Richard’s car reached the crest of yet another small hill; as expected, the road curved as it descended. Richard focused carefully on his course; any slip-up and he could easily end up in the ravine. There were no sidewalks between the edge of the pavement and the deep culverts just beyond, which served to slough unwanted rainwater downhill toward the unwitting lowlanders.

This sort of road was common in the tonier outskirts of the city; winding through undeveloped but manicured land, the fields provided discreet separations between spacious estates. Tucson might be a desert, but one wouldn’t know it from the appearance of these verdant fields, as green as a golf course but nowhere near as flat, and with fewer pedestrians. The public areas here were eerily free of life; in the last mile, the only people he saw were a pair of domestic workers in uniforms. The morning sun continued to play its cruel game of peek-a-boo with him, suddenly appearing from behind a hill, then vanishing. As the road found another direction in which to wind, the sun would suddenly appear from a different direction, making it impossible to choose a position for the sun visor. Constantly having to flip it around defeated the purpose, so he resorted to moving his head around a lot to avoid getting blasted in the face. He devoutly hoped this hadn’t kept him from spotting any pedestrians.

He was unsure why rich people preferred to live in the hills. It couldn’t be for the view, since it was only of Tucson and the brownish-gray haze that permanently hovered over it. Being on the edge of civilization exposed them more acutely to wildfires, and the winding roads would undoubtedly thwart any firefighters coming to the rescue. On the other hand, those same roads, and their lack of redundancy, would make it more difficult for any burglars to get away. He also couldn’t discount the adage that feces roll downhill…even if that was no longer a limitation of modern sewer systems, it was still true for rainwater. Perhaps it was the possibility of total alienation that it offered its residents, the open spaces and thick boundaries allowing them to avoid unwanted human contact. And yet, somehow, in places like the Ozarks, it was the poor that lived in the hills. He idly wondered if there was something different about those hills, or if they were in imminent danger of gentrification.

His phone chimed that he had reached his destination. Slowing down, he turned left and pulled into a circular driveway surrounding a series of curved hedges, green ramparts protecting a multilevel water fountain in the center. Water squirted from the top, as well as from four other jets, hidden inside planters surrounding the lowest level. A series of stately trees and colorful bushes frolicked between the hedges. None of these plants were native; not only must the cost to water them be astronomical, but in all likelihood, they were partly responsible for the increasingly severe allergies reported by city residents.

He pulled in front of the gate, a black metallic ensemble with spikes at the top; next to it stood a speaker box. There was no microphone button to push; between the weight sensors in the road, and the thrush of cameras along the fence, they knew he was here. “Yes?” a bored voice rang out.

“This is Detective Richard Schmutz,” he announced. “I’m expected.”

There was no response, but ten seconds later, the gate started to slide open at a leisurely speed that would find a welcome home in a mad scientist’s crushing-wall trap. Richard took the time to wonder why anyone would need a circular driveway in front of an entry gate. Did they expect that many guests? And would all these guests need space to park while their clearances got sorted out? Or was it just a show of opulence and disposable income? The rich really did live differently. As he drove through the gate, approaching the doctor’s house, he believed he had cracked the case of why health care costs were so high, if only someone was willing to pay him to do that.

The asphalt driveway strolled languidly up a grass-covered hill that evoked memories of the hand-me-down Windows XP computer he had to rely on in middle school. Taking in the view of all the lush yet empty space, he wondered if there would be peacocks, and if they’d attack his car. As he crested the hill, he found another wall with yet another gate, and a full-fledged parking lot in front of it. He guessed it could hold about thirty cars; six of the spots were taken. The cars here reminded him of his own – older, somewhat run down, but his had less peeling paint. Undoubtedly, this is where the help had to park. He took his place among them and exited, grabbing a small, insulated lunch box with his sample of cave fungus. Defiantly, he left the doors unlocked; under his breath, he dared Captain Doyle to find him.

He strolled up to the gate, a gleaming brass work of art topped by nonthreatening curves, and found another speaker box. Once again, there was no microphone button. He wondered if they had gone out of style; he’d have to check the weekend home-style insert of the Wall Street Journal that he didn’t subscribe to. The speaker crackled with another spiritless tribute to fatigue. “Yes?”

Did they really need to check him again? “Detective Richard Schmutz. I’m expected.” He scanned the horizon for outbuildings, or any other sort of destination that would explain the need for two levels of security. He saw none, but he also couldn’t spot any fences marking the property line. For all he knew, they lay behind the next set of rolling hills. He turned back to see that the gate was nearly open; it slid silently along its recessed rail. Definitely a sign of expensive engineering, he decided as he stepped over the threshold.

Here, the driveway turned to painted concrete; scuffing it slightly with his shoe, he realized it also provided traction. He’d seen anti-slip epoxy coatings on garage floors before, but never on an entire driveway. The concrete curved elegantly around additional water fountains, leading to the front of a six-car garage. The doors were all closed; he could only speculate on what lurked behind them. He wondered if the family had time to enjoy driving their own cars, or if they hired other people to do that for them.

Past the end of the concrete, Richard noticed some shapes moving through the grass. He paused to focus on the colorful blobs and to determine their nature. Fortunately, one of them spread its wings and flopped around a bit, causing a few of the others to do the same. They gave the impression of being fancy chickens; could they be pheasants? He’d have to look it up later. Was the good doctor unable to afford anything larger? Or perhaps peacocks were out of fashion, last season’s ornaments, hand-me-downs for the nouveau riche.

He walked toward the stairs. Given the epoxy patina, he realized there was no reason to assume the driveway was mere concrete; he couldn’t rule out quartz or marble.

Richard reached the door and found the intercom; somehow, it had a button. His need to ponder his next step ended abruptly as the front door opened. Before him stood a middle-aged gentleman in golf pants and a polo shirt, a pair of shiny rimmed spectacles setting off his salt-and-pepper hair. His bronze skin almost seemed to glow; everything about him exuded health and vigor.

“Dr. Bettencourt?” he asked.

“No, sir,” the butler informed him. “But he and the lady of the house are in the ballroom. I’ll take you there.” He motioned Richard to enter, then closed the door behind him.

“May I take your coat?” Richard turned around to see two smaller doors, one on each end of the entrance; the right side led to a cloak room. “Oh, sure,” he answered. The butler moved to remove Richard’s coat for him; he smiled at the thought of such elegant service. Before the butler could do so, he deftly retrieved his phone and stuffed it into his pants pocket. The butler entered the coat room, returned, and stopped suddenly, mild disapproval on his face.

“You’ll have to check your firearm too, sir.”

Richard looked down. “Oh…right,” he mumbled. So much for the joys of elegant service. He stripped off the shoulder holster and handed the entire package to the butler, who peeked at the firearm before stowing it. “A Sig Sauer MK25? Impressive!”

“It was a high school graduation gift,” Richard revealed. “It comes in handy these days.”

“I would have expected a private detective to carry a more, shall we say…concealable weapon.”

“Actually, I find the pistol’s sheer size is so intimidating that it eliminates the need to actually fire it.”

The butler returned from the cloak room, chuckling. “I can see that. Very wise, sir.” He pointed to Richard’s cooler. “Do you wish to check your lunchbox?”

“No, that’s not my lunch. It’s something for Kelly.”

“May I inspect it? Security, you know.”

“Of course.” Richard opened the top to reveal the two bottles of cave fungus, ice packed underneath. “Ugh…more of that,” the butler grimaced, without elaborating. Richard threw him a concerned look as he closed the lid.

The butler motioned to the door on the left. “Would sir like to freshen up before meeting the master of the house?”

Richard looked himself over. “Do you think I need it?”

The butler demurred. “It’s not my place to judge.”

“I’m not used to this scene,” Richard admitted. “This is by far the nicest house I’ve ever been in. I need your advice!”

The butler looked him up and down. “You’re fine. Come with me, sir.” Richard followed him toward another large double door.

“Also, you don’t need to keep calling me sir,” Richard proclaimed.

“I don’t think I can do that,” droned the butler. “I’m too thoroughly trained.”