Detective Pelov left his car in the parking area at the tennis courts near the front of the gate. It was dark and the gas lighting provided little illumination.
It must be nice living in such a great neighborhood that you don't have to worry about lighting and crime, he thought. Detective Pelov rarely found himself in these quaint little hamlets with their gaslights and no sidewalks. Very few crimes happened in places like this. He hoped that there would no crime tonight, either. But his senses were telling him that there was going to be a problem.
He walked for what seemed like forever to Ritz's house. There didn't seem to be much activity, which he was relieved about. As he was approaching the front, headlights headed up the driveway. He ducked behind some evergreens in the front of her home. It was a Jeep. He jotted down the license plate number to check later.
After the Jeep pulled out, he thought he heard some rustling around the back of the house.
Pelov unhooked the snap on his holster and removed the safety on his Glock. He tiptoed down the driveway, staying close to the house. Ritz had that dumb gas lighting around her home. She wanted to keep with the theme of the neighborhood, but Pelov could barely see anything in the dim, worse-than-candlelight glow.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a figure. It was a man, attempting to scale the side of Ritz's house, climbing a trellis.
“Freeze!” Pelov said, grabbing his Glock with both hands. “Police!”
Jacob lost his footing as he reached for his own gun. As he fumbled for it, Detective Pelov didn't wait. He released three shots, center mass. Jacob hit the ground, headfirst with a sickening thud. If the bullets didn't kill him— and they certainly did— the fall would have.
Detetive Pelov took out his cell and called the front gate, requesting the office to come to the crime scene. He also called headquarters.
“I think we got our killer,” he told his captain. “This case is finally over.”