by Blake Pierce
She nodded, taking another small bite of the muffin she was no longer interested in.
“I noticed you changed the subject too,” she pointed out.
“What?”
“The case? Did you solve it?”
“Any minute now,” he said wryly.
“Are you going to actually tell me anything at all about this case?” she asked, annoyed.
“Dead woman found in a neighbor’s home,” he said matter-of-factly. “We eliminated the husband, which disappointed me because he’s a genuinely unpleasant person. I would have loved to have nailed him for it. But at least that means I don’t have to interact with him anymore. He was like a walking, talking ulcer.”
“What else?” she asked.
He looked at her with an odd expression, as if he wanted to ask her something but couldn’t think of how best to broach the subject.
“Do you consider yourself a fashion plate?” he finally asked.
Jessie hadn’t expected that one.
“I can dress myself,” she said. “But do I have a subscription to Vogue? No. Why?”
He started to speak, but then stopped himself, instead taking a sip of coffee.
“Is that it?” she demanded. “Aren’t you going to expand on that?”
“I don’t think so,” he told her. “I’ve already said more than I should have. I worry that anything else I tell you will be like catnip and you’ll just want more. You’re supposed to be recuperating and I don’t want to undermine that. If you really want the particulars, pump Hernandez for them.”
“Ugh,” Jessie said. “That was the only reason I asked you to meet me.”
“And here I thought you just wanted the pleasure of my company. That’s very hurtful.” He sounded wounded but she could see a grin starting to form at the corners of his mouth.
“You are a very unpleasant man,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
He took another sip of coffee and allowed himself the full-on smile this time.
“Did you want to discuss any non–case related topics?” he asked. “I feel like you’re holding back.”
“What am I holding back?” she replied more petulantly than she’d intended.
“We haven’t talked about Hannah in a while. How’s she doing?”
Jessie exhaled deeply.
“Sometimes sweet. Sometimes moody. Sometimes hilarious. Sometimes bitchy. Sometimes silent. Your basic nightmare.”
“But no killing, right?” Garland said.
“What?”
“The half-sister you’re worried might be a budding, sociopathic serial-killer-in-training—she hasn’t murdered anyone yet?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge,” Jessie answered.
“Then moody doesn’t seem so bad in comparison,” he noted.
She shrugged in agreement.
“Not when you put it that way.”
“Maybe count your blessings,” he said mildly. “Considering the life you lead, things could be a hell of a lot worse.”
Jessie couldn’t deny that. She was about to ask him for his input on another matter when her phone rang. She looked down. It was her FBI agent friend Jack Dolan, who’d been having his people keep tabs on her ex-husband, Kyle.
“I have to take this,” she said.
“That’s okay,” Garland, said, dropping a five on the table. “I should get into the office anyway. Your boyfriend probably misses me.”
“You want a ride?”
“Nah. You’ve got your call. Besides, you know I like to walk.”
“Okay,” she said as she answered the phone. “Hi, Dolan.”
“Hey, Jessie,” Garland added in a hushed voice as he stood up.
“Hold on one second, Dolan,” she said into the phone before looking up at the crusty guy in front of her. “Yeah, Garland?”
“Just remember, you’re in charge of your life. Not Decker, not Hannah, not Hernandez, and not any serial killer. Sometimes it’s hard to see it that way. But you always have choices.”
“Thanks, Confucius,” she said as she winked at him. “We’ll talk later, okay. I’ve got to take this call. It’s about Kyle.”
Garland smiled, bowed slightly, and headed out, his shock of unruly white hair fading into the distance as he disappeared leisurely into the crowd of people hurrying to their destinations.
“I’m back,” Jessie said. “What have you got for me, Jack?”
“Bad news—it’s about your ex-husband.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Hang on a minute,” Jessie said, even as her heart dropped into her stomach. “I need to find somewhere private to talk.”
Jessie almost regretted waiting. The three minutes it took to pay, leave the diner, and get into her car felt interminable. Dolan, a hard-bitten cynic whose attitude was only mildly tempered by his morning surf outings, was not known for hyperbole. If he said a situation was bad, it was usually worse. She thought she might throw up the quarter of a muffin she’d eaten.
“Tell me,” she said brusquely when she took him off hold.
“The short version is: we’ve got nothing.”
“It’s been over three weeks,” she protested. “You’re telling me he’s been a perfect citizen this whole time?”
“Yep,” Dolan said, “suspiciously so. He hasn’t so much as rolled through a stop sign. Of course, he’s well aware that we’re watching him. He waves at our agents when he drives by.”
“They’re not trying to stay low profile?”
“They were at first. But he’s pretty savvy, as you know. He spotted our van the first week so it seemed like a waste to use it after that. We’ve been employing unmarked sedans ever since. The truth is that my bosses are balking at the use of resources as it is. Pretty soon, they’re going to make me pull back to one agent. I wouldn’t be surprised if they dump the surveillance entirely by the end of the week if nothing pops. By then, it’ll have been a month without anything.”
“But that’s exactly what he’s waiting for,” Jessie insisted. “He’s holding out until you pull your guys before he tries anything big.”
Jessie could feel a familiar anxiety resurfacing, as she recalled how adept her ex-husband was at presenting a charming front that masked the ugliness below.
“You know that and I know that,” Dolan said, clearly frustrated. “But that doesn’t mean much to the higher-ups. They want to see results. And we haven’t given them any. You have to look at it from their perspective.”
“What does that mean?” Jessie demanded.
“Remember, technically your ex-husband was released because of malfeasance by a law enforcement professional. They don’t want to be accused of harassing a man who was already mistreated by the system. It’s a political issue. The fact that he’s a murderer gets lost in there. So we’ve had to tread lightly as it is. We’re close to the point where the hope of catching him in illegality is being outweighed by the bad press that might blow back on us. Today might be a tipping point on that front.”
“Why?” Jessie asked, though she could already guess. Kyle was about to go into public relations mode.
“Because later this morning, he’s scheduled to do an interview with a news station,” Dolan said, confirming her intuition. “Technically, it’s about his foundation. But I wouldn’t be shocked if his current personal situation comes up. And my supervisor is worried he might mention the surveillance.”
Jessie realized she was sweating, though she wasn’t sure whether it was because of Dolan’s words or the fast-rising morning temperature. She turned on the ignition and jacked up the air-conditioning.
“What about the suspicion that he’s involved with the Monzon cartel?” she asked. “Aren’t they worried that if they pull surveillance they’ll miss it if he contacts them?”
“We have other potential ways of keeping tabs on him. We got judicial authorization to put a tracker on his car, to set up bugs and cameras in his house, even to monitor his calls. But considering that a
judge just gave a prosecutor a tongue-lashing for overreach—”
“A prosecutor who was surely threatened by the cartel,” she interrupted.
“Which we can’t prove,” Dolan countered. “My bosses are worried that the judge who authorized the taps will be wary about extending surveillance if he thinks his reputation is at stake. We’re in a delicate situation here.”
Jessie shook her head, though no one could see it. Less than a month and Kyle was already manipulating the system to his advantage. She bristled at the thought of what he could do with another month of freedom.
“This is exactly what he wanted, you know,” Jessie pointed out. “He knows you’re tailing him but he hasn’t complained yet. He’s holding it over your heads, ready to bust it out when he needs it most. He’s keeping his nose clean as long as it serves his purposes. He doesn’t want to cry to the press if he can get you guys to back off without it. He’s saving that chit. This is all part of his setup.”
She heard Dolan sigh heavily through the phone.
“You don’t have to convince me, Jessie,” he assured her. “I’m on your side. I’m just wondering if maybe we should pull our guys back now, before he makes any accusations. Then we can legitimately claim we’re not following him, harassing him. I can craft the message for the press that we merely have agents check in on him from time to time. If it looks like he’s Chicken Little, it hurts his credibility. He’s not the only one who can play this game.”
“No, but he’s better at it than anyone I’ve ever met. Don’t underestimate him.”
“I won’t,” Dolan promised. “Listen, we know that Kyle is out of jail because he convinced the cartel it was worth their time and effort. We know they were even willing to help destroy your life for him. At some point, he’s going to have to deliver for them. Something is going to break with this guy soon.”
“Yeah, I just hope it breaks before he finds a way to break me.”
*
Jessie could tell Ryan was trying not to rub it in.
“How were your days?” he asked her and Hannah as he washed the broccoli for dinner, pointedly making no mention of the case.
Hannah was prepping a marinade for the lamb while Jessie searched for the broiling pan.
It was clear that he hoped that by keeping quiet about his own day, he wouldn’t make her jealous that he was out investigating murders while she was stuck in the apartment. She thought it was a sweet gesture, though he would soon learn it was futile.
“Only two more weeks of school,” Hannah said happily. “Then it’s summer break. So there’s that.”
“That’s awesome,” Ryan replied.
“Don’t forget that you have summer school,” Jessie reminded her, hating how schoolmarmy she sounded.
“I know,” Hannah said, dialing up the sarcasm. “But that’s at the ‘regular kids’ school and not the therapeutic high school for students ‘facing extreme emotional and psychological challenges.’ Besides, it’s not for another month. Please don’t crush my already fragile spirit.”
“Sorry,” Jessie said.
“And your day?” Ryan asked Jessie, quickly changing the subject.
“It could have been better,” she admitted. “Dolan told me they can’t nail Kyle for anything. He’s been a choir boy since he got out. They’re thinking of pulling surveillance.”
“That sucks.”
“It does,” she agreed. “Almost as much as having my friend and professional mentor shut me down when I tried to get details on the case he was working because he was worried I’d salivate right in front of him.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh what?” she asked.
“Uh-oh, Garland warned me you might come at me hard for info because he wouldn’t share much.”
“Oh yeah?” she pressed. “Did he give you any advice on how to handle me?”
“He said to stay strong, not to crumble under your withering interrogation.”
Jessie smiled malevolently.
“How do you think that’s going to go for you?”
“I’m confident that I’ll hold up,” he said, as he walked toward their bedroom. “But first I’m going to take a shower.”
“You know that stalling tactics will only work for so long,” she shouted as he disappeared from sight without responding.
Jessie stared at the door, wondering if she could perhaps burn it to ashes with her eyes alone.
“Ahem,” Hannah muttered tentatively. “I hate to pile on when you’re already so salty, but the lamb I was going to broil smells funny. I think we’re going to have to toss it out, which means we have no dinner plan.”
Jessie felt her shoulders sag involuntarily. This day was ending as badly as it had started.
“I’ve got it covered,” she finally said.
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to try to cook something?” Hannah said, sounding genuinely concerned.
“You know, I managed to get dinner on the table almost every night for years before you started living here. Have a little faith.”
“Almost every night?” Hannah repeated.
“Some nights I wasn’t that hungry,” Jessie said defensively.
“Right,” Hannah said, unconvinced. “You’re ordering pizza, aren’t you?”
Jessie felt a twinge of shame as the words came out.
“Yes. I’m ordering pizza.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
By the time Garland crested the hill, the sun had already set.
As he made the now-familiar drive down into Manhattan Beach, he could still see the ocean where the waves broke close to the beach. But it didn’t have quite the same majesty as last night, when dusk was only starting to take hold.
He told himself that it didn’t matter, that he had come back here for the second night in a row because of the investigation, not because of the view. But even he wasn’t totally convinced. Yes, something about the crime scene was eating at him. But the truth was, he was also looking for an excuse to walk along the breezy surfside streets with their patio restaurants and wine store tastings.
He found a parking spot near the main drag and got out, wandering up Highland Avenue to the police station. Along the way, he could smell what he thought were short ribs wafting out of a café on the corner. He passed a newsstand with papers from New Zealand and India and fought the urge to stop and peruse them.
Instead he walked the final block to the station, giving the desk sergeant his name. Officer Timms from the prior night came out and gave him the key to the home of Charles and Gail Bloom, where Priscilla had died.
“I can go with you if you like,” the young officer offered. “I’m on overnight duty and it’s been pretty quiet.”
“Thanks,” Garland replied. “But sometimes I like to walk through the scene on my own, without any distractions. I find it helps me uncover things I might have missed before. But I promise to return the key within a few hours.”
After he left the station, Garland strolled casually down the steep walking path to the Strand. At this hour, approaching 9 p.m., it was mostly quiet. There were a few runners and some people taking their dogs on the last walk of the night. In fact, he had to sidestep the urine trail of one particularly sloppy canine.
He ambled the last half block to the Bloom house, taking in the sound of crashing waves and gulls calling out to each other. He knew that once he walked in that house, his brain would go into overdrive and all the little pleasures he was currently appreciating would be immediately forgotten. He was just trying to delay the inevitable.
When he arrived, he slipped under the police tape, making sure to stay in the shadows so recent widower Garth Barton wouldn’t see him if he happened to be looking out a window. Just because the man had been cleared didn’t mean he wasn’t a jerk. Garland was happy to let the locals handle that headache.
He unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house was dark, though he could still see the chalk outline where Priscilla Barton’s body had
been found. Looking at the spot, he recalled the conversation Detective Hernandez had described having with the homeowners earlier in the day.
It amazed him that even learning a woman had died in their foyer wasn’t enough to get them to return from their vacation. Unfortunately, with them and the husband eliminated as suspects, he was hitting a wall. That’s why he was here: to find a fresh perspective.
He did a cursory walk through the first floor before going to the second, which was the reason he’d returned in the first place. Something had been bothering him all day but he hadn’t put his finger on it until he was driving home. Once he realized what it was, he was almost home. Instead of continuing, he’d turned the car southward and headed back to the Blooms’ mansion. Along the way, he called the MBPD to tell them he wanted to check out the scene again and was informed that a key to the house would be left for him.
At the top of the stairs, he turned on his small flashlight and made his way down the hall to the master bedroom. After allowing himself a moment to take in the large room with the canopy bed, he moved over to what he assumed was Gail Bloom’s dresser. Though he felt like a bit of a pervert, he slid on his gloves and pulled open the top drawer, which he assumed held her undergarments. Sometimes the job called for unusual choices.
He shined the flashlight into the drawer as he delicately moved around the woman’s delicates. After a thorough going-through, he pulled out his phone to once again look at the apparent murder weapon used on Priscilla Barton—the stocking. The brand, called Only the Best, which he’d learned after doing some online research, was very high end.
But looking through Gail Bloom’s drawer, he had found no pairs of that brand or any other hose at all, for that matter. Nor did he find a solo stocking, either in the drawer or on top of it. He knelt down to see if it might have fallen under the dresser but found nothing.
He got out his notepad and briefly noted his conclusion—that Bloom didn’t seem to own these stockings. That was odd and potentially helpful news. If the stocking wasn’t hers, then the killer hadn’t just grabbed it on the fly and used it as a makeshift weapon. He or she must have brought it into the house.