Silent Neighbor (Sheila Stone #9)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sheila whistled low as she and Finn pulled up to Marcus Holbrook's address.

"This is someplace," Finn said, his eyes wide as he took in the surroundings. "Hard to believe a climbing instructor lives here."

The house was a sprawling, modern mansion set back from the street, its sleek lines and floor-to-ceiling windows a stark contrast to the more traditional homes in the area. A meticulously manicured lawn stretched out before it, complete with a bubbling fountain and artfully arranged topiaries. The driveway was paved with imported Italian stones, their surface gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

Sheila nodded, her brow furrowed. Something didn't add up. "Maybe he has a trust fund on the side?"

Finn shrugged. "Anything's possible, I guess."

As they walked up the winding driveway, Sheila couldn't help but notice the top-of-the-line security system discreetly installed around the property. Motion sensors, cameras, and what looked like a biometric scanner at the front gate all spoke of someone who valued their privacy—or had something to hide.

Finn's voice took on a wistful tone. "Can you imagine living in a place like this? Coming home to this every day? You could raise a big family in a place this size."

Sheila felt a twinge of discomfort at Finn's words. She got the distinct impression he was hinting at a possible future for the two of them, and it made her uneasy. They'd only been dating for a short time, and while things were good, Sheila wasn't ready to think that far ahead. She wanted to focus on the case at hand, not daydream about domestic bliss.

As they approached the front door, a dog started barking inside the house. The sound was high-pitched and frantic, like a small dog with a big attitude. Sheila rang the doorbell, which chimed with an elaborate melody that sounded more like a musical performance than a simple alert.

After a moment, the door opened to reveal a woman in her late thirties, struggling to hold back a small, yapping Pomeranian. The woman was tall and slender, with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and impeccable makeup. She wore designer jeans and a silk blouse that probably cost more than Sheila made in a month. She looked more like a socialite than the wife of a climbing instructor.

The Pomeranian, despite its size, was doing its best to look fierce. Its fluffy fur was standing on end, making it look like an angry orange cotton ball. It barked incessantly, showing tiny teeth that seemed more comical than threatening.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked, her voice cool and slightly annoyed. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the dog's yapping.

Sheila flashed her badge. "I'm Deputy Stone, and this is Deputy Mercer. We're here to speak with Marcus Holbrook."

The woman's expression hardened, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows drawing together. "Marcus isn't well. He's resting."

"I'm afraid this is important, ma'am," Sheila pressed. "We need to speak with him regarding an ongoing investigation."

"Do you have a warrant?" the woman asked, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. The Pomeranian had quieted somewhat, but was still growling low in its throat, eyeing the deputies suspiciously.

Finn shook his head. "No, but—"

"Then I'm afraid you can't come in," the woman said. "Good day." With that, she closed the door in their faces, the sound of the lock engaging clearly audible.

Sheila stood there for a moment, stunned by the abrupt dismissal. She exchanged a glance with Finn, who looked equally taken aback.

"Well, that went well," Finn muttered.

Sheila wasn't about to give up so easily, however. As she was about to suggest they try again, she heard a faint sound coming from around the side of the house. It sounded like... a golf club hitting a ball.

"This way," she said to Finn, already moving.

They made their way around the building, the manicured lawn giving way to an even more impressive backyard. A sparkling infinity pool stretched out before them, its edge seeming to merge with the distant horizon. To their left was a fully equipped outdoor kitchen, and to their right, a putting green that looked like it belonged on a professional golf course.

A man was there, lining up a shot. He was so focused on his game that he didn't notice their approach. Sheila called out to him, but he didn't seem to hear.

"Marcus Holbrook?" she called louder.

The man looked up, startled. He was in his early forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and the lean, muscular build of an experienced climber. He wore expensive-looking golf attire, a far cry from the practical clothing Sheila would have expected from a climbing instructor.

He set down his golf club and walked over to them. "Can I help you?" he asked, his tone polite but wary.

"Mr. Holbrook?" Sheila called out, her voice carrying across the manicured lawn. "I'm Deputy Sheila Stone, and this is my partner, Deputy Finn Mercer. We're with the Coldwater County Sheriff's Department."

Marcus straightened, his golf club dangling loosely at his side. He squinted against the late afternoon sun, his brow furrowing as he took in their badges.

"We're here about Jake Pearson," Sheila continued, watching Marcus's face carefully.

At the mention of Jake's name, Marcus's posture stiffened. The easy-going demeanor of a man enjoying a round of golf vanished, replaced by a guarded wariness. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching almost imperceptibly.

"Jake?" he echoed, his voice carefully neutral. "What about him?"

Sheila took a step closer, her eyes never leaving Marcus's face. "I'm afraid there's been an incident. Jake was found dead this morning in the Valley of the Gods."

Marcus's face paled, the color draining from his cheeks. His grip on the golf club tightened until his knuckles turned white. "Dead?" he repeated, the word coming out as barely more than a whisper. "How... what happened?"

Sheila couldn't tell whether he was feigning surprise or genuinely feeling it. If this was an act, he was a skilled actor.

"That's what we're trying to determine," Finn said. "We understand you and Jake had a history. We were hoping you might be able to provide some insight."

Marcus's eyes darted between Sheila and Finn, a mix of emotions playing across his face—shock, disbelief, and something else Sheila couldn't quite place. Was it guilt? Fear? Or simply the natural reaction of a man confronted with unexpected tragedy?

After a moment, Marcus seemed to collect himself. He set down his golf club and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "I see," he said, his voice steadier now but still tinged with tension. "I suppose we should talk. You're probably wondering why I called in sick."

"The thought did cross my mind," Sheila said. "You hardly look like you're suffering from food poisoning."

Marcus chuckled softly. Then his face grew serious. "I've been... struggling lately. Anxiety, depression. Sometimes I need a mental health day, you know?"

Sheila nodded sympathetically. "I understand. We all need that sometimes."

Just then, the woman from before came storming out of the house, the Pomeranian trotting at her heels like a fluffy orange shadow. "Marcus!" she called, her voice sharp. "I told them they couldn't come in without a warrant!"

Marcus held up a hand, his voice gentle. "It's okay, Karen. They're just doing their job. I'm happy to answer their questions."

Karen glared at the deputies but retreated back into the house, scooping up the dog as she went. The Pomeranian gave one last defiant yap over her shoulder before disappearing inside.

Marcus offered an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. Karen can be... protective. Especially when I'm not feeling my best."

Finn cleared his throat. "Mr. Holbrook, if you don't mind me asking... how does a climbing instructor afford a place like this?"

Marcus chuckled, a sound that seemed to ease some of the tension in the air. "Ah, that. Well, climbing instruction is more of a passion project these days. My real money comes from patents. I developed some new climbing gear a few years back—a new type of carabiner that's significantly stronger and lighter than anything else on the market. It's been quite successful."

Sheila nodded, filing away this information. It explained the wealth, but it also meant that Marcus had even more climbing expertise than they'd initially thought. "Mr. Holbrook, we understand you and Jake Pearson had a falling out some time ago. Can you tell us about that?"

Marcus's expression darkened, his earlier affability fading. "Jake was... reckless. Talented, sure, but he didn't respect the dangers of climbing. I tried to teach him proper safety protocols, but he always wanted to push the limits. In the end, I refused to work with him anymore. I couldn't be responsible for someone who didn't take safety seriously."

"And how did Jake react to that?" Sheila asked.

Marcus shrugged, his hands fidgeting with a golf ball he'd picked up. "He laughed it off, said I was too uptight. But I stood my ground. Look, I didn't like Jake, I'll admit that. But that doesn't mean I'd ever hurt him."

"What makes you think someone hurt him?"

Marcus frowned. "I guess I just figured from the nature of your questions that there was some kind of… foul play involved in his death. Why would you be asking me all these questions if it was a simple accident?"

"Where were you this morning, Mr. Holbrook?" Finn asked.

"I was here, in bed," Marcus replied. "Karen can vouch for that. We were up late watching movies, and I didn't get out of bed until nearly noon."

Sheila exchanged a glance with Finn. Having Karen—his wife, girlfriend, or whatever she was—to corroborate his story was hardly a solid alibi. Marcus seemed to sense their skepticism, his eyes darting between them.

"You don't believe me," he said, not as a question but as a statement of fact.

Sheila maintained a neutral expression. "We're just trying to verify all the information we receive, Mr. Holbrook."

Marcus nodded, his jaw tightening slightly. Then, as if coming to a decision, he straightened. "You can check the security footage," he said. "It monitors the garage and everything around the house. You'll see that I haven't left."

Sheila's eyebrows rose slightly. This was unexpected. "That would be very helpful," she said slowly.

Marcus led them into the house and to a small room off the main hallway, filled with monitors and computer equipment. He sat at the main console, where he pulled up the footage from the previous night and early morning.

"Here," he said, gesturing at the screens. "This covers all the exits."

Sheila and Finn leaned in, watching intently. The time stamp in the corner showed the hours ticking by, but there was no sign of Marcus—or anyone else—leaving the house. As dawn broke in the footage, the house remained still and quiet.

"As you can see," Marcus said, his voice carrying a hint of satisfaction, "I was here all night. Haven't left today, either."

"And how do we know you haven't tampered with this?" Finn asked.

Marcus's face flushed slightly, and his expression hardened. "Because I can't," he replied, his tone clipped. He tapped a few keys on the keyboard, bringing up a secondary display. "This system is synced with an offsite server. It stores everything in real-time. Even if I wanted to alter the footage, I wouldn’t have access to the raw files. The data is encrypted and backed up automatically. Any changes would leave a trace, and frankly, I don’t have the skills to pull off something like that."

Sheila leaned in, her eyes narrowing slightly as she assessed his explanation. "So you're saying the footage we're watching is exactly as it was recorded, with no gaps or edits?"

"Exactly," Marcus said, crossing his arms. "The server’s handled by a third-party security firm. You can check with them if you don’t believe me."

Finn glanced at Sheila, clearly considering their next move. "We will," he said, his voice cool and measured. "But until we do, we'll need to take a copy of the footage for review."

Marcus sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Take whatever you need. I’m telling you, though, you're wasting your time. I didn’t kill Jake."

Sheila nodded, feeling a mix of frustration and relief as Finn directed Marcus where to email a copy of the footage. She felt frustrated because they were back to square one with no suspects, but also relieved that they hadn't wrongly accused an innocent man.

"Thank you for showing us this, Mr. Holbrook," Finn said. "It's been very helpful."

As they prepared to leave, Marcus walked them to the door. He paused at the threshold, his hand on the doorframe. "Deputies," he said, his voice low and serious. "If someone really did hurt Jake, I hope you find them. Despite our differences, he didn't deserve to die."

Sheila nodded, but before she could respond, Marcus continued, his eyes distant. "Then again, if a climber doesn't respect the mountain, the mountain won't respect them either."

The statement hung in the air, heavy with implication. Sheila felt a chill run down her spine, though she couldn't quite explain why.

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Holbrook?" she asked.

Marcus shrugged, his expression unreadable. "It's just an unspoken rule in climbing. I'm not saying Jake had it coming, but… given how reckless he was, is it really any surprise he ended up that way?"