The Perfect Impression

by Pierce, Blake

  But the idea that she ran away upset, only to return later to confront Gabby, without knowing for certain that Theo was the person in her room, didn’t sit right. It wasn’t impossible that it went down that way. She’d helped catch killers who were more than capable of gutting people without batting an eye. But Ariana Aldridge didn’t strike her as one of them.

  Beyond that, how would such a scenario even play out? Did Gabby Crewe, completely naked, invite her in for a chat that escalated into a stabbing with a steak knife? Maybe that’s exactly how it played out. Certainly, no theory should be taken off the table. But one thing was clear: the situation was not as straightforward as Jessie had initially thought—perhaps even hoped—it was.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a text from Jamil, who delivered as usual. He responded to her request with all of Blake’s contact numbers, including the man’s personal cell. She decided to use that.

  She got his voicemail and debated whether or not to leave a message. Ultimately she decided that caution was what had gotten her in this predicament in the first place and laid it out there, if in slightly veiled language.

  “Supervisor Blake. This Jessie Hunt. I’m a criminal profiling consultant for the LAPD. I’m investigating a murder that took place last night at the Paragon Hotel on Catalina Island. During the course of our interviews, one person mentioned that you could verify his whereabouts from about ten thirty to ten forty-five that evening. Richard Ferro said that he helped you to your room and remained in your company for a period of time thereafter. If you could get back to me as soon as possible to confirm the accuracy of his statement, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  She gave her number and hung up, satisfied that she’d been at least somewhat diplomatic. Standing up, she hurried out of Hannah’s room. She still needed to talk to her sister but that could wait. She’d been in the dark about her behavior for weeks, if not months. A few more hours wouldn’t make a difference. There was a more pressing concern.

  As she pulled out of the garage, she called Peters and got his voicemail too. He must have been in the middle of interrogating Ariana Aldridge.

  “I’m headed to Richard Ferro’s house just north of Westwood,” she said. “I have a few questions for the guy. I’m not certain he’s really gay, which makes me unsure about a lot of other things he said. I’m sending you the address. Meet me there.”

  She turned her attention to the road. Suddenly she didn’t feel so tired anymore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  They were having such a good time that Trembley could almost ignore his sunburn.

  On paper, the assignment sounded awful. He and Detective Hernandez had spent all afternoon and now the early evening checking dead end after dead end. And yet, he was enjoying every second of it.

  When Decker had told him this morning that he had to cut his vacation short by a day to help out on a case, he’d initially been disappointed. His plan had been to chill out with some football and pizza while reapplying lotion to his scalded skin. But that all changed once he found out who he’d be working with.

  Not only was Detective Ryan Hernandez the head of HSS and a living legend, but Alan Trembley was also proud to call him a friend. They’d worked on many cases together, and even though he knew Ryan still thought of him as a rookie detective, he seemed to enjoy his company.

  The last six months had been far less pleasant for Trembley without Ryan around. With him rehabbing and Jessie only coming in to consult on the occasional high-profile case, the unit was left desperately shorthanded. Captain Decker, never a barrel of laughs, was even more surly than usual.

  So it was a genuine pleasure to be driving the streets of L.A. with the detective he admired most in the department. Even if they didn’t really seem to be getting anywhere on the case, it was a chance to reminisce. Using his license plate tracking method, Jamil had found fourteen locations that the suspected Night Hunter had frequented on more than ten occasions in the last month. Most of them were busts.

  They included several grocery stores and gas stations, as well as two malls. A few stops were more promising, including a hardware store and a medical supply store, both of which had items that might have been useful in the man’s sick torture and murder rituals. Jamil was working with the businesses to get their security footage in the hope of finding something useful.

  The rest of the locations were hostels where they assumed the Night Hunter had been staying. Unfortunately, they were spread out all over town. The man never seemed to spend more than a couple of consecutive nights at any of them. They were just pulling up to the last one on the list as the final rays of the setting sun faded behind the horizon. They were in sight of the ocean and the orange and purple streaks on the water gave everything a soft glow.

  “So when do you think we’ll get the band back together?” he asked, as he settled into an open parking spot on 2nd Street in Santa Monica, one block west of the 3rd Street Promenade and directly across from the hostel.

  “What do you mean?” Ryan asked.

  “I mean you, me, and Jessie. When we were talking earlier about that Andrea Robinson case we all worked together, it reminded me how great it was being partnered with both of you.”

  Ryan smiled at him.

  “When I’m able to return to field work, I’d love to have a reunion, Trembley. I’m sure Jessie would too. But maybe don’t bring up the name Andrea Robinson with her. Remember, the woman did lace her mojito with peanut oil, hoping to induce a fatal allergic reaction. And it almost worked.”

  Trembley felt a little embarrassed.

  “I guess I figured that so many people have tried to kill her that she was numb to their names being mentioned.”

  “Some of them, yes,” Ryan told him. “But not the ones who are still alive, institutionalized, and obsessed with her. She’s not numb to them.”

  “How many of those are there?” Trembley asked.

  “Just one, at least that I know of.”

  “Noted,” Trembley assured him, changing topics. “So I guess we should focus on the killer du jour.”

  “That’s probably a good call,” Ryan agreed.

  “Okay, I’ll go check it out but I’m not optimistic about this one.”

  “Why is that?” Ryan asked.

  “For one thing, we’re nowhere near where either of the murders took place. It’d take him an hour to get from here to there in normal traffic.”

  “This guy doesn’t strike me as the type to let a little delay bother him,” Ryan countered. “He’s gone decades without a high-profile kill. I don’t think a little traffic is going to bother him.”

  “Fair point,” Trembley said, disinclined to argue too much with someone as experienced as Ryan Hernandez.

  But apparently Ryan sensed that he had more to say and insisted he do so.

  “Go on. You said ‘for one thing.’ So there has to be another thing.”

  Trembley considered saying nothing but knew that would only annoy Ryan.

  “It’s just that this hostel, near the Promenade and the beach—it feels more youth-centric. You’d think he’d want to steer clear of places where he might stick out so much.”

  Ryan nodded.

  “You’re probably right,” he said. “It makes a lot more sense for him to spend his nights closer to the kill sites, where the hostels cater to an older crowd. I’ll have Jamil change the filters of the search to be less restrictive; have him include locations he visited as few as a half dozen times or more. That might reveal a pattern we can’t see yet.”

  Flattered that Ryan thought his point was a good one, Trembley stifled the smile he could feel creeping to the edges of his mouth.

  “Well, as long as I’m here, I may as well check it out, right?” he said. “Maybe I’ll bump into some Scandinavian college student visiting the U.S. before embarking on her modeling career.”

  “Please don’t do anything that will get the department sued, Trembley,” Ryan replied, though he was fighting off a
smile himself.

  “I’ll do my best,” Trembley said.

  He fed the parking meter, ran across the street, and went to the nominal check-in desk. He identified himself and showed the uninterested young man behind the counter the best image Jamil had been able to capture of the old man. It showed him seated at the wheel of his car.

  “Yeah, I know that guy,” the kid said, yawning.

  “You do?” Trembley asked, stunned.

  “I recognize the scar on his forehead. It’s pretty gnarly.”

  “Where is he?” Trembley pressed, trying his best to hide the bubble of excitement in his stomach.

  “I think he’s gone now,” the guy said. “He was here for the last couple of nights but I saw him walk out earlier today with a bag.”

  “He checked out?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not always that formal here. A lot of people just go. They’re supposed to sign the exit form but if they’re paid up, we don’t really sweat it.”

  “How did he pay? Do you have his name? Which room was he in?”

  The kid looked at him like he’d lost it and Trembley realized that his voice had gotten loud. His enthusiasm was getting the better of him. He tried to recover.

  “Sorry. Let’s go through those one at a time. How did he—?”

  “He paid in cash,” the kid interrupted. “He was in room 203. It has three sets of bunk beds. He was a real pain about getting a bottom bunk. I mean, I get it, you’re old. I would have given you the bottom without you asking.”

  “And the name?” Trembley asked, making sure to use his indoor voice.

  “Give me a second,” the kid said, rifling through the log book. “Oh, here it is. His name is Garland Moses.”

  Trembley felt a rippling cold go up his spine. If there had been any question about it before, there was none now: it was the Night Hunter. He was back and he wanted people to know it. He seemed to be committing these crimes to intentionally get the attention of law enforcement, or maybe just one particular member of it.

  It was time to let Ryan know what he’d found. He was just pulling out his phone when the kid added one more offhand comment.

  “If this guy did something illegal and you’re trying to ID him by his fingerprints or something, you might want to check out his room now.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The cleaning crew just went up to the second floor to prep the rooms for new arrivals,” the kid said. “They do a good job of wiping down all the surfaces, which is great for guests but maybe not so much for cops who are looking for evidence and stuff.”

  “Thanks,” Trembley said, already running for the stairs. “Room 203, right?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer as he bounded up the stairs and looked around. A woman with a cleaning cart was at the far end of the hall, near what looked to be a service elevator. He hurried past the bathroom and jogged over to her.

  “Have you already cleaned the rooms on this floor?” he asked.

  The woman looked confused and said something in Spanish that Trembley didn’t get. He was about to try again when a girl in her late teens poked her head out of the closest room.

  “She doesn’t speak English,” she said. “You need a translator?”

  “Yes, please,” Trembley said excitedly and waited for the two women to complete their exchange. When they were done, the young woman turned to him.

  “She says she just started with the room across from me. She works her way down from the elevator to the stairs.”

  “Thank you,” he said, before turning to the housekeeper and adding, “Gracias.”

  The older woman smiled at him and began talking to the younger one in Spanish. Trembley let them be and walked down to room 203. As a precaution, he unfastened his gun holster but, because he didn’t want to freak out the women at the end of the hall, waited until he was in the room to remove the weapon completely. The room was empty.

  Just as the kid downstairs had said, there were three sets of bunk beds. Several metal lockers rested against the far wall. There were no personal effects to be seen, which wasn’t a huge surprise. This wasn’t the kind of place to leave things lying around.

  He walked over to the first bunk bed and lifted the sheets of the bottom one with a pen, hoping that maybe the occupant had left something behind. He didn’t expect to find an ID, but a scrap of paper or even a used tissue might be of use. There was nothing. He followed the same routine with the other two bottom beds and came up equally empty.

  He wasn’t really surprised. The Night Hunter hadn’t evaded capture for this long by being sloppy. There was a chance he had left something in one of the metal lockers along the wall, but accessing those would require authorization and he wasn’t sure if Hernandez wanted to alert anyone outside their circle about the magnitude of this case. After all, Ryan was reluctant to even tell Captain Decker about it.

  He walked over to the window, which looked west toward the ocean. It was now too dark to see the water, but the bright lights from Pacific Park, the small amusement park on the Santa Monica Pier, were visible just beyond the hotels that faced the Pacific.

  He stood on his tiptoes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the iconic solar-powered Ferris wheel. As he did, he caught a flicker of movement behind him in the window’s reflection. He was just starting to turn around when he saw the flash of metal coming toward him. His brain had just identified it as an X-Acto knife when he felt it plunge into his neck.

  He saw blood splatter against the wall and knew that it had hit his carotid artery even before he felt the pain. He started to lift his gun when the knife was pulled out and slammed back in a second time. This time the old man with the scar on his forehead left it there.

  Trembley felt his body slumping to the ground and tried to tell his finger to pull the trigger of his gun, anything to alert others. But the old man’s hands were suddenly on his, disentangling his fingers from his weapon. He drooped against the wall, feeling himself getting weak as his vision began to blur. The man leaned down close to him and whispered in his ear.

  “Shhh,” he said. “It’s all over now. Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of your friends.”

  Friends.

  Detective Alan Trembley wanted to smile at the word but he was dead before he could.

  *

  It had been too long.

  Ryan called Trembley’s cell phone again but still got no answer. He looked at the time. It was 5:08 p.m., more than ten minutes since he’d entered the hostel. The guy was usually in and out in five, typically with a dejected look on his face.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong. He was debating whether to call for backup or just get out and hobble over himself, cane and all, when he saw him.

  Staring at him from across the street was an old man with a scar on his forehead. His flat expression slowly broke into a smile. Then the man pulled open his windbreaker to reveal that the white shirt underneath was stained in a dark liquid. Ryan reached for his gun as he kept his eyes on the man. To his surprise, the sick bastard didn’t move at all. Instead he raised his index finger to his lips and mouthed shhh.

  He was staring at the man he’d been after, the Night Hunter. This was the moment to take him out. And yet, as a wave of cold anxiety washed over him, he felt his whole body stiffen. It was as if he no longer had control over his limbs. His chest seemed to be frozen. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe and yet he was panting.

  “Stop,” he said out loud to himself, demanding that his body respond to his commands. It seemed to help a little, as the sound of his voice snapped him out of his fearful trance.

  He looked around the vehicle. Since he didn’t have the keys to Trembley’s car, Ryan couldn’t even roll down the window to take a shot. His hands trembling, he unlocked the door, shoved it open, and rested his arm in the “V” between the door and the car.

  He was preparing to fire when he noticed that his gun hand was shaking uncontrollably. He re-gripped the
weapon, trying to steady himself. Instead, it got worse. Out of nowhere, a sharp pain in his chest, a sense memory from his stabbing, returned, hard and fast. He gasped and the gun fell from his hand, landing on the ground next to the passenger door.

  He gritted his teeth. With slow, methodical concentration, he leaned over and managed to grab the gun again. Pulling himself upright, he did his best to ignore the agony in his chest, his blurry vision, and the sweat that was pouring down his brow.

  He reestablished his position in the “V” of the car, blinking aggressively to clear his vision. The Night Hunter was still standing there. He’d been waiting all this time, watching, smiling.

  As Ryan took aim, the old man finally turned away and fell into step next to a family walking along the sidewalk in the opposite direction from the car. Ryan’s view was blocked by the wife, pushing a stroller, and the husband, his hands supporting the infant in the baby carrier strapped to his chest.

  Despite his pronounced hobble as he walked, the old man kept perfect pace with the father so that Ryan couldn’t get a clear shot at him. Eventually they all stopped at an intersection half a block away, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. Others joined them and soon the old man was lost in a crowd of over a dozen others.

  Ryan cursed to himself, slammed the door shut, and locked it. Then he pulled out his phone and called for backup. He needed to put out an APB on the man. He also needed to let them know that somewhere in the hostel across the street, Alan Trembley was dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  It took forever to find the house.

  This neighborhood, like the one where the Landers and Aldridges lived, wasn’t part of the section of Westwood where Jessie worked. She rarely had cause to go far from campus, certainly not to such a high-brow area.

  But unlike their friends, the Ferros were in an even more exclusive spot. The others lived just west of campus, off Veteran Avenue. But the Ferros lived in the hills north of Sunset Boulevard, adjacent to the Bel-Air Country Club, on a hard-to-locate street ending in a cul-de-sac called Bellagio Terrace.