by Blake Pierce
“Thanks,” he said, blushing slightly.
Jessie had a brief flash of taking the shirt off him again later tonight but pushed it away. The way this case was going, the chances that they’d have any opportunity for intimacy this evening were somewhere between slim and none.
Suddenly she felt a wave of shame at having thought about her own pleasure when Garland had been dead less than twenty-four hours. She knew the old guy wouldn’t take offense. In fact, he’d probably be happy that she was allowing herself a few moments unconsumed by grief. But knowing it and believing it were two different things.
“I’m going to call Dolan,” she said out of the blue.
Ryan, who was still lingering in their romantic moment, looked confused but nodded. Jessie pretended not to notice and dialed the FBI agent’s number. When he picked up, she dived right in.
“Hey Jack,” she said. “How’s it going? I need an update on Kyle.”
“Nice to hear from you, Jessie,” he replied laconically. “I’m well. Thanks for asking so sincerely. How are you?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Yes,” he said, dropping the sardonic tone. “I heard about Garland. I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks, Jack. I appreciate that. To be honest, I’m working a case, the one he was handling when he was killed, and staying focused on it has been good for me. It’s been a helpful distraction; keeps me from losing myself, you know?”
“I do. That’s what alcohol did for me until a few months ago when I decided to focus on big waves exclusively, if you’ll recall.”
Jessie did. When she’d first met Jack Dolan while working on an inter-jurisdictional case, he was almost as focused on getting sauced as solving the murder they were investigating. But soon afterward he’d quit drinking entirely. Now he used surfing, always a hobby, as his method of escaping the madness. She could picture him on the other end of the line as they spoke, his silvery hair wet, his skin salty and his face tanned and crinkly from hours in the sun.
“Unfortunately, Jack, I don’t balance very well on a surfboard, so I’ll have to use work as my mental vacation.”
“I just want you to take a moment to process that. You’re saying investigating murders is your way to de-stress and navigate grief. Maybe you should let me give you a lesson. I promise we’ll start with baby waves.”
“A discussion for another time,” she told him. “Right now, I need you to tell me where my ex-husband was this afternoon.”
“Why? Is everything okay?”
“Actually, Ryan was attacked this afternoon here in Manhattan Beach. At first we thought it was related to the case we’re working, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Hold on a second,” he said, obviously reading something. “I just got the field notes from our day surveillance team. They handed off to the night guys about a half hour ago. It looks like Voss spent the whole day in the Claremont area. He was mostly home in the morning. The he ran some errands in the afternoon, spent several hours reviewing finance textbooks at the college library in the afternoon. He’s home having sushi right now.”
“How do you know that?” Jessie asked, surprised.
“He told my guys. Despite my repeated requests that they not engage directly with him, they couldn’t help themselves. He tends to taunt them with his waves and smiles when he’s driving around. Anyway, there was a little chat outside the library, during which he mentioned his dinner plans.”
Jessie felt a surge of frustration rise up in her throat and tried to swallow it down before responding.
“I don’t know what to do with the fact that your agents sound like they’re getting uncomfortably chummy with the man who tried to kill me. But I’ll set that aside for now. Where exactly was Kyle from about two p.m. to four p.m.?”
She heard Dolan rustling through his papers. While she waited, she chomped down aggressively on another bite of her wrap.
“It looks like he was at the library that whole time, Jessie,” he said apologetically. “My guys say he never left their sight except for occasional short bathroom breaks.”
Jessie turned that over in her head, trying to make sense of it. Of course, even if Kyle had an airtight alibi, that didn’t mean he hadn’t somehow gotten a cartel goon to do his dirty work for him. If that was the case, all this surveillance was probably a waste of time.
“Do they know why he was at the library in the first place?” she asked, grasping at straws.
“He’s been there a lot lately, actually,” Dolan said. “They think he’s trying to bone up on new financial regulations that came down while he was behind bars, so he can ace those job interviews.”
“That’s weird,” Jessie mused.
“What is?”
“In all my years with him—in college, living together after graduation, as a married couple—I never knew him to be much of a studier. He was always more of a ‘scrape by’ kind of guy.”
“Maybe prison really did change him,” Dolan suggested teasingly.
“Don’t even say that in jest, Jack,” she told him. “I will come to your office and beat you down if I have to.”
She heard him chuckling at his ability to get a rise out of her.
“I’m just kidding,” he said. “Of course it’s all an act. But he’s convincing some other people, kiddo. You should prepare yourself for him to be surveillance-free by the end of this week.”
“Great,” Jessie muttered. “Now I’ve got to add that to the worst to-do list in history: keep your recently discovered sister in good mental health, solve the murder of your mentor, and now, keep an eye out for your murderous ex-husband. What happened to the list with stuff like going to the market and replacing your air filter?”
“Hey, you chose this life,” he reminded her.
“Did I though?” she asked.
Before he could answer, she heard a buzz and looked at her phone. It was Jamil, the researcher from MBPD.
“I gotta go, Jack. Let me know if Kyle makes any moves,” she said before unceremoniously clicking over to the other line and asking, “What have you got?”
Jamil was clearly excited as he answered.
“Something good, I think.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The woman, whose name was Nancy, kept giving Jessie nasty looks.
Her first words upon their arrival were “The MBSHOA offices usually close at six p.m. and it is highly unusual to conduct business outside normal operating hours.”
Clearly, she’d lost whatever contest the Manhattan Beach Strand Homeowners Association office staff had held to determine who had to stay late and she was letting Ryan and especially Jessie know it.
Luckily, Jamil Winslow, the polite police researcher from MBPD, had called prior to their arrival and specifically requested that a staffer stay late to walk some LAPD folks through a few documents. Even Nancy knew that refusing a direct request from the police wasn’t an advisable option. But that didn’t mean she had to be nice about it. So she wasn’t.
Her answers were largely monosyllabic and when she was asked for documents, she tossed them over without explanation. Jessie suspected that part of Nancy’s animosity was related to the D.A.’s request for the search warrant to access unoccupied homes, which was still pending. Despite being on opposite sides in that dispute, Ryan tried to be cordial with her, but Jessie was losing her patience quickly.
“So this is every person who lost a home or sold one under duress along the Strand in the last year?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“I can’t get into people’s heads to determine if they were under duress during the time of sale,” Nancy said officiously.
Jessie sighed deeply for about the fourth time during their visit. She fought the strong desire to tug on one of the many tight gray curls bouncing tauntingly off the woman’s heavily permed head.
Nancy was in her early sixties, with sharp, mean features and cold, light blue eyes. She wore a long floral dress that seemed far too fussy for the
summer weather. The foundation on her pinched cheeks was starting to crack slightly after a full day of scowling at people. She was obviously used to being home by now, probably judging the contestants on Wheel of Fortune as she sipped rośe in her garden room.
“By duress, I mean folks who sold their homes at well under market value,” Jessie said, trying again to be agreeable.
“Those sales are included, as are home losses due to foreclosures, bankruptcy, divorce settlements, and the like. All Strand residents agree to financial transparency in exchange for the privilege of living in such a desirable neighborhood. It’s a sacrifice that I’m sure folks from your…locality are happy not to have to make.”
Jessie felt her fists clench into tight little balls, furious with this imperious woman and angry at herself for being baited.
“Do you live on the Strand?” she heard Ryan ask with a tone of studied, insincere civility she had no idea he was capable of.
“I do not,” Nancy answered after a painfully long pause. “My home is a few blocks up the hill to the west. I have a better ocean view from that vantage point.”
“I’m sure,” Ryan agreed, his voice mostly sugar with just a touch of acid. “Let me ask you, if you had to pick the resident who moved out recently who had brought the most disrepute upon the neighborhood, who would that be?”
Nancy only had to think for a second before replying.
“Barnard Hemsley, without question.”
“Why him?” Ryan wanted to know.
“Mr. Hemsley is an extremely difficult man,” Nancy said.
Jessie made sure to only look at the woman, certain that if she glanced at Ryan, she’d burst out laughing at Nancy describing someone else as difficult.
“Go on,” Ryan urged Nancy to continue.
“The man had no respect for the MBSHOA rules and regs. He repeatedly hosed down his deck with chemical cleansers that would drip onto the Strand walking path proper.”
“Why is that so bad?” Jessie wanted to know.
Nancy gave her a disdainful look before consenting to answer.
“In part, it was because of the strong bleach-like scent. But more importantly, people walk their dogs on the Strand. They invariably lick any liquid they see. More than one got sick. Owners were irate.”
“Anything else?” Ryan wondered.
“Many things,” Nancy said primly, handing over the file. “Mr. Hemsley is not married. Instead he chose to have loud parties with young women at all hours. He had no respect for our noise ordinances. He routinely left his deck furniture on the walking path, blocking pedestrian traffic. He put a wooden rocking chair on a section of greenery across from the Strand that only permits approved public seating and landscaping. He tried to have the balcony of his third floor enlarged so that it extended out over the Strand itself. Not only did it violate zoning ordinances, it created a safety hazard. If a chunk of the thing broke off, it might have landed on some baby being pushed in a stroller. There are at least another half dozen violations in the file.”
“So what happened?” Jessie asked, morbidly fascinated.
“Well, this went on for several years. Mr. Hemsley is a lawyer and he seemed to enjoy the endless court battles. But the law was on the side of the MBSHOA and he started racking up significant fines, which he refused to pay. That only increased the subsequent fines. Eventually he was over five hundred thousand dollars in arrears. That’s when the court told him he had to pay everything at once or have the home seized.”
“Did he pay?” Ryan asked, clearly as curious as Jessie.
“Eventually, yes,” Nancy said. “But not without strings. He ended up selling his house for well below market value and using some of that money to pay off the fines. It seemed he wanted to intentionally lower the property value. He also made sure to sell the home to people we later learned weren’t really Strand types. We would have tried to get them removed as well, if being nouveau riche social climbers wasn’t against the bylaws.”
Nancy shook her head, appalled at the very thought of the unpleasantness.
“So where is Hemsley now?” Jessie asked.
“He’s still in Manhattan Beach. But he’s moved slightly inland. Now he lives in Manhattan Township. Have you heard of it?”
Jessie and Ryan shook their heads.
“It’s a gated community,” she said with just a hint of superiority. “They have their own HOA, thank god. The homes are smaller and more tightly packed together. But they have excellent security. Frankly, I think he moved there just to create havoc for a new set of people.”
“Where is this place?” Ryan asked.
“Just off Marine Avenue. It’s about a five-minute drive from here. You shouldn’t have much trouble finding him.”
“Why is that?” Jessie asked.
“I suspect the guards will happily take you to him. I hear everyone there hates him too.”
*
Nancy was right.
The guard at the main gate to Manhattan Township turned up his nose at the mere mention of Barnard Hemsley’s name, though he had to fight off a slight smile when he learned the LAPD wanted to question him. He offered to lead them to the man’s house and they accepted.
As he drove ahead of them slowly, Jessie took in the homes in the neighborhood. They weren’t all that different from the houses one might find in any well-to-do, cookie cutter suburban community. There were only a few real distinctions.
One was that Manhattan Township abutted a major movie studio lot and a nine-hole golf course. They could see multiple soundstages in the distance when they crested the rolling hills and the fairway for the seventh hole when they descended. Another difference was that the entire neighborhood was completely enclosed, only accessible through manned security gates. Once inside, there was no way of guessing that they were in one of the most expensive zip codes in America.
The guard slowed to a crawl as they reached a house at the top of a hill, with a view in every direction. Ryan pulled up next to him.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he asked.
“Are you kidding?” the guard said. “I already have to deal with that guy about twice a week. There’s no way I’m going to interact with him if I don’t have to, not even to see him brought down a peg. Besides, I think your badges will make more of an impression than any introduction from me.”
“Any advice?” Jessie asked.
The guard smile wryly.
“If you were a neighbor or delivery person or a new guard, I’d suggest take a Zen approach and say don’t let him get under your skin. But you’re cops, so I say do your worst. I’d love for him to try to resist you guys and pay the consequences. Good luck.”
He drove off, leaving them to deal with the neighbor from hell on their own. They parked on the street in front of his sizable home and walked up the cobblestone path to his front door. The sun was just starting to set and the orange-tinted light reflected off a small lake on the golf course below.
If not for the anxiety of the task at hand, Jessie might have wanted to linger on the moment. Ryan, who was focused exclusively on the task at hand, didn’t notice. Before she could mention it, he knocked on the door. While they waited, Jessie thought she heard the distinct sound of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” coming from somewhere inside. She hadn’t even met him and the guy was already a cliché.
After about thirty seconds without a response, Ryan rang the doorbell and knocked louder. Jessie was pretty sure that right after that, she heard the song volume go up. She glanced over at Ryan, who nodded to indicate that he’d noticed it too. They waited another thirty seconds, after which Ryan turned to her with that steely, severe gaze she never liked to be on the receiving end of.
“Two can play this game,” he growled. He began pounding on the door loudly and relentlessly, and then added, “You want to make sure that doorbell’s still working?”
Jessie knew what he wanted and pushed the button once, then again and again, until she lost count.
It took another full minute before the door finally unlocked. They heard Barnard Hemsley before they saw him.
“Whose ass do I need to kick tonight?’ he shouted as the door swung open.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Barnard Hemsley was a mess of a human being.
Though he was only about five foot nine, he had to weigh at least 250 pounds. His thinning, clearly dyed black hair looked shaggy and wild, like it hadn’t been brushed in days. He wore cargo shorts and a bright pink, loose-fitting, short-sleeved button-down shirt that was open to his sternum, exposing his grayish, equally wild chest chair. He had on sunglasses despite the lack of sun and the fact that he was indoors. He looked to be in his late-thirties, though his doughy complexion, wrinkles, and blemish-covered skin suggested hard living well beyond his years.
His question about whose ass he needed to kick lingered in the air as he took his visitors in. Even with the sunglasses hiding his reaction, Jessie could tell that he sensed he wasn’t in the presence of just another neighbor couple.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his mistrustful voice mixing appropriately with the Metallica lyrics in the background, something about sleeping with one eye open.
“Are you Barnard Hemsley?” Ryan demanded, taking the initiative.
“What’s it to you?” Hemsley asked petulantly. The smell of bourbon on his breath was strong.
“I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. We have a few questions for Mr. Hemsley.”
“What if I said he wasn’t here?”
Just then, a ghostly pale, painfully skinny brunette wearing bikini bottoms and a half T-shirt with the phrase “my boobs are down here” scrawled across the chest appeared in the hallway behind him.
“Where did you hide the coke, Barney?” she called out before seeing they had guests and unconvincingly adding, “You know I like it better than Pepsi.”
Ryan looked at the guy with a mix of annoyance and pity.