by Blake Pierce
Marisol lifted her head from her hands and looked at Ryan with such a lost, forlorn expression that Jessie almost felt bad for her.
This girl is good.
“I didn’t kill her,” Marisol finally said quietly. “Yes, I was involved with Mr. Missinger. And yes, he paid for my hotel in Palm Springs. I had my sister go for me because I thought Mrs. Missinger was suspicious about what was going on and if she called the hotel to check up, they’d assume Lupita was me and say I was there. We switched cars, phones, everything, just to be safe. But he actually put me up at the Bonaventure Hotel. He said we could use it as our special hideaway all week. And we started to. We spent Monday evening in the room he booked for me. And then he came by again on Tuesday morning.”
“What about that afternoon?” Trembley asked.
“He said he had a big meeting in the afternoon but that he’d see me on Wednesday. But he surprised me and stopped by briefly for a quickie before going home. He said he was in the area.”
“So what did you do all afternoon before that?” Ryan asked.
“I walked around for a few hours,” she said. “I don’t usually get the time to just wander.”
“Without your phone?” Trembley asked. “Or should I say your sister’s phone?”
“I forgot it in the room,” Marisol insisted. “By the time I remembered it, I was too far away to go back so I just left it.”
“That’s awfully convenient,” Trembley said with an air of self-satisfaction.
“Not for me,” she shot back. “I couldn’t order a Lyft and I couldn’t find any cabs. I had to walk all the way back.”
“So for over two hours you were aimlessly wandering around downtown Los Angeles?” Ryan pressed.
She nodded.
“Did anyone see you?” he asked. “Did you interact with anyone?”
“I got a taco from a street vendor for a snack. But there was a long line of people. I doubt he’d remember me.”
“Did you go into any stores?” Ryan asked. “Make any purchases using a credit card?”
“I don’t make enough to shop in any of the stores I walked past,” she snapped. “Didn’t you hear me? I bought a taco, not tacos. There’s a reason for that.”
“Are you sure you didn’t go anywhere else?” Ryan asked again.
“I’m sure.”
“And when you returned to the hotel, you didn’t see Michael Missinger again until he came to your room?” Trembley wanted to know. “You didn’t happen to see him there with someone else?”
“Who else?”
“Another woman,” Trembley charged confidently. Ryan gave him a subtle shake of his head as if to chastise him for giving up too much information.
“I didn’t see that,” Marisol said, untroubled. “But it wouldn’t stun me. Mr. Missinger had a big appetite when it came to sex. Mrs. Missinger wasn’t very interested. I knew I wasn’t the only one he spent time with. We had fun together but it’s not like I thought he was going to divorce his wife for me.”
“But if he did,” Trembley said in a tone that suggested he thought he was about to nail her, “you’d certainly be able to buy more than one taco from a street vendor.”
Marisol gave him a look of disdain that suggested she wasn’t very impressed with him.
“I’ve told you everything I know, even things that are embarrassing for me,” she said plainly. “I think I’d like a lawyer now.”
Ryan stood up and Trembley followed suit. The interrogation couldn’t continue and there wasn’t much purpose at this point. She wasn’t going to give them anything more.
Jessie leaned back in her chair, frustrated but impressed. Marisol’s alibi was almost impossible to corroborate but would be difficult to puncture. She admitted to lying and bad behavior but not to murder. In fact, acknowledging her misdeeds seemed to buoy her claims of innocence when it came to Victoria Missinger’s death. There were only two real options. Either Marisol Mendez was telling the truth, or she was a far more sophisticated killer than Jessie had given her credit for.
The detectives came out and Trembley headed straight for the restroom.
No wonder he was pushing so hard. He had other things on his mind.
“That wasn’t very satisfying,” Jessie said to Ryan. “I kept waiting for the big Perry Mason moment and it never came.”
“Nope,” Ryan agreed. “Oftentimes suspects only confess when they’re already busted or know they can’t be. Marisol Mendez fits in that muddy middle. It makes sense that she’d deny everything.”
“So what now?” Jessie asked.
“We charge her,” Ryan said more definitively than she’d expected. “She has no alibi and she lied about her whereabouts. In fact, she constructed an entire fake alibi to hide the fact that she was in L.A. She was having an affair with the victim’s husband so there’s motive. She had access to the house. She knew about the nook in the pool house where the poisoning happened. She knew where the vacuum cleaner was to eliminate any footprints in the room. She knew Victoria was diabetic and probably saw her administer the injections many times.”
“She was pretty adamant in her denials,” Jessie said. “You don’t find her credible?”
“You’re the profiler, Jessie, not me. So I won’t pretend to be an expert on her credibility,” he said. “But going based on the evidence, I say we don’t need a confession. I have to confer with the D.A., but I think we’ve got enough circumstantial evidence right there to take this to a grand jury at the very least. And don’t forget about the stuff that’s not admissible from your incarcerated friend in Norwalk. Lady Justice, unhappy with her lot in life. That stuff fits too.”
“I guess,” Jessie said reluctantly. “I still wonder whether this was her doing alone. Are you comfortable ruling out Michael Missinger completely?”
“He alibied out. Mina Knullsen confirmed she was with him and we have video backing that up.”
“He could have put Marisol up to it,” she suggested.
“He could have. And if he did, you can bet she’ll turn on him to get a better deal.”
“When would that happen?”
“Maybe the minute she’s charged. Maybe after a night in jail. Maybe never if she’s in love,” he said. “Listen, I’ve got to go do the charging paperwork. But I say take the win. We don’t always get them. I think this time we did.”
Jessie nodded and Ryan headed back to his desk. She decided to step outside to get a little fresh air and clear her head and went out to the station’s adjacent courtyard, where she took a deep breath. The cold air was bracing. Suddenly her phone buzzed.
It was text from Pa. It read: Got your message. Good memories. We should try the bunny slopes again sometime. Only this time you’d be picking me up. P.S. Ma had a good chemo session today. Very little vomit.
Jessie chucked slightly to herself. That was about as sentimental as the old codger got. She started to text him back as she returned inside. Her head was down and she almost knocked over an older man exiting the building.
“Sorry,” she muttered as she looked up.
It was Garland Moses, the celebrated profiler she had still never formally gotten the chance to meet, even after all these weeks on the job. This was the closest she’d ever gotten to him. He looked distracted, as if lost deep in thought. He took a long drag on the cigarette he’d just lit and blew it out slowly.
“No sweat,” he replied, his voice low and raspy. His white hair was disheveled, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. He was dressed in rumpled tan slacks, a gray sweater vest two sizes too large, and a sports jacket that hung off him like he was a coat rack. His skin was leathery and wrinkled. And his bifocals teetered at the end of his nose. But behind them, the eyes were sharp.
Jessie wanted to say something quippy but couldn’t think of anything. Besides, he looked like he was busy with his own thoughts. She knew he was working on some serial killer case. That was what had Captain Decker so distracted earlier, uninterested in some high society p
oisoning.
“I hear you nailed someone in the Hancock Park murder,” he said gruffly as she started for the door.
She turned around. He was looking directly at her so she figured she had permission to reply.
“Maybe. It’s no serial killer case though,” she said sheepishly.
“Every solved case is a worthwhile case,” he growled. “Besides, I hear you spend more than enough time in the company of serial killers down in Norwalk.”
Jessie couldn’t help but look surprised. Bolton Crutchfield’s location was supposed to be a well-guarded secret. But apparently Garland Moses knew not just where he was but who was visiting him.
“How’s the hunt going for yours?” Jessie asked, changing the subject despite her desire to get his take on Crutchfield.
“Slowly,” Moses admitted. “Nine dead in the last year. Three in the last month alone. But almost nothing to work with.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jessie said, not sure what she could say that wouldn’t make her sound like a rube. “Nice talking to you.”
She turned and opened the door to go back in.
“Why maybe?” he called after her.
“Excuse me?” she said, turning around.
“When I said you nailed someone for the murder, you said ‘maybe,’” he reminded her. “Why?”
“Oh. Something just doesn’t feel quite right. It’s my first real case and I guess I thought it would be tied up in a nice bow at the end. It’s not. I suppose I should get used to that.”
“They almost never get that perfect bow,” he said. “I’ve been doing this a long time. For every case I get where the puzzle pieces fit, there are ten where I have to jam them together. On the other hand…” His voice trailed off.
“What?” Jessie pressed.
“Sometimes when it doesn’t feel right it means you missed something and that’s your brain not letting you off the hook. Of course, other times it’s just indigestion.”
With that, he stubbed out his cigarette with his shoe and walked back inside, leaving Jessie alone with her troubled thoughts.
CHAPTER THIRTY
A day and a half later, Marisol Mendez still hadn’t flipped. Ryan considered that a sign that Michael Missinger wasn’t involved. Jessie thought he was probably right. But she couldn’t shake the apprehension that, despite all the evidence, they were railroading an innocent woman. She told him so.
She even went back to the media room to review footage of the interview with Missinger that Ryan and Trembley had conducted. She hadn’t found anything new or revealing in the interrogation itself. But she did notice that after he was left alone to write up his statement—away from the pressure of hovering detectives—Missinger seemed surprisingly sanguine.
He pushed the blond hair out of his blue eyes and settled comfortably into his chair. It was as if all the tension from the interview had drained away. Jessie couldn’t decide why.
Was it because he had been playing the role of grieving husband and was now free of it? Or was he simply relieved not to be peppered with constant intrusive questions? Maybe writing out a statement was relaxing by comparison.
With that image still fresh in her memory, Jessie left the station that evening to meet Andi Robinson for a much needed Friday night drink—the one she’d promised to get when the case was finally over. She was in the parking lot when Ryan caught up to her.
“Hey,” he said, jogging to catch up. “I couldn’t let you go without addressing what you said in there earlier.”
“What’s that?” she asked. She had said a lot of things.
“It’s just…you keep beating yourself up over this case,” he said, sounding genuinely concerned. “You have to cut yourself some slack. If you’re this hard on yourself after every case wraps, you’re going to burn out quicker than Josh Caster, the profiler who moved to Santa Barbara.”
“I’m doing okay. I just have doubts.”
“Of course you do,” he acknowledged. “It’s natural. You feel responsible for someone possibly going away for the rest of her life. I feel that way all the time too. It’s a major burden to carry. And if you have even a sliver of doubt, the guilt eats at you. It’s not like with your husband. I’d imagine a guy trying to stab you with a fireplace poker wipes away most of that doubt.”
“Most?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“You know what I mean,” he said, smiling goofily. “Just don’t be so hard on yourself is all I’m saying. Self-doubt comes with the territory in this business. It’s good that you’re meeting that rich gal for drinks. You deserve it. And she’s probably got really expensive liquor.”
“I’ve got to go,” Jessie said, trying not to laugh.
“Oh, now you’re too good to hang with the rabble,” he teased.
She turned away quickly and headed for car, fairly sure he hadn’t caught the big grin on her face.
*
The traffic from DTLA to Hancock Park was as bad as usual but Jessie didn’t mind as much this time. Something about navigating the mess for leisure made it infinitely less painful.
Despite her misgivings about the case, she decided to let it go. She wasn’t the district attorney tasked with convicting Marisol Mendez. She was just part of the team who provided the evidence for that task. The D.A. would present the case. A jury would decide guilt or innocence. It was out of her hands.
She forced herself to focus on the positives instead. There were lots of them right now. Her ma was apparently feeling pretty decent, even going out to dinner and a movie last night. It was a long way from remission. But any improvement was good news.
Jessie was reconsidering whether to join the upcoming FBI Training Academy for this session after all and if she did, thought she might stop through Las Cruces on the way to Virginia. She still had a couple of days left to make a final decision.
She’d also found a new place to live, assuming her offer was accepted. There were two other bids and she was on pins and needles waiting to find out if she’d get it. She was trying, mostly futilely, not to get too excited so there wouldn’t be too big a letdown if it didn’t pan out. But it was difficult because the apartment was just about perfect.
Ultimately, she had chosen not to go with any of the Realtor’s recommendations. Instead, she had picked a modest studio apartment on South Olive, just off Olympic. But in light of how easily Crutchfield had found her last place, she planned to take some extra precautions.
Like her adoptive father had done when he bought the senior living condo, she would rent the place through a company name and have an attorney sign the paperwork. Her name would be found nowhere on the lease.
The unit had secure underground parking. But it was below the retail center next to the apartment complex, not under the complex itself, so anyone following her might be confused about where she was driving.
In addition, the building had a doorman and a security guard. Having even one of those was unusual in L.A. Having both was a black swan situation. In addition, none of the units were actually numbered. As part of some cool, hipster thing she didn’t understand, residents just had to know which door was theirs from memory. It was weird but it served her purposes.
And even though all the mail went to a central location in the lobby, Jessie still planned to set up a P.O. box address so that all hers went off-site. She would then have a courier service bring it to the station so that no one could link her to it.
Finally, she had hired a security company recommended by Ryan, which would come by right after she officially got the place and install an alarm with motion sensors and multiple cameras. They weren’t quite NRD-level precautions, but they would give her a sense that she had at least some control over her life.
She hadn’t yet broken the news to Kat that they likely wouldn’t be roommates. But she was pretty sure that if anyone would understand, it was the head of security at the lockdown facility holding the man who’d ordered her home broken into.
She’d l
et Kat know tomorrow when she went to see Crutchfield, who had apparently specifically requested to meet with her. He’d never initiated a visit before and Jessie had to admit she was curious about what he wanted.
And now she was headed over to Andi’s, to have her first leisurely evening in forever. She felt a hint of remorse that it wasn’t with Lacy, whom she hadn’t spoken with since moving out. But she pushed the thought away, trying to allow herself to look forward to an evening at the mansion of a chill, pleasantly sarcastic, non-racist socialite. That didn’t happen to her every day.
As she drove up Rossmore Avenue, following the directions Andi had given to her house, Jessie made a last-minute change of plans and turned onto Lucerne, the Missingers’ street. She pulled over in front of the house and parked, still keeping the car running.
Somewhere in there Michael Missinger was living his life. Jessie wondered if he was overcome with grief or if he’d already put all that behind him. How long would he wait before resuming his activities? Most importantly, had he manipulated Marisol into taking the fall for him?
She felt herself starting to seethe and decided it was time to move on. She put the car in gear and drove the last stretch to Andi’s. The place was even more massive than the Missinger house. From what Jessie could tell, it was three stories and stretched almost a third of the way down the block. But unlike most other homes on the street, it didn’t have a security gate. Something about that made Jessie like her even more.
When she arrived at the front door she pressed the doorbell, uncertain if anyone would even hear her knocking. Andi opened it within seconds and extended the drink she was holding in her other hand.
“I took a chance and figured you might be a mojito girl,” she said.
“I’m a ‘just about anything’ girl tonight,” Jessie replied, taking the glass. “Thanks.”