The Perfect Neighbor (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Nine) Page 5

  He shined the flashlight into the drawer as he delicately moved around the woman’s delicates. After a thorough going-through, he pulled out his phone to once again look at the apparent murder weapon used on Priscilla Barton—the stocking. The brand, called Only the Best, which he’d learned after doing some online research, was very high end.

  But looking through Gail Bloom’s drawer, he had found no pairs of that brand or any other hose at all, for that matter. Nor did he find a solo stocking, either in the drawer or on top of it. He knelt down to see if it might have fallen under the dresser but found nothing.

  He got out his notepad and briefly noted his conclusion—that Bloom didn’t seem to own these stockings. That was odd and potentially helpful news. If the stocking wasn’t hers, then the killer hadn’t just grabbed it on the fly and used it as a makeshift weapon. He or she must have brought it into the house.

  But why? Who walks around with a single, fancy piece of women’s hosiery?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a creak on the floorboard behind him. He slid his notepad back into his jacket pocket and stood up slowly, though his thoughts were racing wildly.

  He could hear the sound of muffled, heavy breathing several feet away and actually sensed the body heat emanating from someone else in the room. He gripped the small flashlight hard, well aware that it was the only thing close to a weapon he had.

  He tried to remember his training from his youthful FBI days but that was over forty years ago. The closest he’d gotten to a physical altercation recently was when a skateboarder accidentally knocked him over last year while zipping past him on the sidewalk.

  In the end, Garland decided to simply let adrenaline and instinct do their work. But he wasn’t going to wait for the attack to come to him. So, as quickly as his aching bones would allow, he spun around and flashed the light in the direction of the heavy breathing.

  He immediately saw his assailant, who was wearing black clothes and a black ski mask and holding a leather belt in his hands. Though the face wasn’t visible, the frame suggested a male. Garland took a step toward the man, who held his hand up to block the light and lurched forward. They collided hard but the other man’s weight advantage sent Garland sprawling back into the dresser. His bifocals flew off. He felt the dresser’s wood edges slam into his back and grunted.

  He tried to ignore it and focus on the figure, who was still coming at him fast. As the man rushed forward, Garland swung his flashlight upward, making solid contact with the spot just below the attacker’s left rib cage. The man inhaled sharply as he doubled over, allowing Garland to shove him to the ground.

  He stepped around the man and dashed toward to the bedroom door. Even at this short distance away, it looked blurry without his glasses. About three steps from the hallway, he felt a hand grab hold of his right ankle and tug, making him lose his footing and fall to the floor. As he did, he heard a crack and a searing pain cut through his right hip. He cried out despite himself.

  Garland tried to ignore the burning sensation. He wanted to roll over so he wouldn’t be in such a vulnerable position but his body wasn’t complying. Instead he did the only thing he could think of. He tried to crawl out of the room. The agony made his eyes water but he dragged himself along anyway. That’s when he felt the weight of the other man climbing on top of his waist.

  The physical distress was unbearable as waves of pain radiated out from his hip. But that was nothing compared to the clenching grip of fear he felt envelop his entire body. There was a man on top of him holding a belt and there was nothing he could physically do about it.

  He had the briefest flash of recognition, aware that he was going through the same moment of terror that so many victims he’d seen had experienced. Then, deciding he would not join their ranks, he stopped struggling to escape and instead pressed his forehead into the carpet as he pulled his fists up to his neck to preemptively protect it.

  A moment later, he felt the belt swing over his head, felt the man try to wrench it between his forehead and the carpet to get it around his neck. The yanking motion tore some of the skin off his forehead as it ripped downward. Ignoring it, Garland opened his balled up fists and grabbed the belt so the backs of his palms created a barrier between the belt and his throat.

  The man on top of him didn’t seem to care. He pulled up hard so that Garland’s own knuckles were squeezing into his Adam’s apple, making him gasp for air. The smell of his own latex gloves filled his nostrils. He took a big gulp and tried to hold the belt off while he thought of something he could do.

  He looked around desperately. Everything looked indistinct. Still, there had to be something nearby he could grab or some maneuver he could try. There had to be some way to outwit his attacker. Forty-five years of stopping killers couldn’t end this way.

  But there was nothing—nothing to grab, no way to shout. He was stuck. He was going to die on this carpet in this house, just yards from people waiting for their pets to do their business so they could settle in for the night. He was out of options.

  But as his breathing became labored and his thoughts grew fuzzy, he realized that wasn’t quite true. He might not live through this but at least he could provide a clue as to who did it. Detective Ryan Hernandez would surely investigate his death. And if he did, he would consult with Jessie Hunt. If Garland could provide any clue as to who had done this, Jessie might uncover it. If anyone could, it was her.

  So he resolved to do the only thing he could think of. He pressed his body downward toward the carpet as forcefully as he could, pulling hard away from the man above him. Then, when he felt the man pulling his hardest, he stopped fighting and allowed himself to be yanked upward, throwing his head back aggressively.

  He had been hoping to make contact with the man’s face, to leave a visible bruise. Instead he felt the back of his skull slam into something hard but less prominent. He heard a crack. The man yelped and released his grip slightly. Garland guessed that it was the man’s clavicle.

  For a fraction of a second he was tempted to try to wriggle free, but knew that would be fruitless. The other man still had the advantage. Instead, he used the brief respite to take another gulp of air and slam his head back again. The scream from the man told him he’d once again hit the target.

  But then the man seemed to find a new reserve of strength and fury. Garland felt the belt squeeze tighter than before and found that he could no longer make fists to grab it. He could actually feel the blood pumping through his carotid artery as it pressed against the back of his hand. Another violent tug crushed his trachea and he heard himself rasping softly.

  All of a sudden, he noticed that the pain in his hip, back, hands, and throat was subsiding. He wondered what could be causing it. And then, with his last coherent thought, it occurred to him: he was losing consciousness for what would be the final time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jessie sat bolt upright in bed.

  The sound of Ryan’s ringing phone had ripped her from the best night of sleep she’d had in weeks. She recognized the ring tone immediately. It was Captain Decker. She glanced over at her bedside clock. It was 2:46 a.m. For the captain of their station to call at this hour, it had to be something serious.

  “Hello,” Ryan mumbled after fumbling with the phone for several seconds.

  Jessie could hear Decker’s voice but he was speaking more quietly than usual and she couldn’t make out any words. She did notice Ryan’s body visibly stiffen.

  “Okay,” he said quietly as he turned on the light and sat up in bed.

  Decker continued talking for another half minute while Ryan listened, never interrupting.

  “I will,” he finally said, before hanging up.

  “What is it?” Jessie asked.

  Ryan got up and rolled out of bed, his body facing away from her as he pulled on his pants.

  “There’s been another murder in Manhattan Beach,” he said quietly, “in the same house as the previous killing actua
lly. Decker wants me there now.”

  There was something in his voice she found unsettling, though she couldn’t place what it was. He seemed to be struggling to keep his composure.

  “What’s going on, Ryan?’ she demanded. “You’re acting funny.”

  He looked over at her and she thought his eyes looked watery. He looked like he was about to reveal something, but then his expression changed and she knew he’d changed his mind.

  “I’m just out of sorts, I guess. I didn’t expect to be woken up in the middle of the night with this kind of news. It’s not what I was hoping for.”

  She still felt like he was holding back but decided not to press.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Thanks, but no. You should try to go back to sleep. The best thing you can do right now is take care of yourself.”

  “Okay,” she said before asking, “Is Garland meeting you there?”

  Ryan took a big glug of water from the bedside table before answering her.

  “He’s already there,” he said, standing up.

  “Pretty impressive for an old dude,” she noted, unable to hide the astonishment in her voice. “That guy is full of surprises.”

  “He is one of a kind,” Ryan agreed as he bent over to give her a kiss on the forehead. “Try to go back to sleep. I’ll check in with you in the morning.”

  “I love you,” Jessie said as she lay back down.

  “I love you too,” he said softly before turning off the bedside light and leaving.

  Despite Ryan’s admonition, Jessie couldn’t get back to sleep. For the next twenty minutes, she tossed and turned but just couldn’t get comfortable. Something about his demeanor when he got the call kept flashing through her mind.

  When he was listening to Decker talk, Ryan had gotten an expression she almost never saw on his face. It wasn’t simple shock or sadness. It was some combination that seemed bigger and more profound. And then it came to her. For a second, before he’d managed to regroup, he’d looked devastated.

  She sat up. There was no way she would be able to fall asleep now. She went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. Staring at herself in the mirror, she was pleased to see that her eyes weren’t rimmed with exhausted redness. Of course, that would likely change fast if she was up for the day, as seemed to be the case.

  She returned to the bed and sat back down. Her mind kept flashing to the expression on Ryan’s face when Decker first started talking to him. Whatever the captain had said, something was horribly wrong.

  She grabbed her phone and was about to call Garland when she thought better of it. Ryan had said he was already at the crime scene. That meant he was likely very busy and not in the mood to answer her questions. Instead she called the Central Station desk sergeant, who gave her the address in Manhattan Beach.

  Without ever formally acknowledging to herself what she was doing, she started getting dressed. Five minutes later she was ready to go. She scribbled a quick note for Hannah, which she slid under the girl’s bedroom door. Then she left the apartment, making sure to turn all the security systems back on remotely as she headed to her car.

  She knew Ryan and Garland would be pissed when she showed up to insert herself at the crime scene. But she didn’t care. Something was off. She felt it in her bones.

  *

  Even getting slightly lost, Jessie made it to the beach in no time.

  During rush hour, the drive would have taken well over an hour. But at 3:30 in the morning, it took less than half that time, even with her missing the freeway exit and doubling back. The streets were mostly silent. As she approached the coast, a thick blanket of fog settled in, making each streetlight seem like a dull lantern in an isolated lighthouse. It gave the early morning a creepy, desolate feel.

  When she arrived, she parked on Manhattan Avenue, just west of the pier and about a block from where her GPS said the address was. She walked briskly down to the Strand. Though she couldn’t see the ocean at this hour, she could hear the waves crashing on the beach and knew it was close.

  She didn’t have to look hard to find her destination. Once on the Strand, even with the fog, the night sky was lit up by multiple emergency vehicles. As she approached the house, she counted at least half dozen police cars, an ambulance, and a coroner’s van. The entire area around the mansion was blocked off and multiple officers stood guard, keeping the curious from getting too close.

  She approached a scared, youngish-looking officer and held up her ID, figuring he’d be the easiest to get past.

  “I work with Detective Hernandez,” she said nonspecifically. “Can you tell me where he is?”

  “He’s upstairs,” the officer said. Though she’d never met him, Jessie thought the kid seemed surprisingly shaken. She looked at his name tag.

  “You okay, Officer…Timms?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he assured her, pulling himself together. “It’s just, I had met the victim. I liked him. And then I ended up being the one who found him.”

  “I understand,” she said, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “It’s never easy when you have a personal connection.”

  “No ma’am,” he said, lifting the police tape so she could duck under.

  “How did you happen to find the victim in the house so late at night?”

  She realized the question sounded accusatory, though she hadn’t intended it that way.

  “He was supposed to return the key after a few hours. When he didn’t come back, I went to check on him and…” He broke off, overcome with emotion.

  Jessie wanted to ask why someone would be returning a key to the police so late at night but she could tell the kid was in no condition so she let it go.

  “Thanks for your help, Officer,” she said. Unable to think of anything else to say to comfort him, she turned and walked up to the house.

  She held up her ID again for the officer guarding the door. He stepped aside to let her in. She glanced at the foyer floor and saw the chalk on the floor from what she assumed was the first victim. She glanced upstairs, where she could hear several voices. One of them sounded like Ryan’s.

  She started toward the stairs, when another officer standing at the base of them who appeared to be a sergeant held up his hand. Unlike Officer Timms, he looked older and more battle-worn.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked politely but challengingly.

  “I work with Detective Hernandez,” she said, holding up her information for the third time.

  “I’ll let him know you’re here,” the sergeant, whose name tag read “Breem,” said, not stepping aside.

  “I hear his voice,” she said more testily than she would have preferred. “I can let him know myself when I get up there.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Detective Hernandez was very clear that no one was to come upstairs without his express authorization. He wants everything done meticulously on this one.”

  “He’s like that with every case,” Jessie replied forcefully. “What makes this one different?”

  The sergeant gave her a perplexed expression. He opened his mouth to respond but before he could, a familiar voice called out from the second floor.

  “Jessie?” Ryan said, looking down from the landing. “What are you doing here?”

  She looked up at him and could tell immediately that he was upset by something unrelated to her showing up unannounced. As she stared at him, a sense of dread started to spread through her. She darted up the stairs before Sergeant Breem could stop her. The man started to follow her but she saw Hernandez shake his head.

  “It’s okay, Sergeant,” he said.

  “What’s going on, Ryan?” she asked quietly when she reached him at the top of the stairs.

  “I need to talk to you privately outside,” he whispered.

  “No. What’s going on? Where’s Garland?” she asked, sidestepping him and looking into the bedroom.

  She blinked slowly, hoping that what she saw on the bed
room floor was an illusion. But when she opened her eyes again, he was still there. In between the coroner and a crime scene tech, Garland Moses was lying on the floor. He was dead.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jessie felt her chest tighten and found that she couldn’t breathe.

  She tried to speak but only a wheezy exhalation came out. She swallowed hard, trying to lubricate her suddenly dry throat. She reached out for the railing as she squinted at Ryan, wondering if that might somehow change things.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he reached out to her.

  She shook her head violently and he stopped.

  “What?” she asked absently though she’d heard him quite clearly.

  “Come with me,” he said, taking her arm and leading her to a balcony at the end of the hall.

  He turned to face her and opened his mouth but nothing happened. He closed his mouth as he seemed to struggle with how to begin. Then he tried again.

  “It looks like he came back here last night to check out a lead. From what we’ve found so far, it appears he was attacked in the master bedroom. There was clearly a struggle. He was murdered, strangled to death.”

  Jessie felt her mind racing out of control and tried to rein it in. Part of her brain was already asking questions about the crime scene. But, furious with herself, she forcibly shut it down, actually squeezing her eyes closed tight as if that was some sort of internal off switch.

  Garland was dead; the criminal profiler so legendary she’d been afraid to approach him at first. The man who’d eventually become a mentor to her, and later a friend she trusted with her darkest secrets, would never again tease her or test her or support her. He was gone.

  Jessie felt a wave of grief wash over her even as she heard real waves in the distance. It was as if the ocean knew her pain and decided to give it a soundtrack. She bent over at the waist and instructed herself to take multiple deep breaths before trying to speak again.