Hiking the strap of her bag up on her shoulder, she grabbed the Walther and hurried through the house and up the stairs. In her room she put the gun down, emptied the contents of her purse onto the bed, and sifted through them impatiently, sorting out the one thing she was looking for—a business card.

Detective Anthony Mendez.

Chapter 19

19

“He left this on the windshield of my car in my driveway.”

Mendez carefully took the photograph by one corner and frowned as he studied it. Black and white, and slightly grainy in quality, it was a curled eight-by-ten print on the kind of paper used by photographers in their own darkrooms, not something developed at a drugstore or photo shop. In the background he recognized the front porch of the Canyon Gun Range. Lauren Lawton stood behind her black BMW. She appeared to be staring straight at the photographer.

“You didn’t see him?” he asked.

“No. I had no idea anyone was there.”

“What were you doing at the gun range?”

“Shooting a gun.” A defensive edge crept into her voice.

They stood in the great room of the house she was renting on Old Mission Road. The place was like something out of a magazine—a big stone fireplace, a high vaulted ceiling, blue and white furniture that looked like no one had ever sat in it. All of the pillows on the couches were just so, with knife creases chopped into the tops of them.

“You own a firearm?” he asked.

“Yes. It was my husband’s.”

He didn’t like that idea. Not that he was against citizens owning guns per se. But Lauren Lawton was a woman who had been through a tremendous amount of stress and was by all accounts living on edge. She claimed Roland Ballencoa had stalked her in Santa Barbara. A handgun and a paranoid woman with nerves strung tight was not a combination destined for a good outcome.

“Is your paperwork in order?” he asked.

Her blue eyes flashed like light hitting steel. “Who the fuck cares?” she snapped. “I didn’t call you out here to see if I’ve dotted all my i’s on my gun permit. Roland Ballencoa came onto my property and put that photograph on my car.”

“Did you see him?”

“No! I told you: I’d been working on the computer all night. I went out to the car to get my purse, and there it was. It didn’t get there by magic. He came onto my property. That’s criminal trespass.”

“Yes, ma’am, that is, but if you didn’t see him—”

“Get his fingerprints off the photograph,” she said. “He has a criminal record. He’s in the system.”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll see if we can get a clear print—”