by Blake Pierce
That hung in the air for a second.
“What do you mean, Hunt?” Decker asked, leaning forward.
“Nothing, Captain,” Ryan said quickly. “Jessie’s just spitballing.”
“Is that true, Hunt? Because that’s quite an allegation you just made.”
Jessie glanced at Ryan, who appeared to be trying to will her to stay quiet with the power of his stare. Though she didn’t want to rein herself in, the intensity of his gaze gave her pause.
“Captain,” she said slowly, “I don’t like how this investigation has been run. It’s been sloppy and unprofessional at best and…more than that at worst. But am I formally alleging something untoward on the part of members of Valley Bureau? Not at this time, sir.”
“All right,” Decker said, leaning back in his chair again. “That was just about the most hedged non-accusation I’ve ever heard. And I’m going to choose to remember it as full-throated support for your colleagues in the LAPD. That’s what my notes will reflect for the record.”
“Yes, sir,” she said reluctantly.
“I’m deferring to the wishes of the team in Valley Bureau and officially pulling HSS from the case. That frees you both up to handle this. A country club tennis coach in Hancock Park was found dead on the court this morning. It looks like he was bludgeoned with a racket. The head of security is expecting you within the hour.”
He tossed a thin file across his desk at them.
“Yes sir,” Ryan said, grabbing the file as he stood up.
Jessie stood up too and followed him to the door without a word. She was almost out when Decker called her back.
“Hunt,” he said firmly. “Just so we’re clear on this. Valley Bureau is handling the Penn case. You are not. Got it?”
“Yes sir,” she said with the level of enthusiasm she felt.
Ryan was waiting for her outside the office. Despite her strong desire, Jessie refrained from yelling at him right then and there.
“Way to have my back,” she hissed in a loud whisper.
“I did have your back,” he insisted. “You were this close to Decker calling in Internal Affairs to start a full-on investigation.”
“Would that be so bad?” Jessie challenged. “This seems like exactly the kind of thing that I.A. should be looking into. Chatty Cathy obviously thought so too.”
“No, Jessie. She didn’t. That’s why she called me. Chatty Cathy’s calls have consistently been about trying to solve cases, not catching dirty cops. For all we know, she could have inside knowledge about these cases because she’s dirty.”
Jessie couldn’t believe what Ryan was saying.
“So you don’t want these guys—whoever’s directing Costabile—brought to justice?” Jessie demanded.
“Of course I do,” Ryan retorted. “But that wasn’t my priority and it wasn’t Chatty Cathy’s either. Solving the case was. There was a finite window to solve this one before it got swallowed up and now the window has closed. It’s happened with other cases she tipped me off to and it’s happened here. I’m not happy about it but it’s out of my hands now.”
Jessie started to protest but Ryan cut her off.
“Decker was very clear,” he reminded her. “Pursuing this after he formally took us off it would have serious repercussions. Plus, we have no idea who’s involved. I’m concerned about what these people are capable of if we keep pushing.”
They stared at each other, both furious, neither speaking. Ryan finally relented.
“I have to go to the bathroom. When I get back, I’m hoping we can put this behind us and go investigate this ridiculous case about the tennis coach beaten to death with a racket. I’ll see you in five minutes.”
Jessie watched him go, fighting the urge to cuss him out in front of everyone. When he disappeared from sight, she took several deep breaths and turned back to the bullpen. As she did, she swore she saw about a dozen sets of colleagues’ eyes suddenly dart elsewhere.
Pretending not to notice, she returned to her desk, sat back down, and caught sight of the phone logs she was no longer supposed to review. Despite what Decker said, she couldn’t help but glance over the names for any initials that matched the Post-it list. There were none. But she did notice something else.
The same name appeared on both a canceled check from the bank and a cell phone call: Helen Vance. The initials didn’t match any from the Post-it. But it was the first time she’d come across the same person on two separate lists. She punched the name into the LAPD database. When her computer screen showed the result, she had to force herself not to gasp.
Helen Vance didn’t have a record. But apparently she did have another name. In addition to Vance, she apparently also went by her full married name, Helen Vance-Zellers and even sometimes just by Helen Zellers—H.Z. Helen was married to a man named Matthew Zellers—M.Z.
M.Z. + H.Z. The crossed-out initials.
Jessie looked up to make sure no one had noticed the jolt of electricity that had just shot through her entire body. Everyone seemed oblivious. She scribbled down the contact info for the couple and then closed the browser tab.
Ryan was walking back from the restroom with a look of grim determination on his face. She knew what that meant. He was preparing himself for the unpleasant task of convincing her that they needed to move on and not rock the boat. She decided to save him the effort.
“I have to go,” she said, standing up to meet him. “Can you get started on the tennis coach case without me?”
“You have to go? That’s all the information you’re giving me?” he asked incredulously.
“I have to take care of something. If it comes up, you can tell people that I said it was about Hannah.”
“Is that true?” he asked.
Jessie stared at him, not sure how best to answer that.
“It’s the reason I’m giving you,” she finally said. “That’s the best I can do.”
She grabbed her bag and headed out of the bullpen, refusing to look back at what she was certain was Ryan’s disapproving face.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Jessie rode the wave of anger.
She knew that once it faded, the consequences of what she was doing now—going to see the Zellers—would hit her. And if she started thinking about the fact that she was following up a lead on a case she was expressly prohibited from pursuing, she might lose her courage.
So she channeled the anger as long as she could. As she made her way to the Zellers’s Beverly Hills mansion, she tried not to let doubt creep into her head. Everything in her gut told her this was more than just a robbery gone wrong.
The call from Chatty Cathy seemed to reinforce that. But despite all the suspicious behavior on the part of the guys from Van Nuys Station—mishandling the crime scene and body, homing in on only one suspect, and so much more—the truth was, she didn’t have anything definitive to say they were wrong.
Yes, the crime felt more personal than a robbery. And Michaela’s lifestyle and work—both on and off the books—suggested she interacted with some unsavory types. But none of that was proof of anything. Pete Vasquez had the laptop stolen from her apartment. Based on that alone, she had to acknowledge that he was a legitimate suspect.
Was it possible she was overcomplicating things? Was she making it personal because Michaela reminded her so much of Hannah? If the victim was a twenty-six-year-old Latina from East L.A. instead of a teenage girl from the Valley, would she still be pushing like this? The question made her squirm uncomfortably in the driver’s seat.
Luckily, she didn’t have to think about it any longer. The Zellers’s home was up ahead. She forced all other thoughts from her head and focused on the people she was about to meet. They lived on Benedict Canyon Drive, north of the Beverly Hills Hotel, just before the street began to climb and turn into a steep, winding hill road.
The house was set back off the street, with a long driveway. As she pulled in, Jessie reminded herself of the couple’s background. Matthew Ze
llers was a producer on the long-running TV crime procedural Catch & Convict. Helen was a party planner. They’d been married for seven years, were in their late thirties, and had no children. Matthew had never been arrested. Helen’s sole run-in with the law was at a college protest nearly two decades ago.
Jessie pulled up to the house and walked to the front door, taking in the massive plantation-style entrance, complete with enormous white pillars. She rang the bell and waited, fully expecting it to take a while for someone to get all the way to the front.
But within ten seconds the door opened to reveal an attractive, petite woman with blonde ringlets wearing tights and a sports bra. She looked like she’d been in the middle of a workout.
“Can I help you?” she asked, slightly out of breath. There were droplets of sweat on her forehead.
“I hope so. I’m Jessie Hunt with the LAPD. I’m looking for Matthew and Helen Zellers.”
“Well, you found half of them,” the woman said. “I’m Helen. Did you say you were with the police?”
“Yes. I’m a profiler for the department. I was hoping I could ask a few questions.”
“Sure. Come on in,” she said, waving Jessie inside. “I was just finishing my leg day. Do you consult for the show? Matt didn’t say anyone would be coming by today.”
“No, Mrs. Zellers. This is unrelated to your husband’s work. I was actually hoping to speak to both of you.”
Helen was walking quickly ahead of her down the hall, which opened into a large kitchen. She seemed unfazed by a random person showing up requesting to question her. Jessie wondered how often it happened.
“Matt’s upstairs working. I’ll call him down,” she said, opening the fridge and pulling out a pitcher of thick green liquid. “Did you want some celery juice while we wait?”
“No, I’m good,” Jessie assured her.
Helen nodded as she grabbed her phone.
“Hey, sweets,” she said when a male voice answered. “There’s an LAPD profiler down here who wants to talk to us. Can you come down for a sec?”
The voice said something Jessie couldn’t pick up.
“I don’t know,” Helen replied before turning to Jessie. “What’s this about?”
“I’d rather explain it to both of you together.”
“She’ll tell us when you come down,” Helen said into the phone. “Just hurry up. The anticipation is killing me.”
The voice responded and there was a click.
“He’ll be right down,” Helen said, motioning to one of the barstools at the kitchen island. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
“Thank you,” Jessie said, selecting one.
“This is all very exciting,” Helen said enthusiastically. “The biggest item on my list for the day was to get my nails done. And now I have a real-life profiler in my house. What did you say your name was again—Clarice? I’m just kidding.”
She giggled to herself before taking a long glug of the celery juice. Jessie felt mildly ill watching her. A few seconds later, Matthew Zellers walked through the door.
He was not what Jessie imagined a television writer for a crime show would look like. Easily six foot two and 210 pounds, he looked more like a bodybuilder than a guy who spent hours behind a computer screen. She wondered if he wished he was in front of the camera rather than behind it. He smiled broadly at Jessie.
“Have you come to criticize the show’s vérité elements?” he asked as he stood next to his wife. “Because I’ll tell you what I tell the other law enforcement types who like to complain. I work on a television show. It’s not real life.”
Somehow he managed to sound friendly despite the charged comment. Jessie noted that the couple’s proximity to each other would make studying their reactions to her questions much easier.
“I’m not interested in your show,” she said sharply, deciding it was time to take charge of the conversation. “I need to talk to you about something else entirely. Do you know a woman named Michaela Penn?”
The Zellers wore matching clueless expressions.
“I don’t think so,” Matthew said. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“What about Melissa Mackenzie?”
That question got a different reaction. The look the couple exchanged this time was much more knowing.
“We know Melissa well,” Helen said. “Why?”
“She’s dead,” Jessie said flatly.
She added nothing more, watching to see how they’d respond. Both of their faces fell at the same time. They looked genuinely stunned and in Helen’s case, devastated.
“Are you sure?” Matthew asked.
“I am,” Jessie said, pressing ahead, intentionally not letting them get their bearings. “Her real name was Michaela Penn and she was murdered the night before last. What can you tell me about your relationship to her?”
Again the couple looked at each other. This time, there was uncertainty on both their faces.
“I wouldn’t say we had…” Matthew began.
“Before you answer, Mr. Zellers,” Jessie interrupted, “please remember that if I’m talking to you, I obviously have a general sense of the circumstances. So please don’t insult me by trying to dissemble. You can save us all some time by just being forthright.”
Neither Zellers spoke for several seconds. Helen finally cleared her throat.
“We were close,” she said quietly. “I assume you know about what she did for a living?”
“How close?” Jessie asked, ignoring the question directed at her.
Matthew took over.
“I saw one of her videos and reached out to her. Helen and I have a very…accommodating relationship and she agreed that Melissa, should she be interested, might add a little spice to our home life.”
“You can dispense with the euphemisms, Mr. Zellers,” Jessie said.
His brow furrowed.
“I want to be direct, Ms. Hunt,” he said. “We want to help in whatever way we can. But as you might gather, we have some apprehension about how what we say might be used against us. Can you give us assurances that that you’re only looking for information about Melissa’s death and not other legal indiscretions?”
“I can’t make any promises other than to tell you finding Michaela’s killer is my top priority,” Jessie said. “Other violations of law are secondary at this point.”
She wanted to give them the room to be honest but wasn’t going to foreclose on the possibility of pursuing people who were paying for sex with an underage girl.
“Matthew,” Helen said, her voice quavering, “let’s tell her what we know. We can handle any consequences for our actions. If anything we tell Ms. Hunt can help find out who did this, we should speak up.”
Matthew weighed her words briefly before nodding.
“I contacted her through an agency called Courtesan Companions. They connect porn actresses with people who want to be with them in person,” he said. “She reached out and we set something up.”
“What exactly does that mean—set something up?” Jessie asked.
Matthew sighed deeply before reluctantly continuing.
“Well, there’s an elaborate screening process. First, I put down a deposit—a thousand dollars—to cover all the costs and pay for her time if I backed out for some reason. Then the agency did identity verification and a background check. Once those were complete, I got tested for STDs and provided the results. She did the same.”
“What about you, Mrs. Zellers?” Jessie wanted to know.
Helen looked taken aback.
“Oh, I didn’t participate. That was just between them.”
“I see,” Jessie said, trying to hide her surprise. “So what happened next?”
“She came over and we talked for a while. Once she felt comfortable, we got down to the business she was there for.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Matthew blushed for the first time since he’d come downstairs.
“I’d rather not,”
he said. “Let’s just say that she was willing to role play some of my fantasies. If you know the general scenarios in her films, you can probably draw accurate conclusions about what we did.”
Jessie looked over at Helen, who seemed less uncomfortable than she would have guessed.
“And there was no jealousy?” Jessie asked her.
Helen shrugged.
“We were honest with each other before we got married,” she said. “Matt was upfront about certain things he was into that I wasn’t, so we came to this accommodation. It works for us. Besides, Meliss…er, Michaela and I did other things together.”
“What kind of things?”
“Nothing like what you’re thinking, Ms. Hunt,” Helen said firmly.
“Clear it up then.”
“It’s going to sound weird.”
“Believe me,” Jessie said. “I’m up to date on weird.”
“Okay,” Helen said with a shrug. “We kind of became friends. We’d go shopping together. I’d buy her outfits. We even baked a few times, right in this kitchen.”
“You did these things with the person playing fantasy sex games with your husband?” Jessie confirmed.
Helen didn’t respond at first. She looked like she was struggling to come up with the right words.
“Look, Melissa—I’m just going to call her that since that’s how I knew her—Melissa’s mom died when she was young and she told me her dad wasn’t really around. I can’t have kids. I know it sounds crazy but we developed kind of a bond, maybe not mother-daughter, but something close to it. We liked hanging out. I never thought about that other stuff when it was just the two of us.”
As unusual as the situation sounded, Jessie didn’t find it unbelievable. As someone who lost her own mother young, she knew the power of any maternal figure willing to offer emotional support and companionship. It was the reason she felt so drawn to Dr. Lemmon.
“Can you explain something else to me?” she said. “I found both your initials on a piece of paper at her apartment but they were crossed off. Why would that be?”
Matthew looked away but Helen stared straight at Jessie.