by Blake Pierce
“All true,” Sands said.
“I feel like there’s more going on here than meets the eye,” Jessie mused.
“So do I,” Sands agreed. “Unfortunately, I have no idea what.”
CHAPTER SIX
Jessie was out on a limb.
Just because she didn’t have any active cases didn’t mean Captain Decker would be happy that she was off in Brentwood looking into a case she had nothing to do with. And yet, that’s exactly what she was doing.
Caroline Gidley, the victim discovered last night, was unconscious and in no position to talk. Detective Sands had warned her that Jayne Castillo, the third victim, had no desire to be interviewed. And since Kat’s client, Morgan Remar, was out of town, that left only one person to speak with.
When she asked Sands if it would be a mistake to try to talk to the first victim, Brenda Ferguson, he told her the detectives from West L.A. station, which handled Brentwood-based cases, would not be happy. But he also very pointedly never requested she not do so. Even in her limited experience with him, Jessie got the sense that was as close to a go-ahead as he was likely to give her.
Ryan had generously agreed to run interference for her at the station to keep her absence off Captain Decker’s radar. Just before she pulled up to the Ferguson house, she checked in with him.
“How’s it going back there?” she asked.
“Decker is so immersed in the aftermath of the vice raid that he hasn’t even noticed you’re not here.”
“I don’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted,” she replied.
“If it’s any consolation, I miss you,” Ryan said.
Armed with that assurance, she got out and headed for the house. She hadn’t called ahead for fear that Ferguson would check in with the case detectives. Besides, she often found she got more useful information when she surprised a witness, suspect, or even a victim. They didn’t have as much time to organize their thoughts and edit out useful information.
The home was impressive, though nowhere near as ostentatious as some others on the tree-lined street. It was a two-story, Spanish-style home that extended well back on the large lot. The front lawn alone could have hosted a second house. She knocked on the door and had to wait a good sixty seconds before it was answered by a thirty-something man with a mistrustful expression.
“Can I help you?” he asked guardedly.
“I hope so. I assume you’re Mrs. Ferguson’s husband?”
“Yes. I’m Ty.”
“Hi, Ty,” Jessie said in her warmest, least intimidating voice. “I’m Jessie Hunt. I work as a criminal profiler for the LAPD. I know Brenda has been through a lot. But I was hoping to speak to her briefly. I’m trying to develop a profile of the man who abducted her and there’s only so much I can glean from the case file. I’ve held off as long as I could out of deference to what she’s been through. But speaking to her in person would be extremely helpful.”
She wasn’t excited to make her initial introduction with what were, at best, white lies. But she needed an “in” and this seemed the most effective route. Ty didn’t slam the door in her face but he still looked reticent.
“Listen,” he said quietly, glancing back over his shoulder as he spoke. “I know you’re only doing your job. But Brenda’s been through so much already. She’s only started sleeping through the night in the last few days. I’m concerned this will reopen all those wounds again.”
Jessie sensed his recalcitrance was on the verge of overwhelming his good intentions and decided now was the time to be more forthright.
“I can’t promise it won’t, Ty. But I’m trying to find out who this guy is so he doesn’t hurt anyone else. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but a fourth victim was discovered late last night.”
“No,” Ty said, his eyes widening.
“Yes. She’s hospitalized now. She has a badly broken leg that she got escaping after four days in a dog crate. Frankly, there’s no indication that this guy is going to stop any time soon. I’m hoping that with Brenda’s help, we can get to him before he goes after a fifth woman.”
Ty still looked torn but Jessie could tell that his inclination had now tipped toward letting her in. He looked back down the hall a second time.
“Stay here,” he finally said. “Let me talk to her first. Maybe I can convince her.”
“Thank you,” Jessie said and stepped into the foyer as Ty disappeared into an unknown room at the end of the hall.
She could hear hushed, agitated whispers for several minutes before Ty finally poked his head out.
“Come on in,” he called out. “Please close and lock the door behind you.”
Jessie nodded, did as he requested, then made her way down the hall. When she rounded the corner, she found Ty walking over to sit at the breakfast table next to a plump, dark-haired woman with a haggard expression and red eyes. She didn’t look happy to have a guest.
“Hi, Mrs. Ferguson,” she said, her voice scratchy. “Thanks for speaking with me.”
“I’m only doing it because Ty begged me to. He told me about the fourth woman. How is she?”
“She’s going to survive,” Jessie told her. “She was found on a dirt road in Griffith Park with a broken leg and multiple other injuries. But my understanding is that she’ll be able to go home before the end of the week.”
“Is she married? Have kids?”
“I don’t think so,” Jessie said.
“That’s good. It’s bad enough to go through this. But it’s been almost as rough on the rest of the family. My daughter comes into our room crying most nights. My son has started wetting the bed. Ty handles all of it and I can tell he’s on the verge of collapsing.”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” Ty said, squeezing her hand. “I’m doing fine. And the kids’ll get better. You just focus on you. I think this might help. If Ms. Hunt can come up with a new way to find this guy, that will help everyone sleep better at night.”
“Do you think you can do that, Ms. Hunt?”
“Please call me Jessie. And with your help, I hope so.”
Brenda studied her with her worn out eyes and nodded.
“Come with me, Jessie,” she said. “I want to show you something.”
She got up without another word and left the room. Jessie followed, glancing back at Ty, who shrugged as he stood up. Brenda led her to the hallway and stopped at a bookshelf halfway down the hall.
She reached out and tugged at a red-spined book sitting waist high on the far right end of the shelf. The book slid out slightly and then snapped back. Jessie heard a soft click. Suddenly, the bookshelf swung back like a door into open space.
A dull overhead fluorescent light flickered on to reveal a room about the size of a small study. Against one wall rested a small loveseat. Next to it were two wooden chairs. They all surrounded a mini coffee table. A tiny fridge stood in the corner.
Other than a few magazines and some coloring books and crayons, the place was devoid of entertainment. An old-style corded phone hung on one wall. On another was a large poster with the cover of Nirvana’s Nevermind album, in which a baby is underwater reaching out for a dollar bill.
“That’s cool,” Jessie said, pointing at the poster, unsure how else to respond.
“I guess,” Brenda said. “We used it because it’s large enough to cover the opening to the tunnel we had dug under the house to the front yard.”
“Okay,” Jessie replied, surprised by the bland tone Brenda used to describe such an unconventional situation.
“I’m showing you this because I wanted you to get a sense of what our life is like now. I made Ty have this panic room built after I got back home. I don’t know if it’ll do any good in an emergency. But I couldn’t sleep more than two hours at a time until it was finished.”
“I get it,” Jessie said quietly.
“Do you?” Brenda challenged.
“I really do,” Jessie assured her. “I won’t bore you with the details but I’ve ha
d several stalkers. I’ve had my apartment redone to include multiple security measures typically employed by banks and government facilities. And even after the imminent threats to my safety were eliminated, I kept the security in place. So I understand where you’re coming from.”
Jessie noticed that for the first time, Brenda looked at her like she might be an ally.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” she said. “And you can call me Brenda.”
Jessie smiled.
“Thanks, Brenda. Care to sit down?” she asked, nodding at the loveseat.
“In there?”
“May as well get used to it, right?” Jessie said.
Brenda looked at her husband, who hadn’t said a word this whole time. He shrugged again.
“I’ll wait in the kitchen so you two can have some privacy.”
After he left, Brenda pushed a button on the wall and the door swung shut and clicked into place. She pointed at a small switch that seemed to approximate the spot where the red book was on the shelf outside. It was marked with the words “locked” and “unlocked.”
“That’s so no one can access the room once we’re inside, even if they know about the book,” Brenda said.
“Solid call,” Jessie said. “Otherwise it’s not much of a panic room, I guess.”
She took the initiative, walking over to the loveseat and sitting down. Brenda joined her but sat in one of the nearby chairs.
“So,” Jessie began, “I know you spoke to the police multiple times. I’ve read the file. So I’ll try not to repeat their questions too much. I’m actually interested in some different kinds of things than they were.”
“Like what?” Brenda asked as she crossed and uncrossed her legs nervously.
“I know, based on descriptions from you and the second and third women, that your abductor wore elaborate disguises, including wigs, beards, and prosthetics. I also know that each of you was blindfolded after your initial abduction. So I want to focus more on his voice right now. Do you remember it?”
“I can’t get it out of my head,” Brenda said, “even though he didn’t talk very much at all.”
“Can you describe its timbre?” Jessie asked. “Was it deep or high? Somewhere in between?”
“In between; it was a normal, medium-sounding voice.”
“Okay,” Jessie said. “What about an accent? Did you notice anything along those lines? Maybe a twang? Or a more flat Midwestern tone? Maybe something that reminded you of New York or New England? Did he use any words you don’t normally hear out here, like ‘pop’ instead of ‘soda’ or ‘y’all’ instead of ‘you all’?”
“I didn’t notice anything unusual,” Brenda said, scrunching her brow in concentration. “I’m from L.A. and he sounded normal to me so maybe he’s from here too?”
“That’s entirely possible,” Jessie said supportively. “What about language choice? Did he use a lot of slang or was his usage more proper? Did he sound like he had a lot of education?”
Brenda took a moment to search her memory.
“I don’t remember him speaking in an especially fancy way. But I don’t remember a lot of slang either. It was mostly standard, straightforward language.”
“Did he speak unusually fast or slow?”
Brenda’s eyes lit up at that.
“Maybe a little slower than usual,” she answered. “It was like he wanted to be sure he was saying exactly the right thing when he spoke. He was very measured. Does that help?”
“It could,” Jessie said. “Let’s explore some other areas. Did you notice a particular scent?”
Brenda was quiet and her face turned red.
“What’s wrong?” Jessie asked gently.
She thought the woman wasn’t going to reply but after several long seconds she finally did.
“To be honest,” she almost whispered, “I don’t remember a smell from him. Whatever he used to knock me out when he grabbed me had an overwhelming scent. And after that, I couldn’t smell anything other than my own stench, first from the sweat and body odor, and later, from… my own excrement.”
She cast her eyes downward and didn’t say anything else.
“Okay, let’s move on then,” Jessie offered quickly. “Why don’t we talk about how he behaved more generally when you were being held?”
Over the next half hour, Jessie learned that the man never got overtly angry but did get irritated whenever she talked about her husband or children. She learned not to bring them up pretty quickly. He never laughed but he did sound happier than usual when he dropped her food and water bowl in the garden shed or when he hosed her down.
“He seemed to get a kick out of my moments of degradation,” Brenda told her. “He said they were part of the ‘purification’ process.”
After that, she broke down and wasn’t very helpful. Jessie ended the interview before things completely devolved. When they were done, both Fergusons walked Jessie to the door. Brenda looked slightly better than when they’d first met. As they stepped outside, she had a question of her own for Jessie.
“Do you think we could get the name of the people who did the security at your apartment?”
“Of course,” Jessie said, overwhelmed with a sense of commiseration. “I’ll text the info to you.”
As she walked back to her car, her thoughts were swimming with alternative variations on what the abductor might be like. It wasn’t until she was standing right next to her car that she realized all her tires had been slashed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jessie ignored the sudden pit in her stomach and scanned the area for anything suspicious.
This was a stunningly brazen act, in the middle of the day on a quiet street in a well-to-do neighborhood. Whoever did it clearly didn’t have much fear of being caught.
Nothing obvious jumped out at her. About half a block down the street, there was a white van facing her. But a second later, she saw two men emerge from behind it carrying a large sofa toward a nearby house.
Moments after that, she saw a motorcycle cop turn off an adjoining street and head in the opposite direction from her. He seemed to be doing a standard patrol. Was it just bad luck that he hadn’t been nearby when her tires were slashed? Or was there more to it?
She hated to draw the latter conclusion but couldn’t help considering it. It was only a month ago that she’d been intimately involved in a case that uncovered a massive police corruption scandal. It helped lead to the arrest of over a dozen officers, including the head of LAPD’s Force Investigation Group, and Sergeant Hank Costabile of Valley Bureau’s Van Nuys Station.
During her investigation, Costabile had subtly and then later, overtly threatened both her and Hannah. Was this the act of one his cronies, getting revenge for his incarcerated buddy? If so, why wait a month and do something so random and petty?
Or was it possible that this was somehow related to the abductions? Had the kidnapper been staking out the Ferguson house? Was this his way of warning Jessie off? That seemed unlikely as she doubted he’d be hanging around. Even if he was, he’d have no way to know Jessie, dressed in civilian clothes, was looking into the case.
Whoever did it and for whatever reason, it didn’t change the fact that she needed a tow truck. While she waited, she called Ryan to fill him in on both her interview and the tire slashing. She ran the particulars by him, hoping he might think of something she was missing.
“It could just be obnoxious kids,” he offered, regarding the latter.
“Maybe,” Jessie conceded. “But it’s the middle of a school day. Even if some kids skipped out, would they drive through the neighborhood and slash all the tires of just one car? This feels more directed than that.”
“You’re probably right,” he admitted. “Did you have more luck with the kidnapping victim?”
“A little,” Jessie said. “Unfortunately, what she told me will be more useful once we have a suspect in mind. Until then, it doesn’t amount to much. Have you heard anything?”
/>
“To be honest, I’ve been focused on my testimony this afternoon. If it wasn’t for that, I’d come pick you up.”
“That’s very sweet but not necessary. It would take you an hour to get here and I’m in no rush. After I get the tires replaced and come back, I just have to review the files from the Olin case.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Jessie wondered what she’d said wrong.
“What is it?” she asked anxiously.
“Nothing,” he said. “I was just thinking that by the time you get your car back, there’s not much point in coming in. Decker went to headquarters to update the brass on the vice raid. He won’t be back for hours. And you have a rare slow day. Maybe you should take the afternoon off and hang out with Hannah without me as a third wheel.”
“You’re not a third wheel,” she protested.
“You know what I mean. I’ve been around a lot lately. This could give you a chance for some girl time. And if Hannah decided to use it to share something personal, that wouldn’t be the worst thing. “
Jessie was surprised at the suggestion.
“Has she seemed like she wants to do that?” she asked, wondering if she’d missed the signs.
“Don’t seventeen-year-old girls always have something personal they’re keeping to themselves, even if they haven’t been through what she has?”
“Yes,” Jessie said. “I’m just making sure you’re not cryptically alluding to something specific.”
“No. I just know Hannah’s been seeing the therapist, Dr. Banana.”
“Dr. Lemmon,” Jessie corrected, trying not to laugh.
“Right, right. I knew it was in the fruit family. And you’re also having Garland Moses peek into her brain.”
“You knew that was him last night?”
“I’m a very good detective. Also, you assigned him a specific ring tone and have said ‘Hi, Garland’ when he’s called. So there’s that too.”
“So, not so much good detecting then?” she teased.
“Anyway,” he replied, not getting distracted, “I thought maybe she could just use a chat with someone who wasn’t talking to her in a professional capacity. You know, like a big sister?”