The Perfect Secret (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Eleven) Page 3

  “The incident occurred in West House, in Jasper’s personal wing,” Matilda said as she scurried along.

  “Personal wing?” Karen repeated.

  “Yes. The estate has three sections—East House, South House, and West House. East House is mostly for business. South House is for entertaining. And West House is the residential section. There are several wings within West House, including Jasper’s personal wing. It includes his sitting room, his game room, his entertainment room, his private dining room, his bedroom, and his bathroom. That’s where the victim was found.”

  She led them through a hallway that connected the South and West “Houses” and then along a winding corridor, until they reached a wide stairwell. The corridor continued further along the first floor, leading to some floor-to-ceiling plastic sheeting outside another door at the end. But Matilda stopped here and jogged up the stairs with a vigor that made Karen roll her eyes at Jessie.

  Their guide may have been young and full of boundless energy, but not everyone else was. Karen’s seen-it-all reaction reminded Jessie of their first meeting at Sovereign Studios, when the detective’s blouse was smudged with paint from her second grader’s science project. Her top was unsullied today but she still had that harried mom vibe. In her late thirties, with thin, brittle-looking dirty blonde hair and exhausted gray eyes, she was in solid shape but clearly didn’t have any interest in ascending the stairs at anything more than a steady pace.

  Jessie might have been almost a decade younger and more athletic, but she was on the same wavelength. She brought up the rear as they made their way to the second floor. She was almost to the top when she felt her phone buzz.

  She took it out to find a message from Hannah, who must have just woken up. There was no “hello” or “good morning.” Instead it simply said, “You better be back before Ryan gets here. I can’t do that on my own.”

  Jessie responded with a thumbs-up emoji. There was no way she wasn’t going to be there for him when he came through that door. This case might be important but it wasn’t even close to her top priority today.

  Matilda pushed open two heavy doors and led them along the thickly carpeted, art-adorned second floor corridor.

  “This is Jasper’s wing,” she said in a respectful, hushed voice as they passed through the corridor into what Jessie guessed was the entertainment room, which had a pool table, a foosball table, a ping-pong table, and several old-style stand-up video game machines along with a pinball machine. A gigantic TV monitor, which covered an entire wall, stood in front of two couches and an easy chair. It looked like ten people could comfortably watch whatever he put on.

  Matilda walked obliviously through the room, then through the sitting room until she reached a pair of ornate mahogany doors, one of which was ajar. She pushed it open all the way and stepped to the side so Jessie and Karen could enter. When they did, they finally found the folks they’d been looking for.

  Four uniformed cops were milling about. There was a woman in a crime scene unit jacket standing with a man in a suit, who was leaning just outside a door Jessie assumed led to the bathroom. He was in his late forties, with unkempt black hair and a paunch that threatened to burst the buttons on his dress shirt.

  “That’s Ernie Purcell,” Karen said, nodding at the man in the suit. “He was likely the assigned detective before HSS pulled rank. I doubt he’ll be psyched about it.”

  “Why is that?” Jessie asked.

  “Ernie’s kind of territorial,” she warned. “He’s also a bit of a toady. If he’s on this case, it means the higher-ups want it resolved quickly and cleanly.”

  “So you’re a big fan then?” Jessie mused.

  “I don’t like to speak ill of anyone. But he’s going to be an impediment to doing this the right way.”

  “Good to know,” Jessie said as she crossed the enormous bedroom, glancing out the floor to ceiling windows, past the balcony to the expansive lawn below. In the distance she saw a large garden with a hedge maze and what she thought might be enclosures for a petting zoo.

  Ernie Purcell looked up with a scowl etched on his face. In that moment Jessie decided that the best way to deal with this guy was to get him back on his heels. If he felt in control, it would be that much harder for her to get the information she needed. She wanted him unsettled, even if that required a little creative storytelling.

  “Who’re you?” he demanded unsociably.

  “Ernie,” she said when she got to him. “You’re hurting my feelings here. Are you telling me you don’t remember we met at the True Blue Gala last year? You were so friendly back then, some girls might say too friendly. And now you’re acting all standoffish. What’s a gal to think?”

  “I didn’t go to the gala last year,” he said flatly.

  “Wow,” Jessie said, getting into the spirit of the lie. “You must have really knocked back quite a few to have forgotten our time together. I’ll try not to take offense. Maybe you can make it up to me by giving us the lowdown.”

  “Lady, I don’t know who you are…” he started before Karen cut him off.

  “Sure you do, Ernie,” she said. “You might not remember the gala. But I saw your eyes when Ms. Hunt walked over. You recognize her from being on your old boob tube. There’s not a cop in this city who isn’t familiar with the exploits of Jessie Hunt, so you can quit pretending. Moreover, if she’s here, you know why. You’re just upset that you’ve been relegated to the second team.”

  If it was possible, Purcell’s scowl got even more pronounced.

  “Not great to see you, Bray,” he muttered. “I thought we were rid of you for good. And I’m nobody’s second teamer.”

  “Look,” Jessie said amiably, as she put on her gloves. “I don’t want to get into a pissing contest with you, Ernie. I’m sure you’ve done a bang-up job so far. But Detective Bray is right. HSS has claimed this case. And as the assigned HSS primary, I’ve tasked Bray with being my partner on this case. Your assistance is appreciated. In fact, it’s required. But you will be in a secondary role. So why don’t you start filling your role and update us on what you have so far. Shall we check out the scene?”

  For a second Purcell looked like he might balk. But then he looked at Jessie, with her gloves on, and a nasty smile came over his face.

  “By all means, Ms. Hunt,” he said with fake politeness, “let’s.”

  He extended his hands as if to welcome her into the bathroom. Unsure of the reason for the sudden change of heart, she stepped inside, with Karen right behind her. The second she looked around, her heart sank.

  The bathroom looked immaculate. And there was no dead body in it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Where the hell is the victim?” she demanded.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t pass her on your way up here,” Purcell replied with barely contained malice. “She was taken out in a body bag ten minutes ago.”

  “How could you let that happen?” Karen demanded. “This is a crime scene. It should have taken hours to properly document and clear it.”

  “I couldn’t wait hours,” someone behind them said.

  Both women stepped out of the bathroom to find themselves face to face with Jasper Otis. Jessie managed to keep her expression from changing, but only due to years of hiding her emotions from killers. Karen was slightly less successful as she gasped slightly at the sight of him.

  Jasper Otis wasn’t an especially imposing-looking man. He was of average build—around five foot ten and 175 pounds. He had shaved off what was left of his thinning grayish-brown hair and wore glasses with lenses so thin, Jessie wondered if they were for show. He was tan, but not overly so. He was in good shape, but not so ripped that he looked like he was desperately chasing youth. His eyes were stunningly blue and piercing. They were the feature that pushed him from pleasantly bland into the mildly attractive camp.

  “In murder investigations,” Jessie said, recovering quickly enough that her reply came naturally, “the homeowner doesn’
t usually get to make those decisions.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said convincingly. “My home has never been the scene of a crime before so I guess I didn’t know the rules. Just the thought of a dead body in the shower I use every day was so unsettling, I had to do something. So I asked Carlotta and the housekeeping staff to move her to the sitting room. They used gloves and everything so their fingerprints wouldn’t get on her.”

  Jessie said nothing, though her internal alert system was going off. The idea that this guy didn’t know any better when it came to preserving a crime scene was laughable. She found herself instantly suspicious of him.

  “Mr. Otis,” Karen said, now recovered. “You own a movie studio that has made multiple police thrillers. Have you never watched one of them? Are you seriously telling us that you didn’t realize that disturbing a crime scene was a problem?”

  “No, detective,” he replied, his voice warm as honey. “I’m telling you that I freaked out. I’m embarrassed about it. I regret it. Unfortunately, it seems that it’s too late to do anything about it. I’ve created many things in my career but a time machine is not yet among them.”

  “We have photos,” Purcell volunteered, suddenly much less combative now that he was in the presence of Otis. “The coroner will have a preliminary report later today. CSU checked for prints and DNA. We’re talking to Mr. Otis’s security team about pulling camera footage. Despite the regrettable way this started, I think we’ve got a lot to work with.”

  “There you go,” Otis said enthusiastically. “Making the most of a situation I screwed up. I wish I could say it was the first time. Anyway, as you might imagine, I’ve got a full day, so I’m going to leave you in Matilda’s capable hands.”

  “Mr. Otis,” Jessie said as he headed toward the mahogany bedroom doors, “we’ll need to interview you.”

  “Of course,” he said, not stopping or turning around. “I don’t know much but talk to Nancy and she’ll put you on my schedule. Until then, the best of luck to you.”

  He was gone before Jessie could say anything else. She was tempted to chase after him and force him to answer her questions right now. But getting as much detail as possible about the particulars of the crime seemed like a higher priority. She sighed.

  “Who’s Nancy?” Karen asked.

  “Nancy Salter, she’s the estate manager,” Matilda said. “She runs the day-to-day operations here. She also coordinates Jasper’s schedule, in conjunction with Rune, of course, when he’s working from home.”

  “Who’s Rune?” Jessie asked.

  “Rune Barbato is Jasper’s executive assistant. He’s in charge of Jasper’s day-to-day when he’s off estate. But on estate days like today, he defers to Nancy.”

  “Sounds complicated,” Jessie noted.

  “Not once you get used to it,” Matilda insisted. “I’ll make sure to reach out to Nancy to have her pencil you in for some talk time with Jasper.”

  Jessie was tempted to ask if “talk time” was a Jasper Otis invention but felt herself slipping down the rabbit hole and changed tacks.

  “Who examined the body?” she asked Purcell.

  “Len Fustos,” he said. “He was escorting her out to the van. I think they were getting ready to head out to the morgue.”

  “Detective Purcell,” Jessie began, hoping to appeal to his professionalism by using his title. “Can you please reach out and ask him to come back? We’d like to talk to him before he leaves.”

  Unable to think of a reason not to, he nodded and pulled out his radio. While they waited, Jessie again caught sight of the woman in the CSU jacket.

  “What’s your name?” she asked the woman, who looked to be in her late twenties.

  “Jan Thomas,” she said.

  “Did you pull prints and swab?”

  Jan nodded.

  “What can you tell us?”

  “My supervisor is headed back to the lab to test. But preliminary signs weren’t promising. No obvious fingerprints. DNA might be another story. But it looked like the perpetrator turned on the shower. Her clothes were soaking wet, at least the ones she had on. Hard to know if that was planned but we’re worried the water will make getting DNA tough.”

  “The clothes she had on?” Karen repeated.

  “She was topless except for a bra.”

  “Did it look like she was sexually assaulted?” Karen asked.

  “If you don’t mind, Detective,” Thomas said, “I’d rather leave that determination to the M.E.”

  Just then, an older man, likely in his sixties, walked in. He was wearing corduroy slacks, a denim shirt, and sneakers. His glasses were thick and he had thinning, brown hair. He didn’t look happy to be there.

  “What’s the problem?” he demanded.

  “Len,” Purcell said, “you might remember Detective Karen Bray. She’s at Hollywood station now. And this is Jessie Hunt, profiler extraordinaire. They’re taking over primary on the case for HSS and they wanted to get your preliminary thoughts before you go to the morgue.”

  Len frowned, clearly irked that he was being asked for updates when he was so close to being out the door. He seemed about to say something to that effect when Jessie gave him her patented “don’t mess with me” stare, the one she’d developed when trying to talk down murderers. An impatient forensic bureaucrat in corduroy pants wasn’t going to intimidate her. Apparently it worked, because he started listing information off.

  “This is all preliminary, mind you. I won’t even have the first draft of the report until tomorrow. But her neck was broken. There were some defensive wounds but only bruising. No cuts or scratches, meaning it’ll be harder to get DNA. She had on a bra but was shirtless. Her top was found beside the bed over there in good shape—not ripped, no buttons popped off. She was wet—body and clothing, almost as if she’d been intentionally hosed down. The guy who found her said there was still water on her skin. It hadn’t had time to evaporate. She was really drenched. I’m skeptical that we’ll find anything usable.”

  “Any sign of sexual assault?” Karen asked.

  “We’ll do more comprehensive testing on that when we get back. But initial inspection suggests no.”

  “That makes sense,” Jessie added. “If the perpetrator knew enough to douse her in water to get rid of DNA evidence, and had raped her, he’d likely have removed all her clothes to soak her everywhere. Let’s go back to the neck. How pronounced was the break?”

  “I mean, it was enough to kill her,” Fustos replied.

  “I get that, but could you determine the force used? That might be able to tell us how strong the killer is.”

  “Again, preliminary, but her skull was bobbing like a rag doll. Whoever did this was likely some combination of extremely strong, extremely angry, and/or extremely knowledgeable about how to break a human neck.”

  Everyone was quiet for a few seconds after that. In that moment, Jessie thought about Jasper Otis, and wondered whether he was might be capable of such brutality. Considering what she knew people to be capable of, it didn’t seem like a stretch. Len Fustos finally broke the silence.

  “If you’ll let me leave,” he said irritably, “I can try to get more definitive answers to some of these questions.”

  Jessie nodded her acquiescence. That was all he needed to disappear from sight.

  “So I guess we’re at an impasse,” Purcell said, trying to co-opt Fustos’s attitude.

  Karen looked at him like she thought he might be kidding.

  “Not quite,” she said. “I think we’d like to talk to the guy who found her. Got a name?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But I don’t know that he’ll be of much use.”

  “Why is that?” Jessie asked.

  “When we spoke earlier he was so drunk or high or both that it was hard to get a coherent sentence out of him. He was also flipping out a little because of the whole ‘finding a dead body’ thing.”

  “Well, maybe he’s sobered up a little in the interim,” Jessie sugg
ested. “Do you have his address?”

  “Yeah, but you won’t need it,” he said.

  “Why not?” Jessie asked.

  “Because unless something has changed, he’s about five hundred yards from here, passed out in a guest house.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cord Mahoney looked dead.

  Apart from the slight whistle he made as he exhaled, there was no visible indication that he was any better off than Millicent Estrada. His body was stiff. His skin was waxy and because he was under the covers, there was no sign of his chest rising and falling. Jessie decided to make sure.

  “Wake up, Cord!”

  He shot bolt upright, flailing around wildly as he lost his balance and toppled off the valentine-shaped bed. Karen put her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Detective Purcell scowled at her, and Matilda gasped softly. While they all waited for him to gather his wits, Jessie again marveled at the style of the guest house.

  It had the look of a fairy tale cottage on the outside, complete with stucco exterior, a faux thatched wooden roof, and colorfully painted bricks around the window frames. But the wooden sign on the door reading “Love Shack” tipped her off that the inside might be a different story. The small living area was decorated with a bright pink leather couch. The walls were covered in photo stills that appeared to be from 1970s-era porn films.

  The bedroom where they found Cord was barely large enough for the king bed, shaped like a candy heart. Every wall, along with the ceiling, was mirrored. Jessie half-expected to find a key party bowl lying around.

  Cord managed to orient himself and sit on the edge of the bed. His head was in his hands, which rested on his thighs. He looked like he was fighting off nausea.

  “How are you doing, Cord?” she asked gently.

  He looked up at her and she knew the answer was: not well. While it was obvious that under normal circumstances, he was an attractive guy, these were not normal circumstances. His eyes were more red than hazel. His skin looked pasty. There was sweat on his forehead, where his longish blond hair adhered. Jessie guessed that he was in his early thirties but it was clear that he lived hard so he might actually be a half decade younger than that.