by Blake Pierce
“I’m sorry,” Jessie asked. “Did you say oiled-down Twister party? That’s a thing?”
“Sure,” she said. “Jasper loves to update retro games. And if it gives him a chance to roll around with girls slathered in oil, you know he’s gonna take it. You should check the itinerary. It’s posted everywhere. There’s all kinds of stuff coming up. I think he’s got Strip Trivial Pursuit happening on Thursday.”
“I don’t really know Jasper,” Jessie said. “I got the invite here from a friend of a friend. Is he cool? I’m not sure I’d be into playing any of that stuff with a fifty-something-year-old guy. It seems a little sketchy.”
“He’s no more pervy than your average middle-aged dude,” the blonder one said. “But you don’t really seem like the type who’d be into all of that under any circumstances.”
Jessie pretended not to get the dig. She wanted to press harder on what they thought of Otis but feared it would come across as snooping, so she let it drop.
“I’ll admit that’s not how I usually spend my Thursday nights,” Jessie said. “But I didn’t come all the way from New York just to sit around for a week. I guess I’m game.”
“That’s the spirit,” semi-blonde said.
“Hey, speaking of game,” Jessie said, finally sensing they were comfortable enough with her to ask some real questions. “I heard I missed out on seeing some big names on Saturday. Is it true that both Percy Avalon and Rance Jensen were here?”
“Girl,” replied super-blonde, “if you think those are big names, you’re in for a shock. Those are just the guys who deign to mingle with the masses. Jasper keeps the really big names protected from the hordes in the West House, where we can’t get at them.”
“Like who?” Jessie asked conspiratorially.
“Ever heard of Senator Greg Johnson? Or Paul Gilliard, the Oscar-winning actor? Or Omar?”
“Who’s that?” Jessie asked.
“Some Middle Eastern sultan or something. I can’t pronounce his whole name so I just call him Omar.”
“All those people were at the party on Saturday?” Jessie asked, trying to commit the names to memory.
Super-blonde’s gossipy demeanor suddenly changed, as if she’d been busted in a lie.
“I’m not actually sure if any of them were here on Saturday. I didn’t personally see them. Sometimes they hole up in the personal wing, away from us little people. But those guys are around all the time.”
Jessie tried to hide her disappointment. The men she mentioned being around “all the time” at these parties weren’t likely to sway Decker enough to agree to a full-court press on investigating their backgrounds. Semi-blonde, apparently sensing that Jessie felt cheated, leaned in.
“You were right, though. Those other guys were here that night. I saw Percy and I can personally vouch for Rance’s attendance.”
“What do you mean?” Jessie asked.
“A lady never tells,” semi-blonde said, leaning back on her chaise.
“Yeah, but you’re not a lady,” super-blonde snapped before turning to Jessie. “What she means is that she nailed the guy.”
Jessie forced the surprise on her face to come across as titillated more than ravenously inquisitive.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “That’s impressive. How much time did you get to spend with him?”
“Oh, you know,” semi-blonde said, trying to sound laid-back, “we spent time together at two in the morning, three in the morning, had a bite to keep our energy up, then spent some more time together around dawn. You know what I mean?”
“How could she not know what you mean, Brittany?” super-blonde asked derisively. “You’re not exactly maintaining the mystery.”
“Sorry, I’m just proud. He’s the biggest fish I’ve bagged so far this month.”
“Haven’t gotten to Percy yet?” Jessie asked leadingly.
“Maybe someday,” Brittany said. “He’s definitely around a lot. But he’s usually got his boys with him. It’s hard to break through that testosterone bubble when they’re all together.”
“Are you looking to claim a trophy?” super-blonde asked Jessie pointedly. “Because there’s always someone available. But you’re probably going to have to up your wardrobe game. Show a little more skin. I know you’re older but you’ve got to put in the effort.”
“I’m thirty,” Jessie said.
“That’s okay,” super-blonde said. “Some of these guys like older women. But you’ve got to convince them that it’s worth their while.”
Out the corner of her eye Jessie saw Matilda, her guide from yesterday, walking toward the pool and decided it was time to pull up stakes.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, standing up and piling the towels back on her shoulder. “Maybe I’ll go change now. The only problem is that I’ve got some scars.”
“Where?” Brittany asked as she sat back up, way too intrigued.
“Everywhere, Brittany,” Jessie told her. “Everywhere.”
Before either woman could reply, she scurried away, passing right by Matilda, who glanced her way distractedly, and seeing nothing but a heap of towels, returned her attention to whatever task she’d been assigned. As she hurried away, Jessie noticed Cord Mahoney sprawled out face down on a lounge chair, seemingly passed out. He must have found his second wind at some point. He was shirtless and his skin was bright red. Jessie was briefly tempted to bump into him to wake him up so he didn’t get even more burned. But she couldn’t take the risk of him seeing her so she kept moving.
Jessie didn’t look back until she’d rounded the corner. The back doors to South House were wide open. Realizing she might not have a better chance to get inside, she picked up the pace, hoping no one would notice her before she got in.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She knew she looked suspicious.
Walking around inside with a bunch of pool towels on her shoulder would attract more attention than just trying pass as another guest. So she dumped them on an expensive-looking sideboard near the wall and veered immediately to the right, heading along the route she knew would take her to West House and the residential wing. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking for but got the distinct impression whatever secrets needed uncovering would be discovered in the same part of the estate where Milly had died.
As she walked, she typed the names of the senator, actor, and Omar the Sultan into her phone so she wouldn’t forget. It sounded like they might not have even attended the party, but it was worth checking into.
It also made Jessie wonder what other titans of politics, entertainment, and industry used the Otis Estate as their personal boys’ club. And though she knew drawing too many conclusions was a risky proposition, the thought did occur to her that a sultan buddy of Otis’s from a foreign country might speak a different language, as Marla had mentioned. There was no evidence to support the connections she was making, but that had never stopped her before.
As Jessie rounded the corner and headed down the hall that connected South House and West House, a slight, bespectacled male staffer with intrusive eyes passed by, give her a twice-over. She knew even before she reached the door to the residential corridor that she was busted.
She pretended to be oblivious, pulling open the doors and walking confidently, even as she heard a staticky hiss, followed by the guy’s voice whispering into what she was sure was a walkie-talkie. The second she heard the doors close, she broke into a half-jog, bypassing the stairs that led to Otis’s private wing.
She was more curious about the residential wing at the end of the corridor. The plastic tarps that had been set up for the mold remediation were still in place but she couldn’t help wondering if there was a part of the residence that was still livable. Maybe a quick look around could reveal who’d stayed there recently.
She was almost to the end of the corridor when a booming voice called out from the other end.
“I wouldn’t go in there. Black mold can have some nasty side effects.”
Jessie stopped in her tracks and sighed. She recognized the voice. It was Nancy Salter. There was no way she could go any farther. Up until now, she could maintain the fiction that she was simply an LAPD consultant investigating a case and hadn’t heard about the judicial stay, and that she just didn’t want to bother anyone while she looked around to get some background for her investigation.
It was a clumsy, obvious lie, but it was technically defensible. However, if she continued to the residence, ignoring the clear directive of Jasper Otis’s right-hand woman, she’d be in official trespassing territory. Reluctantly, she turned around.
Nancy Salter was already walking quickly toward her, with her bespectacled enabler in tow. Salter didn’t look angry so much as energized by the chance to lay into Jessie. And yet, she kept her tone of voice conversational, almost accommodating.
“That’s why they closed off the whole area and use air scrubbers,” she continued. “Once they start cutting out the rotted wood, the mold is aerosolized. If that gets in your system, it can cause all manner of problems—breathing issues, infections. In really bad cases, people have had memory loss and hemorrhaging.”
“Good to know,” Jessie said, making a mental note to have Jamil look into the matter. “Maybe next time I’ll bring my mask. When did the issue start again?”
“I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Hunt, but I’m afraid I’m not in a position to answer any questions at this time.”
“Not in a position?” Jessie repeated, all doe-eyed and innocent. “That’s an odd turn of phrase, Ms. Salter. Why on earth wouldn’t you want to answer my questions?”
“Several reasons,” Salter said, not at all moved by Jessie’s dramatic turn. “First of all, you’re trespassing.”
“I’m not sure what you mean. You invited me onto the estate to investigate just yesterday. Why would you suddenly accuse me of trespassing the very next day?”
“That’s the second reason,” Salter said coldly. “As I’m sure you’re aware, a judicial stay has been granted preventing any further visits without a warrant.”
“I had no idea,” Jessie exclaimed, pulling her hand to her heart. “Had I known that, I most certainly wouldn’t have come.”
“Detective Bray was informed. Are you not partnering with her on this matter?”
“Informally, sure,” Jessie said. “But she works for LAPD and I’m just consulting. It’s not like we’re Cagney and Lacey or something.”
Jessie saw the confused look on the face of Salter’s assistant and suddenly felt much older than her thirty years. Salter clearly got the reference but wasn’t amused.
“In light of your ignorance of the situation, we will merely have you escorted from the premises, rather than calling the authorities.”
She nodded at her lackey, who muttered something unintelligible into his walkie-talkie. The arrogance was infuriating and, though she knew it was petty, Jessie couldn’t help but take a poke of her own.
“I appreciate your restraint, Nancy. I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side. I hear you have a brutal right hook, although maybe I’m safe. After all, I’m not a caterer.”
She was happy to see Salter’s eyes widen slightly. Realizing this might be the only opportunity to question the woman when she’d been thrown off a little, Jessie went in for an extra bite.
“Tell me, where were you on Saturday night between three and four, slugger?”
Salter had regained her composure even before Jessie finished the question.
“You are aware that I’m under no obligation to answer that…but I will. I was everywhere, Ms. Hunt. When it comes to Jasper’s parties, I’m a bit of a whirling dervish, always in motion, always putting out fires.”
“Put out any fires in Jasper’s private wing that night?” Jessie wondered.
Nancy Salter smiled at her before answering. Her lips curled unnaturally, as if they were unused to that kind of movement.
“Not that I recall.”
“That’s odd,” Jessie mused. “You seem like the kind of person who recalls everything.”
“I do my best, but things can get crazy when trying to manage almost six hundred people.”
“I’m sure,” Jessie said consolingly. “Maybe checking the location data on your phone would help refresh your memory.”
“Maybe,” Salter said. “Unfortunately, as Jasper mentioned, the digital dampening net we employ on the property makes that sort of thing impossible.”
“Oh, right. I forgot about that,” Jessie lied. “That’s really unfortunate for us law enforcement types. If not for that, we might have Ms. Estrada’s killer in custody already.”
The doors at the end of the corridor opened and two burly men in suits, apparently graduates of the same security school as Ajax, walked quickly toward them.
“It appears that it’s time for you to go now, Ms. Hunt,” Salter said. “I’ll leave you in the care of Alastair and Vincent. Good day.”
She turned on her heel and was out of hearing distance before Jessie could think of anything good to say. Either Alastair or Vincent motioned for her to head back down the corridor. She did so, with one of them in front of her and the other behind.
As she returned to the main entrance of the house, Jessie felt an infuriating sense of helplessness. Despite all the smoke, there was no fire yet. She had no evidence definitively tying him to this murder. But Jasper Otis was guilty of something.
He clearly had an unhealthy, potentially criminal interest in underage girls. And if he wasn’t Milly’s murderer, why the hell did he seem to be covering it up? Was it just that he was so powerful that he didn’t care how he looked as he bullied everyone in his way? Or was it something deeper? Was he hiding some secret so nefarious that it was worth weathering whatever suspicion he faced to keep it hidden?
Either way, it was a tactical mistake. If he’d done his research on Jessie, he would have known she didn’t back down. Not from serial killers, not from corrupt cops, not from drug cartels. And certainly not from pedophile billionaires.
He didn’t know it yet, but she was coming for him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hannah focused in on her target.
Yes, she’d been kidding when she told Jessie that she’d keep her eyes out for scummy guys with business cards looking for potential sex slaves. But the truth was she didn’t need to, because she’d already been approached. Just not by a guy.
It was only her third day on campus when a fellow senior had approached her and asked her if she’d ever considered “going on dates.” Hannah had misinterpreted the question and said she wasn’t into girls (though she had no idea if that was really true or not).
“I don’t mean that kind of date,” the girl, who called herself Elodie, had said. “There are older guys who will pay good money to be with a high school girl, especially if she can prove she isn’t eighteen yet.”
Hannah, who knew girls back at her old San Fernando Valley high school who’d done porn, wasn’t shocked that a variation on the sex work theme existed at this school too. Of the many things she’d seen and been through, learning about an underage prostitution ring didn’t make the top five.
At the time, she’d politely declined. She wasn’t interested, but not knowing who had the power at her new school, she didn’t want to alienate anyone. Elodie hadn’t seemed too broken up about it. Hannah got the sense that getting candidates for this gig was a volume business.
“Reach out if you change your mind,” Elodie had told her before moving on.
That’s what Hannah was about to do. She had no idea if this was a run of the mill teen hooker ring or if it might be part of the larger sex trafficking operation that had Jessie so upset. She aimed to find out.
She walked over to Elodie Peters, whose last name she had learned earlier that morning. The girl was sitting at a picnic table under a tree, scrolling through her phone. Hannah let a bit of self-doubt creep in. She couldn’t help but wonder if what she planned to do was a violatio
n of her promise to Kat.
Their deal was that Kat wouldn’t mention the drug dealer confrontation if Hannah agreed not to take any more unnecessary, dangerous risks. But this wasn’t an unnecessary risk. It wasn’t pushing boundaries just for the sake of seeing what would happen.
If talking to Elodie got her a lead that helped her sister with a case that was clearly worrying her, it seemed more than worth it. Moreover, if it in some way saved young girls in trouble, then there wasn’t even a question about whether it was justified. And if she happened to get a little thrill out if it along the way, there was no harm in that.
“Hey,” she said, sitting down on the bench next to Elodie.
The other girl was also blonde, but far fairer than Hannah. Her skin was pale and freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. She was extremely skinny, with a boyish figure. Had Hannah not known she was a senior, she might have thought the girl was in middle school.
“What’s up?” Elodie asked, looking up from her phone.
Hannah looked around, play-acting as if she was worried someone might overhear.
“I’ve reconsidered your offer,” she whispered.
“What offer?” Elodie replied.
It was obvious that she’d been coached to be careful when someone else initiated this kind of discussion. Hannah leaned in even closer, trying to seem conspiratorial.
“You know, about the dates.”
Elodie nodded as if this was the first she’d heard of it.
“What are you reconsidering?”
“I think I might be into it,” Hannah said. “I mean, I already see older guys sometimes. If I can get more out of them than just a nice dinner and free drinks, that’s something I might be interested in.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Hannah.”
You’re not a cop, are you, Hannah?” Elodie asked. “You know you have to tell me if I ask you that.”
“I didn’t know that,” Hannah said. “I’m not exactly up on police procedure. But no, I’m not a cop. I’m just a girl who doesn’t have enough cold weather clothes and wouldn’t mind an occasional tanning session.”
