“License and registration, please.”
I couldn’t swear to it, but I was pretty sure I hadn’t been speeding. I got my license out of my wallet, handed it out the window, reached across the seat to the glove box, and located my registration. Handed that out too.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” said the cop.
I waited. Stared at the yellow tape and the notice on my front door. I listened to the crackling and chirping of the cop’s radio, remembering how two nights ago, right about this time, I’d gotten out of the car right in this spot.
I’d signed the voucher, said good night to Aldo, passed my fob across the gate card reader, entered the house, and stripped down as I made for the shower.
A couple hours after that, I was being grilled by two hardened LA cops who’d determined I was guilty of killing Colleen before I’d said a word.
As I waited for the cop to come back to the car, I thought about being interrogated that night. Detective Tandy’s theory, part of it, anyway, seemed plausible.
Had Colleen come to my house to surprise me?
I could see her doing that. She would have known it was risky, but it was in her character to take a chance that after all we’d had together she could change my mind.
I pictured Colleen curled up in a chair in my living room, waiting for me to arrive. Maybe she’d heard a car stop outside the gate.
I could see her going to the window, peering out into the dark, hearing the whirr of the gates rolling back. Maybe she’d opened the door, called out, “Jack?”
Had someone said, “Hey, Colleen.”
Had he looked just like me?
Had Tommy caught her by surprise, backed her into the house, made her lie down on the bed? Maybe Colleen went for my gun—she knew where it was. But she wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t strong enough. The gun was snatched out of her hand. And she was shot three times.
Did Tommy really do that?
Another set of images spooled out in my mind’s eye.
In this scenario someone had been tailing me.
Say he was watching when I left Colleen’s hotel room the week before. He knew me. He knew Colleen. He wished me harm, and he’d come up with a plan.
I saw Tommy.
Let’s just say he’d kept his eye on Colleen while I was in Europe. At some point in that four-day period, he’d kidnapped her, and an hour before I was due to land at LAX, he’d restrained her somehow and driven her to my house. He’d used her gate key, pressed her finger to the biometric lock…
My thoughts were interrupted by a car door slamming behind me. I heard the cop walking back to my car.
The flashlight beam was pointed at my face again as he handed me my identification.
“Mr. Morgan, do you know why I stopped you?”
“No. I live here. You know that, right? This is my house.”
“This is a crime scene. Why are you here?”
“I need a change of clothes.”
“That’s not happening, Mr. Morgan.”
“Okay,” I said. I started up the engine. It roared.
But the cop wasn’t letting me go. Not yet. He scrutinized my face from behind his light.
I understood why he’d stopped me.