Retired Detective Blackburn lived high in the hills of Hidden Creek. Tempest had never visited his house, and she didn’t know the exact address, but she knew how to find it. She’d heard stories about the house. Unlike most homes in Hidden Creek, his was far away from all the others and only accessible by a one-lane road.
Tempest turned off onto the narrow road she suspected was right, and kept going until she found the house she knew must be it. Blackburn’s blackberry bushes created a wild hedge in front of the house near the top of the hill.
“Anyone ever tell you this looks more like a serial killer’s house than a detective’s house?” she asked when he opened the front door.
That got her half a smile. “Come with me.”
Blackburn’s white hair was slightly longer than the last time she’d seen him. Not actually long, but gone was the precision that had mirrored his investigative meticulousness. Also gone was his suit, though he still wore a crisp, gray dress shirt. Tempest wasn’t sure how old he was, but he was too young to be retired. His hair had turned prematurely white, a process that had sped up after Emma Raj vanished.
Tempest had promised her gran she’d see him before moving forward with her plan. She was so close to getting at the truth, but she wasn’t going to put herself in unreasonable danger to get it.
She followed him through an open-floor-plan living and dining room to a high deck with the most breathtaking views of the San Francisco Bay, completely unencumbered by utility wires or other houses.
“Wow,” she whispered.
“This is where my wife and I would always come after I’d had a hard day at work.”
“Wife?”
She’d never known he had a wife. They’d spent so much time together when her mom vanished, but she realized now how little he’d said about himself. And he never wore a wedding ring.
“I was allergic to the first two rings we tried,” he said with a smile, following her gaze to his left hand. “I wear this instead.” He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo of a date twenty-three years before, with the word “Always” in a distinctive cursive script that looked more like a real person’s handwriting than a font. “I’d introduce you if she was here, but she’s out. Are you going to tell me why you tracked me down? Don’t tell me Ash sent you.”
“You know about his arrest this week.”
“I do. And I’m sorry.”
“Why did you think he sent me?”
“Even before Corbin Colt’s murder, your grandfather was trying to convince me to become a private investigator.”
“Really?” she said, though it didn’t really surprise her. Her grandfather thought he knew what was best for everyone. He usually did, which was a bit infuriating.
“He thinks I’m like him. He didn’t really retire. He cooks and rides that old bike of his all over the place to deliver the food. He warned me I’d feel aimless after retiring and would need something to focus on, like he does.” He paused and ran a hand through his white hair. “He also called me after he was home with his ankle monitor.”
“Yeah, he’s been holding court.”
Blackburn chuckled. “That’s a great way to put it.”
“I didn’t know you were one of his guests.”
“I declined the invitation.”
“Even though you believe he’s innocent?”
“I didn’t want it to look like I was getting involved. The investigating officers will surely be watching who he contacts. That’s what I’d do. I told your grandfather as much. When he hinted that’s why he might need help, I pointed out that I don’t have a PI license yet. I’m simply a man who’s recently retired and is enjoying tending my garden.”
“It’s winter.”
“In California.”
Tempest didn’t believe for a minute he loved his garden. Not because it had more weeds than well-tended plants. Not because of any stereotypes about what a middle-age, retired detective might enjoy. But because of her grandfather’s insight. And because of how much Blackburn fidgeted when he talked about his garden.
“I’ve figured it out,” she said quietly.
His jittery leg stopped tapping. “You figured what out?”
She took a deep breath. “What happened to Corbin Colt.”
“Who—”
“I know the how. I think I know who, but first I need to—”
“What you need to do is go to Detective Rinehart—”
“He has it in for my dad and grandfather.”
“You’re not a detective, Tempest. Leave it to us. Damn. I mean them.” Blackburn flushed. “Still getting used to being retired. Maybe I’ll try writing a book.”
“I thought you were gardening.”
He shrugged. “A man can have more than one hobby.”
Tempest nodded. “Neither of us is currently a detective, but since I’m here, do you want to hear how I solved Corbin Colt’s impossible murder?”
“You really should go see Rinehart.”
“That’s the least convincing thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth. You weren’t even pretending you meant it. If you can say those words once more with feeling, then I’ll go talk to him.” She held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t call her bluff.
Blackburn ran a hand through his white mane and laughed. “Let me go grab the pot of coffee from the kitchen.”
With her hands warming around an HCPD mug filled with rocket-fuel coffee, Tempest told him what she’d discovered, and what she had planned.
“It’s all still just a theory,” Blackburn said when she’d finished. “Not solid evidence. Not enough for Rinehart to act on, because it still doesn’t tell us what happened. Only that it wasn’t impossible.”
“If I go to him with this information, it won’t force him to help me get my grandfather cleared.”
“Tempest. The overwhelming physical evidence—”
“Points to my grandfather. I know.”
“Plus his motive.”
“Thanks.”
He gave her an exasperated sigh. “I’m not your friend, Tempest. I’m not your father.”
Tempest stood and slammed the empty mug down. “You made that clear. I’m sorry I disturbed you—”
“Sit down, Tempest. I do care. I did my best to find out what happened to your mom when she vanished. My wife says it’s why my prematurely graying hair went totally white. I think she’s right, but you know what? I don’t regret it. Not for one second. I only regret that we couldn’t figure out what exactly happened.”
“You think she died by suicide in the bay.”
“I think that’s where the evidence led us. Even so, I kept looking elsewhere.”
Tempest’s breath caught. “You did?”
“Why do you think I did all those follow-up meetings with your family?”
“Because the PR department told you to?”
“You really think that about me?”
Tempest stood again, but not to leave. She stood at the railing of the deck and looked out at the distant city across the bay. “I don’t know what to think about anything anymore.”
Blackburn joined her at the railing. “I hate gardening. Why do people think it’s relaxing?”
She turned around and faced Blackburn. “Midnight. Here’s the address where you should be.” She handed him a piece of paper with Lavinia’s address.
“Midnight? Very theatrical of you. You’re never going to stop being The Tempest.”
Tempest looked out over the expansive bay. The sights and smells she’d grown up with. The wonderful memories of times spent with her family in their quirky house on this hillside. The magic she’d created in the sprawling house unlike any other. She could do this. “Why would I try to be anyone else?”