The Perfect Disguise (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Ten)

by Blake Pierce

  “Maybe,” Jessie conceded. “But between the name on that makeup mirror and the white rose in Corinne Weatherly’s hand, I’d call it informed speculation. That’s why we have to re-interview the one person who can shed some light on this. Are you ready to knock over some china, Trembley?”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” he moaned. “But I guess so.”

  “Attaboy!” she said, buoyed by an enthusiasm that seemed impossible even ten minutes earlier.

  She filled him in on the plan, then hurriedly turned off the lights and left the house. She locked up and walked to her car, looking over shoulder, wondering if Garland’s house was some kind of lucky charm. Then she mentally corrected herself.

  My house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Hannah felt duped.

  For the last four hours, she’d been stuck in Kat’s thirteen-year-old Subaru Outback, armed with tepid air-conditioning, as the sun beat down on her. Even parked in the shade under a tree across from McMillan Park, the rays cut through the leaves, acting like a magnifying glass on her exposed legs.

  “Remind me again why you’re sure this guy is going to show?” she asked.

  Kat glanced over at her, with what Hannah interpreted as a look of contained irritation. Admittedly, she had asked a variation of this question multiple times.

  “You can never be sure. But the suspect was here yesterday, just not selling to minors. I took photos and video of him in action. So it stands to reason that he’ll be back today.”

  “But if you have photos and video, why not just turn them over to the cops now and get him arrested?” Hannah asked.

  “Because the police aren’t my client,” Kat reminded her. “I’m being paid by a family who believes the guy is feeding this stuff to their son, Errol, and his friends. They want proof that he’s selling to kids, yes. But they specifically want evidence that he’s selling to Erroll. Once I have photos of their son with him, the parents can either take that to the cops directly or confront Errol. They’re not interested in busting every dealer, jut the one feeding their son.”

  Hannah was quiet for second before responding.

  “But even if you get definitive proof of this guy selling to their kid and the cops arrest him, won’t some new dealer just slide into his place and pick up where he left off?”

  “That’s an excellent point, Hannah; one I made to them before they hired me. I suggested their money might be more wisely spent getting Errol into rehab. As long as he has the need, there will always be someone willing to meet it.”

  “They didn’t go for that?”

  Kat shrugged.

  “They’re certain that if this dealer is taken off the streets, their son will get back on the straight and narrow and be the little boy they remember. I felt like I’d given them my honest assessment. They still wanted to pay me. So here we are.”

  Hannah looked back down at her phone. Kat had sent her photos of the suspected dealer, as well as Errol and a half dozen of his friends so she could point them out if she saw them. She scrolled through the images, trying to imprint them on her brain. Some of the kids appeared to be older than their age. But Errol, who was apparently fifteen, looked closer to thirteen. He had braces, lots of pimples, and the same longish blond hair covering half his face that seemed to be required for teenage skateboarding boys.

  “Listen,” Kat said, breaking her concentration. “I have to run to the restroom. Are you okay here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Keep the doors locked. If you see anyone who matches the pictures, text me right away. Cool?”

  “Super cool,” Hannah said. “Are you able to grab me a coffee while you’re out?”

  Kat shook her head reproachfully.

  “I guess. It’s a good thing you’re already tall or I’d warn you that it will stunt your growth. You’ve already had two, haven’t you?”

  Hannah gave her most angelic smile.

  “I’m just trying to stay alert to do my best for Auntie Kat.”

  Kat grunted in response as she got out and closed the door.

  “Lock it,” she yelled through the closed window before heading off to the corner store they’d been using for supplies and bathroom breaks all morning.

  When she was out of sight, Hannah returned her attention to the park. She’d never been here before and found it fascinating in a disturbing way. On the surface, it was charming. The whole place encircled a small lake with a fountain in the middle. There were multiple playgrounds and walking paths dotted with dozens of trees.

  But when she looked closer, she noticed small tents at the base of almost every bush large enough to offer shade. Several shopping carts had been pushed into the lake and embedded themselves in the shallow water, too far out to collect but not deep enough to sink out of sight.

  And everywhere she looked, surreptitious transactions were taking place—behind trees or bushes, near trash cans or benches, occasionally while lying on the grass beside someone. She occasionally saw a cop go by on foot.

  But the only time one had taken any action was when a man waving a hanger chased after a woman pushing a stroller full of plastic bags. Only when the stroller toppled over and the woman curled up in a ball beside it with the man hovering over her, shouting, did the cop amble over and say something. Whatever it was, the hanger guy ran off in the other direction and the woman in the fetal position stood up, organized the stroller, and wandered off as if nothing had happened.

  This wasn’t what Hannah had wanted. She’d agreed to come as part of her ongoing “experiment in self,” as she’d taken to silently calling it, to determine exactly where her limits were. But sitting in a car, slowly getting sunburned, hadn’t afforded her much of an opportunity to test herself.

  Before she could ponder that any further, she saw them. Errol and two of his friends, one male and one female, came down the walking path, trying to look casual and failing. They all sat down together on a bench in front of the lake. A few seconds later, a gangly figure emerged from a tent on a small hill about forty yards away. It was the dealer.

  She recognized him immediately. It was made easier because he wore the same too-big striped green and gray shirt from the photo Kat had taken of him yesterday. But even without that, he was hard to miss.

  Hannah guessed that he was in his early twenties. His unkempt brown hair stood up in random places and almost every bit of exposed skin was covered in tattoos, including much of his face, which appeared to have some kind of pinkish rash. Lanky and easily six foot four, he loped over to the kids like a slovenly giraffe.

  Hannah pulled up Kat’s number and began to text the situation, then stopped. It occurred to her that this was an excellent opportunity to continue the “experiment in self.” The dealer didn’t appear to be armed. It was a public place in daylight. What would happen if she inserted herself in this situation?

  She knew she was capable of feeling fear when her life was being threatened by a serial killer or a sibling’s vengeful ex-husband. But how would her body and mind respond to being in the presence of a scummy, fourth-tier drug dealer? She was also kind of curious to learn what made a guy like this tick.

  I guess it’s time to find out.

  She unlocked the car and got out, shoving her phone in her pocket as she walked in their direction. By now, the dealer had reached Errol and his friends and was standing in front of them, chatting amiably.

  Hannah approached them, mentally reviewing the self-defense crash course Jessie had given her several months ago. She’d only agreed when her sister had insisted that she learn the moves or else lose her phone. Despite her outward reluctance, Hannah hadn’t minded. After all, Jessie had learned the techniques from trained FBI combat experts. There was something pretty cool about that.

  By the time she arrived, she saw what looked to be a quick, clandestine exchange between Errol and the dealer of cash and some unidentified item. Both guys were shoving what they’d received in their pockets just as s
he joined them.

  “How’s it going, fellas?” she asked affably.

  The dealer and the teenagers all turned to her with startled looks on their faces.

  “Do I know you?” Errol asked.

  “Yeah, dude. We go to the same school, Errol. I’m going into senior year. You don’t recognize me?”

  Errol looked embarrassed and confused.

  “I feel like I’d remember seeing you. What’s your name?”

  “Ha…Hallie, Hallie Hernandez,” she lied and, after getting a blank stare added, “You’re hurting my feelings here.”

  “What do you want, Ha-Hallie Hernandez?” the dealer asked, eyeing her suspiciously. “We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”

  Hannah waited for the nerves to kick in but none did. When she responded, her voice sounded unperturbed.

  “I know. That’s why I’m here. I’m looking to score some Molly. I knew you guys had a connection in the park so I decided to hang out here until I saw who you were meeting up with.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask us at school?” the girl, dark-haired and frail-boned, with ghostly white skin, asked.

  “It’s summer. School’s out, darlin’,” she replied without hesitation. “I didn’t think it would be cool to knock on the door of your house and ask your folks if I could talk to their kid about coordinating a drug purchase outing.”

  “Look, sweetheart,” the dealer said, taking an uncomfortably close step toward her, “I don’t know you and I don’t trust you. So why don’t you find someone else to do business with? I’m just talking to my friends here.”

  Hannah smiled back, noting the slightest tingle of adrenaline firing through her system.

  “I’d like to be friends,” she told him, extending her hand. “Like I said, my name’s Hallie. What’s yours, friend?”

  The dealer looked at her hand, then without warning, swatted it away.

  “My name’s mind your goddamn business. You better get the hell out of here, Ha-Hallie or I’m gonna get a lot less friendly, you hear?”

  Despite her smarting palm, Hannah’s smile only broadened. Seeing the guy so agitated tickled her to no end. Intellectually, she knew she should be terrified of him but she just wasn’t feeling it.

  “This is you being friendly?” she asked with mild amusement. “You must be a real hit at the local tent and bush parties. What do your pals call you, DJ Patchy Face?”

  That seemed to be the final straw. The dealer whipped a switchblade from his back pocket and held it out, only inches from Hannah’s neck. She didn’t flinch, but she did notice that welcome tingling extend to her fingertips. She was about to respond when someone beat her to it.

  “Whoa,” came a familiar voice from behind her. “I thought I asked you to wait in the car, sweetie, not bother the nice people enjoying the park.”

  Everyone but Hannah turned to look at Kat, who came to a stop beside her. She was carrying the requested coffee.

  “Who’s this bitch?” the dealer hissed.

  “Language, young man,” Kat said scoldingly. “There’s no need to be disrespectful.”

  “Your sweetie here is the disrespectful one and I’m about to teach her some manners. Maybe you’d like a lesson too. It looks like somebody’s already taught you a couple things.”

  He was referencing the long scar running down the left side of Kat’s face. She didn’t visibly react to the insult. Instead, she removed the top off the coffee and took a small sip.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen, young man,” she replied slowly and without emotion. “You’re going to drop that knife on the ground, turn, and walk away. If you do that, this encounter can end painlessly. If you don’t, well, other stuff will happen. You have five seconds to comply starting now. Five…”

  “No scarfaced bitch tells me what to do,” he spat.

  “Four,” Kat interrupted.

  “You just made this real bad,” the dealer warned.

  “Three.”

  The dealer leapt forward, extending the knife toward them. In one fluid movement which Hannah barely had time to process, Kat used her right arm to push her back out of the way of the blade as she flung the coffee at the guy with her left hand. He was just starting to scream in pain as the hot beverage splashed his face when Kat did something blurringly fast with her hands that removed the knife from the dealer’s hand and seemed to leave his wrist broken.

  A moment later he was flat on his stomach with her knee in his lower back. As his screams turned to moans, Errol and the other two kids tore off down the path away from them. In the distance, Hannah saw the foot patrol officer running toward them with a vigor she suspected he rarely used.

  “We’re going to have to have a little chat later,” Kat said to her, not even breathing heavily as she removed a pair of handcuffs and slapped them on the guy’s wrists, one of which was quickly swelling up.

  “I’m sorry,” Hannah said unconvincingly.

  “Not only did you put you, me, and those kids at risk, you’ve cost me a lot of money. You didn’t text me. Tell me—did you even think to take photos of them together?”

  Hannah shook her head.

  “Great,” Kat said, not hiding her disgust. “Two days of surveillance wasted. The family’s not going to pay me for this. They wanted proof. Now the kids will be scared off for weeks. This guy will be back on the street in a few months and in the meantime, someone else will take his place in the scumbag pecking order. All I asked you to do was keep the door locked and text me, Hannah. It’s like you intentionally tried to mess this up. Is that what happened?”

  The cop was getting closer, trying to clumsily unholster his weapon as he approached, now moving at more of a slow jog.

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know,” Hannah said. “I thought maybe if he sold to me, you’d have him on that. Also, I was worried about Errol and the others.”

  “We both know that’s BS. Are you going to be straight with me?”

  “I am being straight, Kat,” Hannah insisted, not even sounding convincing to herself.

  Kat shook her head, ignoring the dealer’s muffled moans as she lifted her arms in the air.

  “Raise your hands above your head and stay still,” she ordered. “I don’t need Sheriff Sweaty over there shooting you after all this.”

  Hannah did as Kat instructed. She made no mention of her still-tingling fingers or the pleasantly unfamiliar rapid beating of her heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  The crowd was getting bigger.

  While Jessie and Trembley waited in the long line of cars at the Sovereign Studios main gate, she was able to get a closer look at the burgeoning memorial for Corinne.

  The sidewalk was now littered with multiple canopies, each offering much-needed shade to the mourners and their makeshift monuments to the actress. Earlier today she would have estimated the congregants at two dozen. Now there were easily double that.

  After getting waved through and parking, they moved quickly to the Fairbanks Building, hoping to escape the midday heat and get some relief inside the air-conditioned office of Miller Boatwright. To Jessie’s surprise, an unfamiliar voice greeted them on the intercom when they entered the Harlow Bungalow.

  “Where’s Alana?” she asked.

  “She’s a little under the weather today,” the disembodied female voice told them. “I’m Linzie. How can I help you?”

  Trembley told her why they were there and they were buzzed in moments later.

  “We know the way,” Jessie said when Linzie started to lead them back.

  When they arrived at Miller Boatwright’s office, the door was open. But this time he was alone, seated behind his desk. He didn’t get up to greet them.

  “If you keep coming by, people will say we’re in love,” he said without a hint of warmth.

  “Where is everyone?” Jessie asked, ignoring his comment. “The place seems empty.”

  “Meetings,”
he replied simply.

  “That’s great,” Jessie said. “It should allow us the chance to talk more frankly than we did on our previous visit.”

  “I feel like I answered all your questions the last time you came by.”

  “We often need to re-interview people once we get additional information,” Trembley said as if it was no big deal.

  “Well, it would have been nice if you’d called ahead. I’m dealing with a troubled shoot in Malta. And back here, I’m handling a first-time director who refuses to edit his film down to two hours. This isn’t ideal.”

  “Murder never is, Mr. Boatwright,” Jessie said. “Why don’t we jump right in? The sooner you answer our questions, this time in a completely forthright manner, the sooner you can get back to your Malta situation.”

  He looked like he was about to make a crack, but then bit his tongue. Jessie could sense the increased combativeness emanating from him. When he finally responded, he spoke slowly.

  “You think I wasn’t forthright before?”

  “No,” Jessie replied.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell us about Tara Tanner,” Jessie said simply.

  Boatwright hid it well, but Jessie noticed a slight pursing of the lips and quickening of his breath before he responded.

  “She’s an actress.”

  “Thanks. Do you know her?” Jessie pressed.

  “Yes.”

  “Why did she initiate legal action against you?”

  He paused, weighing his words carefully before replying.

  “There is a confidentiality agreement in place regarding that matter,” he said. “All I can tell you is that I haven’t done anything untoward.”

  “You know you have a reputation when it comes to actresses,” Jessie said.

  “Is that a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m aware there’s a perception of me around town,” he acknowledged. “If I thought it would do any good, I’d take issue with its accuracy.”

  “We reached out to Ms. Tanner and she wouldn’t speak to us,” Trembley said.