For a dwelling described as a casita, or cottage, the place was pretty impressive. The main living room, decked out in rustic, hacienda-style furniture, had a huge, vaulted ceiling that rose to the second floor, where Jessie counted at least five doors.
“How big is this place?” she whispered to Hugo.
“This is one of our junior casitas,” he replied in a hushed voice, “2500 square feet, three bedrooms, two and a half baths.”
Jessie wanted to ask what constituted a senior casita but decided this wasn’t the time.
“Mrs. Newhouse,” Ryan shouted, his voice echoing through the house, “This is Detective Ryan Hernandez of the Los Angeles Police Department. We’re here looking into your husband’s death. We’d like to speak with you. And we’re concerned for your welfare. Can you please respond?”
For several additional seconds, there was no noise. Then they heard what sounded like muffled crying coming from somewhere upstairs. He looked over at Jessie and she knew what he was thinking. If some strange man charged into Bridget Newhouse’s bedroom, it might exacerbate an already volatile situation.
“I’ll go first,” she said, taking the lead up the stairs.
She moved up quickly, undoing the cover on her gun holster as she moved but not removing it. Ryan followed close behind, motioning for Hugo to stay by the front door. Once she got to the top, Jessie followed the quiet sobbing noises to a half-closed door at the end of the hall.
“Mrs. Newhouse,” she said loudly, while knocking on the door. “Are you okay in there?”
The soft crying continued but nobody responded to her words. She pushed the door open gently and cautiously stepped inside. Her hand was on her gun hip, ready to act if needed.
Bridget Newhouse was laying on her side on the king bed, with her back to the door. She wasn’t moving.
CHAPTER SIX
For the briefest of moments, Jessie thought she might be injured or worse.
But then the woman shifted a little as she let out a low moan. When she moved, her long blonde hair fell to the side, revealing an ear bud in her left ear. Jessie relaxed but only slightly.
“Mrs. Newhouse,” she said in a near-shout to ensure that she’d be heard. The woman let out a scream as she shot up out of the bed. She grabbed a large vase on the bedside table and whirled around violently with a terrified expression on her face.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded in a hoarse voice.
Jessie held out her hands in front of her, palms forward.
“My name is Jessie Hunt, Mrs. Newhouse. I’m a consultant for the LAPD. I’m here with a detective named Ryan Hernandez. We’re investigating your husband’s death. Can you please put down the vase?”
Her words didn’t seem to assuage Newhouse. Her cheeks were red with upset and her blue eyes flashed. Despite her anger and red-tinged eyes, Jessie noted that she was an extremely beautiful woman. In her mid-thirties, her blonde hair cascaded down well past her shoulders. The yoga outfit she wore revealed that she was in great shape, especially after having three kids. She had ample curves, especially up top. With the woman’s petite frame, Jessie couldn’t help but wonder if the woman had come by some of it artificially.
“Does that give you the right to come into my residence unannounced?” Newhouse demanded. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“I’m sorry about that, ma’am,” Jessie replied evenly. “But we actually did announce ourselves, multiple times. We’ve been ringing the bell, knocking on the door and calling out to you, trying to get a response for the last few minutes. We were actually concerned for your well-being so security let us in. They’re downstairs. Now I’d really appreciate it if you put down that vase.”
The woman glanced down and seemed to finally process that she was holding what could be perceived as a weapon. She put it back down on the table.
“Thank you,” Jessie said.
Ryan stepped through the door at that point and gave a hesitant wave.
“Sorry,” Newhouse said, her face softening “I was listening to some music Scott and I liked. I guess it was pretty loud. Still—,” she started to say before Jessie interrupted.
“Mrs. Newhouse, I’m sorry I startled you and we’re glad that you’re okay. I’m also terribly sorry for your loss. That’s why we’re here—to try to get to the bottom of what happened to Scott. We think that you could be helpful. So how about we get you out of bed and somewhere where we can chat?”
“Okay,” Newhouse said, suddenly much meeker. “We can go out on the balcony. I could use some fresh air.”
“Sure,” Jessie agreed, though she wasn’t sure interrogating an emotionally volatile, recent widow about her husband’s passing while thirty feet in the air, with just a railing to keep her in line, was a great idea.
But now that Newhouse was cooperating, she didn’t want to do anything to undermine that. She ignored Ryan’s glare, which suggested he also thought it was a bad idea. If he wanted to change the interview venue, he’d have to say so. But he kept silent.
They followed her out onto the balcony, which didn’t seem like the right name for the spot. Sure, it was outdoors and hung over the first floor. But it was easily the size of a primary bedroom, complete with a full patio set, four lounge chairs, a fire pit, and a Jacuzzi.
Newhouse walked to the railing and leaned forward. Jessie hurried over next to her, ready to stop her if she tried to climb over. Ryan did the same on the other side of her. But the woman was just staring out at the Pacific. The tears that rolled down her cheeks were quickly dried by the strong ocean winds whipping over the cliffs.
“This was supposed to be our chance to reconnect,” she said quietly, almost to herself.
“Is that why you were here?” Jessie asked gently.
“Mostly,” she replied. “Part of it was just a vacation, a chance to get away from the kids for a few days. But yeah, we had all kinds of couples’ activities planned.”
Jessie thought of the lovemaking coach but kept any questions about that to herself.
“Had you lost the connection recently?” she asked delicately.
Newhouse looked over at her. She seemed to be choosing how much of her personal life to share with this woman she’d met less than five minutes ago. Finally her body uncoiled. She appeared to decide that there was no point in holding back.
“Sure,” she sighed. “After eleven years of marriage and multiple kids, we’d lost a bit of the spark. Scott was always working. He was driven to help the city and I think he felt that any time he wasn’t doing that was time wasted. Plus, he had some issues with depression, ups and downs.”
“Was this a down time?” Ryan asked carefully.
“I’ve seen him worse,” Newhouse answered. “And I know he was taking his meds.”
Based on intuition alone, Jessie couldn’t get a bead on whether Bridget Newhouse was better suited as a witness or a suspect. Because of the emotion of a moment like this, it was often hard to gauge credibility. But there would be time later to dig into that more. Right now, she had to ask a tough question of a woman whose husband just died.
“Do you think it’s possible that he took his own life?”