
They went into the kitchen and Ballard picked up the pen next to the sign-in sheet on the counter.
“How long have you been down here?” she asked. She wroteRonnie Marson the clipboard, a nod to a fictional detective hero of hers.
“A long time,” Bennett said.
She added the number of a burner phone she used on occasion for personal as well as police reasons.
“Ever go back?” she asked.
