The Perfect Neighbor (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Nine) Read online

  She knew it didn’t have to be that way. She had lots of pain medication. The doctor had instructed her not to lower the dosage for a month. But she’d started weaning herself off it a week ago, partly worried about becoming dependent. But there was another reason too. She needed to stay alert.

  On the day after Jessie was burned, while she was recovering in the hospital, her ex-husband, Kyle Voss, was released from prison. This was the same ex-husband who’d been incarcerated in the first place for murdering his mistress, trying to frame Jessie for the crime, and then attempting to kill her when she found out.

  And yet somehow, the prosecutor in Kyle’s case had recently confessed to improper conduct involving the mishandling of evidence. Of course Jessie knew the “somehow.” Kyle had made friends with a prison gang associated with the infamous Monzon drug cartel. Subsequently, cartel members had threatened the prosecutor’s family. Jessie was sure of this. Her FBI agent friend, Jack Dolan, was equally certain. Unfortunately they couldn’t prove it.

  So, while Jessie lay in a hospital bed recovering from burns, a judge released Kyle Voss into the community, even apologizing to him in court. Kyle was his usual charming self at the time. He held a press conference admitting he was “far from a perfect person” and that he planned to turn over a new leaf, including starting a foundation to fund charities that helped wrongly convicted prisoners.

  What Kyle didn’t admit to—what Jessie knew but couldn’t prove—was that while he was in prison, he’d undertaken a campaign to destroy Jessie’s life and reputation. It had started with small things, like having a cartel member knife her car tires. It escalated to planting anti-psychotic drugs, anonymously calling social services to claim she was abusing Hannah, whom she had custody of, and hacking into her social media and posting racist and anti-Semitic rants. That last maneuver, despite being unmasked, was still having lasting impacts on Jessie’s work relationships and the public’s perception of her.

  It culminated with an anonymous flower arrangement sent to her hospital room saying the giver would be seeing her soon. Considering that Kyle had already tried to kill her and had told a prison informant that he wanted to “gut her like a pig and bathe in her warm blood,” Jessie decided a little less pain medication was worth the discomfort if it kept her vigilant.

  It helped that her boyfriend, who’d recently moved in with her and Hannah, was a decorated LAPD detective who looked like he could take a charging bull in a wrestling match. Ryan Hernandez, the top investigator in the department’s Homicide Special Section (HSS) unit, was six feet tall and two hundred pounds of solid muscle. Jessie sometimes felt like she was dating her personal bodyguard, though it didn’t look that way right now.

  “Comfortable?” she asked as he moved over to the couch and lay down on it with his bare feet on the arm.

  “Very,” he said before teasing her. “You getting those dishes sudsy enough?”

  “You’re about to find out how sudsy they are if you don’t take your smelly feet off the arm of my couch.”

  He complied without a word, though he did stick his tongue out at her. She tried not to grin.

  In addition to having the tough guy in the food coma around, it was also reassuring that her apartment was essentially a vault. It had been designed that way when she was being hunted by her own birth father, a serial killer named Xander Thurman, who had decided that she would either join the family business or be a victim of it.

  So she’d gotten a place in a building with retired cops as security guards, a 24/7 monitored, gated parking lot, and security cameras in every hallway and public space. But that was just the beginning.

  She was one of the few residents—all in high-profile jobs—who lived on the secret thirteenth floor, which was unknown to most people in the building. It could only be accessed via stairwells from the twelfth or fourteenth floors, hidden behind utility closets.

  In addition to all that, Jessie had set up her own elaborate security system for the condo, including multiple locks and alarms. The one advantage of having been married to a murderous but wealthy and successful financial advisor was that when she divorced him, she became independently wealthy herself.

  Despite all those precautions, she knew that Kyle, a sociopath who had fooled her for a decade, was wily and relentless. He had almost gotten away with murder. He had negotiated his way out of a long prison sentence. She wasn’t going to underestimate his ability to circumvent her security precautions.

  “You up for dessert?” Hannah asked her from the dinner table, pulling Jessie back into the present as she rinsed off the last of the dishes. “I made pear tarts.”

  Jessie was full but didn’t want to upset the tenuous good vibes of the evening.

  “I’m about to burst but I could try a small one,” she said, getting a satisfied smile from her half-sister.

  Any smile she could get was a win these days. Though everything in the apartment seemed pleasant on the surface there was definitely some tension simmering just below. Ryan had asked for Hannah’s permission first before broaching the idea of living together with Jessie. While the request was thoughtful, Jessie sensed that Hannah had consented more out of politeness than any genuine excitement.

  It was clear that Hannah wanted her to be happy. But she also obviously didn’t love sharing a two-bedroom apartment with an affectionate couple, especially when both of them were law enforcement professionals.

  As Jessie considered this, Hannah walked over, pulled the tarts out of the oven and, without a word, dropped the tiniest one, which was also a bit charred, on the wet counter next to Jessie.

  “Enjoy,” she muttered.

  “Thanks,” Jessie said, choosing to focus on the offer of dessert rather than the manner in which it was delivered.

  Sometimes Hannah’s mild resentment came out in the form of passive-aggressive teenage jabs or, in this case, burned pear tarts. Sometimes it manifested through sullen silence. It wasn’t constant but it emerged often enough to be noticeable. Her green eyes would turn stormy, her tall frame would get slouchy, and her sandy blonde hair would suddenly be tied back in a severe, disdainful ponytail.

  The circumstances weren’t ideal for Jessie and Ryan either, neither of whom felt they could really let loose romantically with a seventeen-year-old in a bedroom just across the living room. They’d been living together in this configuration for less than a month, but it was already becoming clear that a conversation about their future living situation was inevitable.

  “With all the security you have here, maybe we could invest in some bedroom soundproofing,” was the only quip Ryan had made on the matter.

  And then there was the other thing, the one that hung over everything. Was Hannah Dorsey stable? Jessie had recently assumed custody of the half-sister she previously didn’t know existed, having discovered her only after their shared serial killer father murdered Hannah’s adoptive parents, and then another killer named Bolton Crutchfield had slaughtered her foster parents, kidnapped Hannah, and tried to indoctrinate her into becoming like him. It was a lot for anyone to recover from, much less someone in her junior year of high school.

  “Please be careful with that knife,” she said as Hannah carelessly used it to scrape the remaining tarts off the parchment paper on the tray.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Hannah muttered under her breath as she continued to use the blade like a scrub brush.

  Jessie sighed without responding. The sight of her half-sister holding a long, serrated knife was disconcerting. Even as she tried to create a safe environment, she worried that perhaps some homicidal residue had been implanted in the girl. Had she secretly developed a blood lust after seeing the cruel power that violence offered those who embraced it? Was there some germ of murderousness that had somehow been passed down to her from her father? And if so, did Jessie have it too?

  It was a question she’d brooded over for months. She addressed it with her therapist, Dr. Janice Lemmon, who had also been seeing Hannah. It was somethin
g she’d even asked her mentor, famed criminal profiler Garland Moses, to investigate. But no one could offer her anything definitive about Hannah’s nature, just as she couldn’t seem to discern a firm answer about her own character.

  Most of the time Hannah just seemed like a regular teenage girl, with all the expected moods and hormones. But considering the trauma she’d suffered in recent months, sometimes even being “regular” seemed suspicious.

  Jessie shook her head, trying to rattle the thoughts out of her brain. Right now, things were decent. Her sister had made dessert, even if she gave her the burned one. Everyone was being nice. Jessie was supposed to return to desk work next week and hopefully to full duty as a criminal profiler the week after that. Things were progressing.

  Yes, it was frustrating to watch Ryan leave each morning, headed out to LAPD’s Central Station, where they both worked. But she’d be joining him soon. Then she could return to the world she loved, where she got to catch killers by delving into their minds.

  For half a second, the troubling nature of “loving” that world jumped out at her. But she swallowed the concern quickly, along with a bite of Hannah’s excellent pear tart. Even slightly singed, it was delicious. As they were all finishing dessert, Ryan’s cell phone rang. Even before he looked at it, everyone knew what it was about. At this hour, it was almost certainly a case.

  “Hello?” Ryan answered.

  He listened quietly for almost a minute. Jessie could barely make out the voice on the other end of the line. But based on the raspy, unhurried style, she was sure she knew who it was.

  “Garland?’ she asked when Ryan hung up.

  “Yep,” he said, nodding as he stood up and began gathering his things. “He’s handling a case in Manhattan Beach and thinks it’s a fit for HSS. He wants my help.”

  “Manhattan Beach?” Jessie pressed. “That’s a little out of our jurisdiction, isn’t it?”

  “Apparently the victim’s husband is a big-time downtown oil executive. He’s heard of Garland and specifically requested him. He’s supposedly a major asshole so the local cops are happy to play second fiddle to LAPD on this one.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Jessie said.

  “That’s the weird thing,” Ryan said, addressing not her but Hannah as he threw on his sports jacket and gun belt. “Most people would say that sarcastically. But your sister genuinely means it. She’s jealous that she can’t come along. It’s a sickness.”

  He was right, in more ways than one.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Garland Moses felt guilty.

  He’d been driving fast, trying to get to the crime scene as quickly as possible. As he drove west along Manhattan Beach Boulevard toward the ocean, he crested the top of the hill just as the last remnants of the setting sun cast a pinkish-orange glow over the beach town and beyond it, the Pacific Ocean.

  Something about the sight loosened the tight ball of anticipation in his chest. Most people knew him as the crusty veteran profiler who rarely showed any emotion, much less something like awe. But alone in his car, he was free to gawk at the sight of surfers silhouetted against the crimson sun, with sailboats as their background. But even as he marveled at the postcard scene, the guilt started to creep in, telling him he wasn’t here to appreciate the view. He was here on business.

  Still, as he drove down the last stretch of road before it dead-ended at the pier, he glanced jealously at the crowds of people wandering the streets in summer attire. Though it was approaching 8 p.m., he still wore his unofficial uniform, a worn-out gray sport coat and a dull, off-white dress shirt. Normally he also added a sweater vest, but on this hot day that was too much even for him. He did, however, wear his traditional, faded navy slacks and badly scuffed brown loafers. The whole get-up was like a costume, designed to make suspects and witnesses let down their guard around the elderly, seemingly absentminded gentleman asking them personal questions.

  He turned right on Ocean Drive, just a block from the beach. It was more of an alley than a street and he had to weave in and out of sloppily parked cars to get to the address he’d been given. When he arrived, he parked in a loading zone, put his LAPD placard on the dashboard, and got out.

  He was immediately overcome by the combination of the cooling breeze and salty scent in the air, quite a change from his usual downtown haunts, which smelled more of exhaust and asphalt. He walked briskly until he arrived at the walking path that locals called the Strand. A half block north, he saw police tape and multiple officers blocking off part of the Strand to pedestrians.

  As he headed in that direction, his investigative senses nudged his appreciation of his surroundings to the side. He still took in the sight of post-work volleyball matches on the sand and moms pushing strollers as they got in an evening jog. But he also studied the homes close to the crime scene.

  They all faced the beach with doors that were only feet away from passersby. Very few had yards and almost none had protective gates. It seemed that in this neighborhood, ease of beach access trumped security precautions.

  He felt slightly out of his element in this environment. Though he lived in central Los Angeles, he was embarrassed to admit that he rarely got to the beach, spending most of his time in the area surrounding the downtown station where he worked.

  In that part of town, every homeowner or renter had some measure of security, whether it was a gate, bars on the windows, a security system, or all of the above. His friend and fellow profiler, Jessie Hunt, had all of the above, along with cameras, on-site security guards, a patrolled parking garage, and more door locks than light switches. Of course she had good reason. Still, he wasn’t used to the laissez-faire attitude of this beach community. But he’d have to deal with it. He hadn’t been given much of a choice.

  Normally Garland Moses got his pick of cases. After all, for decades he’d been a celebrated FBI profiler in the Behavioral Sciences unit. Widowed young and childless, he’d been relentless about his work. When he finally moved to Southern California to retire, he’d been persuaded to work for the LAPD as a consultant. But only on the condition that he could choose the cases he wanted to pursue.

  But not today. In this instance, Central Station’s captain, Roy Decker, had pleaded with him to make an exception. The victim’s husband, a wealthy oil and gas executive named Garth Barton, had given over $400,000 to the police union in the last three years. Though the couple now lived in Manhattan Beach, which had its own police department, Barton worked downtown and was well aware of the reputation of legendary profiler Garland Moses.

  “Barton insists on bringing you in,” Decker had told him over the phone. “He’s hinting that his union contributions might end if you don’t take the case. I’d consider it a personal favor, Garland.”

  Considering it was the first favor the captain had ever asked of him, he was inclined to do it. Once he said yes Decker continued talking quickly, as if worried Garland might change his mind.

  “I promise that the MBPD will defer to you and your preferred team,” the captain had assured him. “In fact, they seem enthusiastic about the prospect. Apparently Barton has a reputation as a real pain in the ass and they’re more than happy to hand off dealing with him to someone else, especially when he’s emotionally overwrought, as they say he seems to be now.”

  As Garland got closer to the cordoned off area of the Strand, he pushed the politics out of his head and returned his focus to the crime itself. He knew little, other than that Priscilla Barton had been found dead in a neighbor’s house and that foul play was suspected. He arrived at the scene and looked around to see if Ryan Hernandez, the Homicide Special Section detective he’d asked to partner with him on the case, had arrived yet.

  Not seeing him, he approached the closest MBPD officer and flashed his credentials.

  “Garland Moses, LAPD forensic profiling consultant. Who’s in charge here?”

  The officer, whose name tag read Timms and who didn’t look a day over twenty-two, gulped hard.
/>   “Sergeant Breem is handling things until the detective gets here,” he said, his voice quavering nervously. “He’s inside right now.”

  “Mind if I join him?” Garland asked.

  “No sir. He’s in the foyer. That’s where the body is.”

  “Thanks,” Garland said. He started in that direction before stopping and turning around. “Did you know the Bartons, Officer Timms?”

  “Not really,” Timms said. “I never interacted with them personally but knew of them by reputation.”

  “How so?”

  “Mr. Barton called in a lot with complaints about his neighbors, noise violations, stuff like that.”

  “And Mrs. Barton?” Garland pressed, scribbling notes furiously on his tiny pad.

  “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead,” Timms said hesitantly.

  “You’re not speaking ill. You’re just sharing information. And information is how we’re going to catch her killer.”

  Timms nodded, seemingly convinced.

  “Okay,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “She had a reputation as a bit of a celebrity stalker, harmless but annoying. A few times well-known folks who live here complained that she would follow them around, even try to buddy up to them, try to sit down and have drinks with them. It wasn’t anything that serious. It’s not like she was breaking into people’s homes and waiting in bed for them.”

  “Are we sure about that?” Garland asked skeptically. “This isn’t her house, correct?”

  Timms’s face turned red.

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” he said, clearly embarrassed.

  “Like what?” someone asked from behind them.

  Garland turned around to find Detective Ryan Hernandez smiling at him.