THE PERFECT IMAGE

by Blake Pierce

  “Is that really your main concern?” Ryan pressed. “Because if that’s what his lawyer takes to the jury, I think we’re in pretty good shape.”

  “It’s not just that,” she said, frustrated with her inability to pinpoint the source of her uncertainty.

  “What is it then?”

  Something about Ryan’s challenging tone was instantly clarifying. Suddenly she understood where her reticence came from. It was due to Gahan’s surprising willingness to answer questions, even after he knew why he was in that room.

  This was a man who was about to commit suicide when they found him. If he was telling the truth, he’d already been drinking himself to death for months. He’d been willing to go his grave with a ruined professional reputation.

  Yet, he had insisted that he hadn’t committed these murders. Why put up a fight when he thought his life was over anyway? The very fact that he was willing to die but not willing to admit killing these women was the strongest argument in favor of his innocence.

  Even so, that argument wasn’t enough to justify letting the guy walk. Her misgivings wouldn’t mean much if Gahan left the station and sliced up someone else. She needed something more.

  “Jessie, what is your main concern?” Ryan, who had been waiting for her answer, asked again.

  “I’m not sure,” she finally said.

  “So we arrest him?” Ryan said expectantly.

  “Yeah,” she said reluctantly. “I guess we have to.”

  Even as she said the words, she hoped she wasn’t helping give permission for a whole police department to let its guard down. She hoped she wasn’t giving a killer a better chance to strike again tonight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Jessie wished she’d been wrong, but she wasn’t.

  The second that word spread throughout the Santa Monica Police Station that a suspect had been arrested in the case, she felt the entire place sigh in simultaneous relief. Unable to justify why she didn’t share it, she retreated to the conference room while Ryan went to call Decker and brief him on their status.

  She sat down at the table and stared at the mountain of papers spread around and on top of her laptop. The sight of it made her whole body sink, as if she’d been caught in quicksand comprised exclusively of exhaustion and stress. She desperately wanted a moment, however brief, to rest her eyes, to rest her brain.

  But that moment could be the difference between another woman living or dying. She had to keep pushing. Despite her body silently screaming at her not to, she sat up straight. There had to be an answer here. She just needed time to find it.

  Though she couldn’t officially justify it, she pulled out her phone and texted Ryan: Tell Decker not to release a statement to the press for another hour. I want to follow up on some loose ends. Please.

  It took nearly a minute before he responded. She could almost hear the tone of reluctance in his voice as she read it: One hour.

  That was all she could reasonably expect, even from her partner and fiancé. There was no credible reason for the delay and yet she’d just asked him to put himself on the line because she had a hunch, and barely one at that. She needed to make the most of it.

  So she dived back into the list of vendors and service providers that they’d compiled with Jamil. If Dr. Gahan was going to be supplanted by another suspect, then it had to be someone so inarguably suspicious that even Decker couldn’t balk.

  She flipped through the names, which were all notated in a database Jamil had set up, with columns that included in-home service, multiple/single visits, cash/gift payment, and expertise with hands. Nothing jumped out at her. Other than Gahan, there was no one that could be definitively checked off in all the categories. Some people didn’t even have enough information to fill in more than one box.

  For example, one box, for Siobhan Pierson’s birthday tasting menu dinner, only had “gift” checked off. It didn’t even list the catering company she’d used. The only other listing that even mentioned a gift was for something Whitney Carlisle had calendared as “fancy dinner.”

  Jessie was tempted to move on. After all, it was unlikely that the caterer who did a socialite like Siobhan’s tasting menu dinner was also responsible for Whitney’s “fancy dinner,” which was apparently such an unusual occasion that it had to be set off with quotations. But she didn’t have any better ideas and her hour was down to fifty-four minutes, so she decided it was worth a shot.

  She called Siobhan’s assistant first, mostly out of cowardice. She didn’t want to ask brand new widower Gordon Carlisle to detail old meals he’d had with his now-dead wife. Kelly Hoffs picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello, Ms. Hunt,” she said. “I’m afraid that if you need to speak to Mr. Pierson, he’s out for the count today.”

  “Actually, I was hoping to talk to you, Kelly.”

  “Oh, okay. What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “I remember you mentioning that Mrs. Pierson was working out hard with the trainer, Vince Hutchence, because she wanted to be able to pig out at a birthday tasting dinner she had coming up.”

  “That’s right,” Kelly said. “She’d been looking forward to it for months.”

  “Can you tell me the name of the catering company she used?” Jessie asked.

  “Oh, it wasn’t a catering company,” Kelly said. “It was an in-home chef. That’s why she was so excited. I guess it’s all the rage now to have celebrated chefs cook for you in your own house. And this guy had worked in several Michelin-starred restaurants so it was kind of a big deal to have him in her house, using her kitchen and her equipment to make this fancy meal.”

  Hearing those words, Jessie felt a prickling sensation overwhelm her entire body. She tried not to let her eagerness seep through as she asked her next question.

  “Do you recall the chef’s name?”

  “Sure. It’s Curt Sumner,” Kelly said.

  “And where was Mr. Pierson that night?” Jessie asked as she scribbled the name down furiously.

  “He was at the Pierson Farms headquarters,” Kelly said wryly. “I remember because he moved heaven and earth to find a credible reason not to be at that dinner. In the end, he just told her he had ‘urgent company business’ to take care of. But he privately told me that he would have used any excuse, even driving to Bakersfield, not to be around Siobhan’s friends all night.”

  “Do you know if this chef takes checks or credit cards?” Jessie asked, her tone impressively even.

  “Since it was a gift from one of her friends, that topic never came up,” Kelly said. “I left before he showed up anyway. But however people pay, I know it’s expensive. That gift card was worth five grand.”

  “Thanks very much, Kelly,” she said.

  “Does that help?”

  “I don’t know yet,” she answered. She didn’t want to say anything that might tip her hand.

  Jessie hung up, ordering herself to do the mental work before reaching out to Ryan. She reviewed what she knew for sure. A man experienced in the use of knives was in Siobhan Pierson’s home, in her kitchen, in fact. At some point during the evening, he may have even used the very knife that killed her.

  Spending an evening at the house, he would know its layout and have had casual access to multiple rooms. At least in this case, he was compensated through a method that had no real paper trail and wasn’t even paid for by Pierson herself. It all fit, but unless she could confirm that Curt Sumner had prior access to the Carlisle and Fahey homes too, he still wasn’t as strong a suspect as Dr. Gahan.

  That meant the next step would be an unpleasant one: calling Gordon Carlisle. She dialed his number and waited anxiously as the phone rang. Just as she though the call would go to voicemail, he picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mr. Carlisle, it’s Jessie Hunt. I’m sorry to bother you but I was hoping you had a minute. Do you remember me?”

  “Of course, Ms. Hunt, you’re working on Whitney’s case. Do you have news for me?”
he asked.

  The man sounded unfathomably tired. As exhausted as she was, it was nothing compared to the combination of sleeplessness and grief that he was suffering through. She almost backed out but managed to steel herself. She was trying to help him, even if it might hurt first.

  “I’m sorry. No, not yet. I was actually hoping that you could help me. This might sound out of left field but I’m trying to track down something that was in your wife’s calendar from a few months ago, late November actually. She mentions a “fancy dinner” on the twenty-ninth. It looks like there was a gift card involved. Do you recall that?”

  He was quiet for a moment. She wondered if he might have fallen asleep.

  “Nothing rings a bell,” he finally said. “Is that all you have on it?”

  “It’s possible it might have involved an in-home chef,” she volunteered.

  “Oh yeah,” he replied, borderline excited. “I remember now. Someone I work with gave me a gift card for a dinner to be prepared in your home by a private chef. The reason I forgot was because I didn’t go.”

  “It didn’t happen?” Jessie asked.

  “No, it did. But that same afternoon, a friend of mine landed courtside seats for a big Lakers game. Whitney knew I wanted to go so she said I should do it. We tried to postpone the dinner but the chef had a twenty-four-hour cancellation policy. So rather than waste the card, she had her sister come over instead.”

  He went quiet, though Jessie could sense he wanted to say more. When he finally did, his voice was trembling. “Looking back on it now, I wish I’d stayed home with her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jessie said quietly. “Is there any chance you remember the chef’s name?”

  “No. I think it might have been something like Kent but I’m not sure. I know he was a big deal, used to work in award-winning restaurants.”

  “Thank you,” Jessie said. “One more question: you mentioned that this was in late November. Do you recall when you started having the work done on your house?”

  “Sure. They started mid-December, took a break for the holidays, and then picked up again just after the New Year. What is this about, Ms. Hunt?”

  “We’re just following up on every lead,” she told him, not wanting to offer false hope. “I saw the ‘fancy dinner’ reference and just wanted to get some clarity on it. But I promise to keep you informed if we find anything substantive.”

  She said goodbye, doing her best to ignore the fact that she’d ended her conversation with Carlisle with a lie. They had found something substantive—a suspect currently in custody for the murder of his wife. But considering she had increasing doubts about the man’s guilt, she decided it was best not to go there just yet.

  Instead she sat quietly with her developing theory for a minute. It sure sounded like Whitney Carlisle’s chef might have been Curt Sumner. The name “Kent” wasn’t far off. And if it was the same man, he would have been in the house before the bedroom at the end of the hall was converted into two. That would explain how he might have assumed Whitney was trapped in the room. Jessie knew she could confirm the chef’s identity with a call to Whitney’s sister, Janey Smyth, but didn’t want to take that step until she had some indication that Sumner had been in the Fahey house as well.

  So, with a churning stomach, she made her second call in five minutes to a mournful widower. Only this guy was now also a single father, something she tried not to think about while she waited for the call to connect. When it did, the phone was answered by a woman.

  “Fahey residence, how may I help you?” an older-sounding female who wasn’t the house manager, Ann Roth, asked warily.

  “Yes, hi,” Jessie said, surprised. “My name is Jessie Hunt. I’m a criminal profiler with the Los Angeles Police Department. Is Simon Fahey available?”

  “Are you involved in Gillian’s case?” the woman pressed.

  “Yes, ma’am, with whom am I speaking please?”

  “I’m Olivia Copeland, Gillian’s mother.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Copeland, I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, dear,” she said resignedly, as if she’d been accepting condolences for days, which she probably had. “I’ll get Simon. Forgive my curtness before but I’m trying to be a mama bear and protect everyone from unnecessary intrusions.”

  “Of course,” Jessie said.

  When Fahey got on the line, he sounded slightly more composed than Gordon Carlisle had. Of course, Jessie noted cynically, he’d had a whole extra twenty-four hours to come to terms with the loss of his wife.

  “Thank you for speaking with me, Mr. Fahey,” she began. “I won’t take up much of your time. I was just hoping you might recall if you or your wife had an in-home chef cook a special dinner for you at some point recently?”

  “We did, but not recently. It was six months ago.”

  Jessie waited until the inappropriate thrill that consumed her entire being had settled down a little before following up.

  “Did you receive a gift card for the dinner?’ she asked.

  “No,” he said. “It was a gift, but it was from me to Gilly for our anniversary. I paid cash—a thousand bucks for the evening.”

  “But it wasn’t in her calendar,” Jessie noted.

  “No, it wouldn’t have been. I meant it as a surprise gift. Unfortunately, I never got to partake.”

  “Why not?” Jessie asked.

  “It was scheduled, but I ended up having to go to D.C. to meet with a senator about a bill that was being voted on the next day. I tried to reschedule the meal but it was too late. We would have lost the entire payment. So Gilly’s mom, Olivia, who you just spoke to, took my place. I remember I left an envelope of cash in a drawer for the chef. I felt like a drug dealer or something.” He stopped talking and Jessie thought he was done, but before she could ask her next question, he wistfully added, “I was going to rebook the chef just for us but never got around to it.”

  He sounded just like Gordon Carlisle.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fahey,” she said. She tried to think of a delicate way to ask her next question but couldn’t so she just came right out with it. “Do you perhaps recall the name of the chef?”

  He didn’t seem offended.

  “Not anymore, but I bet Olivia would. Let me put you on speaker,” he said, and then called out to his mother-in-law. “Liv, do you remember the name of the chef who cooked at the house for you and Gilly the night I had to go to D.C. on our anniversary?”

  Moments later Olivia was back.

  “Absolutely, his name is Curt Sumner. He was so good that I recommended him to some of my friends. The meal was delicious. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, we’re just trying to recreate Gillian’s timeline as far back as possible,” Jessie lied. “You’ve been very helpful—both of you. I’ll be in touch when I have more.”

  Only once she’d hung up did Jessie allow the excitement she’d been containing to fully bubble up. They now had a credible alternative suspect to Dr. Roland Gahan. She still had to confirm that he’d been in the Carlisle house via a call to Whitney’s sister, Janey. But if that panned out, she could finally go back to Ryan and tell him that they might have the wrong guy.

  And if they did, they needed to move fast to find the right one. Looking outside, she saw that the sky was darkening. That meant the clock was ticking for another woman. The perpetrator had killed on each of the last two nights. And night was fast approaching.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  “Are you sure?” Ryan asked.

  Jessie tried to be patient as she caught him up. Maybe the heat of the tiny conference room was starting to get to her too.

  “I just got off the phone with Janey Smyth and she confirmed that Curt Sumner was the name of the in-home chef that came over to their place. That means the guy had access to all three victims’ homes, including going to the Carlisle house before they had the bedroom converted into two smaller ones. Because he gets paid in cash, there was no paper trail to track h
im.”

  “That definitely explains why he didn’t pop up in our initial searches,” Ryan conceded.

  “Right,” Jessie said, barreling on. “And he obviously has expertise with knives. Also, remember that we agreed this killer was painstakingly detailed in committing these crimes. Just like surgeons, most successful chefs are meticulous and organized about their work. Finally, Sumner is much younger than Dr. Gahan—he’s thirty-six. And at least according to the picture on his website, he’s in better shape too. It’s not hard to see him effectively sneaking into a house or chasing down a victim who was running away.”

  With each word she said, she saw Ryan becoming increasingly apprehensive. She understood why. He’d thought they had their man. But if he was wrong, the real killer was out there right now, possibly preparing for his next attack.

  “Have you gotten a warrant to check his location data yet?” he asked.

  She shook her head in mild aggravation.

  “Considering that I only made all these connections a few minutes ago and I came to you right afterward, that would be a no,” she said, finding it difficult to contain her growing frustration. “I figured that I should talk to the lead detective on the case before making any command decisions like that.”

  “Right,” he said, pretending not to notice her tone. “Then we should loop Jamil in ASAP.”

  “And you should call Decker to make sure he doesn’t go public claiming we have the killer in custody,” she reminded him. “HSS doesn’t need another black eye so soon after finally getting out of the dog house.”

  Ryan looked pained at the suggestion.

  “Listen,” Jessie said, softening her tone, “there’s no downside to pulling back. We still have Gahan in custody. If he’s the killer, we know he can’t do any harm from a cell. In the meantime we can look into Sumner. If he turns out to be our guy, then HSS’s reputation hasn’t been tarnished by a big press conference identifying the wrong man as the murderer. That’s why I asked you to hold off an hour.”