The Perfect Neighbor (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Nine) Page 3

  “Never mind,” he said. “How are you, Detective?”

  “Considering I was ripped from the comforts of home and companionship, okay I guess. And yourself?”

  “I’m actually quite enjoying the change of scenery,” Garland confessed. “I almost don’t want to go inside.”

  “And yet…” Ryan said reluctantly.

  “…we must,” Garland finished, waving his arm to indicate the detective should take the lead.

  As Hernandez walked ahead of him toward the front door, Garland marveled at his younger counterpart. Even when he was in his early thirties, he never looked as put together as Ryan Hernandez. Of course, he didn’t have the good looks of Hernandez either.

  He had occasionally teased Jessie that her near-Amazonian height, deep green eyes, wavy brown hair, and well-defined cheekbones mixed with her boyfriend’s short black hair, brown eyes, and well-defined pecs would ensure that their future children would eventually assume their rightful place on Mount Olympus. It almost always made her blush. He decided not to try the same crack with him.

  They stepped inside where Sergeant Breem, a lanky, deeply tanned guy in his forties who Garland suspected was a surfer was waiting with two other uniformed officers and a crime scene unit. A deputy coroner was taking pictures of the body. The husband was nowhere to be found.

  Garland looked around the foyer, making notes on his pad as he let his eyes take in everything. Only when he was sure he had a sense of the room did he look at the victim. Priscilla Barton was lying on her back with what looked like a stocking wrapped around her neck.

  She had obvious burst blood vessels in her wide open eyes, a likely sign of strangulation. She was wearing a red sports bra, yoga pants, and one flip-flop. The other was lying forlornly halfway down the hall. There was no rigor mortis; she wasn’t yet bloated and her skin was only slightly discolored, all suggesting her death was quite recent, likely not more than a couple of hours ago.

  “Sergeant Breem,” Hernandez said, extending his hand in introduction. “I’m Detective Ryan Hernandez with the LAPD. This is our profiler, Garland Moses. We appreciate you letting us participate in the investigation.”

  “Are you kidding?” Breem said, almost laughing. “We’re glad to take a backseat on this one. Not to be insensitive, but Barton isn’t an easy guy to root for. He’s been nothing but a challenge since he and the missus moved here. We’ll give you all the support you need but when it comes to dealing with that guy, we formally defer.”

  “Where is Mr. Barton?” Hernandez asked.

  “He’s at his house. It’s right next door. If you listen closely, you can probably hear him yelling at my officer right now.”

  “We’ll hold off on chatting with him for a bit then,” Hernandez said, turning to the coroner, a youngish guy named Pugh. “What do you have so far?”

  “Body temperature indicates she died less than three hours ago. Ligature marks and subconjunctival hemorrhaging strongly suggest strangulation. There’s some bruising on the arms and chest, indicating a possible altercation before death. No sign of sexual assault so far.”

  “Anything else?” Hernandez asked.

  Sergeant Breem piped in.

  “We found a bottle of wine with a note in the kitchen. It looks like a housewarming gift from her. The note suggested the victim thought she had a new neighbor. But the couple that owns the house hasn’t moved. They’re on vacation but aren’t renting the place out.”

  “That’s odd,” Hernandez said.

  Breem nodded in agreement.

  “We think someone may have been in the middle of robbing the place when she came over. Or possibly someone saw her go in and followed.”

  Hernandez looked over at Garland, who didn’t comment on the theory. Instead he bent down near the body and studied the stocking still loosely wrapped around Barton’s neck.

  It was an odd choice for a murder weapon. Garland had seen lots of strangulations, many using wires, extension cords, and even bare hands. But he couldn’t recall anyone ever being choked to death with a stocking.

  It looks expensive.

  He looked up, about to ask if anyone knew the brand. But seeing that the foyer was exclusively populated by men, he made a mental note to do some research of his own later.

  “Can someone bag this?” he asked.

  A crime scene tech stepped in to do exactly that, picking up the stocking with forceps and dropping it in an evidence bag.

  “I doubt we’ll be able to pull any prints off it,” Breem muttered. “The place has been wiped clean of them. Whole sections of the house don’t have any at all, not even from the homeowners. Whoever did this was diligent about cleaning up and seemed to wear gloves the entire time.”

  “Any chance of getting skin or hair fibers off the stocking?” Garland asked the tech.

  “Possibly. But I see bits of material on it that also suggests the perpetrator might have been wearing gloves. We’ll let you know.”

  Garland let Hernandez and the MBPD focus on the minutiae of the crime scene while he wandered around the house, trying to get a sense of what might have happened. There was no sign of an altercation anywhere else, which made him suspect that Breem’s theory—that she was followed in or walked in on something—had merit. He knew she’d at least made it to the kitchen before anything happened. But where else she’d been in the home was a mystery.

  “Garland!” he heard Hernandez call out.

  He walked back into the foyer where everyone was looking at him expectantly.

  “Yes?”

  “Garth Barton wants to talk to you,” Hernandez said. “He’s insisting on it and supposedly getting snippy.”

  “Let’s go,” Garland sighed. “I wouldn’t want to keep the VIP waiting. Where was he when this went down, by the way?”

  “He volunteered that he was driving home and on a phone meeting the whole time,” Breem told them. “He says his commute home takes about seventy to eighty minutes a day. We’re confirming it all. But if he’s being honest, he’ll have an alibi for the window of death.”

  “That’s unfortunate if true,” Garland muttered under his breath.

  “Why?” Breem asked.

  “Because if it wasn’t the husband, we’ve got a real challenge on our hands: highly trafficked area, little security to speak of, and minimal physical evidence.” Then, unable to keep the weary cynicism out of his voice, he added, “I don’t envy the people who have to solve this one.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kyle Voss woke up the next morning and bounded out of bed.

  He dropped to the floor and immediately did a hundred push-ups. Then he did a three-minute plank, followed by fifty burpees. Happily drenched in sweat after only being awake for fifteen minutes, he went to the bathroom and stripped naked.

  Staring at himself in the mirror, he couldn’t help but admire his physique. Two years in prison may have put a pause on his professional life but it had done wonders for his body. He was harder and fitter than he’d been since his high school football days. At six foot two and an unyielding 215 pounds, he honestly thought he’d be passable as an NFL safety. His blond hair was still quite short, a remnant of his prison buzz cut. His blue eyes were clear.

  He hopped in the shower, which he turned all the way to cold. He made sure to scrub every inch of his skin, refusing to hurry and refusing to shiver. When he was done, he toweled himself off and put on his favorite suit. This was an important day and he wanted to look good.

  He’d been keeping a low profile since he got out of prison, laying the groundwork for his upcoming plans without drawing too much attention to himself. But all that would change today. This was the start of his public reinvention. It was crucial to his overall plan and had to go well. He felt a funny flicker in his stomach and eventually managed to identify it as nervousness.

  The schedule for the day was quite involved. Even though the judge had dismissed his case, Kyle still had to meet with a parole officer twice a week. He didn
’t mind. Acing those sessions would pay dividends when his character was inevitably questioned down the line.

  After that appointment, he had a meeting with his recently created foundation, WCP, which stood for the “Wrongly Convicted Project.” It dispersed funds to charities that provided legal support to prisoners fighting false charges. It also allowed Kyle to perform some clever accounting magic, which he would eventually employ to help some friends he’d made behind bars.

  After that, he had an interview with a local news station about the foundation. He’d been meeting with a media relations expert who’d taught him how to focus on the foundation without getting caught up in unpleasant conversations about the reason he was convicted in the first place—that whole mess with Jessie. This would be his first attempt to navigate those choppy waters.

  Once the news interview was over, he had one of another kind. He was meeting with a wealth management firm based out of Rancho Cucamonga, not far from his Claremont townhouse. He’d moved to the charming college town, over thirty miles from downtown Los Angeles, so that no one could credibly accuse him of trying to intimidate his ex-wife. And if the interview went well (he’d been assured by his friends in Monterrey that it would) he’d have an imprimatur of legitimacy that would be crucial to the work he had planned in the coming weeks and months.

  He needed the credibility that came with a position at a well-respected firm. And though he didn’t like to admit it, he needed the money too. He’d made a pretty penny before the whole murder thing. But the divorce from Jessie and his legal defense had drained much of his resources. He still had access to funds he’d cleverly squirreled away during the marriage. But that wasn’t enough to run the foundation, support the lifestyle he wanted, and finance the total destruction of his ex-wife’s world. He simply needed more income.

  He was just finishing up breakfast when the front doorbell rang. He checked the security camera using his phone and saw that it was his parole officer, which wasn’t a total shock. He’d been warned that unscheduled home visits weren’t uncommon and to be prepared.

  “Hi, Mr. Salazar,” he said, opening the door. “I thought we were supposed to meet up at your office at nine. Just couldn’t wait, huh?”

  “You’re aware that unannounced home visits are permitted, Mr. Voss?” Salazar asked crisply.

  “Of course,” Kyle said as if he’d been expecting him. “I figured that after so many trips to your place that you’d return the favor at some point. I was just finishing up breakfast. Can I offer you anything? Coffee? I make a mean cheesy egg scramble.”

  “No thank you. This needn’t take too long. I just wanted to see what you had planned for the week to make sure you were meeting your court-ordered obligations.”

  “Sure thing,” Kyle said warmly, turning and heading back into the house. “My calendar is in the kitchen.”

  Salazar followed him cautiously. Kyle continued to act as if they were just old buddies catching up, pouring the man a cup of coffee and putting it on the table across from him. Salazar, despite his earlier protestations, took a sip.

  Kyle walked the man through the very itinerary he’d been assessing only moments earlier, minus a few details, of course. He could tell within minutes that Salazar was satisfied but kept going, poring over every appointment he had all week. The goal was to be so forthcoming that Salazar didn’t feel the need for another in-home visit any time soon.

  It worked. Less than ten minutes later the parole officer was leaving, along with a to-go cup of coffee and a plastic container of cheesy eggs he’d changed his mind about.

  “See you on Friday,” he reminded Kyle. “Nine a.m. sharp in my office.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  Five minutes later he was out the door himself. As he got into his car and waved at the FBI agents parked across the street, where they’d been intermittently since he moved in, he mentally reviewed his schedule. He knew that in between all the meetings and interviews, it would be challenging to organize the metaphorical and physical destruction of Jessie Hunt. But he was confident that he could do it. After all, he’d already stage-managed the near collapse of her career from behind bars.

  With the formidable assistance of the Monterrey-based Monzon drug cartel, he’d coordinated all manner of nightmares for Jessie. It had started small, having the cartel soldiers knife her car tires. It escalated to planting drugs, making anonymous calls to social services suggesting she’d abused her sister, and best of all, hacking into her social media and posting racist rants. That one was still resonating, making his ex-wife persona non grata with many in L.A., even after she was technically exonerated.

  The cartel was helping ensure that there would still be protests outside the station where she worked. Her car was scheduled to be tagged with graffiti soon. And then the good stuff would start.

  First, there would be the elimination of those closest to her. And then, when she was at her most emotionally vulnerable, he’d come for her and do what he’d been dreaming of for years now. At first he’d planned to slice her open and watch her face fill with horror as he cut out her organs and burned them in front of her. But now he actually had something far worse in mind for her. Payback would be a bitch for this bitch.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jessie nibbled at her muffin nervously.

  As she sat in the Nickel Diner on South Main Street, waiting for Garland Moses to arrive, she had the weird feeling that someone was cheating. Usually she and Ryan worked together. But Ryan had investigated a case with Garland last night in Manhattan Beach. Was their team-up a personal violation of some sort? Was this morning’s breakfast get-together? She knew that logically, it was ridiculous. And yet the feeling lingered.

  Garland finally shuffled in at 8:30 a.m., a full half hour after they were supposed to meet. His white hair seemed even wilder and more disheveled than usual. His bifocals appeared to be in danger of tumbling off the tip of his nose. He didn’t even look up as he made his way to the booth Jessie knew he preferred.

  She caught the server’s eye and motioned for her to bring over some coffee for the guy, who looked wiped out. After being up so late, she would have been too and she was thirty, not seventy-one.

  “Rough night?’ she asked as he slid into the seat.

  He smiled ruefully.

  “I was up way past my bedtime,” he admitted. “As I’m sure your boyfriend can attest to. I could really use some coff—”

  He stopped speaking as a mug was placed on the table and filled up.

  “You read my mind,” he said to the server, who pointed at Jessie.

  “Actually, she did.”

  “That’s some quality profiling,” he said as he took a careful sip.

  “That’s not profiling, Garland. Knowing you want coffee when you walk in here is like knowing the sun rises in the east.”

  “Thanks all the same,” he said.

  “How did it go last night?” she asked.

  “Hernandez didn’t tell you?”

  “He was leaving when I got up. He didn’t want to wake me, keeps telling me to rest and stuff.”

  “Maybe you should listen to him,” Garland suggested protectively. “You are recovering from multiple burns, a concussion, and a bruised stubborn bone.”

  “Is that you trying to be funny, Garland?” she asked. “Because if it is, you should definitely stick with your day job, which is apparently also now a night job.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” Garland countered. “I know you’re trying to get back to work earlier than the doctor wants and you shouldn’t do it. Wait until your body is ready.”

  “How do you know I’m trying to get back early?” she demanded.

  “Easy,” he answered with a mischievous smile. “Any time you bend or twist, you involuntarily wince a little, which tells me you’re taking a lower dose of your pains meds than was prescribed. Also, you keep leaning forward like a schoolgirl worried the nun will slap your hand for slouching at your desk.�
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  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You’re afraid to let your back bump the back of the booth because it’s still tender. So you’ve adopted the primmest posture I’ve seen outside an E.M. Forster novel.”

  She shook her head in both frustration and amazement.

  “It’s almost as if you should do this professionally.”

  “Flattery will you get everywhere,” he said, taking another sip. “But I’m serious. You should take it easy as long as you can. Plus, staying out of the public eye might help the backlash from those racist posts subside a bit.”

  “The posts I didn’t write?” Jessie reminded him.

  “That’s not the point anymore,” he said resignedly. “No matter how much proof you offer that your account was hacked, some people are still going to want to assume the worst of you.”

  “So you think I should just lie low until people forget that they think I’m a racist?” Jessie said skeptically.

  Garland sighed but refused to take the bait.

  “Maybe do what your friend Kat is doing,” he suggested.

  Jessie’s friend, private detective Katherine “Kat” Gentry, was currently getting a full neurological workup at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix. She’d been with Jessie during the rescue of the abducted woman from the burning house. They’d both suffered concussions when a bomb exploded at the scene.

  For Kat, who’d served as an army ranger in Afghanistan and prided herself on ignoring her scars, both external and internal, this was at least her sixth. She’d finally consented to get checked out when the headaches and ringing in hers ears hadn’t subsided after two full weeks. She would be in Arizona for five days before returning this weekend.

  “Kat’s a military veteran dealing with PTSD, IED injuries, and possibly CTE,” Jessie told him. “I’m just a gal who got a few burns.”

  Garland smiled paternally.

  “That was quite the alphabet soup there, Jessie. And while it’s true that your friend is dealing with potentially serious issues, so are you. You’ve been concussed multiple times. And you’ve got more scars, physical and emotional, than most soldiers. How many of them were tortured by their own birth father after watching him murder their mom?”