8
Rios pulled up to the black iron security gate of the Desert Vistas condominium complex. Detective Johnson sat in the passenger seat reviewing the files on the other hex-related deaths.
A twenty-foot-tall, three-tiered water fountain rose from a stucco retaining wall on their right. To their left stood the guard shack—a small reclaimed-brick building with taupe geometric accents reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright.
The guard stepped out. He had a squarish jaw, capped teeth, and a name tag that read Doug. “How may I help you ladies today?”
Rios flashed her detective shield and held up a warrant. “We’re here to search Unit D-209.”
Doug raised an eyebrow. “Are you expected?”
“I’m afraid the owner, Genette Abrams, died this morning.”
Doug’s eyes widened. “Oh dear. Is Ms. Cohen okay?”
“
