Then toward the neighboring property.
Amara followed his gaze.
The house next door sat beyond a high hedge.
A white Mediterranean-style mansion.
Terracotta roof.
Balconies.
A small security camera angled toward the shared service lane.
Amara’s stomach tightened.
She already knew.
There was only one person nearby who would make that call.
“Vanessa Whitmore.”
Beckett said nothing.
Halpern looked away.
That was answer.
Amara closed her eyes for one second.
Of course.
Vanessa.
Five months earlier, when Amara purchased the property for $18.7 million, Vanessa had appeared at the gate carrying white lilies and a smile that felt rehearsed.
“Welcome to the neighborhood.”
She was fifty-six.
White.
Divorced.
Former television lifestyle host who had reinvented herself as a charity-board fixture and unofficial queen of the small private coastal enclave.
She lived next door.
She knew everyone.
Or believed she did.
The first visit had lasted seventeen minutes.
By minute five, Vanessa had asked:
“So what does your husband do?”
Amara had smiled.
“I’m not married.”
“Oh.”
Pause.
“Family money?”
“No.”
Vanessa laughed as if Amara had made a joke.
Then corrected herself.
“I only ask because these properties are becoming impossible.”
Amara had founded Sterling Dermal Sciences at twenty-six after completing a biomedical engineering doctorate and three years in tissue-regeneration research.
The company developed medical-grade wound-care polymers and later a consumer skin-repair line that turned one niche patent into a global business.
She sold forty percent to a major healthcare group at thirty-one.
Her retained equity was still worth far more than the Malibu house.
She rarely explained any of that socially.
Not because she was secretive.
Because strangers who began with “how can you afford this?” rarely deserved a financial briefing.
Vanessa learned eventually.
That did not make her warmer.
Instead the questions changed.
Could Amara trim two palm trees blocking Vanessa’s sunset angle?
Could she avoid “large gatherings” even though Amara had hosted exactly one dinner for twelve people?
Could contractors stop parking on the service lane?
Could she change the exterior lighting because it was “too commercial?”
Could she reconsider the pool deck because the white limestone reflected sunlight onto Vanessa’s upstairs terrace?
Amara answered when reasonable.
Declined when not.
Vanessa disliked declines.
Two weeks before the police call, they argued about a property easement.
Vanessa wanted temporary access through Amara’s side driveway for a construction project.
Amara’s engineer refused because the retaining wall had recently been repaired.
Vanessa accused her of being difficult.
Amara replied:
“I’m following the engineer’s recommendation.”
Vanessa said:
“You don’t have to turn every little thing into a power struggle.”
Amara almost admired the inversion.
Now, beside the pool, Officer Halpern looked toward Vanessa’s hedge.
“She said the property owner was away.”
Amara stared.
“What?”
Halpern shifted uncomfortably.
“The caller stated the owner was traveling internationally and that an unknown woman had entered through the rear gate and was using the pool.”
Amara felt something colder than anger.
“I was in Tokyo last week.”
Rosa nodded.
“You came back Sunday.”
Vanessa knew that.
Amara had mentioned the trip at a neighborhood committee meeting.
Beckett said:
“So the caller may have had outdated information.”
Amara looked at him.
“Did you ask the caller for the owner’s name?”
Beckett did not answer.
“Did you?”
Halpern spoke quietly.
“She said Whitmore.”
Amara stared.
“What?”
“She identified the owner as Vanessa Whitmore.”