"Hallie Whitmore was having an affair with a woman?" asked Cole, giving his head a shake. "Or...was the affair with Rutherford?"

"I'm not sure. But, it really seems like Hallie and Angela loved each other. Or at least, started out in love with each other."

She'd scrolled back a fair piece through the conversations Hallie had exchanged with Angela and before all the outrage and desperation, to which Hallie had not responded, the two had texted nearly every single day and had been for months on end. And the messages between them had been rather sweet and flowery, innocent in a way, which was surprising. There had been no lewd language, no sexting, no naked selfies. And unlike the texts from all the other people, Hallie had taken part in those earlier conversations.

I can't wait to see you. I want to go where no one will ever find us. I want to be with you, to lay with you under all those stars that go on forever. I'll meet you at our place, mon ciel étoilé. You, a blanket, a bottle of wine...that's my fondest wish.

Angela's messages in return had been much the same.

I want you in my arms, mon ciel étoilé.  You're all I think about. You are the only thing that matters to me. I'll meet you beneath the midnight sky. You, a blanket, a bottle of wine...that's my fondest wish.

Hallie and Angela had both signed off at the end of nearly ever conversation in the exact same way. You, a blanket, a bottle of wine...that's my fondest wish.

"Do you speak French?" she asked, pulling her work cell from her bag and quickly searching for a translation.

"No. I can barely manage English. Why?"

"Just wondering. Sometimes internet language translations aren't terribly accurate, but..." she quickly read the first one she found, "Hallie and Angela called each other, roughly translated, my starry sky."

"That's...sweet? I guess?" came the very male response.

It did seem sweet...she guessed?

"Welp, this means a couple of things, I'd reckon," Cole intoned, his voice tight. "Rogers dropped the ball and now the department is screwed. And we have ourselves another suspect."

Indeed. That was two names firmly on the board. Nathan Rutherford, who could have found out about Hallie's affair. And Angela, who could have decided that if she couldn't have Hallie, no one could.

"Who gets to tell Sheriff Gonzalez?" wondered Tessa, dropping both phones and the charger into her bag. "I don't work for him, so he probably won't explode all over me. I mean...probably."

Cole chuckled, a throaty and pleasant sound. "I'm not worried about you and me. I would not want to be Rogers, though. That poor bastard."

"Yeah. That poor bastard....who left a potential suspect blowing in the wind for an entire month. I hope the sheriff explodes all over him."

A month was more than enough time for Angela, were she the culprit, to destroy any evidence that could possibly be destroyed and to come up with an alibi of some kind. It didn't even have to be an airtight alibi. It just had to cast reasonable doubt.

"I hope we get to watch," Cole added. "Killers walk away free and clear because of sloppy shit like this. I mean, what was Rogers thinking! Why didn't he just go through all the messages!"

"My opinion? Rogers probably saw the messages from Rutherford that back up his story about Hallie disappearing from time to time and he stopped there," she offered. "He'd already figured Rutherford for the murder, so why offer up anything that could possibly help his one and only suspect?"

Cole's jaw clenched and unclenched a few times as he stared out at the road ahead. "Rutherford probably did kill the girl. But, on the off chance that he didn't, he shouldn't get the needle for it while the real murderer gets to go on like nothing ever happened."

She completely agreed on all counts. The simplest explanation was usually the right explanation and, in most cases, the boyfriend or lover who "found" the victim, but who also had no alibi and a decent window of opportunity to commit the crime and then dispose of any evidence, was likely the culprit.

Of course, there were always exceptions to any rule.

"Welp, we can bench that for now. The Whitmore place is just up ahead," said Cole and Tessa turned her attention to the scenery flying by outside the jeep.

The Flats was nothing more than a stretch of desert on the outskirts of the city. They'd passed by a few homes along that length of highway, all of them sitting at the end of private roads and appearing as little more than smears in the distance.

Cole whipped the jeep down one of the roads off to the right and again, hovering toward the horizon was the shadow of a structure, just sitting there smack dab in the middle of the open desert. As they barreled down the straight shot of road, the structure slowly began to come into view, taking shape as it expanded and grew. And then they were driving through an enormous set of open wrought iron gates that were topped by an equally enormous wrought iron archway that boasted large iron letters announcing the property as the AUTRY RANCH.

"Autry? Why does that name sound familiar?" Tessa asked, looking to Cole.

"H.G. Autry Municipal Building, maybe?" offered Cole.

"Yeah. That's it. So, the building is named after..."

"Hank Gatlin Autry, Hallie Whitmore's grandfather," Cole filled in the answer. "Hank is an old codger. He made his money in oil and probably owns half the desert and most of the land Santa Maria is built on."

That sounded...fairly intimidating. "A lot of money could mean a lot of motive," she said.

Cole shrugged a broad shoulder. "Maybe. They're a small family and Hank has to be pushing ninety. I'd reckon the fewer the heirs, the bigger the inheritance. But, then again, I don't know the slightest thing about how rich people and their money work. The old man could be leaving all his money to charity or...maybe his dog."

As Cole spoke, the house was suddenly there in front of them and it was....shockingly smaller than she'd thought it would be.

"This...this is it?" she heard herself ask as she took in the sight of residence.

"Yeah. Why? What's wrong?" wondered Cole, casting her a confused glance.

She shook her head. "Nothing. I just thought it would be, you know, bigger? I mean, an oil tycoon..."

"Money shouts, but wealth whispers, I guess," was Cole's assessment.

Tessa regarded the white, two story stucco home with the dark roof, taking in the single story wings that jutted off either side of the main house, the dark shutters framing the large windows, the columns holding up the two story front porch. Certainly, it was a sizable house that was more extravagant than most people could afford, but it wasn't exactly a sprawling mansion.

The private road they were on veered to the right and became a circular driveway that ran along the front of the house. And at the moment, the driveway was filled with a couple of pickup trucks, a silver Mercedes, two identical black Audis, and a bright red Porsche.

"Well, somebody's home," Cole said as he rounded the driveway and pulled ahead of the other vehicles lined up there. "Maybe you can sweet talk us through the door?"

"If Senator Whitmore is in there, I don't think a little sweet talk will help us," she said as the jeep rolled to a stop.

"If Richard Whitmore is in there...let me deal with him," Cole stated in a tone that did not bode well for the senator.

Out of the jeep, Tessa pulled in a breath and put her work face on. "This is my case Detective Dalton, so let me try to do my thing. If I need you to get the senator off me, I'll let you know."

"Yes, ma'am," came the reply, but something in the voice didn't exactly instill trust.

She couldn't worry about Cole Dalton's testosterone level at the moment, though. Her main concern was getting someone inside the Whitmore residence to talk to her, which they should willingly want to do if they had any interest in finding out who killed their family member in cold blood.

Moving forward toward the house and bypassing all the expensive vehicles, she was abruptly aware that she wasn't exactly dressed to make an official call on such an obviously prominent family...but, with her shirt already sticking to her back and sweat beading on her upper lip, she could only hope that she was taken seriously, because a tank top and jeans was about as businesses professional as she was going to get.

Up the wide front steps and across the porch, she reached the double front doors with the etched glass panes and pressed the doorbell, the responding heavily musical notes echoing from deep inside the house.

It actually took some moments before the large doors were pulled inward and the opening filled up by a middle aged man with a coif of sandy hair, wearing dark trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a black tie held in place by a silver, bar shaped tie pin.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, his pleasantly lined features showing surprise as his round blue eyes swept over her.

"Yes, you can," she replied easily. "We're with the sheriff's office. I'd like to speak with the family of Hallie Whitmore, please."

Again, the man's gaze looked her up and down before moving onto Cole, standing beside her. "The sheriff's office, you say?"

"Yes. I'm Special Detective Stark and this is Chief Deputy Dalton," she informed. "Is the family in?"

After another quick sweep over her, the man gave a curt nod. "I'll see you into the front room. You can wait there while I ask if the family are available to you."

Cole huffed out an annoyed breath. "Look, guy, Special Detective Stark is investigating the murder of Hank's granddaughter. So, cut the bull and take us to her family."

The man stiffened, offended, and looked back to Tessa, who decided to shrug. "What he said."

With a bit of a sniff, the gentleman stepped back to allow them entrance, though he was obviously displeased. Crossing the threshold, she was greeted by a blast of air that was cold enough to make her want to moan in relief, though she somehow managed to refrain. Once she and Cole were inside, the man closed the doors behind them and began leading them into the house.

Following behind, she did allow herself to feel slightly awestruck as they moved across the marble foyer, bypassing a massive split staircase and several arched doorways that lead to some of the most opulent looking rooms she'd ever seen. There were polished wood floors and gleaming paneled walls, Persian rugs, pristine white sofas and chairs, chandeliers dripping in crystals, large oil paintings in gilded frames...

A bit boggled by the interior of the residence, she realized that she was reminded of sitting in her mamaw's living room while the woman watched her afternoon stories, which always revolved around some powerful, old money clan. The Autry home was done up along those lines, so grand that it didn't seem real.  A fact that did offset some of her earlier disappointment regarding the home's underwhelming size.

After veering into a sun room that was a sea of wicker and glass, they crossed to a set of French doors and exited back out into the heat and sunshine...and into something of an oasis. "Wait here, please," the man leading them stated, shooting them a glance over his shoulder.

"Not gonna happen, buddy," said Cole, staying the course and Tessa stayed it with him, which elicited a sharp sigh from their guide.

Somewhat huffily, they were hied across the area that was rife with decorative grasses and plants, contained a scattering of tables and chairs, a pool with a tall, faux rock waterfall, and a sizable cabana that was modeled to resemble the house itself. They wound up at that cabana, which appeared to be larger than some one bedroom apartments, and the gentleman leading the procession stopped them just outside the structure.

"Ma'am, these people are from the sheriff's office. They insisted on coming through to see you--"

"Ms. Stark, you're still here," the familiar voice of Senator Richard Whitmore sounded out. "It looks like I haven't found the right person to threaten just yet."

"Its good to see you again, too, Senator Whitmore," Tessa greeted, stepping past their escort and taking in the scene before her at a quick glance.

The large area was filled with comfortable furniture that was strewn with piles of pillows, wrought iron tables, and was banked with lush tropical potted plants. There was a large bar area at the back and twin ceiling fans overhead, which were at least pushing a bit of a breeze around. And lounging about on all the outdoor furniture were several people, including Senator Richard Whitmore, all of whom were assessing her with a mix of curiosity, distaste, and perhaps even boredom.

"Thank you, Jonathan. That'll do," a woman said, sending the man beside Tessa immediately on his way.

As he left, she moved farther into the cabana, coming to a stop before the seating area, with Cole planting himself firmly at her elbow. As she stood before the group of people, she was struck by the distinct feeling that she had about thirty seconds to try and steer the situation in the right direction.  Otherwise, Senator Whitmore might start running off at the mouth and Cole might just decide to go after him like a ravenous wolf going after a piece of raw meat.