The soft thwack of a baseball into leather echoed through the backyard as Jim Shore raised his glove, catching the ball cleanly before tossing it back underhand.
"Nice arm, Tim," Jim said, watching his eleven-year-old son adjust his cap and grin.
From the kitchen window, the laughter of Lisa and Leigh drifted out like music. Jim glanced toward the house.
Leigh’s voice—bright and full of fourth-grade certainty—was explaining why star-shaped cookie cutters made everything taste better. Lisa, ever the warm center of their home, laughed softly.
These were the kinds of moments Jim guarded with the same quiet devotion he used when debugging code or following a faint lead in a case. Simple joys. Steady rhythms. Truth in the little things.
But truth had a way of turning up in unexpected places.
Across the coastal curve of Orange County, in the polished hush of the Laguna Belle Bungalow Resort, Maria Aguilar adjusted the collar of her housekeeping uniform and knocked twice on Suite 104. The "Do Not Disturb" sign still hung, but she'd been instructed by the front desk to check the room. The guest, a high-profile actor, hadn’t been seen all morning—and Mr. Brambleton didn’t like loose ends.
With a cautious push, Maria opened the door.
"Housekeeping..."
The curtains were open—sunlight poured across a sleek, minimalistic room. The bed was rumpled but untouched since the night before. And there, on the polished wood floor near the writing desk, lay Mike Solomon.
At first, Maria froze, unsure whether she was witnessing sleep or stagecraft. The actor’s eyes were closed, and his expression curiously calm. But the crimson stain blooming through the center of his light linen shirt made her breath hitch. A knife—elegant but horrifyingly real—was embedded deep in his chest.
Maria backed out of the room, hand trembling. She fumbled her phone but remembered what the training video said: Chain of command. Don’t touch anything. Notify a superior immediately.
Within five minutes, Gerald Brambleton, the resort’s manager of Guest Experience and Aesthetic Harmony, had arrived. He adjusted his silk cravat and peered into the room with theatrical dismay.
“Oh dear,” he muttered, nostrils flaring. “This simply will not do.”
Back in Brea, Jim’s phone on the patio table softly pinged.
EDA’s voice came through, aware Jim was nearby: “Jim, a news alert: ‘Romantic series star Mike Solomon found dead in Laguna Beach resort. Authorities investigating. More to follow.’”
Jim caught the next pitch from Tim with barely a glance.
His eyes narrowed—not in shock, but in the kind of focused stillness Lisa would recognize immediately. The kind that meant someone else’s chaos had just entered their quiet world.
Tim noticed the pause. “Dad?”
Jim’s voice was calm. “Just a headline, buddy.”
But in the back of his mind, Jim found himself wondering—was he about to get a call from Detective Reynolds?
Jim Shore was halfway through reviewing some code modules on his back patio when his phone buzzed. He didn’t need to see the screen. The tone alone told him who it was: Detective Mark Reynolds.
He answered on the first ring.
“Mike Solomon,” Jim said.
There was a beat of silence on the other end.
“You already saw the alert,” Mark replied. “Then you know why I’m calling.”
“Knife to the chest?” Jim asked.
“Room 104. Laguna Belle Bungalow Resort. We’re taping it off now,” Mark said.
“I’ll be there in forty,” Jim responded.
“Tell them you’re with me. Full access,” Mark instructed.
Jim grabbed his windbreaker and secured his custom phone into his left hand. EDA, already active, adjusted its interface to “Field Mode” as he headed straight for the car.
The Laguna Belle sat quietly beside the shoreline, a row of charming beachfront bungalows with white trim and shaded porches, nestled among swaying palms and ocean breeze.
As Jim pulled into the parking lot, a nearby uniformed officer stationed at the door recognized him before he could speak.
“You’re Shore? Detective Reynolds said to let you through.”
Jim nodded. “Thanks,” and proceeded inside without delay.
He was waved past the front gate and followed the path to Room 104, where yellow tape stretched across the doorway. Inside, Mark stood beside a forensic tech and gestured Jim in with a short wave.
“Glad you came,” Mark said. “Media’s already sniffing around.”
Jim stepped carefully into the room. Large windows flooded the space with light, but the energy was heavy. A body lay still on the polished floor near the writing desk—Mike Solomon, face calm, shirt soaked red at the center.
“Single wound,” Mark said. “Front entry, downward angle. No signs of struggle, no forced entry.”
Jim scanned the space, noticing a half-packed suitcase, room service menus untouched, and a balcony door cracked open just enough to let in the breeze.
He activated EDA by voice: “EDA, begin local scene recording. Visual catalog only. No data queries.”
“Understood, Jim,” came the smooth reply.
A polite knock at the open door turned both men’s heads.
Jennifer Madison, the resort’s event coordinator, stepped in, visibly composed but pale. She offered a faint smile and held up her credentials.
“Jennifer Madison,” she said. “Management said you might want information about Mr. Solomon’s stay.”
Mark nodded. “Come in.”
“You met him?” Jim asked.
“Briefly,” she said. “He requested privacy. Checked in late Thursday. Alone, as far as I know.”
“Anyone visit him?”
“Not that I saw. He mostly kept to himself.”
Jim watched her carefully. Her professionalism was intact, but the undertone of nerves was still there.
“Did he seem anxious? Preoccupied?”
She hesitated. “He seemed...distracted. Like his thoughts were elsewhere.”
She excused herself with a promise to remain available.
Moments later, a solid, middle-aged man entered the room with a no-nonsense handshake.
Gavin Trent, according to the hotel’s guest log and the embossed initials on his jacket. “I’m Mike’s agent,” he said, making eye contact with both men. “Booked this weekend for him. Off the radar. Now look.”
“We’re sorry,” Mark said. “Did he tell you why he wanted to come here?”
“Needed to get away from things,” Trent replied. “Fans, studio pressure. Too many women trying to claim a piece of his time.”
“Any enemies?”
“He rubbed people the wrong way, sure—but that was part of the brand.”
As Trent spoke, Jim let his gaze wander across the room again—this time to the writing desk.
There, off to the side beside a leather-bound notepad and a resort pen, sat a small solid stone turtle figurine. Polished smooth, palm-sized, and slightly speckled—like something picked up at a seaside gift shop. Simple. Unremarkable to most. But it stood out.
It didn’t match the hotel’s modern, curated look. The kind of thing someone brings with them, not something the hotel would provide.
Jim stepped closer but didn’t touch it. Just noted its presence.
Trent’s voice faded out as he turned to go.
Jim nodded politely. “Thank you, Mr. Trent. We’ll be in touch.”
Jim stood on the small porch outside Room 104, the breeze off the ocean brushing past like a whisper. Inside, the forensic team continued their careful work. Mark Reynolds emerged and closed the door gently behind him.
“Guest registry,” Jim said quietly.
Mark nodded. “Already asked. Brambleton’s getting us access. He wants it all documented, logged, and double-signed—as usual.”
“Good,” Jim said. “Also want to check any CCTV devices on the property.”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “You expecting something?”
“I’m expecting to eliminate suspects,” Jim replied, then added, “starting with the ones who want to be eliminated.”
Inside the resort office, Gerald Brambleton stood stiffly beside the reception desk, holding a clipboard like a scepter.
“You’ll understand,” he said to Jim, “we’re not accustomed to criminal inquiries. The Laguna Belle maintains a discreet, elevated experience.”
“We’ll be discreet too,” Jim said evenly. “We just need a look at the registry and your camera feeds.”
“Of course,” Brambleton sighed. “We have motion-activated cameras on the entry path and one in the parking area. No cameras near the bungalows themselves—privacy, you understand.”
Jim nodded. “Entry path and lot should be enough. And the log?”
Brambleton produced a printed guest roster from behind the counter. “Mike Solomon checked in Thursday evening, alone. Jennifer Madison handled the check-in herself.”
“Anyone in the adjacent units?”
Brambleton flipped through a folder. “Suite 103 is unoccupied. Suite 105 is rented to a Miss Dawson, here on a retreat. Left this morning for a day trip to Dana Point.”
Jim scanned the page, then handed it back. “Thank you.”
Back in Mark’s temporary command station—an unused resort conference room repurposed with case files and laptops—Jim reviewed the footage with a tech assistant.
“There,” Jim said, pointing to the screen. “That’s Gavin Trent’s rental. Friday night, 9:18 PM. He leaves the lot alone.”
The video showed Trent’s car pulling out under the soft glow of a streetlamp.
“Next frame,” Jim said.
It wasn’t until 1:42 AM that Trent’s car returned. The headlights flared as it turned into the lot.
“Agent says he was clearing his head. Alone,” Mark muttered. “No one confirms it, but the footage matches.”
“Could be real,” Jim said. “Or it could be exactly what someone wanted us to find.”
Jim returned briefly to Room 104 with the scene now cleared. He crouched by the desk and studied the blood pattern again.
“Depth of the wound?” he asked aloud, knowing Mark wasn’t far behind him.
“Preliminary guess is 2 to 3 inches. Straight in, downward angle. The ME says they’ll confirm by tomorrow.”
Jim stared a moment longer. The stain had soaked evenly. No drag marks. No disturbance around the couch. No trail.
It was… too clean.
He straightened slightly. “That’s a pretty deep stab wound—yet not a lot of blood. Does that seem odd to you?”
Mark stepped up beside him. “That’s why we have a Medical Examiner. But have you asked EDA?”
Jim asked EDA, “EDA, based on the wound depth and body position, what’s the expected blood pattern?”
EDA responded:
“For a penetrating chest wound of approximately 2–3 inches at a downward angle, assuming major vessel involvement, expected blood loss at scene would be high. Current visual pattern suggests lower-than-expected blood volume.”
Jim raised his eyebrows slightly.
Mark gave a short whistle. “Okay. Time to talk to the Medical Examiner. I just hope he’s not paranoid about EDA moving in on his territory.”
Jim chuckled. “We’ll compliment his paperwork first. Soften the blow.”
Both men shared a grin before falling into thoughtful silence once more.
On the way out, Jim paused by the front office again.
Jennifer Madison was standing outside now, arms folded, her hair caught lightly in the wind.
“You said Mike seemed distracted,” Jim said gently.
Jennifer nodded. “Like his mind was somewhere else.”
“Did he ask about the other guests? Anyone in particular?”
She shook her head. “No. He barely spoke to anyone. Just wanted rest and quiet.”
Jim thanked her and turned away—but noticed her glance lingered briefly toward the guest logbook inside.
That night back in Brea, Jim sat on the back patio, orange juice in hand, laptop closed. Lisa joined him, wrapping a shawl over her shoulders.
“You’re thinking again,” she said.
“I’m always thinking,” Jim replied, smiling slightly. “But yeah. This one’s already layered.”
“Want to talk it through?”
Jim shook his head. “Not yet. I need to listen a little more first.”
She didn’t press him. Just reached for his hand as the crickets took up their evening song.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Jim knew—the truth wasn’t hiding in the shadows. It was standing in the open, waiting to be seen for what it really was.
The quiet hum of ventilation filled the small side office where the preliminary report had been set aside for them. Jim followed Mark in as the familiar figure of Dr. Elliott Brooks, the longtime county Medical Examiner, stepped forward with a genial smile.
“Jim Shore,” Brooks said warmly, extending a hand. “Always a pleasure. You’ve worked with this one before, haven’t you, Mark?”
“Too many times,” Mark replied. “Elliott, thanks for moving fast on this.”
“Of course.” Brooks motioned to a small round table already loaded with printouts and a tablet. “No need to stand on formality. Have a seat, gentlemen.”
Jim settled in. The atmosphere felt more like a quiet academic lounge than a coroner’s office—though the monitor off to one side told the real story: high-resolution scans, diagrams, and autopsy notes already in progress.
Brooks tapped the screen. “Mike Solomon, 38. Clean exterior, no bruising, no sign of struggle. Single wound to the chest. Downward angle. Pierced the heart.”
Jim leaned forward slightly. “Depth?”
“Roughly two to three inches. But not in one push. Whoever did this—” he paused, tapping the image “—pressed more than once. Same entry point. The depth increased by force.”
He gave them a wry smile. “It reminded me of something from an old movie. Like someone driving a stake into a vampire’s heart. Not once. Repeatedly. Just to be sure.”
Mark let out a soft whistle. “So whoever did it wanted him dead—absolutely no question.”
“Or,” Brooks said gently, “they didn’t know what they were doing and overcompensated. But here’s the important part—he was drugged. Fast-acting sedative, high dose. He was unconscious before the knife ever touched him.”
Jim’s brow furrowed slightly. “So no pain. No awareness.”
“Exactly,” Brooks said. “It was... quiet. Almost clinical.”
Jim turned his attention to the scan again. “Something’s been bothering me. That wound should’ve produced more external bleeding at the scene. There wasn’t much.”
Mark nodded toward Jim’s earpiece. “Ask your friend.”
Jim spoke softly. “EDA, based on the wound depth and cardiac trauma, what blood pattern would typically be expected?”
EDA responded in its smooth, neutral voice:
“High blood loss expected. Observed volume lower than predicted. Possibilities include post-mortem infliction, delayed bleeding, or partial obstruction at the site.”
Brooks chuckled. “I swear, that thing’s going to replace me one day.”
“Only if you stop making vampire jokes,” Jim said with a grin.
Brooks smiled. “It’s sharp. But EDA doesn’t bring coffee to the break room or remember the names of every officer’s kids. I think I’m safe.”
Mark stood. “Thanks, Elliott. As always.”
“Let me know what else you need. And tell EDA I’m not looking over my shoulder. Yet.”
The mid-morning sun cast long slants of light across the front path of the Laguna Belle Bungalow Resort. Jim took a slow breath as he stepped inside the small but tastefully arranged gift shop. It had the coastal charm you'd expect—sea-glass necklaces, sun hats, sand dollars in little net bags. And there, near a bottom shelf display marked Local Artisan Stonework, was a row of small figurines.
Jim crouched slightly. There it was.
A turtle. Identical in color and style to the one at the crime scene.
"Can I help you with something, sir?" came a voice from behind the counter.
Jim straightened to face a cheerful, middle-aged woman wearing a name badge: Carla. He offered a smile.
"Actually, yes. I'm working with Detective Reynolds. Just wondering who has access to this shop’s inventory."
Carla blinked. "Well, full access? That’d be me, Mr. Brambleton, and our event coordinator, Jennifer Madison. She does the purchasing for corporate gifts and private events."
Jim nodded, thoughtful. "Do you track what goes out of the back room?"
"We try, but if someone takes a piece for a sample table or a gift bag and doesn’t log it, well…"
She shrugged. "We trust each other."
Jim thanked her and stepped back outside, walking slowly toward the main path. The turtle. It had been brought into the room — intentionally.
An hour later, Jim and Mark returned to Room 104. The forensics team had cleared out, and the space felt even quieter now, like a memory waiting to fade.
Jim walked slowly to the desk and eyed the small towel beside the stone turtle.
He held his hand just above the items but didn’t touch them.
"You ever think the towel wasn’t for cleaning?" Jim asked quietly.
Mark tilted his head. "Go on."
"What if it was used to wrap the knife? Protect a hand. Keep the blade steady. Something to brace against. The turtle has weight. You could drive the knife deeper using pressure."
Mark blinked. "Like using a rock to hammer a tent stake."
Jim nodded.
"Okay," Mark said. "Who would think of that?"
Jim didn’t answer. Not yet.
Jennifer Madison arrived within ten minutes of being asked.
She looked composed as always, though her eyes darted toward the desk when she stepped into the room.
"Thanks for coming," Mark said. "We just had a couple of questions about Mr. Solomon’s stay."
"Of course," Jennifer replied.
Jim turned slightly toward the writing desk. "This figurine—it’s from the gift shop, right?"
Jennifer glanced at it. "Yes. Just a trinket. We include them in welcome baskets sometimes."
Jim watched her carefully. "Only it wasn’t in his basket. The shop staff said it was part of back inventory. Not out for display until this morning."
Jennifer gave a tight smile. "I suppose someone could’ve taken one early. Guests sometimes browse while the shop is being restocked."
"And you have access to that inventory, correct?" Mark asked, his tone polite but firm.
"Yes. Along with Carla and Mr. Brambleton. We each use it for event setup."
Jim didn’t press further. Not yet.
"One more thing," Mark said. "Maria, the housekeeper, thought she heard a voice or movement right after she knocked."
Jennifer frowned. "I… wouldn’t know anything about that."
Mark nodded. "Just checking timelines. Appreciate your help."
Jennifer hesitated, then gave a small nod and stepped out.
Mark exhaled once she was gone. "She got cagey."
"She noticed the turtle. That was the first thing she looked at."
"Could be nerves."
Jim said nothing.
Because nerves or not, Jennifer was suddenly at the center of every detail.
Room 104 had grown still again.
The ocean outside whispered through the barely cracked balcony door. Shadows from palm fronds danced faintly across the polished floor where, days earlier, a life had ended. The room no longer felt like a crime scene—it felt like a question waiting to be answered.
Jennifer Madison stood just inside the doorway, arms folded. She'd been called back under the pretense of helping clarify final guest timeline inconsistencies. But she must have known. Jim saw it in her eyes.
Mark stood off to the side, giving Jim the space to lead.
Jim took a step forward. His voice was soft. Not accusatory.
"Jennifer, do you mind if I walk you through a theory?"
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t leave.
"We found a stone turtle here on the desk. At first, it seemed like a simple decoration. But it wasn’t part of the room’s decor. It hadn’t been displayed in the gift shop until the morning after Mike was found. Which means someone accessed the back inventory. Someone with clearance."
Her face stayed neutral.
Jim continued, motioning gently toward the desk.
"We also found a small towel. Too small for cleaning up much. But just the right size to wrap around a knife handle. To protect a hand. Or to brace the knife without causing a spray of blood."
He let the silence settle.
The Medical Examiner said the knife was carefully and deliberately driven in—repeatedly. More like a stake than a slash. Possibly to drive it deep enough to make it appear a man had done it, which is exactly what led to suspicion falling on his agent. And Mike… was drugged. The toxicology report confirmed it. Whatever he was drinking had been tampered with before the attack.
Jennifer’s gaze drifted to the floor.
Jim said quietly, "He was already unconscious. Which means whoever did this planned it. It wasn’t spontaneous. It was calculated."
Still, she said nothing.
Mark finally stepped forward and spoke gently. "Jennifer, is there anything you'd like to say before we continue this elsewhere?"
She looked up, eyes shining. Not defiant. Not angry. Just tired.
"I saw him with her," she said softly. "That guest from Santa Barbara. Laughing, touching her hand. And I realized he was already gone. That what we had… whatever it was… didn’t mean anything to him."
She stepped slowly to the chair beside the writing desk and sat.
"I brought the drink. I drugged it. I knew he'd drink it if I smiled and said I wanted to talk. He started to feel dizzy partway through. He set the drink down on the desk and tried to steady himself... then collapsed backward onto the floor. Flat on his back."
She looked up at them both, voice trembling.
"I didn’t bring the knife. I used what was here. Took it from the kitchenette, wrapped the handle in a towel. I used the turtle to help push it in. I didn’t want blood everywhere. I thought... maybe it would look like something else. A break-in, maybe. I don’t know."
Her eyes welled with tears, but her voice held.
"I forgot the turtle and the towel. I heard Maria knock, and I panicked. Grabbed the glass, slipped through the back into Room 103, and waited. When they called me in to answer questions, I just... tried to stay calm."
Mark gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "We’ll need you to come with us now."
Jennifer stood, composed again, but changed.
As they walked her quietly out of Room 104, Jim stood still by the desk.
Outside, the waves kept coming. Constant, like truth. Sometimes quiet. Sometimes crashing. But always coming.
The grill crackled as a line of hamburgers sizzled to life. Warm laughter floated across the backyard, mixing with the soft clink of iced tea glasses and the gentle thump of a baseball hitting leather.
Jim stood by the patio table, tongs in hand, as Mark Reynolds hovered nearby with a plate, guarding the buns like evidence.
“Detective Reynolds, master of both justice and grill marks,” Jim said, smirking.
Mark grinned. “I don’t let cases or patties get away.”
Their wives sat at the picnic bench nearby, Lisa refilling glasses as Mark’s wife, Angela, passed out napkins. Leigh and her friend were drawing turtles in chalk on the back patio, giggling with each new design. Tim and Mark’s son were out by the lawn, trading pitches and laughter.
No crime scene tape. No press. Just family, friends, and peace.
Lisa looked over at Jim with a soft smile. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Having a quiet moment.”
Jim nodded, his eyes following the kids. “Yeah. After everything, you remember what really matters.”
Mark stepped beside him, lowering his voice slightly. “You good?”
Jim was quiet for a moment. Then, “Yeah. She was broken. But not evil. I think somewhere inside, she wanted someone to stop her long before she acted.”
Mark nodded. “You did. In the end.”
Lisa approached with a fresh plate. “Okay, enough shop talk. Hamburgers are ready, and the kids are about to revolt.”
“Better feed the detectives before they start issuing warrants,” Angela teased.
Everyone laughed.
Later, as dusk settled in and the first stars blinked over Brea, Jim leaned back in a patio chair. Leigh climbed onto his lap, sleepy and warm, her chalk turtle drawings still fading on the concrete behind her.
“You okay, Daddy?” she asked.
He kissed the top of her head. “I am now.”
The night deepened gently. And in the safety of his backyard, surrounded by love and the steady rhythms of family, Jim Shore let the day slip away.
Because the heart had codes, yes—but it also had anchors.
And he was holding onto his.