Perfect Girls: An absolutely gripping page-turning crime thriller

by Alison James

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Why carry a lighter then?’

  ‘Let’s just say that’s not the first time I’ve set off a sprinkler system. Come on.’ He led the way up the stairwell. ‘Just be thankful that we only have to go up to the third floor.’

  The condo was screened off with crime scene tape, and its front door had a polished nickel doorknob with an inbuilt deadbolt. Not that this discouraged Rob, who squatted down with his penknife and jiggled the lock open.

  ‘Proper little boy scout, aren’t you?’ Rachel observed drily. She held up her own Swiss Army knife. ‘I was about to offer to do the honours.’

  ‘Those locks cost about ten bucks and they’re not even worth that much; a seven year old could pick one.’

  They stepped into a well-proportioned three-room apartment with polished floors and crown mouldings. The décor was at odds with the surroundings, betraying a twenty-something who had not yet developed taste. Rachel looked at the photos on the shelves. The way they were arranged suggested one was missing from the group. She picked one up and looked at it. Clayton Hill, draped around his pretty girlfriend, just as he had been in death. She shuddered, and moved on to the closet. The clothes were ordered by colour, apart from one flimsy top, which hung alone. She picked up the clothes hanger and sniffed it. There was a distinct chemical smell. She smelled the other clothes on the rail, but none of them shared it.

  ‘This one’s been recently washed,’ she observed. ‘Not with the same laundry detergent all the others share.’

  They checked the bathroom and the kitchen. ‘Like an operating theatre,’ said Rob.

  ‘Phoebe’s apartment was just the same.’

  In the bedroom, the linens had all been stripped, and the mattress gave off a similar chemical odour to the top. It made Rachel feel nauseated, and she was suddenly aware that, after a transatlantic flight sandwiched between two work days in two different time zones, she was starting to feel very tired.

  ‘Come on,’ said Rob, noticing her expression. ‘You need a margarita.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that.’ She wanted to lie down and sleep for twelve hours.

  ‘Sure you do. Everything’s better after a margarita.’

  He took her by the hand and led her down the stairs and out onto Fayetteville Street. The happy-hour crowd was starting to fill the bars, and Rachel and Rob joined them. Despite her protests, he ordered a jug.

  ‘Better now?’ he asked, as she sipped the sour, icy liquid through a straw.

  ‘A little,’ she conceded, then asked. ‘How did you even know Melissa had shared the apartment on CasaMia?’

  ‘The detective I spoke to said Melissa’s mother mentioned it. She said that Melissa was supposed to be travelling to Florida for a few days, and had rented it out while she was gone to help cover the bills. Of course, the police here saw no particular significance in that, but then they don’t know what we know.’

  Rachel sat silently for a while, letting the tequila numb her.

  ‘So what are you thinking our next move should be, Miss T?’

  ‘I think we need to talk to Melissa’s mother.’

  * * *

  Back at the hotel, she told Rob she needed a shower and a nap, and headed to her room. Taking out her phone, she texted Brickall.

  Hey, loser, what’s with the radio silence?

  There was no reply. Not that she had expected one, but she worried about Brickall nonetheless. What he was going through was tough. She showered, turned down Rob’s offer of ribs and fries downstairs in the grill in favour of a room service salad, and just as she had done in Los Angeles, lay on the bed watching CNN until she drifted off to sleep.

  She was woken a couple of hours later by a gentle tapping on the door. She switched off the TV and stumbled to answer it.

  ‘Room for a small one?’

  Rob was standing there in sweatpants and a tight white T-shirt that showed off his muscular torso.

  Rachel smiled. ‘There’s nothing small about you, Agent McConnell… what can I do for you?’

  ‘I was wondering if I could come in.’

  Rachel hesitated. It was an appealing idea. But that wasn’t really the issue. She pursed her lips, and slowly, reluctantly, shook her head.

  ‘No?’ he asked, not hiding his disappointment.

  ‘No.’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘We’ve been over this. It’s really not a good idea.’

  ‘Sure there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?’

  But she was already closing the door, quickly, before she weakened. Once she was in bed, sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned for a couple of hours, her mind continually running to Rob, and what they could have been doing. Eventually, just as she was dozing off, her phone bleeped with a text. She snatched it up and checked it.

  From Lindsay.

  Lamb or chicken for Easter lunch? I need to know!

  As if it bloody matters, Rachel thought, but restrained herself from replying.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The home share period ends today, but all she does is message me asking me to empty the trash and put the key back in the lockbox. I check her Instagram feed for clues. There are some selfies of her clutching a green juice and fake-smiling with a bunch of other similar beauty blogging morons.

  The tag reads: Hi everyone, having an amazing time at the awesome Wellness Convention in Portland, with fellow influencers @KandeeGirl2, @MissBubbles23 and @LisaGG89.

  ‘Influencers’. The word curdles my stomach. It seems that’s what they’re calling Mean Girls these days. I google the convention. It ends this evening, so maybe she’s flying back tomorrow. That’s okay, I can arrange to be here to greet her. No problem.

  In the meantime, I’m still enjoying my job in the law firm. I’m punctual, professional and super-efficient and they can’t get enough of me. Patty, the woman who gave me my induction, asked me yesterday if I would consider a temp to perm move. In other words, they want me to stay on indefinitely. I say I’ll think about it, but of course it’s not going to happen.

  When she phones me and asks me to step into her office, I’m guessing she wants my answer. I stalk confidently down the hall in my nude Louboutin pumps, teamed with a buff pencil skirt, striped Breton top and a wide scarlet belt. It’s a look I pulled out of the closet last night; one that steers the line between classy and sassy. A couple of the male associates look up as I walk by, which confirms I’m hitting the right note.

  Patty isn’t smiling.

  ‘We seem to have something of a problem.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘I phoned Elite Staffing yesterday to discuss a possible change to your contract – we have to pay a fee if we take on one of their workers permanently – and according to them, you’ve been signed off as unavailable this week. Because you’re out of town, travelling.’

  There’s a sharp lurch in my stomach, as though I’m in an elevator and it’s just fallen several floors.

  I smile cheerfully. ‘That can’t be right… who did you speak with?’

  ‘Donna. Apparently she handles all your work.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, that’s changed. Donna was unavailable, so Marianne covered. I called her to tell her I’d changed my plans and wanted to work after all, but she must have forgotten to tell Donna. I’m sorry.’

  Blaming someone else then apologising for their mistake is the best I can come up with on the spot. Patty seems unconvinced, suspicious even.

  ‘Well, all right,’ she says reluctantly. ‘I guess I can speak to them again. In the meantime I’d like you to bring your ID in with you tomorrow.’

  ‘My ID?’ I ask stupidly.

  ‘Your social security card, and either your passport or driver’s licence.’

  ‘And you need it tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow, first thing. If that’s okay.’ She smiles, but that suspicious look hasn’t left her eyes.

  ‘Sure,’ I smile back. ‘No problem at all.’

  Chapter
Thirty-Three

  When Rachel woke up, the room was silent apart from the faint drone of a vacuum cleaner in the corridor outside.

  She checked her mobile again. No new messages. She deleted the text from her sister without answering it.

  The phone rang. ‘Morning, Miss T.’

  Rachel scrunched her eyes, pushing her hair back off her face. ‘Is it?’

  He laughed. ‘I take it you didn’t sleep too good? That’s what comes of sleeping alone.’

  She groaned.

  ‘Grab yourself some coffee and meet me downstairs in half an hour, okay?’

  She groaned again.

  ‘Okay, an hour. And bring your stuff. We’re checking out.’

  * * *

  Cameron Park was a gracious neighbourhood of manicured lawns and stately older homes, its streets lined with more trees in blossom, reminding Rachel of the American small towns in old black-and-white movies. It could have been Bedford Falls. The Downeys lived in a small, neat white colonial with a porticoed porch.

  The door was opened by a young woman of around thirty. She had mousey hair scraped up in an untidy pony tail, and her freckled face was pale and drawn.

  ‘Is Melissa Downey’s mother here?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘Her father?’

  ‘They’re staying with relatives right now. She just lost her daughter.’

  ‘Yes, we know that. So sorry.’ Rob flashed his badge. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Meghan Downey. I’m Melissa’s cousin. I’m just here taking care of things for them. Minding the dog, while… you know…’ A fat, wiry-haired dog appeared at her side to prove the point.

  ‘Could we come in for a moment?’ Rachel asked. ‘I promise we won’t take too much of your time.’

  ‘Okay,’ Meghan sighed wearily. ‘Can I get you coffee?’

  They refused the offer, but she led them into the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine anyway. The dog followed them, its claws clicking on the wood floor.

  ‘He knows there’s something wrong,’ Meghan patted him sadly. ‘Don’t you, boy?’

  ‘We were hoping to talk to Mrs Downey about Melissa,’ said Rob. ‘It’s come to light that she sublet her apartment through CasaMia. Do you know anything about that?’

  Meghan poured coffee. ‘You think that has something to do with…’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘It’s a line we’re following,’ Rachel nodded.

  ‘Supposedly Lissa was on her way to a Miss Glamour pageant in Florida. From what my aunt said, she had someone taking the apartment for a few days while she was gone. She travelled a lot to pageants, so when that CasaMia app started she was quite excited. She told me she planned on renting out her place as much as she could to cover the expenses… there are entrance fees, hair and make-up, and those fancy sequinned gowns can run to, like, thousands of dollars. My uncle and aunt helped her out too.’ Her voice grew thick. ‘They were so proud.’

  ‘Was she successful?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘You know what: I don’t know much about that whole pageant world, but she seemed to win quite a lot, yeah.’ Meghan pointed them to the dining room, where professional portraits of a glossy, groomed Melissa lined the walls, wearing elaborate tiaras and sashes, holding sparkly trophies.

  ‘See that one,’ Meghan pointed to a very young Melissa in a shiny lilac coloured gown. ‘That was the first one she won: Miss Teen North Carolina. It was at the Fairfield Theater.’ She hesitated. ‘Where, you know…’

  ‘Where her body was found,’ confirmed Rachel.

  Meghan nodded slowly. ‘It weirds me out. It’s like they knew.’

  They went back into the kitchen. ‘What kind of a girl was Melissa?’ Rachel asked. ‘Apart from the pageants.’

  ‘She was just a regular kid, you know… bubbly, fun, outgoing, just a sweetheart.’ Tears welled up in Meghan’s eyes. ‘Sorry.’

  Rob waited a few seconds for her to compose herself, and then asked, ‘How about at high school?’

  Meghan found a well-used tissue in her pocket and dabbed her eyes. ‘I don’t know all that much; she was younger and we were at different schools anyway. I mean, she wasn’t the brightest academically. Not a straight-A student by any means.’

  ‘And with the other kids?’ persisted Rob.

  ‘I think she was pretty popular. She seemed to have loads of friends.’

  ‘Do you know if she was ever involved in anything… negative?’ Rachel asked.

  Meghan looked confused. ‘Negative?’

  ‘Bullying, for instance?’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘No. Nuh uh. Not Melissa; never. She was one of the kindest people I knew. A total sweetheart.’

  * * *

  In the car afterwards, Rachel said, ‘I suppose it’s logical when you dissect it. Phoebe’s working as a model-slash-actress and her body is dumped with a load of shop dummies. Tiffany is the school sports star, and hers ends up in her high school gym. And Melissa, the pageant queen…’

  ‘… fetches up at the theatre where she won a beauty queen title.’

  ‘So the killer’s hatred or resentment is targeted at what they did with their lives.’

  ‘Like I told you; it’s a case of the victims pointing us back to the killer. Victimology 101.’ Rob turned and grinned at her.

  Rachel was quiet for a few seconds. ‘I’m trying to focus in on what these three girls have in common. They’re good-looking and conform to a certain physical type. Phoebe and Tiffany were the school mean girls… but apparently not Melissa.’

  ‘It didn’t sound like it.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to fit,’ Rachel mused. ‘I guess her adoring, grief-stricken cousin might not have been aware. Or not believed her capable of being nasty. I guess we’d need to talk to her friends.’

  Rob shrugged. ‘I don’t think that’s a priority. For right now, let’s think about the stuff the three murdered girls do have in common.’

  He turned the car off the freeway at the exit for Raleigh–Durham International Airport.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Okay, come up with some adjectives that describe all three of them.’

  Rachel considered this. ‘Pretty. Popular. Spoilt. Self-centred.’ She paused a beat. ‘Entitled.’

  ‘Exactly. The killer is sourcing victims from a group that could roughly be described as entitled.’

  They were at the rental car drop-off now, and Rob took their bags from the boot and handed the keys to a waiting agent. ‘Come on,’ he said, taking Rachel’s hand, ‘the shuttle to the terminal is just over there.’

  ‘Are we going back to DC?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘Think about it, Detective. What’s the other glaringly obvious thing that all three victims share?’

  The shuttle bus pulled up, air brakes hissing. They climbed on, dumping their bags in the luggage rack and finding seats for what seemed like an absurdly circuitous journey to the terminal.

  ‘They all rented out their homes using CasaMia.’

  ‘Precisely, my dear Watson. We’re taking a little side trip to San Francisco.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Today’s outfit: a bodycon dress in a heavy navy-blue jersey, burgundy patent Valentino T-bar pumps. Matching Prada bag. Miss Beauty Blogger has the best wardrobe so far. Maybe she gets sent free stuff, even though she’s not that big a deal as an influencer.

  ‘Looking good, Miss!’ the elevator man greets me as I head to the thirty-first floor. I am just about to sit down and start in on the pile of depositions and non-fiduciary agreements that require assignment to the correct files, and a backlog of citations that need to be checked on Westlaw, when Patty appears in the doorway.

  ‘I have my ID,’ I say brightly, reaching into my bag and pulling out the Social Security card and passport that I turned up the evening before after an extensive search of Beauty Blogger’s filing system. There was no driver’s licence; she must
have taken that on her trip.

  Patty takes the proffered documents and checks them, looking at the name on the card and on the front of the passport. Then she flicks to the photo page. She looks at the picture, then at my face, then at the picture again.

  She hands the documents back, thrusting them at me roughly as though she can no longer bear to touch them. ‘You’ve been suspended,’ she says. ‘Pending an enquiry. I’m going to have to ask you to go home.’

  ‘An enquiry?’ I make myself sound puzzled rather than upset. ‘What kind of enquiry?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say, not right now. If you’d please just go home, someone will be in touch.’ Patty waits long enough to see me pick up my bag and walk back to the lift, then she turns on her heel and walks away.

  In the elevator I run through some potential scenarios in my head. It’s fairly obvious which is the most likely. It would be Patty going back to Elite Staffing, reporting that Donna seems to have got it wrong: that I’m here at the law firm, not out of town. In order to clarify for themselves, either Donna or Marianne would then have phoned Beauty Blogger’s cell phone to check. And she’s told them that she’s in Portland, Oregon. I’ve heard her squeaky little voice on her vlogs and I can hear it now: ‘Whoever that is, it isn’t me.’

  It isn’t me.

  I go back to the apartment, take off the blue dress and the heels and force myself to think. I don’t care about the job. Today would have been my last day anyway. Beauty Blogger is on her way back and I was planning on being there to surprise her. But now she’s coming back with a whole load of questions about what the hell has been going on in her absence. She might have made the connection between the imposter at the temp agency and the stranger who’s ensconced in her home. It may not be the obvious conclusion to draw, but it’s a possibility. Depending on what Elite told her, she might be spooked. She might not come back here alone.