Free The First Cut by Dianne Emley Page A

out especially well on the weekends that Emily was with her dad. Vining was the only officer patrolling Section One, the lowest crime area of the city. The service calls usually involved dogs barking too long, stereos that were too loud, or burglar alarms accidentally set off by the household help. The residents there had no clue about what real crime was except for the often-told tale of the home invasion robbery some years ago that had degenerated into rape and murder.
    Vining had spent an hour parked in the shade of a camphor tree near a four-way stop, handing out moving violations to drivers doing the California roll through the intersection. She was sweating beneath the Kevlar vest and regulation white, crew neck T-shirt she was wearing under her short-sleeved summer uniform shirt.
    At five o’clock, a suspicious circumstances call came in. A realtor was checking on a house for the absent owner and found a window open that he was certain he’d left closed. The house was three blocks from Vining. The call would be her last for the day. Her shift ended in half an hour and then she had a couple of days off.
    Vining broadcast, “One Lincoln twenty-one. I can respond from Fillmore and Los Robles.”
    Residents in the city’s affluent neighborhoods were often looking out windows and finding suspicious goings-on. She didn’t fault them. But she’d responded to calls where the person who’d made them nervous was a caterer checking on a delivery for a backyard wedding or a couple of nonwhite, non-Asian kids sitting on a retaining wall, taking a break while walking from their public school to the bus stop.
    The house at 835 El Alisal was a two-story colonial like many in the area, built early last century. It was an upscale, middle-American neighborhood where happy sitcom families lived. In the neighborhood was the house that Beaver Cleaver entered during the opening credits of Leave It to Beaver.
    The “For Sale” sign of Dale David, a busy realtor in town, was stuck into the sprawling front lawn at 835. A second placard that said “In Escrow” was perched on top. Not surprising. These homes never stayed on the market for long.
    Vining radioed that she was on-scene and didn’t need further assistance. She got out of the car.
    The front door was open. She rapped hard and noted the solid wood with a pang of envy. The doors in her house were hollow-core and she had always hated the flimsy sound and feel of them.
    Standing on the threshold, she announced, “Police.” She knocked again and spoke louder. “Police.”
    Not stepping inside and with her hand on her sidearm, she looked around. The floor of narrow oak planks was polished to a high sheen and carpeted with an Oriental runner. Ornate crown and base moldings were throughout. An antique parlor bench was beside a staircase that curved to the right. An elaborate chest of drawers faced it across the entry hallway. To the left was a study or den. A large opening farther down may have led to a living room. At the end of the hall, French doors revealed a patio, a giant magnolia tree, and a pool with blue water. A door was to her immediate right.
    Vining had always loved those old houses. They felt solid and dense with history. But that was before such history would torment her and threaten her downfall. That was before her world was turned inside out.
    This was odd. Citizens who called the police were usually by the door, counting the minutes. She’d heard of female realtors raped and murdered in houses they were showing, but she’d never heard of a realtor luring a victim to an empty house.
    At the sound of rapid footsteps, she pulled her Glock .40 free from its holster and was holding it in front of her when a man walked into the hallway from the dining room.
    “Holy moly!” He reared back with his palms facing her.
    “Who are you?”
    “I called you. I’m…I’m Dale David. The realtor.” He chuckled amiably as he looked at her gun. “Is that