The Perfect Facade (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Twelve) Read online

  It took nearly a minute for anyone to respond. As they waited, they traded uneasy looks. Was Stoller making a run for it? Getting a weapon? If he suspected that his connection to Claudia had been discovered, anything was possible. Karen was just about to knock again when they heard the sound of a bolt unlocking. The door opened to reveal the man Jessie knew to be Leif Stoller.

  He was dressed more casually than in the surveillance footage, as one might expect on a Sunday evening. He had on faded blue jeans and a navy sweatshirt with the capital letter “A” emblazoned in red across the chest with a wildcat just below it, suggesting he was either an alum or fan of the University of Arizona.

  Stoller was a shade over six feet tall, with a thick chest and just a hint of a belly. He was still recognizable as the same man from the hotel footage, but the intervening time hadn’t been kind to him.

  His immaculately combed blond hair was now tousled and greasy-looking. He had several days’ worth of stubble and there were dark bags under his red-tinged eyes. Jessie could smell the alcohol on his breath.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, feigning neighborliness.

  “Mr. Stoller,” Karen said courteously, “I’m Detective Karen Bray with the LAPD. This is Jessie Hunt. She’s a consultant for the department. We have a few questions for you.”

  His whole face crumpled at her words.

  “Oh god, I knew this was coming,” he groaned. “It’s about Claudia, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Karen said, unable to hide her surprise at his reaction.

  “I figured you’d want to talk to me eventually but I kept putting it out of my head. But that was just stupid—avoiding the inevitable.”

  “May we come in?” Jessie asked.

  Stoller glanced back at the stairwell behind him.

  “Actually, do you think we could talk outside? My wife is putting our son, Rory, back to bed. He had a nightmare. He’s friends with Claudia’s son and he knows she died. He’s been having trouble dealing with it. I don’t want him to hear us talking.”

  “Are you sure that’s the only reason, Mr. Stoller?” Jessie pressed.

  He looked back at her with guilty eyes.

  “Obviously, assuming that you’re here for the reason I suspect, I’d rather my wife not hear us talking either.”

  “That’s fine,” she replied, hiding her confusion. The last thing she’d expected from someone who’d spent months cultivating an affair with the aid of a burner phone and code phrases, and who may have conceived an elaborate plan to murder his lover and pin the blame on her drunk friend, was a confession.

  He stepped outside and closed the door softly behind him.

  “You don’t want to grab a coat?” Jessie asked. “It’s pretty cold out.”

  “I’m okay,” he said. “The liquor warmed me up.”

  Stunned at how forthcoming he was being, Jessie looked over at Karen questioningly, wondering if the detective was thinking the same thing she was: if he was this cooperative, they might be on the verge of an admission of guilt. If so, maybe he should be read his rights first to avoid legal hurdles down the line. Karen shook her head, as if to indicate she understood but wasn’t sure of the best move either. But before she got a chance to decide, Stoller beat her to it.

  “I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours,” he told them. “I’m not a religious person, but part of me thinks God is punishing me.”

  Both women hesitated before Jessie finally made the leap.

  “For what exactly?”

  “For the affair, of course,” he whispered. “We both knew it was wrong. I don’t know who felt more guilty about it—me or her. But we just couldn’t stop. This last week and a half was the longest we’d gone without being together since it started. I was starting to go stir crazy, waiting for her to reach out.”

  “Why didn’t you contact her?” Jessie said, deciding to let him lead them wherever his conscience directed him.

  “No way,” he said emphatically. “Cloudy was adamant about that. Only she could initiate a rendezvous. I violated that once and she threatened to end it. She said her husband saw the text and asked who Mary was. She wanted to make sure she’d only get a response from me when she was alone. So I never did it again. After that, everything was great for months. We had our most recent get-together. I waited for her to reach out. But then days turned into a week and all of a sudden it was yesterday afternoon and I saw the story on the news and my brain just exploded.”

  “You didn’t try to see her on Friday night?” Jessie asked.

  “No,” he said, surprised at the question. “Why would I do that? I wasn’t even here.”

  “Where were you?” Karen asked.

  “San Diego. The Wildcats had a road basketball game against San Diego State and I took Rory. We spent the night down there.”

  Jessie felt as if a water balloon had popped just above her head, first startling her and then drenching her in disappointment. She’d already been unsettled by how willing Leif Stoller was to spill his guts. If his alibi bore out (and it wouldn’t be hard to verify) all their meticulous recreations of text conversations and hotel room check-ins would be for naught.

  “Can anyone besides your son confirm that you were there?” Karen asked, her voice filled with same frustration Jessie was feeling.

  Before he could answer, his phone buzzed. He checked the message, then looked up in panic.

  “It’s my wife,” he said. “She wants to know where I am. How am I going to explain you being here?”

  “Mr. Stoller, I think you need to face reality,” Jessie told him, suddenly weary of trying to maintain any semblance of deference. “We came here investigating your involvement in Claudia Wender’s death. If the worst thing that comes out of this is that you have to admit an affair to your wife, you’re coming out ahead.”

  “You thought I killed her? I could never. I loved—” he began before stopping himself and shaking his head adamantly. “I can’t tell my wife. She’d be devastated.”

  “Well, unfortunately, them’s the breaks,” Karen said, clearly losing patience. “You can decide how you want to tell her, but we have some more questions for you and I’m tired of doing it out here in the cold. So we can either continue this inside or down at the station.”

  Stoller barely waited a beat before answering.

  “The station is good. Let me just grab my coat. I’ll text her back once we’re gone.”

  He turned back to the house and opened the door, then stopped cold.

  “Hi, honey,” he said awkwardly to someone just out of view in the shadowed foyer.

  “Who’s at the door?” a female voice asked, pulling it open.

  Jessie’s mouth dropped open.

  Staring back at her was Lauren Kiplinger.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Jessie was wrong.

  Only when the woman stepped out of the shadows into the glare of the porch light did she realize this wasn’t actually Lauren Kiplinger. But the resemblance was so startling that she could have been her sister, if not quite her twin.

  “Hello,” the woman said, extending her hand graciously to Karen. “I’m Breanne Stoller. What can I do for you?”

  Jessie’s brain exploded with a half dozen thoughts at the same time. The name Breanne rang a bell immediately. Breanne was one of the two friends who had begged off the girls’ night outing at the last minute.

  Assuming this was the same Breanne, and Jessie had no reason to doubt that it was, she would have known the hotel, even the name of the suite, where the group was staying. She would have known all the attendees, and that the reservation was under Veronica’s—or “Ronnie’s”—name.

  Even if she didn’t know that the other women referred to her and Lauren as the Barbie Bimbos, Breanne couldn’t have missed how alike they looked. Their blonde hair was about the same length, even styled similarly. They were around the same height. They both had deep tans and large, likely enhanced breasts. They each had toned physiques
, which Breanne was currently displaying via yoga pants and an off-the-shoulder, Flashdance-style sweatshirt.

  The shape of their eyes was different, but behind sunglasses, no one would notice. And with a hoodie casting her face in shadow, distinguishing between them would be challenging for anyone who didn’t know them well.

  Add to all of that, her husband and son—who was friends with Claudia’s son—were out of town the night of the murder. Jessie wondered if her daughter had been shipped somewhere else as well.

  As all of those facts converged at once, she glanced over at Karen, who was clearly thinking many of the same things. But the detective recovered quickly and shook Breanne’s hand.

  “Hello, Mrs. Stoller. I’m Karen Bray, a detective with the LAPD and this is—”

  “Jessie Hunt,” Breanne interrupted. “I recognize a local legend when I see one.”

  Jessie offered a tight smile.

  “We’re sorry to bother you in a Sunday evening,” she said, not commenting on her celebrity status, “but we’re looking into Claudia Wender’s death. There are a few loose ends we need to tie up and we hoped you could help with that.”

  “Of course, come in,” Breanne said, her expression changing from friendly to practiced concern. “It’s so awful what happened. Did you need to talk to both of us or just Leif?”

  “Oh, we already spoke with your husband,” Jessie said, making the impromptu decision to keep what they knew about his affair secret. “He told us about your son’s difficulties processing what happened to his friend’s mom. But we were hoping you could confirm a few details that Claudia’s other friends mentioned.”

  Breanne looked surprised that her husband was getting a pass but quickly moved on.

  “Whatever I can do to help,” she offered, leading them down the main hall into the kitchen. Jessie followed her. She noticed that Karen had made sure to let Leif go ahead of her so she could trail the whole group. Jessie understood why. The detective was letting her take the lead in this chat/interrogation, but she was still on high alert.

  “We understand that you had to back out of Claudia’s birthday night out at the last minute,” Jessie said once they came to a stop at the breakfast room table.

  “I didn’t know that,” Leif said, genuinely stunned. “You were invited to that?”

  “Of course I was,” Breanne replied with the slightest hint of an edge. “Claudia and I were dear friends. I had every intention of going.”

  “But you felt sick?” Karen prompted.

  “Yes,” Breanne replied, seeming to shiver at the memory of it. “I had sushi as an afternoon snack because we were going to be eating late that night. But something didn’t agree with me. By the time Ronnie called to confirm, I was in terrible shape. Trust me, you don’t want the details.”

  “That sounds awful,” Jessie said sympathetically. “And with your husband out of town, there was no one to take care of you?”

  “It was actually a blessing in disguise,” Breanne answered. “Both my men were gone. And I had dropped my daughter, Lily, off at my mother’s earlier in the afternoon to spend the night there since I’d be at the hotel. So there was no one to hear me nearly cough up a lung. It’s bad enough to feel like that, but to know everyone in the house can hear it? That would have just made it worse.”

  “But you’re okay now?” Jessie confirmed.

  “Yes. I just curled up in the fetal position that night, when I wasn’t making hurried trips to the bathroom. But by yesterday morning, it had mostly left my system. When I picked up Lily, I was a little weak but functional. I feel almost normal today.”

  “And when did you hear about Claudia’s death?”

  Breanne squinted as if trying to remember.

  “I think it was early afternoon yesterday. One of the girls—Lauren if I recall— texted me. It was so horrible. Right afterward, I turned on the TV and checked the web but there was nothing. I almost didn’t believe it. And then the stories started flooding in.”

  “That’s how Rory found out,” Leif added. “We were driving back from San Diego and I was listening to the news on the radio. The anchor just blurted it out without any warning. Rory looked over at me, confused. Then he started crying. We pulled over to the side of the road but it didn’t help. I couldn’t console him. He didn’t stop for the rest of the drive back.”

  As if in response to that last comment, an ear-splitting cry filled the room. Jessie jumped. Karen winced.

  “Sorry,” Leif said, “that’s the baby monitor.”

  “Is that Rory?” Karen asked.

  “It’s actually Lily,” Breanne told them, starting to step away. “I should go check on her.”

  “Actually,” Jessie said quickly, “maybe your husband could do that. We only have a few more questions and we’ll be on our way. Then you can go up and help out.”

  Breanne looked hesitant.

  “She’s really used to me being the one who soothes her at night,” she insisted.

  “And you’ll be right up,” Jessie assured her. “We’ll be quick and then we’ll get out of your hair.”

  “It’s okay, Bree,” Leif said. “I’ve got it. Finish up here. If she’s still struggling when you’re done, you can take over.”

  Breanne still looked reluctant but finally nodded in acquiescence. Leif darted up the stairs, leaving the three women alone. For several seconds no one spoke. Karen looked at Jessie with a “this is your gig” expression, though her right hand did rest on her hip, not far from her gun. Jessie raised her eyebrows as if to say “here goes,” and turned to Breanne, focusing all her attention on the woman standing at her kitchen counter with a forced, plastic smile on her face. When Jessie spoke, her tone was quiet but firm.

  “I think it’s time for a heart to heart, Breanne.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  For a second, Jessie saw panic in the woman’s eyes.

  But it was only for an instant, and was quickly replaced by something more like carefully studied curiosity.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. Her voice was steady, but Jessie noticed that her hands were pressing down so hard on the kitchen counter that her fingertips were turning white.

  Jessie debated how best to approach her. She knew in her bones that Breanne was Claudia’s murderer. She was confident they could prove it. But a confession would be nice, as would be avoiding a scene. She decided to be direct and honest, mostly at least.

  “We know it was you, Breanne,” she said, almost apologetically. “We know about the affair. And we know you killed Cloudy.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Breanne replied indignantly, even as her fingers got whiter.

  “I get it,” Jessie said gently. “You said you recognized me. So you know my story. You know my husband cheated on me. But he slept with an escort, not a friend I saw all the time. I think that might be even worse. Either way, I know the hurt and rage you must have felt when you discovered it.”

  Breanne shook her head vigorously but said nothing. Jessie pressed ahead.

  “I know the feeling. And so I know why you ended up at the Hollywood Center Hotel in sunglasses and a hooded sweatshirt, getting a keycard from the desk clerk.”

  Breanne’s eyes widened. She looked like she wanted to respond but just wasn’t able. Jessie continued.

  “We have the statement from Maisie, the desk clerk on duty,” she told her, neglecting to mention that the statement didn’t implicate Breanne. “We have surveillance video from the hotel. We know you tried to pass yourself off as Lauren.”

  “Wait,” Breanne said, suddenly trying to find her voice. “You’re saying I did this? What makes you think it wasn’t actually Lauren? She was the one who was actually there.”

  “You have no alibi,” Karen told her, joining in for the first time. “Is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts that night?”

  “I was puking my guts out,” Breanne said, her voice rising slightly. “I didn’t know I’d need an alib
i. Besides, an officer came by yesterday and took a statement from me. He seemed satisfied.”

  Jessie intended to have a word with that officer when this was all done. It sounded like he needed a refresher in basic interrogation techniques. But that was a matter for another time. Right now, she decided to shut down all Breanne’s scrambling attempts to worm her way out of it. If she could be made to see that she was in a no-win situation, maybe they could coax her into a confession.

  “Sweetie,” she said, as if confiding in an old friend, “we haven’t even started to do the background work yet. If you drove your car to the hotel, we can track that. If you took a rideshare, we’ll find out. We can track your phone too. You live in a gated community with a guard shack that has cameras. They’ll reveal that you left, and when. I saw cameras on multiple homes near here. We’ll be checking all of those. And then there are the surveillance cameras all around the hotel, as well as in the elevators and in the hallway outside the suite.”

  “But Lauren—” Breanne started to say.

  “Lauren was passed out when you did this,” Jessie said, cutting her off. “When you were talking to the desk clerk and riding up in the elevator, she was dead to the world. We have eyewitnesses to it. And you know it too, because you would have had to walk right past her.”

  Breanne opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it. Jessie looked over at Karen. This was the time. If Breanne was going to confess, it was going to happen now. And they needed to get their legal ducks in a row before she did. Karen nodded in silent agreement. Jessie turned back to their suspect.

  “So here’s what’s going to happen, Breanne,” she said with what she hoped was comforting warmth. “We want your side of the story. God knows you deserve to say your piece, after what Leif did to you, after the indignities you suffered at the hands of your husband and the woman who was supposedly your friend, a woman who smiled in your face while betraying your trust. But before you can set the record straight, Detective Bray needs to get the formalities out of the way.”

  Karen stepped forward, and in a voice filled with remorse and understanding, read Breanne Stoller her rights. As she did, Jessie took out her phone, activated the voice memo function, and placed it on the counter where everyone could see it. Then she returned her attention to Breanne, who, blank-faced and open-mouthed, listened to the detective’s words.