by Blake Pierce
“I’ll take what I can get,” Kat whispered.
Jessie looked over at her and a wave of unexpected goodwill washed over her.
“What you can get, if you want one, is a hug.”
Kat allowed herself the briefest flicker of a smile.
“I do want one,” she said.
Jessie stood. Kat rose as well and allowed herself to be wrapped in her friend’s extended arms. Neither said anything for a while.
“What do we do now?” Kat finally asked quietly.
“We try our best to clean up the stain of the secrets,” Jessie said. “It might take a while, but I think we can get there.”
“I know we can,” Kat replied before finally pulling away. “Should we work on that some more after we catch this sick killer?”
But Jessie wasn’t really listening. Her own words, a callback to something Kat had said moments earlier, had caused a jumble of disconnected thoughts and images in her head to collide all at once. Her brain was filled with flashes of stained carpets and faded paintings hanging in lonely houses. Slightly dizzy, she reached for the back of the bench to steady herself.
“Are you okay?” Kat asked, concerned.
Jessie wasn’t sure. The cascade of thoughts was almost physically overwhelming.
“Something you said just made me think about the case,” she eventually managed to mutter. “I think I have an idea. We should get back inside.”
She started for the door.
“Do you want to tell me what I said that caused this epiphany?” Kat asked, jogging to catch up.”
Jessie didn’t even look back as she responded.
“Stains.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
It didn’t take long to find what she was looking for.
Reid and Kat stood over her desk in the bullpen as she flipped through the crime scene photos taken at the home of Caroline Ryan and Brian Clark.
“Here it is,” she said, pulling one out and slamming it down on the desk. It was photo of the top of the piano from the couple’s sitting room, with multiple photos strategically lined up.
“What are we looking at?” Reid asked. “Kat said there was a stain. I don’t see any stain.”
Jessie shook her head.
“Not a stain so much as a discoloration,” she said, talking as fast as her brain would allow. “I noticed it when you were talking to Caroline last night. I went through the sitting room to avoid being seen. That’s when I noticed it.”
She pointed to a spot on the piano top between two photos where the wood looked darker than elsewhere.
“Okay,” Kat said. “I see it, but I don’t get the significance.”
“From everything I know,” Jessie said, “both Caroline and Brian Clark were very meticulous, even anal people. I don’t think they would have missed something like this. The color in this spot is different than everywhere else. I think that’s because when the sun streamed into the sitting room, over time it affected the color of the wood. In places where the piano was exposed directly to sunlight, the wood was lighter. Where the wood was covered for an extended time, by say a piece of art or a photo, it would be darker. This portion of the wood is darker than everything around it.”
“Okay, so they had something there and they moved it,” Reid said, unimpressed.
“Doubtful,” Jessie replied dismissively. “Those two would never have moved an item without replacing it with something to hide the spot. Everything else nearby is a framed photo. How hard would it be to just put a new one in the empty space? But they didn’t do that. And look at the gap between the two photos on either side of the spot. It’s much wider than the separation between any of the other photos on the piano top. No way Caroline Ryan would have let that stand.”
“So what are you saying?” Kat asked.
“I’m saying that I think there was a photo on top of that piano and that it was taken very recently,” she said, pausing before making the leap she hoped they would take with her. “I think it was taken by the killer.”
Reid and Kat were silent. Reid managed to regroup first.
“But why?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Jessie said, pulling out her phone and dialing a number. “And I won’t until we know what was taken. That’s why I’m calling Caroline Ryan right now. I need you both to do the same thing. Reid, call Jack Bender. Have him look around his house to see if anything is missing or out of place. Tell him to look specifically for framed photos that might have been taken from a mantle or wall, somewhere where it might not be immediately missed. Kat, you call Titus Poole and do the same thing.”
Before either could respond, Caroline Ryan picked up.
“Caroline,” she launched in, dispensing with any initial words of sympathy. “It’s Jessie Hunt. Are you at home?”
“Yes,” the woman responded groggily. “I had a few sleeping pills. I was taking a nap.”
“I need you to go down to your sitting room right now,” she instructed.
“Why?”
“I’ll explain when you get down there, but please hurry. This is important.”
“Okay,” Caroline said, sounding more alert already. “Give me a minute.”
While Jessie waited, she looked over the other two.
“Bender’s walking a real estate agent though the house for a potential sale,” Reid said. “I’m having him look right now.”
“I keep getting Titus Poole’s voicemail,” Kat said. “Maybe he’s not picking up because he doesn’t know my number. Should I use a station hard line?”
“Sure,” Jessie said.
“Okay,” Kat said, her eyes suddenly lighting up.
“What?” Jessie asked.
“I have an idea that may work even if he doesn’t answer,” she said. “I’m going to look at the—.”
Jessie held up her hand. Caroline was back on the line.
“I’m down here,” she said. “What now?”
“Look at the top of your piano,” Jessie told her. “Do you see a discolored spot in a gap between two photos?”
There was a long pause.
“Yes!” came the piercing reply. “It’s missing.”
“What is?”
“One of our engagement photos,” she said, her voice wounded. “We took them at the pier in Hermosa Beach.”
“Did Jeanie Court organize that?”
“Yes, she was there supervising the whole thing along with Joan Baker, the photographer. She even brought in a hair and makeup stylist to touch me up.”
“I thought the photographer’s name was Sloane,” Jessie prompted.
“Oh yeah, that’s right. I always get that wrong.”
“Who was the stylist?” she asked.
“I think her name was Steph; something like that.”
Reid was waving at her excitedly with his phone.
“Thanks, Caroline,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll get back to you if I have any more questions.”
“Does this help?” she asked.
“I hope so,” Jessie told her, then hung up. The second she did, Reid dived in.
“I have Jack Bender on mute. He didn’t have a clue. He said he doesn’t notice stuff like that. But apparently the real estate agent with him did. She pointed out an unusually large gap on the mantle. Once he saw it, he remembered that they kept one of their wedding photos there.”
Jessie felt a flush of excitement. This couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.
“Ask who was at the photo session. Jeanie? The same photographer, Sloane? Was there a stylist named Steph or something similar?”
Reid unmuted Bender and asked the questions. Jessie waited impatiently, glancing over at Kat, whose eyes were fixed on the computer monitor in front of her. Before she could ask what that was about, Reid spoke up.
“Jeanie was there. He doesn’t remember the photographer’s name; said it was some chunky gal who didn’t talk much. He doesn’t remember the stylist either, but it wasn’t anyone named Steph. In fact, h
e said it was a guy. Any other questions for him?”
Lost in thought, Jessie absently shook her head without speaking. She tried to put the pieces together without making assumptions. Just because someone was at these photo shoots didn’t automatically mean that they were the one who stole the pictures, who committed these murders.
But whoever did this obviously had animosity toward these couples, though not necessarily because of anything specific to them. Could it just be the very fact that they were couples at all? It was clear that Jeanie Court resented that her entire life was about creating perfect romantic moments for people when her own life seemed so devoid of them. Could the same be true of Sloane Baker?
She was about to pull up whatever info they had on the woman when Kat looked up. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement.
“I found something,” she said giddily.
“What?”
I’ve been comparing crime scene photos from Jax’s place with photos from her Instagram account. She took a lot of them. I matched up her most recent personal photos with the ones taken by CSU and found a discrepancy. Look here.”
Jessie and Reid crowded over her monitor as she laid two photos on the screen side by side. Even before Kat started explaining, Jessie saw what she was referencing, but she held her tongue.
“Here, on her Instagram,” Kat noted, “there’s what looks like a framed engagement picture on the dresser in her bedroom. But that picture isn’t in the crime scene photos. The space is empty. I searched further back in Jax’s account and found the original photo that she ended up framing. She posted a bunch of them all on the same day.”
Kat scrolled to the day and clicked on the image. It was of Jax and Titus sitting on a bench with the famed Griffith Observatory in the background. In the lower left corner of the image was a watermark that read “courtesy of Sloane Baker Photography.”
“It could just be a coincidence,” Reid said, clearly also trying not to jump to conclusions. “Just like Jeanie Court planned all the victims’ weddings, Sloane Baker was the photographer for them too. That doesn’t mean she’s our killer.”
“You’re right,” Jessie said. “But it’s the best lead we’ve had in hours. Even if it’s not her, she’s bound to have some useful information. Either way, I think we should go see her now.”
“I just pulled up her address,” Kat said, reading Jessie’s mind. “She lives in the Fairfax District. I bet we can be there in twenty minutes if you use your sirens.”
Jessie grabbed her jacket as Reid did the same.
“I’ll try to make it fifteen,” he said.
Jessie hoped it wasn’t too late.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Jessie shut the siren out of her head.
As Reid tore through the city streets, she focused on the limited information she’d been able to collect on Sloane Baker. Other than a driver’s license indicating that she was thirty-two, some LLC paperwork for her photography business, and two traffic citations, there was almost nothing.
Baker had moved here from Philadelphia seven years ago, established her photography business, resided in three different apartments over the years, and lived what appeared to be a generally drama-free life. Of course, paperwork couldn’t reveal what might be lurking underneath, but on the surface, everything seemed normal.
Her phone buzzed and she saw a text from Jamil, along with an attachment. It read: Sent Detective Hernandez home. He didn’t put up a fight. Had a little lull in my vehicle search and heard about your new suspect. Did some web sleuthing. Found this. Hope it helps.
She clicked on the attachment and saw that it was Baker’s school record from her time attending Temple University in Philadelphia. Jamil had specifically highlighted two notations from her junior year. The first said: Health services incident report (redacted); 12/8/2007; 2007 fall semester. The second was equally succinct: Sabbatical approved; 2008 spring semester, personal/medical reasons.
It was hard to draw too many conclusions. Maybe Sloane Baker had gotten sick. Maybe she’d been the victim of some kind of assault. Maybe she’d harmed someone else. But whatever happened, it occurred late on a Saturday night in the waning weeks of the fall semester. Then she didn’t return for the spring semester. It was reasonable to assume the two were connected. And it was the first sign that Baker’s life wasn’t always as milquetoast as it first seemed.
Reid shut off the siren and Jessie looked up to see why. She saw that they had turned left off North Fairfax Avenue onto Oakwood Avenue, a residential street near Canter’s Deli. Baker’s apartment complex was just a few blocks west.
When they arrived, a patrol car, also without sirens, was parked at the curb with two uniformed officers waiting for them. They hopped out and while Reid filled the two men in on the situation, Jessie looked over at Kat.
“You okay with this?” she asked.
“This is why I’m here,” her friend said with cool confidence. “I’ve got your back.”
With everyone on the same page, Reid led the way. He pushed open the front gate, which had a broken latch, and jogged toward Baker’s first floor, back corner unit.
“Remember,” he said, sounding slightly winded. “If this is our girl, she has access to sprayable acid and injectable drain cleaner. Keep your distance. Don’t take any chances.”
Everyone nodded. Reid knocked loudly on the door.
“Sloane Baker. This is the Los Angeles Police Department. We have a warrant to search your home. Open the door now.”
There was no response. Reid waited about ten seconds before trying again.
“Open the door now, Ms. Baker. This is your final warning. LAPD has a warrant to search the premises.”
After another ten seconds of silence, he nodded to the uniformed officer holding the battering ram and stepped aside. Everyone unholstered their weapons. The officer wasted no time slamming the door, which gave easily, shooting wide open. The second officer moved in first, followed by Reid, and then the other officer, who dropped the battering ram on the ground and took out his gun. Jessie and Kat followed close behind.
The unit was cleared in under a minute. There was no one home. Jessie walked around, finally stopping at the entrance to Sloane’s bedroom. A second pair of officers arrived. One took up a position at the front door of the apartment. The second walked up to Reid.
“Are you Detective Reid?” he asked.
“I am.”
“I’m supposed to give you a message from Captain Decker at Central Station. He says he got emergency authorization for a search of Baker’s GPS phone and vehicle location data. Nothing has come back yet on the car. There seems to some confusion as to what vehicle is actually registered to her. He said her phone isn’t pinging at all and that the researcher doing the search thinks she took out her battery completely.”
“Thanks, officer,” he said, turning to Jessie and Kat. “So this means we have no way of knowing where she is now.”
Kat said something in response, but Jessie was no longer listening. Her eye had drifted to a series of pictures on Baker’s bedside table. She walked over. They were the missing photos from the victim’s houses. As she leaned in closer, she saw that the faces of Claire Bender, Jax Coopersmith and Brian Clark had all been scratched out.
She felt a surge of vindication mixed with horror. They knew who the killer was but had no idea where to find her.
“She did it,” Jessie said quietly, ending whatever conversation Reid and Kat had been having. They joined her.
“Oh god,” Reid said, speaking for them all when he saw the photos, “We have to find her. She could be out wreaking havoc right now.”
“Her laptop is on the dresser,” Kat pointed out. “Maybe I can search her calendar and see where she’s supposed to be right now. The murders don’t usually take place until later at night. She could be working an event.”
As Kat searched, Jessie noticed that the bedside table drawer was open slightly. She pulled the drawer all the way out to find on
e more framed photo lying face-up. It was of Sloane with a schlubby-looking guy, his armed wrapped around her shoulder. She couldn’t tell much about the man’s facial appearance because, like the recent poisoning victims, it was scratched out. A grunt from Kat made her look up. Based on her friend’s body language, she knew the laptop was a bust.
“It’s password protected,” Kat said. “I’m sure it won’t be hard to crack but that’s beyond my skill set. By the time we get it to someone who can access the thing, it might be too late.”
Jessie looked at the photos again, absorbing the pain of all the couples who had looked so happy in them. And then it hit her. Feeling like an idiot, she pulled out her phone.
“Who are you calling?” Reid asked.
“We don’t need her laptop,” Jessie said. “We have someone in custody right now who probably knows exactly where Sloane Baker is at this moment: Jeanie Court.”
She reached the shift officer managing the cells.
“I need you to get Jeanie Court on the phone right away,” she said.
She listened as the officer barked instructions to someone else, then waited helplessly, flinching slightly at the sound of each shouted voice and clanging metal door. The three minutes it took to get her on the line felt interminable.
“Hello?” Jeanie Court said tentatively.
“Jeanie,” Jessie said, cutting to the chase, “It’s Jessie Hunt. I may have a way for you to help yourself, assuming you can help me. If your information pans out, I’ll put in a good word with the prosecutor on your case. How does that sound to you?”
“Good,” Jeanie said without hesitation.
“Okay. Did you have Sloane Baker contracted to work an event tonight?”
There was a long pause that Jessie assumed was Court searching her memory. But when she replied, it was clear that wasn’t the problem. Court just didn’t want to give her bad news.
“I don’t have any events scheduled for tonight,” she said slowly.