by Blake Pierce
While the guard weighed whether it was worth it to stick to the letter of the law, Jessie waited. She preferred to go in this way and avoid being seen by any potential tail. But her gambit was already a partial success. If one of Butters’s people had managed to stick with her and walked by or even entered the building, she was nowhere to be seen. The longer she could drag this encounter out, the better off she was, even if she did eventually have to sign in back in the lobby.
The guard opened his mouth, apparently having come to a decision. But before he could speak, Ryan rounded the corner.
“What’s going on back here?” he demanded.
“Sir?” the guard said, now thoroughly flummoxed.
“Are you preventing my partner from entering the elevator?”
“Your partner?”
“Detective Hernandez, Homicide Special Section,” Ryan said, holding out his badge uncomfortably close to the guard’s face. “We’re about to conduct an interview and it looks like you’re interfering. Didn’t you fill him in on this already, Hunt?”
“I did,” Jessie said, adopting her best frustrated, impatient tone. “I told him I was trying to do this quietly to avoid a fuss for us or the building. But this gentleman was more interested in getting my John Hancock on his sign-in sheet. I told him I’d have to get way more official then—backup, squad car, sirens—the whole thing. But he doesn’t seem to mind. So I guess we’re lobby-bound.”
“Hold on,” the guard said desperately, clearly at a loss. His eyes were darting around like pinballs. “We can skip standard procedure this one time. But in the future, please at least consult with security before barreling down the hall.”
Jessie and Ryan exchanged amused looks.
“You got it, pal,” Ryan finally said. “Now may we please resume police business?”
The guard nodded. He turned his security key and hit the “up” button.
“What floor?” he asked.
“Seven,” Jessie said.
“May I ask who you’re visiting at least?”
“You can ask,” Ryan said as the doors began to close. “But we can’t tell you.”
Once the doors shut completely and the elevator began moving, Jessie turned to him.
“You were a real jerk to that guy,” she said, smiling.
“Are you kidding?” Ryan retorted, also grinning. “I could hear you yelling at him from the lobby. How do you think I knew where to find you?”
Jessie felt a strong urge to kiss him but fought it valiantly.
“Did anyone else seem interested?” she asked instead.
“You mean, could I tell if anyone had followed either of us? The answer is no. Of course, if they’re really good I might have missed them. But I don’t think I did.”
The elevator pinged and the doors opened. They stepped out into the long hallway and made their way to the main entrance of the firm Conway, French & Sykes, where Aaron Rose worked. When they got to the door, they exchanged an excited glance.
“This could be our guy,” Jessie whispered.
“Let’s hope so,” Ryan said. “I’d really rather our killer not be a department commander.”
“We can dream,” Jessie said, opening the door.
They walked up to the reception desk, where Jessie let Ryan do his thing. He was very good at it. He stood tall and square-shouldered in front of the harried girl hanging up the phone and flashed his badge as he spoke.
“I’m Detective Hernandez with the LAPD Homicide Special Section. This is Jessie Hunt. What’s your name?”
“I’m Kaylee, sir.”
“Hi, Kaylee,” he said, smiling warmly. “We need to speak to Aaron Rose about a pressing matter. Please take us to him.”
“Of course,” the receptionist said, trying to stay cool. “Just let me call him and let him know you’re here.”
“No thank you,” Ryan said firmly. “We’d like you to take us to him directly right now; no need to call.”
Kaylee looked torn between her typical instructions and her new ones. But Ryan’s forceful but polite demand won out pretty easily. She nodded and motioned for them to follow as she walked down the hall.
“Remember,” Ryan whispered to Jessie as walked, “we don’t have approval for any of this. So let’s not back him in a corner that makes him lash out and start making calls. If we’re not sure it’s him, we need to tread carefully.”
Jessie nodded in agreement. She’d already been through a variation of this with the Zellers, though she doubted that a corporate lawyer like Rose would be as amenable to helping as they were. If he was resistant to talking, it would be hard to pry details from him without creating some anxiety in the man. The question was how much was too much.
Kaylee arrived at Rose’s office door and knocked.
“Busy,” came a loud, nasally shout from inside.
“Open the door,” Ryan said quietly.
Kaylee nodded and then actually physically closed her eyes as she opened the door. In the far corner of the room, behind a large desk, was a balding man with an aggressive comb-over.
He stood up and Jessie realized he couldn’t have been more than about five foot five. His skin was pale in a way that suggested he didn’t get outside often. He wore a tucked-in dress shirt and tie and it was clear that he was in good shape, with a muscular, wiry frame. As proof of his workout devotion, an elliptical machine stood in the other corner of the room.
“What the hell, Kaylee?” he bellowed. “I said I was busy, goddammit!”
“I’m sorry Mr. Rose but these…”
“That’s okay, Kaylee,” Ryan interrupted. “You can go. We’ve got it from here.”
He stepped inside and shut the door behind Jessie after she entered.
“Who do you think you are?” Rose demanded, his eyes blazing.
“I think that I’m Detective Ryan Hernandez of the Los Angeles Police Department,” he replied calmly. “And I think this is Jessie Hunt, who is one of our top criminal profilers. I suggest you hang up the phone, Mr. Rose. We have a few questions for you.”
The lawyer did hang up but didn’t look much more chastened than before.
“You’ve got five minutes,” he said sharply.
Jessie felt her whole body tighten up and saw Ryan’s forearms flex involuntarily as well. She wanted to crush the guy but reminded herself that going straight to eleven on the pressure meter wouldn’t be the wisest move. Rose was clearly trying to bait them. They couldn’t let him.
“Mr. Rose,” she said, choosing to ignore his comment, “what kind of clients do you represent?”
The man’s expression went from combative to smug.
“Why? Are you looking for representation? I doubt you could afford me on your salary.”
“But you don’t represent individuals much anyway, right?” she said, unfazed. “I thought your clients were mostly big-time corporate accounts. Do I have that wrong?”
“No,” Rose replied, smirking. “I represent some of most notable companies in the L.A. area, a who’s who of the who’s who. Are you alleging impropriety on one of their parts? If so, this is pretty unorthodox, just busting into my office like this. Why don’t you make a proper appointment and I’ll have my girl try to fit you in? My schedule is jam-packed today.”
Jessie half-glanced at Ryan, letting him know that now that Rose wasn’t so on the defensive, she was going to drop the hammer.
“What can you tell us about a woman named Missy Mack?” she asked without preamble.
Rose’s smugness immediately disappeared, if only for a moment.
“Before you answer, sir,” Ryan added, “you should probably ask yourself why we would be here in your office asking you this question. I’ll give you a hint. It’s not just out of curiosity.”
Rose’s eyes narrowed and Jessie could see him strategizing his response.
“Are you asking if I know her? Because of course I know Missy,” he said. “You obviously know that. She’s an actress I’ve gone out w
ith on a few occasions. Is that illegal now?”
“Gone out with?” Ryan repeated.
“Sure. We had a few meals together. Sometimes we’d splurge and get an expensive bottle of champagne. She’s a fun girl.”
“So you’d buy a really expensive bottle of champagne for your dates with Missy?” Ryan asked.
“Actually, because I’m so busy, I’d usually just give Missy the cash to buy it for us.”
“Cash,” Ryan repeated.
“Of course,” Rose replied as if it was obvious. “You think a liquor store would just let some random girl use my credit card to buy champagne worth hundreds of dollars? Cash was much easier.”
“So just to be clear,” Ryan reviewed, sarcasm dripping off him, “you would give Missy hundreds of dollars in cash and she would use it to buy expensive bottles of champagne for the two of you to drink together.”
“That’s exactly right, Detective,” Rose answered with a broad smile on his face.
“And did Missy ever find creative ways to thank you for your generosity?” Ryan pressed.
“Thank me? No. You don’t have to be coy, Detective. If you’re asking if our evenings ever ended in sexual encounters, then the answer is yes. But I assure you, that was simply two people enjoying a few stimulating evenings together.”
“No connection to the cash you gave her?” Ryan asked.
“None whatsoever; never entered my mind.”
“Aren’t you married, Mr. Rose?” Jessie asked, making a hard conversational turn.
“I am.”
“How does your wife feel about your dates with Missy?”
Rose smiled even wider, revealing coffee-stained teeth.
“I’m sure she’d be unhappy if she was to ever find out. Do you plan on telling her, Ms. Hunt? Is adultery now a crime in this state?”
“No. But providing alcohol to a minor is.”
“Oh dear,” Rose said mockingly, reaching to his neck to clutch imaginary pearls. “The horror! If you plan to toss me in lockup for that, be my guest. And before you shut the cell door, I’ll have my firm slap a suit against you for everything under the sun—harassment, false imprisonment, police intimidation.”
Jessie beamed back at him.
“You realize by minimizing this, you’re also tacitly acknowledging that you were having sex with a minor. With that and the alcohol charge, things are really starting to add up here.”
“Ms. Hunt,” Rose said, unruffled, “you are making unwarranted assumptions. I never confirmed that I knew Missy was underage. It’s not like I asked her for ID. I learned about her because she’s an actress working in the adult film industry. I thought you had be an adult to do that. If she’s a minor, that’s news to me.”
Jessie didn’t plan to let him off that easy.
“So you’re telling me that as a competent attorney with a thriving career, you didn’t do your due diligence before getting involved with this girl?”
Rose seemed unbothered by the question.
“Do you ask to check the licenses of your dates for their birthdays, Ms. Hunt? Come on now, what is this really about? I know you didn’t come all the way here and bust into my office to give me a hard time over unprovable charges.”
Jessie glanced at Ryan, letting him know she thought the time had come. His half-nod indicated he agreed.
“Missy’s dead,” he said.
Aaron Rose’s already pale face turned ashen. When he finally regained the ability to speak, he croaked a question.
“What happened?”
“She was murdered, Mr. Rose,” Ryan said. “Are you asserting that you know nothing about this?”
“No,” he said, the attitude gone. “I mean, we have a standing date every other Thursday, including tomorrow. She usually calls the day of to reconfirm. When did this happen?”
“Monday night. And her real name is Michaela Penn, by the way.”
“She never told me that,” he whispered, more to himself than to them.
“Where were you two evenings ago, Mr. Rose?” Jessie asked brusquely, refusing to give him time to organize his thoughts.
“What?” he asked distractedly. “Oh, right, of course.”
He sat back down and moved his computer mouse around. After several seconds, he looked up, both relieved and distraught.
“Monday night, right? I was at a bar association banquet. It ran until ten thirty. Then my wife and I went home to relieve the babysitter. I was in bed by midnight.”
Jessie felt like a deflated balloon but tried to hide her disappointment. Ryan, more experienced with this sort of thing, did a better job of it.
“We’ll need the babysitter’s number,” he said matter-of-factly, “as well as contact information for the bar event.”
“Not a problem,” Rose said, writing down the numbers as he spoke. He was sounding increasingly confident. “I can also give you access to the security camera footage at my house. It will show our return home and when I left the next morning.”
“We’ll need it,” Ryan said. “And until we can verify your alibi, I wouldn’t recommend any travel, Mr. Rose.”
“Of course not,” the lawyer replied, not yet back to full smarm but getting there quickly.
“We’ll be in touch,” Ryan said.
They were almost out the door when Rose called out to them.
“Do you know where the funeral is being held?” he asked. “I obviously can’t go. But I’d like to send flowers.”
“We don’t have that information,” Ryan said. “But I’ll let you know when I find out.”
As they walked out, Jessie felt a pang in her chest. What kind of funeral would Michaela get? Could her father even afford one? The fact that none of these things had occurred to her until just now filled her with guilt.
And the realization that Aaron Rose had thought of it before her filled her with shame.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
He wasn’t that bad for an old guy.
Hannah would never admit it out loud. But she actually got a kick out of Garland Moses, whom she’d taken to calling the snarky geriatric. She didn’t use the term out loud, but every time she thought of it, she couldn’t help but grin.
Though he’d told her when she and Jessie had first arrived that she should go to the den to finish her homework, he hadn’t followed up on it. After she described how she’d been dragged out of her classroom, he smiled ruefully before speaking.
“I think that gives you a free pass for at least one day. Why don’t we play Connect Four instead? It’s not calculus but it’s kind of math-y.”
So that’s what they did for the next few hours—played games and ate chocolate chip cookies. Hannah could tell the guy was smart but there wasn’t anything about him that would have led her to believe that he’d hunted down multiple serial killers. The man didn’t even seem interested in brushing his hair. When they got bored with the games, he invited her out to his backyard to help feed his koi fish. They sat on deck chairs and tossed food pellets into the small pond.
“So your sister says you just started at this—what did she call it—therapeutic school last week,” he said. “What exactly is a therapeutic high school anyway?”
Hannah laughed, mostly because she often asked herself the same question.
“Officially? It’s a special learning environment that caters to students facing extreme emotional and psychological challenges.”
“And unofficially?” Garland asked.
“It’s a way station for screw-ups.”
“Screw-ups or the screwed up?” he pressed.
She thought about it for a second. The question hinted at a distinction she’d never really considered before.
“Both, I guess. There are some kids there who were abused or victims of violent crime—rapes, beatings—stuff like that. They didn’t do anything wrong. They just have massive PTSD because of it. But most people are there because of something they did. There’s a girl who broke into a convenience store to pa
y for her Oxy habit. One guy beat up his teacher. This other girl with impulse control issues keeps hitting on the teachers, like all of them.”
“So which one are you?” he wondered. “Screw-up or screwed up?”
She rolled her eyes even as she smiled at him.
“Oh man, sorry. I know you’re just making conversation but you sound like my therapist. And since you and I don’t have doctor/patient confidentiality, maybe I’ll pass on the oversharing. I don’t need you ratting me out to Jessie.”
“Fair enough,” Garland said. “We can just feed the fish.”
They did that for a few minutes. The silence was surprisingly comfortable. Then Garland spoke up again.
“What makes you think it would be ratting you out to tell Jessie whether you considered yourself screwed up or a screw-up? Is that some secret information?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I know she worries about me enough already. I don’t need her fixating on my sense of self-worth too.”
Garland chuckled softly to himself.
“What?” she asked, irked.
“Nothing,” he said, then changed his mind. “It’s just that, don’t you think she’s already doing that all the time? I mean, no offense but your birth father was a serial killer who tortured both his daughters. Anyone who doesn’t doubt themselves after learning that family tidbit would be…screwed up. She’s going to worry about your well-being, no matter what. My telling her you have a messed-up self-image isn’t going to come as a shock to her.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point,” he said, not looking at her but at one of the fish swimming back and forth, “is that you’re obviously screwed up. No sane person wouldn’t be after what you’ve been through. The question is: why do you consider yourself a screw-up too?”
“I never said I did,” Hannah protested.
“But you do feel that way, right? Otherwise you wouldn’t have responded like there was something to be ashamed of. You can’t help being screwed up. But if you’re a screw-up, that’s kind of on you, right?”
Hannah felt the heat rise to her cheeks.
“Are you blaming me for what happened to me?” she demanded.
“No. But I think you are.”
