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

by Blake Pierce

  Just before entering she checked her phone one more time. She didn’t really expect a text from Hannah at this hour but she knew that when she got one, it wouldn’t be friendly. Hannah was surly these days as it was. But when she saw the note on the kitchen counter saying that Jessie had gone to the station to discuss a case and to keep the house tidy for Ryan’s arrival, her response was unlikely to be gracious enthusiasm.

  Jessie knocked on the closed door to Decker’s office.

  “One minute,” came the gruff response from the other side.

  While she waited, Jessie glanced back at the HSS section of the bullpen to where she used to sit. Homicide Special Section was a unit within LAPD dedicated to cases that had high profiles or intense media scrutiny, often involving multiple victims and serial killers. For two years, she’d been the unit’s primary profiler, working with a small team of detectives led by Ryan. They’d sat at desks across from each other, initially as partners, and eventually, as much more. The thought of the long hours they spent across from each other, sparring playfully at first, then lovingly, brought a smile to her lips.

  With her departure and Ryan’s injury, the unit was temporarily being led by crusty veteran detective Callum Reid. The team included Detectives Alan Trembley and Marjorie Pointer. Detective Gaylene Parker from Vice was even called in occasionally for support when things got especially hairy. They were still the most celebrated investigative squad in the department, but without Ryan and Jessie, HSS had lost a bit of its luster.

  Jessie stepped over to the poster on the wall and gave herself a quick going-over in its reflection. She looked reasonably professional considering the day and hour. Her shoulder-length brown hair was loose but tidy. Her green eyes were well-rested, which she suspected would change once Ryan came home. She’d been able to maintain her trim, athletic figure through the recent injuries, though she knew she wasn’t back in tip-top shape yet.

  “Come in,” Decker called out, drawing her back into the moment.

  Jessie opened the door. She wasn’t surprised to find the captain standing up, dressed in the same attire he wore on a weekday afternoon—a jacket, tie, and starched dress shirt. She couldn’t tell how long he’d been awake because he looked perpetually worn out, with wrinkles near his eyes and bags under them. The few hairs on his head looked tired and wilted. Even his body, with its concave chest, seemed to fold in on itself. Despite all that, he appeared alert. Tall and skinny, his posture was painfully erect, highlighting his sharp nose and beady eagle eyes, which missed nothing.

  “Thanks for making the time, Hunt,” he said, gesturing for her to take one of the weathered chairs opposite his desk. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired, Captain. Very tired.”

  “I’m not surprised to hear that,” he replied. “But I meant physically. How’s your shoulder? And the burns?”

  He was referring to injuries Jessie had suffered before she’d quit the force. Much of her lower back had been badly burned a few months back while rescuing a woman from her burning house, when a man who’d abducted her and then intentionally released her had come back to finish the job. Only weeks later, her left shoulder was dislocated in a life or death struggle with her ex-husband, the same attack in which Ryan had been stabbed and Hannah nearly killed.

  “Both are much better,” she assured him. “The burns don’t hurt anymore, though the doctor says it’ll be another year before they heal completely. I’m still in rehab for the shoulder but it doesn’t affect me except when I try to get something off the top shelf or do a power lifting session.”

  “You’re very funny, Hunt,” Decker said, not laughing. “That should serve you well when Hernandez leaves the hospital. Please let me know what I can do to help. We can have officers stop by to check on him, even just to share war stories. Plus, I know you have security concerns about some of the people you put away reaching out to do harm.”

  “There are almost too many to keep track of,” Jessie conceded.

  “If it helps, we’ve been keeping an extra close eye on former police sergeant Hank Costabile and on Andrea Robinson,” Decker said. “You probably heard that Costabile was just sentenced to seven years in prison. And Robinson is still safely incarcerated in a psychiatric prison ward.”

  “Always reassuring to know the folks who most want to kill me are being physically prevented from doing so, at least for now.”

  “We can have units do extra patrols by your place, if it sets your mind at ease,” Decker offered.

  “Thanks, Captain,” Jessie replied. “I might take you up on having folks stop by to hang out with Ryan. But I think we’re good on security for now. One good thing about inheriting the home of the most celebrated criminal profiler on the West Coast in the last quarter century is that it comes ready-made with elaborate security. I’m still familiarizing myself with everything he had installed. But I’m pretty sure we’re set, even in the event of The Purge.”

  “Well, let me know if you change your mind,” he said, either unaware of or unamused by the reference. “We want Hernandez back and anything we can do to expedite that, we will. In the meantime, shall I tell you about the case?”

  “Please.”

  He sat down at his desk and folded his hands.

  “Details are still sketchy for reasons that will become clear,” he said. “But Millicent Estrada, forty-two, was found dead a few hours ago at a huge party in Holmby Hills. Her neck was broken.”

  “Should I know who that is?” Jessie asked.

  “Not necessarily. She was a well-regarded attorney, one of those ‘lawyer to the stars’ types. She and her husband, Beto, are both partners in the same firm, which handles everything from contracts to civil cases to criminal defense work. He does a lot of the civil stuff. She specialized in keeping clients off the police blotter and out of jail. They were considered a real power couple until about six months ago, when they announced they were divorcing.”

  “Ouch,” Jessie said. “That sounds awkward.”

  “Not as much as you might think,” Decker corrected. “I’ve heard that it was fairly amicable. They still worked together. But they’ve taken very different social paths since the split. He’s a homebody and she…let’s just say she’s spread her wings since they parted ways. That’s where it becomes HSS-worthy.”

  “Pray tell.”

  Decker tossed her the thin file as he continued.

  “Estrada was found at the estate of Jasper Otis.”

  “The billionaire?” Jessie asked, unable to hide her curiosity.

  “Right,” Decker confirmed. “And by the way, according to Forbes, it’s about fourteen billion.”

  “Is he a suspect?”

  “You’ll have to tell me,” Decker advised. “The first call reporting the death came in at 3:58 a.m. so it’s pretty fresh. I know West L.A. station sent out a detective but I think he might be out of his depth so I snapped it up.”

  Jessie flipped through the file skeptically.

  “This sounds more involved than I think I’m up for right now. I’ve seen how Jasper Otis operates. The guy runs a media empire and isn’t afraid to use it to crush people who get in his way. Do you really want to hand this over to a part-time profiler whose attention is focused on her invalid boyfriend and her rebellious sister?”

  “I wouldn’t have reached out if I didn’t think you were up for it,” he told her. “And frankly, I don’t have much choice. All my HSS detectives are on other cases right now. You’re the only experienced hand at my disposal.”

  She sensed that he wasn’t being completely forthright.

  “Captain, is that the only reason?” she pressed.

  “Officially, yes,” he said, before adding after a brief pause, “Unofficially, I don’t trust anyone else on this. Obviously Jasper Otis is an incredibly high-profile person. The pressure on this thing is going to be enormous and I know you can handle it. I also know you can move fast. Once the press gets word of this, it’ll be a circus. We have t
o stay ahead of the news. Do you know anyone more qualified for the job than you are?”

  When he laid it out so bluntly, turning the case down felt even harder.

  “But you said you don’t even have a detective assigned yet?” she asked, incredulous. He really was throwing her to the wolves.

  “No. I thought I’d let you pick your partner for this one. Since HSS is a priority unit, I can pull from any station in the city if the need arises. Any detective not currently assigned to a case is yours for the taking.”

  Jessie smiled despite herself.

  “I know what you’re doing, Captain,” she said.

  “What’s that?” he asked, feigning innocence.

  “You’re hoping that by telling me I’m the only one who can handle this case and letting me pick who I work with, you’ll make it too tempting for me to say no.”

  He shrugged noncommittally.

  “That’s a scurrilous accusation,” he said mildly. “Did it work?”

  She sighed. It was tempting. Her class didn’t start until next week. Hannah would be back in school tomorrow. If need be, she could have the nurse work full-time for a few days. And if things got too time-consuming, she could beg off and leave the case in the hands of someone she trusted.

  “Two conditions,” she said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “First, I have to be home to take care of my family. That means normal hours—no running out in the middle of the night. Second, if it gets to be too much, I can bail without consequence. You can keep the detective for continuity but I’m not putting my home life on the back burner for any case, even one involving a billionaire. Deal?”

  Decker scrunched up his face and she thought he was about to balk.

  “What detective do you want?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Hello?” Detective Karen Bray said sleepily.

  “Karen, it’s Jessie Hunt. Sorry to call so early but I need your help.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Six thirty.”

  “Are you okay, Jessie?” she asked, sounding more alert.

  “Yes. But I’m consulting on a time-sensitive case. Captain Decker gave me carte blanche to pick a case partner from any LAPD station and I thought of you.”

  “What’s the case?” Karen asked. Jessie could tell the detective was fully alert now.

  “I’ll fill you in on the way. Meet me at Hollywood Station right away. We can carpool from there.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Holmby Hills,” Jessie told her. “So put on your nicest work slacks.”

  Less than thirty minutes later, the two of them were driving west, approaching one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in Los Angeles. Jessie had left her car at Hollywood Station and let Bray drive. It only made sense considering how well her new partner knew the area.

  Jessie had only worked with Karen Bray once before but it had been a positive experience. Barely a month ago, the Hollywood detective had been instrumental in helping Jessie and Detective Trembley, who were based out of downtown L.A., steer their way through the murky world of studio politics while investigating the death of an actress on a film shoot.

  Jessie remembered Bray saying that she used to work at West L.A. station, which had jurisdiction over the tony Holmby Hills neighborhood. For a case involving someone this rich in an area of town she’d didn’t know well, it made perfect sense to partner with a cop she respected who also knew the lay of the land.

  It was already paying dividends. As Bray followed the winding curves of Sunset Boulevard, she pointed out various landmarks. There was the Beverly Hills Hotel on their right, with its famed Polo Lounge restaurant. They skirted the northern edge of the Los Angeles Country Club, a popular hangout for the rich and famous. She noted the Playboy Mansion, perhaps the most famous residence in Holmby Hills, though it was far from the most ostentatious.

  “That title belongs to The Manor,” Bray said, sounding more like a tour guide than a detective. “It’s the former home of the late television producer Aaron Spelling. With over a hundred rooms and more than twenty-five bathrooms, it’s the largest home in Los Angeles County.”

  “Why do I get the sense that you’ve given out-of-town family members this speech more than once?” Jessie asked.

  “Is it that obvious?” Bray replied, then continued without waiting for an answer, intentionally using her best narrator voice. “By comparison, the Otis Estate is relatively modest. It has a mere forty-six rooms with nine bedrooms and twelve bathrooms. Otis bought it in 2015 for thirty-three million dollars.”

  “How do you know all this?” Jessie asked.

  Karen smiled sheepishly.

  “I read it on Wikipedia while you came over to meet me.”

  “Did you do a deep dive on Otis too?” Jessie asked.

  “Yes, but I didn’t really need to. That guy’s more ubiquitous than most actual celebrities. Fifty-one years old. Self-made billionaire, media mogul who started one news network, was forced out, and started a new one out of spite. Has a mini-studio that makes half a dozen movies a year. Owns eleven newspapers and multiple high-profile websites, including the major source of gossip on the web. Has an amusement park and resort in Georgia and another one under construction in Oklahoma. Has two planes, a yacht, and the entire floor of an Upper West Side apartment building. And maybe most relevant for our purposes, is a twice divorced bachelor who likes models and actresses and regularly throws parties at his place for hundreds of people. He had one last night.”

  “Sounds like the kind of fella who will be more than happy to open his home to some nosy investigators,” Jessie said sarcastically.

  “We’re about to find out,” Karen replied. “We’re here.”

  They had pulled up to an iron gate. The driveway behind it twisted back a good seventy-five yards before disappearing behind a grove of trees. The actual house was too far back to be seen.

  “Should I try the buzzer?” Karen asked.

  “May as well,” Jessie said. “They can’t be surprised we’re here. I assume cops have been coming and going for hours.”

  Karen had to get out of the car and walk over to the intercom system, which was about five and half feet high, almost as tall as she was. She pushed the button.

  “Estate. How may I assist?” asked an officious male voice.

  She held up her badge and ID for the cameras next to the speaker.

  “Detective Karen Bray, LAPD, along with criminal profiler Jessie Hunt. We’re part of the investigative team.”

  There was a brief silence before the voice returned.

  “Proceed up the drive to the roundabout. Please park in the staff lot to the left of the main house. Someone will meet you.”

  “I guess we’re considered staff now,” Jessie said when Karen got back in the car.

  “Get used to it,” Karen replied as the huge gates slowly opened. “Folks in this neighborhood have treated the police as their personal errand boys for years. It’s one of the reasons I left. I got tired of having to kowtow to people just because of their bank accounts.”

  Jessie said nothing but silently decided that this gave her more reason to like Karen Bray. Anyone who chafed at the arrogance of the powerful got a point in her book. They drove up the driveway, passing the grove, until the house came into view.

  It was more of a compound, to be accurate. From what Jessie could tell, it had three distinct sections with connecting passages that together formed a sharp-edged “U,” with the most impressive section in front. Designed in the style of a French country palace, it was three stories tall while the side sections were only two. As they pulled up, Jessie could see that off to the right were tennis courts and a greenhouse. To the left, she saw a pool and an adjoining pool house. She could see the edges of other structures that she guessed were cabanas or small guest houses.

  They parked in the assigned lot, between a black-and-white and a coroner’s van. They had just gotten out when a cute, pe
tite young woman approached them with a clipboard. She wore a white tennis skirt and a short-sleeved royal blue collared shirt monogrammed with the cursive letters “JO.” She gave a perfunctory smile before launching in.

  “Hello, I’m Matilda, part of Jasper’s Estate Team. I’m here as your guide. I’ll be taking you to join your colleagues. But before we enter the house, I need you both to sign these NDAs, please.”

  Jessie and Karen exchanged surprised, mildly amused looks.

  “We’re law enforcement professionals,” Karen said slowly. “We don’t sign non-disclosure agreements with private citizens.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Matilda said as if this was just a misunderstanding. “It’s not for anything related to the unfortunate tragedy. It’s merely to confirm that you won’t reveal or discuss anything or anyone you might see on the premises that would infringe on Jasper’s privacy or possessions or the privacy of his guests.”

  “Is that all?” Jessie asked acidly.

  “Yes,” Matilda replied, not picking up on the sarcasm.

  “In that case,” Jessie announced, “we’re law enforcement professionals. We don’t sign non-disclosure agreements with private citizens.”

  “But your colleagues all signed without a problem,” Matilda protested, holding out the clipboard beseechingly.

  “That’s actually a big problem…for them,” Karen said. “Now, please stop shoving those papers in our face and take us to the crime scene.”

  Matilda, crestfallen, lowered the clipboard.

  “Hey,” Jessie said in her best buck-up voice. “If your boss gives you a hard time about this, tell him we threatened to arrest you. But for now, we need to see that body, so let’s get moving.”

  Matilda nodded and turned, motioning for them to follow. She led them through the grand foyer of the central section, or as Matilda called it, the South House. They passed an imposing spiral staircase that coiled up all three stories. Behind it was glassed-in elevator.