white two-story with a farm house design. Like all the houses in the development, it looked vaguely fake, like a Lego or Matchbox version of a real house.
The backyard was entirely surrounded by a tall wooden fence. Tony found the gate unlatched. Just inside the gate, at the side of the house, were the garbage cans. He put on some latex gloves, opened the lids and looked inside. Ya, Ma , he thought, this is what I do for a living . He lifted out a few trash bags and poked through them carefully. It was unlikely they’d contain anything but this week’s trash, but he checked anyway.
The question that had been on Tony’s mind was this: What did Brent do with the wine bottle before the police arrived that fateful morning? The wine glass he could easily have washed and placed back in the cupboard, hidden in plain sight, as it were. But not the bottle.
He had to put himself in Brent’s mind. The man was a lawyer, and the crime had been premeditated. Brent would have planned it all, from registering for that conference in Portland to the final shovel of dirt of his wife’s coffin. T’s crossed, i’s dotted with fucking bullets.
Brent wouldn’t have dared leave the house to throw away the wine bottle that morning. Why? Because of the neighbors. Tony remembered how, the night Brent had brought the blondie home, he’d driven into the garage so the neighbors wouldn’t see her. So that morning when he’d come home from Portland, he would have been paranoid about a neighbor noticing that he came home, left again in the car, returned, and then called the cops about his dead wife. Brent wouldn’t have risked it.
Which meant he had to have hid the wine bottle somewhere on the property, at least until the police had finished the investigation.
Brent wouldn’t have put it in the trash, not that day, when the cops would likely go through the garbage. And he wouldn’t have washed the residue down the kitchen drain either, out of CSI-induced fear of super forensics taking place on the drain pipes. He wouldn’t have put it in the trunk of the car in case the police looked there. So what did he do with it?
Tony continued around the side of the house to the backyard. The fence was high. Only one neighbor’s house could peer into the White’s back yard from their second-story windows. If Brent knew that family’s schedule well enough, he might have felt safe that morning, safe to do whatever he needed to in the back yard to hide the evidence of his crime.
Tony didn’t know what he was looking for, but he looked. He checked out the garden hose cart, a storage bench, and a six-foot pine tree in the corner. Then he noticed the line of young rose bushes along the west wall of the fence.
There were ten of them, no more than three feet tall and sparsely leaved. Only a few of the buds had yet bloomed. The flowers were a deep, guilty red. The bed along the fence where they were planted was covered in pine chip mulch and had zero weeds.
Tony went over to the roses. He walked down the line of them, checking the soil for any disturbances.
At the end of the row, near the back fence, the last rose bush looked different. Its leaves had fallen off, and its stems were a sickly yellow. The mulch at its base was not as smooth and perfect as it was everywhere else.
Tony’s mouth was dry as he pulled out his phone. He took pictures of the bush and the surrounding area, and then he dialed his client.
“Mrs. White? It’s Tony DeMarco. Listen, I have a quick question. There are rose bushes planted at Marilyn’s house. Do you know anything about them?”
Tony listened to the answer.
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be back in touch soon.”
The rose bushes had been Brent’s idea. Marilyn had told her mother she was surprised he’d taken a sudden interest in the back yard. The bushes had gone in just a few weeks before Marilyn died. Tony checked his watch. He had ten minutes. He headed to the garage to find a shovel.
It only took Tony five
The backyard was entirely surrounded by a tall wooden fence. Tony found the gate unlatched. Just inside the gate, at the side of the house, were the garbage cans. He put on some latex gloves, opened the lids and looked inside. Ya, Ma , he thought, this is what I do for a living . He lifted out a few trash bags and poked through them carefully. It was unlikely they’d contain anything but this week’s trash, but he checked anyway.
The question that had been on Tony’s mind was this: What did Brent do with the wine bottle before the police arrived that fateful morning? The wine glass he could easily have washed and placed back in the cupboard, hidden in plain sight, as it were. But not the bottle.
He had to put himself in Brent’s mind. The man was a lawyer, and the crime had been premeditated. Brent would have planned it all, from registering for that conference in Portland to the final shovel of dirt of his wife’s coffin. T’s crossed, i’s dotted with fucking bullets.
Brent wouldn’t have dared leave the house to throw away the wine bottle that morning. Why? Because of the neighbors. Tony remembered how, the night Brent had brought the blondie home, he’d driven into the garage so the neighbors wouldn’t see her. So that morning when he’d come home from Portland, he would have been paranoid about a neighbor noticing that he came home, left again in the car, returned, and then called the cops about his dead wife. Brent wouldn’t have risked it.
Which meant he had to have hid the wine bottle somewhere on the property, at least until the police had finished the investigation.
Brent wouldn’t have put it in the trash, not that day, when the cops would likely go through the garbage. And he wouldn’t have washed the residue down the kitchen drain either, out of CSI-induced fear of super forensics taking place on the drain pipes. He wouldn’t have put it in the trunk of the car in case the police looked there. So what did he do with it?
Tony continued around the side of the house to the backyard. The fence was high. Only one neighbor’s house could peer into the White’s back yard from their second-story windows. If Brent knew that family’s schedule well enough, he might have felt safe that morning, safe to do whatever he needed to in the back yard to hide the evidence of his crime.
Tony didn’t know what he was looking for, but he looked. He checked out the garden hose cart, a storage bench, and a six-foot pine tree in the corner. Then he noticed the line of young rose bushes along the west wall of the fence.
There were ten of them, no more than three feet tall and sparsely leaved. Only a few of the buds had yet bloomed. The flowers were a deep, guilty red. The bed along the fence where they were planted was covered in pine chip mulch and had zero weeds.
Tony went over to the roses. He walked down the line of them, checking the soil for any disturbances.
At the end of the row, near the back fence, the last rose bush looked different. Its leaves had fallen off, and its stems were a sickly yellow. The mulch at its base was not as smooth and perfect as it was everywhere else.
Tony’s mouth was dry as he pulled out his phone. He took pictures of the bush and the surrounding area, and then he dialed his client.
“Mrs. White? It’s Tony DeMarco. Listen, I have a quick question. There are rose bushes planted at Marilyn’s house. Do you know anything about them?”
Tony listened to the answer.
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be back in touch soon.”
The rose bushes had been Brent’s idea. Marilyn had told her mother she was surprised he’d taken a sudden interest in the back yard. The bushes had gone in just a few weeks before Marilyn died. Tony checked his watch. He had ten minutes. He headed to the garage to find a shovel.
It only took Tony five
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