The perfect look

And that’s when Jessie became certain that they were dealing with something more than just a crime of passion or a robbery gone wrong. If it had been a physical encounter that went south, she would have looked much more harried and rushed. If it was a simple robbery, she could have been in and out of the room in less than ten minutes.

But she’d stayed a half hour. She’d lingered. She’d smashed his phone and taken all his cards, cash, and ID, even though she had to be well aware that his identity would be quickly uncovered. She’d even left family photos in the wallet.

Even more notably, she had apparently left no prints on anything in the room; not the glass, not any surface in the room, not the man’s neck. This was the work of a woman who had carefully planned what she would do, who had taken her time, who had enjoyed herself.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jessie couldn’t get the image out of her head.

As Ryan drove them to their next stop, she kept thinking back to the final footage that Natasha the security tech had shown them. Now that they knew what the woman looked like, she was able to scan through video from earlier in the night.

There was no recording of the woman arriving or leaving the hotel. But there was footage of her settling in at the Lobby Court—the very bar Jessie had noticed the men in suits drinking at earlier that morning.

She had arrived a little after nine p.m. and waited for fifteen minutes, sipping a drink she’d purchased with cash and drinking with leather gloves on. The thing that jumped out at Jessie was how relaxed she looked. She didn’t have the bearing of someone who would murder a man less than two hours later.

Eventually her “date” arrived. He walked straight up to her as if they knew each other but strangely greeted her as if it was the first time they’d met. He ordered a drink of his own and sat down beside her. They talked for a half hour as he ordered two more drinks and she continued to nurse her first.

Around 9:50, he paid his bill and got up. Cameras tracked him to the bathroom and then the front desk. The woman stayed at bar a little longer to finish her drink, and then walked out of frame, not to be seen again until she got out of the elevator to go to his room.

“What are you thinking?” Ryan asked, interrupting her silent meditation.

“I’m thinking that we’re dealing with someone who enjoyed what she did. And that makes me worry that she might do it again.”

“Legitimate concern,” he agreed. “Can I tell you what I’m worried about?”

“Please,” Jessie said.

“I’m worried that this guy’s wife is going to lose it when we tell her what happened.”

Ryan was referring to the inevitable unpleasantness they were about to face. After they’d left the security office he’d told her who the dead man was: Gordon Maines.

When Ryan had called his suspicion in to the ME, they confirmed it for him. The victim was indeed Gordon Maines, a councilman representing Los Angeles’s fourth district, an area that included Hancock Park and Los Feliz.

Ryan had finally remembered him because of his jaunty walking style. It was the same style he’d had when he’d come to the station once several years ago to dress down Captain Decker for not giving him enough officers for security at a neighborhood parade.

“‘Jerk’ is the kindest word I can think of to describe the guy,” Ryan had said.

Jessie hoped he’d use more diplomatic language when they arrived at Maines’s Hancock Park home to deliver the bad news to his wife, Margo. As he navigated the mid-morning traffic, Jessie’s thoughts returned, despite her best efforts, to Hannah.

She wondered if Garland Moses was having any success determining how the investigation was going. Did the FBI have any leads on Bolton Crutchfield’s possible whereabouts? Was Hannah safe? She was tempted to text him to ask and actually pulled out her phone before reminding herself it was a terrible idea.

First, it had only been a couple of hours since she’d met with him. Garland Moses might be the most decorated profiler in the country, but even he wasn’t a superhero. Besides, if he had information, he would surely let her know. Radio silence likely meant there was nothing worth sharing.

Second, they’d agreed to only communicate verbally. Even though Captain Decker hadn’t yet formally forbidden her from getting involved in the case, it was only a matter of time. Any record that showed she’d tried to get around that directive could put her career at risk and, as Garland had said, mess up her “sweet gig.”

Still, it gnawed at her. Here she was, investigating the death of a man who clearly had several skeletons in his closet. Meanwhile, an innocent young girl was being held captive by a serial killer, simply because she shared the same DNA as another serial killer.

The frustration rose in her chest and it was all she could do to swallow it back down.

Garland Moses better find something soon. Because I don’t know how much longer I can hold this in before it boils over.

*

When they pulled up to Gordon Maines’s mansion in Hancock Park, Jessie wasn’t surprised.

She already knew they were dealing with a man who was willing to book a $400 hotel room to cheat on his wife; a man who apparently had a credit card associated with a bogus company, a likely sign that his finances were sketchy too. And he apparently lived in a home no civil servant could afford unless he inherited it.

As they walked up the steps to the front door, Jessie reminded herself not to take her distaste for the victim out on his wife, who might think her husband hung the moon and was about to learn otherwise. Ryan rang the bell and they waited, both apprehensive about what was to come.

The door was opened by a petite, trim woman in her late forties. She was dressed in a tan business suit and her blonde hair was tied up in a bun. Despite her professional appearance, Jessie could tell she was in bad shape.

She had shadows under her eyes that couldn’t be masked, even with heavy makeup, despite a valiant attempt. The eyes themselves were red, a sign of anything from lack of sleep to crying to drug use. None of the choices indicated anything good. She had a long run in her right stocking, which she apparently hadn’t noticed, suggesting her thoughts were elsewhere.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice scratchy.

“Hi, are you Margo Maines?” Jessie asked gently.

“Yes,” she said warily. “What’s this about?”

Jessie looked at Ryan, who appeared ready to deliver the news they knew would break her. She’d seen him do it many times before and saw the same reaction now, a stiffening of his spine, as if preparing himself to accept the emotional blowback he was about to get. Suddenly, a wave of empathy rushed over her at the thought of how many times he’d been in this situation in his career. She felt a powerful urge to shield him from it this time and stepped forward slightly.

“We’re from the Los Angeles Police Department,” she said before he could get a word out. “I’m Jessie Hunt and this is Detective Ryan Hernandez. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Mrs. Maines.”

Margaret Maines, or “Margo” as she was called in her husband’s bio on the city website, seemed to know what was coming. She lowered her head as she reached out and gripped the doorframe. Ryan inched forward slightly just in case she collapsed.

Luckily, it wasn’t necessary. She looked back up at them with a resolve that Jessie admired, though it appeared fragile.

“Let’s go inside,” Mrs. Maines said. “I think I’d like to sit down before you tell me anything else.”

Jessie and Ryan followed her into the living room, where she sat on the loveseat and motioned for them to take the adjoining couch. Once they were all settled, she looked at them both and nodded.

“Go ahead,” she said resignedly.

Jessie continued, not looking at Ryan to see if he was okay with her taking point.

“I’m afraid your husband has died, Mrs. Maines. His body was found this morning at a downtown hotel. His identity was recently confirmed.”

Mrs. Maines nodded, took a deep gulp of air, and reached for a tissue. As she dabbed at her eyes, she replied.

“I knew something was wrong. He never came home last night. Sometimes he works very late. But he always calls. And he didn’t pick up any of mine. I actually thought about calling the police. But then I pictured him sleeping in his office with his phone on silent or with a dead battery. I didn’t want to overreact. I called the office this morning and they said he hadn’t come in yet. I knew something was wrong. I was this close to calling.”

“Why didn’t you?” Jessie asked, keeping her tone non-accusatory.

“Gordon was very particular. He hated bad press. I could hear his voice in my head saying, ‘If you call the police, it’ll end up in the papers. It’ll be on the news. My opponent in the next election will turn it into something nefarious no matter how innocent. There’s no room for public relations mistakes in modern politics.’ He was very big on avoiding bad press. Now I wonder if I could have prevented this by calling.”

Jessie thought it was ironic that a guy who was concerned about PR was apparently carrying on some kind of tryst and bankrolling it with what appeared to be a slush fund. But she kept that to herself.

“Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. Maines,” Ryan said. “From what we can tell so far, it looks like your husband died last night. No call you could have made would have saved him.”