At the end of a cul-de-sac, the house resembled a traditional cottage right down to the white picket fence and cozy front porch. Kind of homey for a bachelor pad, Rachel mused. She’d assumed from the lack of a ring and the guy’s eagerness for a tour that he wasn’t married, but she might be wrong.

Rachel’s spirits sank at the possibility of encountering a Mrs. McKenzie. How ridiculous—as if she and that arrogant doctor had anything in common! But he wasn’t exactly arrogant, she conceded. Merely strong-willed and outraged at being falsely accused of a heinous act. His wife was probably beautiful and well educated.

She’d wince at the sight of Rachel’s hair. Jeez, maybe she ought to follow Connie’s advice and risk another potentially disastrous color job. Or, as Marta had humorously suggested, get a buzz cut and hope the hair grew back curly.

Bracing for an awkward situation, Rachel rang the bell. From the interior she heard masculine footsteps and then the door opened.

Daylight gave depth to the guy’s slate-blue eyes and highlighted the strong bones of his face. “Hey,” Rachel said.

“Office Byers.” He scanned her approvingly. “Nice outfit.”

“You, too,” she responded. A dark-blue jacket over an open-collared shirt—sexy as heck with designer jeans.

Behind him, a big-screen TV and a wall of audiovisual equipment dominated the living room. A lounge chair in the middle of the carpet and a black leather couch along one wall constituted the only other furnishings. The decor screamed bachelor. Besides, had a Mrs. McKenzie existed, she’d have stuck her nose out by now.

Surprised by how relieved she felt, Rachel confined her next comment to, “We’d better get going.”

“A lot to cover before dark?” An eyebrow lifted skeptically.

“Be a shame to cut our tour short if I have to assist at an emergency.”

“Does that happen often?”

Rarely in this town, but the Villazon PD had a mutual-aid pact with surrounding cities. “Once in a while.”

The doctor emerged smelling of sophisticated after-shave, a welcome change from the hairy-male scents Rachel’s colleagues wore. If this were a date, she might feel tingly at the prospect of snuggling beside him in her car.

Okay, she did feel tingly.

“Anything in particular that interests you?” she asked as they climbed into the sporty two-seater. “On the tour, I mean.”

“I’d be happy with an overview and a bit of history.” Russ bent stiffly, perhaps as a result of being pushed against his car yesterday. The encounter had left Rachel with a crescent-shaped contusion on one hip. She considered any duty-related bruise a badge of honor.

Wrenching her mind away from body parts, she focused on matters of historical interest. There weren’t many in a town that blended into its neighbors. “Some legendary stuff used to go on at the high school, like the time the football team hoisted the principal’s car on top of the gym for Homecoming. That was my junior year.”

The quarterback’s father owned a construction company, where the son had learned to operate a crane. Rachel took pride in the fact that no one had ratted on him.

“I was thinking more in terms of pioneers.” Russ smiled. “But I like your version.”

As she started the ignition, Rachel realized she hadn’t carried a male passenger since she’d bought the car last year. Russ’s legs were so long her hand grazed his thigh when she reached for the gearshift, and as they rounded a corner, their shoulders bumped.

“Kind of friendly in here,” she muttered.

“‘Friendly’?” he teased. “I like the way you talk.”

“What way I talk?” She didn’t have an accent. She spoke standard Californian, spiced with the occasional Spanish phrase such as “hasta la vista, baby.”

“You talk like a cop,” Russ responded.

“That’s what I am.” At a stop sign, Rachel waited while two skate-boarders shot from behind a parked car and skittered across the street. “There’s a couple of accidents waiting to happen.”

“I didn’t see them coming.” Her passenger frowned. “Usually I’m on the alert for kids.”

“Hope we don’t end up peeling them off the pavement.”

He chuckled.

“What?” She didn’t see anything funny about her remark.

“I like that you don’t make the usual small talk about jobs and, oh, whatever,” Russ explained. “It bores me, maybe because I’m not good at it.”

That surprised her. He struck Rachel as the glib type.

“I don’t care for small talk, either,” she admitted. “Girl talk is okay, though.”

“Why?” he asked.

“’Cause I need my friends’ advice.”

“On what?” The guy actually appeared interested.

She recalled her earlier line of thought. “These days, they try to tell me how to fix my hair. You may have noticed the dye turned me into a refugee from Bozo the Clown school.” After a moment she added, “I don’t guess women ever offer you advice about what to do with your hair.” More likely, they tried to run their fingers through it.

“Rarely.” He glanced out the window as they exited the development. “Do you have any idea what those gnarly trees are? Or what kind of fruit they’re bearing?”

“That’s an avocado grove.”

“Really? I didn’t realize they grew around here.”

“Used to be a lot of them.” Rachel was pleased to discover she’d absorbed more details about her community than she’d realized. “They’re Hass avocados, the kind with warty black skin. Absolutely the best-tasting. You fix guacamole with any other variety, you have to stir in salsa for flavor, but these suckers are perfect mashed with a dash of garlic salt. Every Hass avocado in the world is descended from a single tree in La Habra Heights. That’s not far from Villazon.”

“Is the tree on the tour?” he asked with a hopeful air.

“It died a few years ago. There’s a plaque where it used to stand,” she offered.

“Only a plaque? I’ll pass.”

She drove past In a Pickle. As she explained its origins, he said he might return later to buy a souvenir jar of pickles but didn’t want to risk having the lid come off in her car.

Rachel appreciated his consideration. “Marta and I rescued a dog once and it threw up all over my old car,” she said. “I never completely cleared the smell out. There’s nothing worse than beagle barf.”

“Is that so?” Russ chuckled again. Rachel didn’t see what was funny about an upchucking dog.

“Even vinegar didn’t kill the odor. It just made the car stink worse.” They were traversing Arches Avenue. “You’ve seen the civic center, since you work across the street. The only other historic site is Alessandro’s Italian Deli.”

“A deli is a historic site?” Russ inquired.

“Well, not the actual deli,” she conceded. “On that site used to stand the First Bank of Villazon. There’s a rumor that Richard Nixon opened an account there when he had a law office in La Habra.”

“Was that anywhere near the avocado tree?”

“No. La Habra Heights is a separate community north of La Habra. His office isn’t there anymore, by the way. They tore it down. Broke the preservationists’ hearts.” Rachel had no illusions as to how Villazon and environs stacked up against L.A. People traveled long distances to see the Hollywood Walk of Fame and the Page Museum with its skeletons of mastodons and sabertooth tigers. “I realize a deli isn’t exactly the La Brea Tar Pits.”

“On the other hand, I’ll bet the deli sells better prosciutto,” Russ hazarded.

“You’re making me hungry.” She glanced at the dashboard clock. Nearly five. “I’d better drive you home.” Indicating the rear of the car, she explained, “I have to take those DVDs to Hale Crandall’s house. He’s one of our detectives.”

When Russ twisted for a glimpse, his knee bumped her wrist. Rachel felt a little giddy. She’d been experiencing a pleasant buzz from the guy all afternoon.

“Are they evidence?” he inquired.

“They’re motorcycle movies. For a party.”