I sat back in my seat. “Really? That’s new.”
He nodded. “The owner said it was stored in the safe with the money. I think Max was more upset about the gun than anything.”
I blew out a sigh. “I would be too.” I looked up at the clock on the wall. “Wanna take a ride out there?”
Reese closed the folder and nodded. “Sure.”
Standing up, I put my keys in my pocket. “You can drive.”
I rode shotgun in Reese’s unmarked sedan across town to the Carreras’ home and went through our database files on his mounted laptop to see—again—if I’d missed anything. While I searched, I filled him in on the details of my evening with Shannon and the ensuing morning after.
He grinned over his shoulder as he pulled into the golf course community. “So what I hear you telling me, is that you have a girlfriend.”
My eyes rolled involuntarily. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
He cringed. “You cuddled, man. All night. You definitely have a girlfriend.”
“Whatever.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You gonna see her again?”
I looked out the windshield. “I’m probably going back to Asheville to meet with the Bryson family this weekend.”
He laughed. “Isn’t that convenient?”
“Shut up.”
We pulled into the driveway of a three-story plantation-style home with a garage that was bigger than the house I grew up in.
Reese let out a long, slow whistle. “I went into the wrong profession,” he said, shaking his head.
I wrenched my door open. “You and me both, brother.”
When we reached the elaborate front door, I noticed a sticker in the corner of one of the decorative window panes around the entry. I tapped it with my finger. “Daycon Securities,” I said. “Is there anything about it in the report?”
Reese rang the doorbell. “Nothing other than it wasn’t on at the time.”
“That’s happened before.” I scanned the entryway for cameras. There were none. “Didn’t the mayor use Daycon?”
Reese pressed his eyes closed. “Maybe so. You think it might be related?”
I inspected the broken frame around the door, where someone had used a crowbar. “I think it’s odd that none of these million dollar homes have had functioning security equipment.”
Reese nodded. “True.”
The front door opened and a tall red-head in her mid-forties with a boob job and Botox looked out. She had been featured in many of their car dealership’s commercials. “Can I help you?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.
Reese flashed the badge that was attached to his belt. “I’m Detective Tyrell Reese from Wake County Sheriff’s Office. Are you Mrs. Carrera?”
She smiled politely. “I am.” She swung the door wide. “Come in.”
As we stepped through the doorway, Reese nodded in my direction. “This is Detective McNamara. He’s the lead investigator on this case.”
I offered her my hand. “I’m sorry that it’s under these circumstances, but it’s nice to meet you.”
“You too, Detective.” She closed the door behind us. “Come on in. Max is actually on the phone with the insurance company right now.”
The foyer opened up into an elaborate formal living area with a grand piano, white furniture, and some kind of white fur rug, which I avoided with my boots like my life depended on it because I feared it might. We followed her toward the sound of an angry male voice on the other side of the house. Beyond the white room was a short hallway that came to a dead end in the home office. The office doors were made of paned glass squares; one of them was shattered.
Inside the room, Max Carrera—5’9, hair plugs, Italian—paced with a cell phone in his white-knuckled fist. His face was red as he barked something about a deductible. After a moment, he registered our presence and stopped wearing a hole in the carpet. “I’ll call you back,” he said and disconnected the line. He dropped the phone onto the mahogany desk and planted his hands on his hips. “Did you catch them yet?”
I shook my head. “We’re still working on it, I’m afraid. Mr. Carrera—”
He cut me off. “Call me Max.”
“Max, I noticed you have a pretty hefty security system. Was it not on at the time of the robbery?” I asked.
He huffed. “Teenagers.”
His posture indicated that I should know what he meant, but I didn’t. “I’m afraid I’m going to need a little more of an explanation.”
He pointed a finger toward the ceiling. “We have a sixteen year-old son who is currently grounded for leaving the house last night without turning the system on. He does it all the time.”