The Perfect Deceit (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Fourteen)

by Blake Pierce

  In the cold light of day, that litany of poor choices didn’t make her look great. In retrospect, neither did running away, even if she hadn’t truly intended to go away for good. Sneaking out was something a petulant child might do. After pushing so hard for her independence, she felt ashamed that she’d resorted to behavior that seemed so beneath her.

  It had worked out in the end, but it was one more example of the very behavior that had everyone so concerned. She’d done something reckless, even dangerous. This time it had been as much out of frustration as for the thrill of it. But usually the thrill was enough.

  She hated that she did this. And yet, it seemed the only way she could really feel anything these days was when the situation was turned up to eleven. Contentment wasn’t enough for her. She had to feel ecstatic. She rarely got irked but welcomed fury when it came. Anxiousness was an almost alien concept, but she understood fear. She couldn’t continue to exist at those extremes and function much longer.

  But what could she do? Kat certainly wasn’t an option as a sounding board anymore. Besides, blackmailing her into being a confidante hadn’t worked out that well. She doubted the woman would ever talk to her again.

  There was too much emotion and history tied up in her relationship with Jessie for Hannah to really unburden herself to her. Her sister wanted to help. But she didn’t seem capable of setting aside the guardian part of herself to just listen.

  Ryan was an option. Hannah knew that while he cared about her well-being, he was less emotionally invested, which was generally a good thing when it came to these sorts of conversations. But it wouldn’t fair to him to ask him keep any discussion in confidence. That would be hiding things from the woman he loved. Kat keeping secrets may have ruined her friendship with Jessie. Hannah didn’t want to be responsible for blowing up her sister’s relationship too.

  If Edward Wexler was alive, even unconscious, maybe she could have talked to him. It might even have been easier that way, spilling her innermost fears to someone who couldn’t judge or even hear her.

  She punched up the man’s name in Google to see if any plans had been made for his funeral. To her shock, a story popped up immediately in the “City” section of the Times. Edward Wexler wasn’t just some old dude. He was a Holocaust survivor who had lost his entire family in a concentration camp.

  She discovered that he had moved to the U.S. as a six-year-old, lived with relatives, and eventually settled in Los Angeles. He married, had three children, and at the time of his death, nine grandchildren. He became a lawyer, establishing a legal foundation with two goals: repatriating family heirlooms stolen by the Nazis and bringing the perpetrators to justice.

  The article said that Wexler had realized that pursuing property crimes was often easier than proving war crimes. According to an old interview, he said he decided to make it his life’s mission to bring some measure of justice to the people who had been violated, even if it could only be offered to their descendants.

  The more she read, the more Hannah realized that last night, she’d unknowingly been in the presence of someone incredibly special. Edward Wexler was a good man who had done incredible things.

  But something else spoke to Hannah more than his accomplishments. This was a person whose whole family was slaughtered when he was just a child, who had almost died himself, who was sent to another country to live with people he’d never met. His trauma was equal to hers by any measure.

  And yet, rather than using the horrors he’d faced as justification for disconnecting from humanity, he’d used it as motivation to help people. He’d taken his pain and channeled it into something constructive that would long outlive him.

  And in his last seconds on this earth, despite everything he’d been through, he asked about her life. He offered suggestions to make it better. He reached out to help a girl he didn’t know that he could tell was in distress.

  The memory of that moment filled her with an emotion she didn’t even recognize at first: shame. She had no business stewing in her own sense of victimization when someone like Edward Wexler had refused to. She had to change. And in that moment, she thought of a way.

  There was one other person she could talk to, someone she’d spoken to before but not in a long time. If she really wanted to change, this was the one person most qualified to help her. In fact, it occurred to Hannah that this might be the perfect—and scariest—choice, for the same reason: this person couldn’t be played.

  Maybe that’s why Hannah had been reluctant to go back to see her. It felt like she might actually reveal something about herself with this woman. And for the longest time, making herself vulnerable had been more terrifying than dealing with how messed up she felt most of the time. But the scales seemed to have shifted slightly. Perhaps it was worth the risk.

  Hannah put down her spoon and checked her phone. Sure enough, she still had Dr. Lemmon’s address in her contacts.

  *

  An hour later, the rideshare driver dropped her off outside Dr. Janice Lemmon’s downtown office building.

  She stood outside, unmoving. Suddenly overwhelmed, she felt her breathing quicken and stepped off to the side of the building, next to a homeless man curled up and wrapped in a small tarp.

  He glanced up at her and she thought he was about to say something. But something about her panicky expression must have changed his mind. He lowered his head and curled back into a ball, never saying a word.

  She stared at herself in the office building window and noticed a marked difference from last night at the hospital. Her green eyes were bright. Her sandy blonde hair no longer drooped down like dying vines. Even though it was only twelve hours later, she looked stronger, even taller.

  Reminding herself that her reservations about opening up weren’t enough to justify bailing, she took one step and the another. Before she knew it, she was inside the building lobby walking toward the reception desk.

  But when she picked up the pen to sign in, the self-doubt rose up in her chest again.

  This is stupid. It’s not going to work and I’m going to feel worse after I’m done. Time to leave.

  She dropped the pen and spun on her heel but had only taken three steps when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Hannah? Is that you?”

  Hannah froze, realizing there was no way out now. Slowly she turned around and smiled at Dr. Lemmon. The woman was just as she remembered. The therapist was in her mid-sixties but didn’t look it. She was in great shape and her eyes, behind a pair of thick glasses, were sharp and focused. Her curly blonde ringlets bounced when she walked, and she had a coiled intensity that was both impressive and borderline scary.

  “Hi, Dr. Lemmon,” she said, sounding plastic. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m good,” Dr. Lemmon replied. “How are you?”

  “Oh, you know, I’m getting by.”

  “Are you here to see me?” she asked probingly, squinting at her like she was performing an X-ray with her eyes.

  Hannah sighed heavily.

  “Would you believe I was just in the area for a frozen yogurt?”

  “Do you want me to believe that?” Dr. Lemmon asked with a gentle smile.

  Hannah shrugged.

  “You know,” Dr. Lemmon said, not pushing for an answer, “I was going out for a hot tea because I have a free hour. But now that I think about it, I’d just as soon avoid all the foot traffic. Care to join me upstairs for a cup of chamomile and a chat?”

  Despite the strong urge to say no, Hannah nodded. Dr. Lemmon smiled again and ushered her back to the elevators. As a sweaty, heavyset man with a mustache dashed to join them, failing to make it before the doors closed, she allowed herself a tiny giggle. It took that for her to realize she’d been holding her breath this whole time.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rarely had such a simple text made Jessie so angry.

  She and Reid were on their way to meet Allison Standish, the maid of honor to both Jax Coopersmith and Claire Bender, whe
n it came in.

  It was from Kat Gentry and it only had six words: So sorry. Can we talk? Please?

  Jessie typed out a long, angry, accusatory response and was about to hit “send” when she stopped herself. After deleting the whole thing, she kept her reply short and to the point: Can’t now—working a case.

  She almost added “maybe later” but didn’t. Frustrated with herself for even considering leaving the door open, she punched the “send” button hard and looked out the window. She still had more anger bubbling in her gut than she knew what to do with.

  Yes, Kat had been trying to help Hannah. Yes, she had been trying to keep Jessie from carrying the burden of her sister’s issues alone. And yes, Hannah had manipulated Kat into thinking that coming forward would end their friendship, which it may very well have done.

  But still, her best friend had kept her in the dark for months, knowing full well that Hannah was teetering on the edge of a dangerous abyss. There was no getting around it: she should have said something. Suddenly, she realized that Reid was talking to her and snapped out of her angry daze.

  “What was that again?” she asked.

  “I was just saying that I think we’re getting close to Standish’s place.”

  Jessie sat up straighter and really looked at her surroundings for the first time. They were in the Franklin Village section of Hollywood, traveling east along Franklin Avenue past Beachwood Drive. This stretch of road was populated with improv comedy clubs, outdoor cafés, independent bookstores, at least one vegetarian-only corner grocery, and the ornate complex comprising the Scientology Celebrity Centre. Just a half block down was the equally infamous headquarters of the Eleventh Realm, a trendy but controversial spiritual sect.

  “This isn’t too far from Jax’s house,” she noted.

  “Nope, we’re only five minutes west,” he agreed. “But from the area, it looks like Allison’s place isn’t going to be quite as hoity-toity.”

  He turned left onto Tamarind Avenue and drove up the suddenly steep hill, pulling over in front a charmingly Old Hollywood, but hardly ostentatious, apartment complex.

  “What does she do again?” Jessie asked as she got out.

  Reid glanced at his phone as they walked up the path to the entrance gate.

  “According to the info I pulled, she’s a makeup artist, though pretty junior from what I could tell. Her IMDB lists a lot of independent films and work on TV pilots that never went anywhere. I guess that until you hit it big, her line of work doesn’t afford the same level of luxury as being an influencer.”

  “Or being married to a publishing heir,” Jessie added acidly, immediately regretting her tone. Claire had been a success in her own right before meeting Jack Bender and didn’t need her accomplishments diminished by the profiler investigating her murder, just because she was in a bad mood. “Forget I said that.”

  Reid looked over at her as they arrived at the gate, pulling up his slacks so that they better rested on his tummy.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Hunt,” he said. “With what you’ve had going on lately, you get a one-time pass from me, as long as you give me one when I inevitably say something out of bounds.”

  “That’s a deal,” she said, grateful for his consideration. “Let’s see what’s up with Ms. Standish.”

  She pushed the button to buzz the apartment. A few seconds later, a harried voice came over the intercom.

  “Who is it?”

  “This is the LAPD, Ms. Standish. We need to talk to you about the recent incidents involving your friends who passed away.”

  “You mean who were murdered?” the voice said bitterly, apparently not interested in his attempt at diplomacy.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered.

  “Come on up,” she said resignedly, buzzing them in without another word.

  They opened the door and passed through the open-aired atrium, which was inundated by a plethora of overgrown plants. It was encircled by a mini faux creek that curled along the edge of the gate, ending at the foot of the stairs to the second floor. Reid led the way up to the exterior hallway leading to unit 216.

  Reid was about to knock on the door when it opened, revealing a petite, attractive brunette with a black top and short, turquoise skirt. She had on thigh-high white socks and a pair of what looked like black tap shoes. Her blue eyes were slightly puffy, despite the obvious effort to hide what must have been a distressing last few days.

  “Come in,” she said, turning back inside and leaving them to close the door. Unlike Jax’s plantation mansion filled with art, her place was much more modest. Her walls were adorned with framed posters that Jessie suspected she’d had since college and her furniture looked second-hand.

  “I’m supposed to be at a commercial shoot in Culver City in an hour, so I hope this doesn’t take too long,” Allison said. She seemed to sense that the comment didn’t come off well, which it didn’t, and quickly turned back around to face them.

  “I don’t mean we have to rush or anything,” she added, talking a mile a minute. “Obviously I want to help in any way I can. It’s just that, despite what happened, I still have to pay the rent. And if I show up late for this shoot, it could affect future jobs. I work with this agency a lot. Besides, with everything that’s happened, I could really use a distraction. Other than a few hours at a shoot last night, I’ve been going crazy sitting here in this place.”

  “What shoot was that?” Jessie asked, trying to sound casual and not like she was checking the woman’s alibi.

  “Just this crappy independent film,” Allison said. “I’m not sure they’re even going to have the money to finish the thing.”

  “But you were there last night,” Jessie pressed. “For how long?”

  Allison furrowed her brow.

  “Maybe three hours? I know my call time was at 8 p.m. and I got back here after 11, so that sounds right.”

  “Were you shooting that film on Saturday night as well?” Jessie wondered.

  Allison’s face fell. At first Jessie thought it was because the woman had figured out that she was already being interrogated, but that turned out to be wrong.

  “No,” Allison admitted, looking ashamed. “On Saturday, I caught up on The Bachelor with my good friends—pizza and merlot.”

  Clearly trying to hide her embarrassment, she looked at her watch impatiently.

  “I really do have to head out pretty soon,” she muttered.

  “That’s all right, Ms. Standish,” Reid said, showing a level of restraint Jessie doubted she could have mustered. “There’s no reason this needs to take forever. We thought that, as the maid of honor for both Claire and Jax, you might have some special insight that could prove invaluable to our investigation.”

  Allison looked skeptical.

  “I’ll tell you whatever I know, but it’s not like we bared our souls to each other. I think they both picked me because neither had sisters and I’m good at puncturing the tension in a room. That can be useful at a wedding.”

  “Sometimes keeping it light is more important than people think,” Jessie acknowledged.

  “Yeah,” Allison said, adjusting one of her socks, which had slid down to her knee. “Plus they knew I’d do their makeup for free. I’ll probably end up doing everyone’s makeup before we’re done. The wedding planner isn’t psyched about that because she had her own go-to girl. But it can get really expensive. And even rich bitches like a bargain. Sorry, that was a term of affection among us.”

  “You really do know how to puncture the pomposity,” Jessie marveled, making a mental note to find out more about the wedding planner she mentioned.

  “It’s a gift,” Allison said. “I don’t have many, but I’ve got that. So how can I help?”

  Jessie looked over at Reid, happy to let him go first. He complied.

  “We’re trying to determine if Jax or Claire was being threatened,” he told Allison. “Did either of them ever talk about stalkers? Did one of them have a falling ou
t that you’re aware of? Did either have a vengeful ex?”

  Allison sat down at one of the barstools at her kitchen counter, her attention fixed on the question.

  “Like I told you before, we didn’t have the kind of friendships where they would necessarily reveal that kind of thing to me. But even so, I don’t remember either of them ever mentioning anything like that. Jax never talked about her past and Claire lived a pretty cloistered existence, especially after she got married. I mean, Jack’s family had personal security guards so if she ever felt unsafe, she had easy access to help.”

  “So neither ever expressed any concern about that stuff?” Jessie pressed.

  Allison shook her head, but then seemed to reconsider.

  “I guess you could say that Jax got hassled a little for some of her posts and stories. She’d sometimes read us comments that savaged her fashion taste. But nothing ever seemed scary. She thought they were funny.”

  “What about in your circle of friends?” Jessie wondered. “Was there any animosity?”

  Allison gave her an “are you kidding?” look that spoke volumes.

  “Sure,” she said. “When you have a group of people who hang out and some are super successful and others aren’t, there’s going to be tension from time to time. I’ll admit I was a little jealous. But it’s not like people were scratching each other’s eyes out; maybe a snide remark or a heated argument every now and then. That’s about it.”

  Jessie had to admit that it was a fair point. A little jealousy among friends was natural and the fact that Allison voluntarily admitted that she’d felt it worked in her favor. To deny it, considering how disparate her world was from Jax’s, would be suspicious. But admitting to jealously didn’t mean she wasn’t also capable of acting on it.