by Kate Gable
He licks his lips in that sexy seductive way and brushes his hands through his thick hair. He walks so close to me that I feel like he's just about to give me a peck on the cheek right here, in front of everyone.
Luckily, he doesn't.
It's not that it's illegal for us to have a relationship. He's not my superior and I'm not his, but it wouldn't be good for either of our careers. If deputies or detectives start dating, they typically announce it when everything is very serious and, at that point, they're practically engaged.
That's nowhere near where we are. We're just having fun, but the way that Thomas is pushing my buttons and the thin line that he's skirting, makes me both very uncomfortable and kind of turned on.
We talk about the case. Our plan is to find out if Mr. Hendrel has had any issues with his colleagues. Angie's father owned a flower shop at the bottom of Laurel Canyon. Business connections, friends, and family are the next people to interview besides neighbors, who I still have to talk to.
Thomas walks me down to my car and that's when I see Violet sitting in the front passenger seat, her nose buried in her phone.
"Oh, who's that?" he asks.
"My sister."
"Can I meet her?"
I shake my head no.
"Come on, please?"
"Why do you want to meet her?"
“We've been seeing each other long enough to start meeting friends and family."
"You know Sydney and there's no way you're meeting my mother," I say only half-joking.
"Well, if I'm not meeting your mother, then at least let me meet your sister.”
I cringe.
“Wow. She looks young."
"She is young."
"You know, you told me you had a sister, and you told me that she was little, but you could be her mom."
"Thanks. Thanks for making me feel very old," I say, crossing my arms and exhaling deeply.
Finally giving in, I knock on the front passenger window and pull her attention away from YouTube. She smiles and waves.
"Can I come out?" she asks, rolling the window down.
"Yes," I say without trying to hide my sarcasm.
I know that she's only asking my permission to be difficult.
I'm reminded of the girl that I used to be at her age and, suddenly, I have an inkling of sympathy for what I put my parents through.
"Detective Abrams, Violet. Violet, Detective Abrams," I say, pointing to each of them.
"Thomas," he says, extending his hand. "Hi. Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you."
"All good, I hope." Violet smiles, cocking her head.
"Of course. You're Kaitlyn’s favorite sister."
"I'm her only sister," she says, not getting the joke.
Thomas smiles at the corner of his lips and she melts before him. We chat for a little bit and then make plans to meet up after I drop Violet off at home.
"You know, he's really cute," Violet says when we drive away. "You should date him."
I shake my head and roll my eyes. I hate to admit it, but we have a lot more in common than we should.
3
After dropping Violet off at home, I meet up with Thomas again to canvas the neighborhood.
You would think that it would feel a little awkward seeing him, but in reality, it feels nice.
I haven't spent the night at his house in a while, not since Violet arrived. Before, I used to sleep over almost every night. His apartment is closer to the precinct. It's bigger, brighter, and he pays for a housekeeper to keep it spotless.
He makes fun of me for how dirty my place can be, but then again, I'm in the process of paying off my student loans. He doesn't really have any.
"Your sister is nice. She looks a lot like you."
"Thanks, she's not really that nice and she doesn't really look that much like me, but I appreciate the sentiment."
When I had stopped by at home, I put on a blazer and changed into a pair of slacks to look more professional. It's important to look respectful when you talk to friends and neighbors of crime victims.
It gives you an air of authority. It sometimes encourages people to open up. On occasion, however, it has the opposite effect.
I hope that when it comes to the Hendrels’ murders, the neighbors don't clam up. People who live here either come from old money or new money, but money, nevertheless. I hope that means that they're more willing to open up to the police.
"Hey," Thomas says, grabbing my hand by surprise.
I turn around to scan the outside all around to make sure that no one's around.
"No one’s here, you don't have to worry."
He pulls me closer to him. I open my fingers up to prevent him from holding on, but he holds me tightly and pulls me in close.
"Thanks for introducing me to Violet. I know that it's a big deal, neither of us have met each other's families. I appreciate it."
"Sure, of course," I mumble, very well aware of exactly what kind of big deal this is.
"Look, I know your reputation and I know that you're not really the commitment type. So, I didn’t want to put any pressure on you.”
“About what?” he asks.
“About anything.”
"What about you?" he asks. "I mean, you're the one that's impossible to pin down.”
“How so?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“I haven't heard about you dating anyone the whole time you've been on the force, or were they all your secret boyfriends just like I am?”
He smiles and sneaks a kiss on my cheek.
"No, I haven’t been dating much."
"See, that's what I'm talking about. It's like we're made for each other.” He pulls me in for a kiss.
I like the way that he talks, but I keep my guard up. It's not that I don't trust him; he hasn't shown me any reason not to.
It's just that I'm not particularly looking for a relationship. This started out as just hanging out, spending the night occasionally and frankly, that's all I wanted it to be.
Somehow, things changed. It's almost as if Thomas wants to tie me down.
I hate to admit it, but I kind of like that.
"So, what do you think about Angie?" I ask just as we are walking up the steps to a big modern glass structure masquerading as a house.
"I don't know. She's kind of a hard read," Thomas says, dropping my hand. “Do you believe her?”
"I don't know. So far, yes,” I admit. “She has been through a lot. Why? Do you think she had something to do with this?"
"I have no idea. It’s just crazy that she's the only one left alive and someone was really out to get the family."
"Did the crime scene tech say anything else?" I ask, after a long pause.
"Yeah, so far no shell casings or fingerprints were found. But they are still collecting evidence.”
No casings and no fingerprints are not good signs. Thomas knows this as well as I do.
Usually, the crime scene investigators find at least some evidence, on doorknobs, handles, or glass panes of sliding doors. If they don’t, then it’s a much more professional job.
"Did you check all the doors?" I ask.
"I only checked the front." Thomas nods. "No broken locks."
"So, do you think he was invited in or do you think the doors were unlocked?"
"I don't know. I have no idea in either of those two cases, but they didn't break in."
"No shell casings, huh?"
He shakes his head.
"He picked them up then?"
“I guess he knew to do that."
"Listen, you know as well as I do that this looks like a professional hit. Not a lot of evidence, not a lot of forensics, no witnesses, except for Angie."
"Yeah, except for Angie. Why leave her alive?"
"A personal connection?" Thomas asks.
"Possibly, but that would leave her traumatized. They'd have to know that, so if they care enough to leave her alive..."
"Then what?"
&
nbsp; "They must care about her to some degree."
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
His jeans are a little tight and so is his blazer accentuating the muscles in his body. He hasn't shaved since last night and the stubble is coming in, but it's that sexy kind of stubble.
He lifts his aviator glasses to the top of his head and looks at me with those intense eyes. I lick my lips and resist the urge to reach over and kiss him.
If we're ever caught and our relationship is ever exposed, it cannot be here.
"Listen, let's go talk to the neighbors."
"Sounds good."
I knock on the door and after a few minutes of loud barking, a fit woman in her early twenties answers, picking up a small rowdy dog who continues to bark over our introductions.
We show her our badges, but she doesn't invite us in.
"Do you have a few minutes to talk about this, Ms. McGreery?" I ask.
"Yeah, call me Alison, please." She puts her dog inside and steps out onto the porch.
It's like one long cement slab with enormous sculptures on either end. It's definitely not my style, but peeking in through the hallway, I can tell that it is hers.
"You live here?" I ask.
"Yeah, with my boyfriend."
"What is it that you do for a living?"
"I'm a model. I used to work over at Cafe Insomnia, but then I got a few jobs and I'm kind of hoping I can make some money being a photographer as well."
"Oh, great. That sounds good. And your boyfriend?" I look at the size of the house and it doesn't look like anything that a very successful model could afford.
I haven't checked Zillow, but this house is probably worth close to three million dollars just due to its sheer size.
"My boyfriend invented an app. It kind of took off."
"Dating app?"
"Blink."
"Oh, good. Is this his house? Sorry, I don't mean to pry," I add when she recoils away from me looking annoyed. "I'm just trying to figure out who lives here, who was here, and what you may have heard."
"Well, why didn't you ask me about that?" she says, twirling her ash blonde hair around her finger.
I don't know if it had recently had a Keratin treatment or what kind of product she had in her hair, but it's so shiny and lustrous it's practically blinding to the eye.
She pulls up a spaghetti strap and turns her attention to Thomas.
"Is there anything you would like to ask me?"
"Yes, of course.” He nods. "Where were you last night?"
"Here. We were both home. We went out to dinner around seven to Angelinos and that was it."
"What time did you come back?"
"Nine."
“And then?” I ask.
"We watched Netflix, laid down, and turned out the lights around ten."
"You didn't hear anything this morning around five?"
"No, dead asleep."
"What about your dog?" I ask. "Did she hear anything?"
"No, not at all, which is funny because she usually gets really pissed at all the birds and just about any noise. A couple of days ago, we had a cat in the yard. Somehow she heard her and just went nuts."
I nod, jotting that down in my notebook.
"You know, that is kind of strange," she says, putting her weight on her back foot and sticking the other one out.
She pulls out a cigarette from her back pocket and lights it.
"You want one?"
"No, thanks." We shake our heads, but Thomas is jonesing for it.
He quit about six months ago, but every day is still a huge struggle.
"How come we didn't hear anything?" she asks, leaning forward. "I thought that we would, for sure. Four people were shot, right? That's a lot. Four shots or was it more?"
"Four from what we've learned so far," I say, even though it's technically against the rules. "There will be autopsies, so that might change."
"Still, that's kind of nuts," she says, shaking her head. "I mean, I can't believe that so many people were shot right over there, and we heard nothing. I think we have to upgrade our security system, maybe put up a wall. What do you think?"
"I really can't give you advice on that," Thomas says.
We thank her for her time and hand her our cards, although I doubt that she'll call me if she has any other comments or things that she suddenly remembers.
"How could four people be killed less than 100 yards away from that house and that little dog not hear a thing?” Thomas asks.
"I don't know, but I don't think she's lying," I say, walking down the steps two at a time.
"Yeah, that's the problem. I don't think she is either.”
4
We walk around the neighborhood, knocking on more doors, and no one is home. It's early afternoon on a Saturday, so they might be out.
Then we make a note of all the houses that still need to be talked to. The one on the far end, near the stop sign, right at the beginning of the neighborhood, is owned by an older woman who was an actress and a photographer back in the eighties.
She doesn't invite us inside either, but from the looks of it, she seems to have a reason. Her hallway is filled with paper and boxes.
There's just a sliver of a little walkway made to get from the front door to the living room. It's not a surprise to us that she hasn't heard a thing, because she can barely hear us when we ask her questions.
We leave her our cards anyway and continue knocking on doors.
The last person to interview is McKenna Morgan, a plump woman in her forties with frizzy hair and the no-nonsense expression on her face is reminiscent of a high school principal.
She's the woman who Angie ran to when she took off. She answers on the second knock, dressed in a vest, pair of sweatpants, holding a bright colored iPhone in a glittery pink case in her right hand.
She lives in a little cottage about two miles away and tells us that she rented this place from a family who have since moved. Their mother had owned this house, but it is only seven hundred square feet, and they could get a house that’s over three thousand square feet in Texas. Instead of selling it, they decided to rent it out to someone who might need it and McKenna, being a painter, was the perfect candidate.
McKenna's paintings line every square inch of every wall in her bungalow. They're bright and daring in subject. Nudity is not uncommon.
She tells me that she takes classes at UCLA and they're the ones that have marginally employed actors pose nude for the class in order to study the human body.
In the kitchen, I see the ones that I like the most. The subjects are dogs, cats, rabbits, and even a hedgehog.
"These are my animal studies," she says.
The detail is marvelous and all of them have high contrast with delicate, thin lines. I actually want to ask her if I can buy the hedgehog, but this wouldn't be the right occasion for it. I decide to look her up online instead and hope that they aren't too expensive.
"So, is there a reason why Angie came all the way over here instead of stopping at any of the other neighbors for help?"
"We're friends. I have a dog walking business and I exercise all the dogs in the canyon. She saw me and she's just fascinated with dogs, so she helped me out. She walked a number of my clients. I also do dog grooming on the side. I am saving up for a van.”
"Oh, that's great."
"Yeah. A lot of people here work a lot of hours, so they don't mind paying a premium for dog walking, grooming, and having someone just spend time with their pet while they're gone. That's where I come in."
"That's how you and Angie became friends?"
"At one point, I got very busy, got a lot of clients, and I didn't want to turn anyone away. So, I hired her as my assistant. She was really good, always on time, and always pleasant. She loves animals. I guess when that horrible thing happened to her family, she just ran to my house. When we went back and I saw all the soot all over the place, how charred big parts of it were, and how dre
nched they were with all the water... I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't be talking about the house at a time like this."
"No, not at all. Just tell us about what you felt and how you reacted. Anything is helpful."
"Did you know her family?" Thomas asks after she's silent for a little bit.
"Yeah. I met them a few times. They're very nice. Her father owns the flower shop down at the bottom of Laurel Canyon. Her mom mostly worked as a homemaker, taking the kids around, that kind of thing."
"What kind of relationship did they have?"
"Very loving. They really cared about each other. They were childhood sweethearts. I think they met in high school and have been together ever since."
"Then you don't know if either of them had any relationships on the side?"
"Not according to what Angie told me."
"Do you know why anyone would have done this to them? Did they have any enemies?"
"No, not that I know of. I didn't know them that personally. I met them in passing here and there. Her mom thanked me for getting Angie involved and getting her excited about life again."
"What do you mean by that?" I ask, shifting my weight and sitting back a little bit on her plush velvet couch.
"Apparently before we met, Angie was quite depressed. She had a friend who killed himself and she was just having a hard time with everything."
"What's this friend's name?"
“Teagan Ellis. She never talked about him. Her mom told me about him."
"So, it was a guy?"
"Yeah. Their moms were close friends and apparently her mom's friend blamed her for not finding out that he was planning to do this, but she had no idea. She really had no idea. At least, that's what her mom told me. It just came out of nowhere and by the time I met her, it was about a year later. She was still really struggling with everything, so we just talked about dogs. She liked my art. I showed her how to paint a few things and she was really excited by that. Angie would come over after school and we'd walk the dogs. Sometimes she'd have dinner. Other times, we would just paint and that was it."
"You were friends?" Thomas asks.
She nods.
"Can I ask you something? Please don't take this the wrong way, but what do you have in common with a fourteen-year-old?" Thomas leans over across the coffee table, spreading his legs out, and she almost cowers in place.
