It was 10:30 on a Thursday night and the house was dark. Too early for a playboy like Benson Bowman to be sleeping, Patrick Jane mused form the driver's seat of his Citroen parked at the curb in the middle of a quiet suburban street in Sacramento. 2918 Sycamore was a tidy, 1940's style bungalow painted two complimentary shades of blue. It had a white picket fence, and a front porch bordered by waist-high azaleas in full bloom. Not a typical bachelor's pad. The neighborhood was far too white-bread for the kind of partying Benson Bowman was notorious for. The house had no garage and the brick-paved driveway was empty. A late model VW was parked at the curb between Bowman's and his neighbor to the left. It could have been for either house.
Jane got out of his car, locked it and approached the bungalow. No dog, no cat, no children's toys in the yard as there were in many of the neighboring yards. It was pretty generic, actually. The person who lived here complied with the homeowner's association by having a lawn-maintenance service; didn't get his own hands dirty. That sounded like Bowman, alright. But the lack of personality indicated someone who was trying not to be noticed. The front porch was adorned with white whicker furniture with flowered cushions and a matching two-person swing that no one ever used. Set decoration, thought Patrick. He reached out to rap on the door, then changed his mind and tried the knob. It turned. He called out, "Hello?" and was greeted by silence. Patrick swung the door open and stepped inside.