Jack hung up and turned to Paige. “You and Zach go to Owen’s, and Brandon and I will go pay Hoss a little visit.”
“Be careful,” Paige said, her eyes slipping from Jack to meet mine.
-
Chapter 41
PAIGE DIDN’T ENVY JACK OR Brandon going to Sandy’s and hoped that Jack had the sense to call for backup from the local field office. Normally, the four of them would approach a suspect’s house together, but with the possibility that Guy Owen was in danger, an exception had to be made.
And combining the facts that Owen had sexual assault accusations on file and he made his living catering to sexual fantasies, he fit the victim profile.
Zach pulled the car into the driveway of a luxury townhouse. Not that it was ostentatious, but the property was pristine, as was the gated community in which it was located.
They parked and headed straight for the door to Owen’s unit. Paige rang the doorbell, and based on the way the chime deadened, she’d guess the place was heavily furnished.
No sound came from inside.
Paige pressed the bell again, not certain anyone was home. “Maybe he’s out making one of his slimy—”
The door cracked open, and a potbellied, balding man answered the door. He wasn’t wearing a wifebeater or a gold chain around his neck, but he otherwise fit the image of a sleazy creep given the way his gaze lingered on Paige’s body. When he brought his eyes back up from her chest to meet her gaze, it took all she had to remain civil.
She pulled out her cred pack. “We’re Agents Dawson and Miles with the FBI.”
He puckered his lips, bobbed his brows, and held out his wrists. “Are you here to arrest me?”
This asshole wasn’t making being civil easy. “You’re Guy Owen?”
A smug smile, and he dropped his arms. “Yes, I am.”
“Can we come in?” Paige asked.
Owen’s eyes drifted to Zach, then back to her. “You most certainly can, darling.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “My partner comes with me.”
“Hmm.” He eyed Zach. “I could make that work.”
When he turned to retreat into the house, she was tempted to smack the back of Owen’s head. But they needed to confirm he was safe and that meant going inside, even though she didn’t want to.
Zach closed the door behind them, and this seemed to signal Owen to turn around.
“What’s all this about?” he asked.
“Do you recognize her?” Paige extended her phone, which showed a picture of Sandy as taken from DMV records.
“You mean him? Yeah. I’ve seen him a few times. He gives me the creeps.”
“He prefers to be called she,” Paige corrected him.
“Well, good for him, but when she has a penis, I’m sorry but I still call them he.”
“How do you know her?” Paige refused to let Owen’s discriminatory mindset affect her.
“I know this will probably come as a surprise, but a bar called Wild Horse. It’s a real dump, and you’re probably wondering why a person like me would go there.” He swiped a hand down his front.
Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking…
“I am somewhat of a celebrity,” Owen added.
“A celebrity? You make porn flicks.” Paige’s words dripped with disdain.
“A very lucrative business. Anyway, I can keep a low profile there.”
“Do you pick up women there?”
“Ah, sometimes. Why? I ain’t ever picked him up.” Owen pointed to Paige’s phone.
“We think that your life might be in danger,” Zach said bluntly.
Owen laughed. “Why? Do you think he’s going to kill me?”
“We think you could be the next target, yes.”
“Next target? As in he’s killed before?” Concern kissed his voice now.
“She. And yes,” Paige said, unable to hide her exasperation.
Owen’s gaze volleyed back and forth between them. “Why are you here and not out arresting him, then?”
“Agents are headed to her home as we speak, but it seemed probable she could be coming for you.”
“That’s why you’re here? To make sure I’m breathing and not—” He covered his mouth as if the severity of the situation was finally sinking in.
“That’s right.” Paige moved farther into his house. “Have you come across anything strange lately? Doors or windows being unlocked that you swore were locked? Have you felt like anyone’s been watching you?”
“No. Well, not more than usual.”
“What do you mean?”
“As I said—”
“Right, you’re a celebrity.” She had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes.
“Listen, lady… Whatever.” He opened his arms, his palms open and facing her. “I know who and what I am.”
“Does that include being a rapist?” Paige asked. “You have a record of complaints against you.”
He pointed a finger in Paige’s face and must have thought better of it once he saw her glare. He lowered his hand. “I’ve never been formally charged.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t mean you’re not guilty.”
“That’s why you’re here?”
“We told you why we’re here, but did you ever make a move on her?”
“On him? No, never.” He shook his head. “I don’t roll that way.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. Listen, I make the boring type of porn. Traditional. Sexy librarian. Nympho secretary. Lusty flight attendant.”
Traditional and porn… Interesting combo.
“No guy on guy or he/she’s,” Owen continued.
“He/she’s?”
“Yeah, you know? Men who dress like women or think they’re women. He/she’s.”
Paige gritted her teeth. He filmed people having sex for God’s sake. Yet, here he was, judging the lifestyle of another person.
“I think I know why you liked Wild Horse,” Paige said, bobbing her head in a know-it-all fashion.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, the owner gave you a tab for one…”
“Yeah, Clive’s a great—”
“And he was your drug supplier,” she stated with heat.
Owen paled. “Hey, I know my rights. This is harass—”
“Clive Simpson was murdered last night.”
Owen swallowed audibly and flushed. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
Neither Paige nor Zach responded to his question.
“Was it him? The one from the picture? He did this?” Owen asked.
“Her,” Paige stressed again. “And, yes, we think so. Did you drug women at Wild Horse?”
He held up his hands and vigorously shook his head. “No, no, I don’t do drugs.”
“That wasn’t her question,” Zach said.
Owen’s eyes slid to Zach and then back to Paige. “I’m not proud of this.”
“Proud of what?” she ground out. Natasha’s face flashed in her mind. Ferris had grown up to be a sniveling weasel, just like this shit. She’d never say it out loud but the world was a better place without him. And Paige couldn’t help but think Sandy was doing people a favor by taking out men like Ferris.
“Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “Sometimes I’d have something slipped into their drinks.”
“By Clive Simpson?” Zach confirmed.
“Yeah.”
“Did she—” Paige shook her phone, inferring Sandy “—ever see that happen?”
“Maybe? Yes? I don’t know,” Owen said, his voice soft now, a little frightened.
“Well, if she did,” Paige told him, “you could definitely be her next target.”
>
-
Chapter 42
JACK PULLED THE RENTAL car to the curb. We had called for backup from the local field office, and the other agents were already on scene. The warrant had already come through.
Sandy’s apartment building was old and redbrick. We headed up to the third floor, three agents tailing us. We were wearing Kevlar vests, not that the material would be effective against a blade, but it was best to take precautions. Just because her preferred weapon was a knife didn’t mean it was the only weapon she had at her disposal.
Jack banged on Sandy’s door. “FBI! Open up!”
It was quiet inside the apartment.
He smacked the door again. “Sandy Hoss! This is the FBI!”
His efforts met with silence.
We stepped to the side, and one of the agents behind us went at the door with a battering ram. We were inside Sandy’s place in seconds.
The studio apartment was compact but kept neat and tidy. There was a small kitchen, a small living room, and a small bathroom. A twin-size bed was positioned in one corner.
Jack was moving things around on the counter with gloved hands. We were looking for any clue as to Sandy’s possible whereabouts, as well as anything to implicate her in the murders. I stepped into the living area of the room while our backup stood in the hall, cordoning off Sandy’s apartment.
Jack read off labels from prescription bottles he’d found on the counter, and I googled the drugs to find their uses. A few were for HIV.
Jack went rooting in a kitchen drawer.
“Agent Harper,” one of the local field agents called out to Jack. There was another man standing beside him in blue jeans and a Budweiser T-shirt. “This is Glen Westerly. He’s the building manager.”
“What’s going on in here?” Westerly asked.
Jack kept focused on the drawer, not even acknowledging Westerly, so I headed over to talk with the manager.
Westerly was probably about ten years older than me, but his eyes skimmed over me and the judgment there was plain to see. All he saw was my age, and he wanted to speak to the man in charge.
I squared my shoulders. “I’m Special Agent Brandon Fisher.”
“What are you doing here?” Westerly moved to peer around me at Jack.
“When was the last time you saw Sandy Hoss?” I asked, countering his question with another.
“Sandy? Hmm. I don’t know. A week or so ago. It doesn’t mean she hasn’t been here. I just have a life, ya know?” He took a step in an effort to get past me, but I stopped him with a flattened hand to his chest.
“Did you ever speak with Sandy?”
“Not really. Once in a while we’d say, ‘Hi, how are you?’ but we didn’t stop to chat. I know that he—she—liked men. I wasn’t into that and never wanted to give her any indication that I was.” Westerly’s eyes met mine.
“How long has Sandy lived here?”
“Six years, give or take. Why?”
“Do any of the other tenants complain about her or have any issues with her?” I asked.
Westerly seemed to give the question some thought and, after a bit, shook his head. “Not that I know of. What is this about?”
“At this time, I can’t comment on that. It’s an active investigation.”
Westerly grimaced, and while I couldn’t blame his frustration, I wasn’t going come out with our suspicions about Sandy being a murderer.
I made eye contact with one of the local field agents, and he nodded.
“Come with me, Mr. Westerly,” he said. “I’ll take your information just in case we have any more questions for you.”
Westerly scowled at me again before leaving with the agent.
Jack and I continued looking over the apartment for about twenty minutes, finding nothing. I returned to the kitchen area and looked over a shelf of books. Most were cookbooks, but one was a high school yearbook.
“Jack,” I called, “come over here.” I held up the find. “This is a yearbook from a school in Northern California from eleven years ago.”
“None of that makes sense.” Jack came over and took the book from me. He started flipping through the pages. He stopped and pressed a fingertip to a picture of a young man with delicate features. “Look familiar?”
I took a closer look, and while the images on the bank security camera were fuzzy, there was enough there to confirm that this was the younger version of the same person. I read the list of names, and one stood out—Leslie Shaw.
Jack pulled out his cell and dialed on speaker. “Nadia, I need that info on Leslie Shaw’s murder now.”
Nadia took a few seconds before responding. “Shaw was found in a motel room, wrists slit in the bathtub. Investigators thought it looked like a staged suicide because of the angles of the cuts and nothing indicated Shaw was depressed. No note, either.”
“Who identified the woman as Leslie Shaw?” I asked.
“Her parents.” She paused for a moment. “What are you guys thinking?”
“We’re not sure yet. Keep talking,” Jack directed.
“Well, the room was rented under her name, and her ID was found on scene. The deceased was wearing a pair of cubic zirconia earrings in the shape of dolphins, and Leslie’s parents said she wore them everyday.”
“No dental record comparisons?” Jack asked with some heat.
“No need for that, according to the reports,” Nadia said. “The parents were certain it was Leslie Shaw.”
“Sandy and Leslie must have looked a lot alike,” I began. “And they each had an intersex condition?”
“They did,” Nadia confirmed.
“Send us the picture from the murder scene,” Jack said.
“Sure— Oh.”
“Nadia?”
“I’m looking at a crime scene photo and comparing it to a snapshot of Leslie Shaw from the bank. Leslie and Sandy look almost identical.”
“That would have made assuming Sandy’s life pretty easy for Leslie,” I reasoned.
“Send over the crime scene photo,” Jack said.
“You got it.”
“And, Nadia, dig into Leslie’s past. Find anything you can.”
Jack hung up, and his phone chimed with a message a second later. The face looking back at us had me losing my balance.
“Leslie Shaw did kill Sandy Hoss, took her identity, and staged her own death,” I said.
“And collected a million dollars for her troubles,” Jack growled.
I nodded, stunned. “Leslie hasn’t completely let go of her true identity, though. She opened a bank account under that name. Seeing as she left her ID with Sandy’s body, she must have had fake ones made.” I paused a few seconds. “And they were both born with a fairly rare condition. What are the chances they’d find each other?”
“There’s got to be something more to this.” Jack tapped his shirt pocket at the same time Zach and Paige entered Sandy’s—or really, Leslie’s—apartment and beelined for us.
“No sign of Hoss at the director’s house,” Zach said. “We have a couple agents sitting outside his place.”
“Well, we have something.” I went on to share all the new info with them.
“It’s quite possible. And the two of them do look surprisingly alike. But was it just for the money? Her other murders go deeper than that,” Paige reasoned.
“It’s too early to conclude her motivation,” Jack said. “I have Nadia digging into Leslie’s past to see if she can uncover anything.”
Jack’s phone rang, and he answered on speaker.
“Leslie’s parents are still alive,” Nadia began, “and they moved from Northern California to Texas after Leslie’s apparent murder, and they’ve been living there ever since. Leslie ran away from home at sixteen. Rec
ords indicate the parents had no idea how or when Leslie even made it to Texas for that acting school.”
I thought back to what Nadia had told us about the school—how Sandy’s grades were so poor and how she’d seemed preoccupied. “Unbelievable,” I muttered. “It seems Leslie was brazen enough to assume Sandy’s life to the extent that she attended Sandy’s classes after murdering her.”
Paige raised her eyebrows. “That is what you find unbelievable?”
I disregarded her attitude, my mind going back to Leslie’s parents. “So they moved to where Leslie was allegedly murdered?” I supposed everyone reacted to tragic events differently, but it seemed odd to me. “They were probably in denial that she was gone. And in this case, they’d be right. They didn’t bury their child. They buried someone else’s. One question, though… If Leslie was a runaway, where did she get money to go to Texas?”
“I can answer that, too,” Nadia chimed in. “The parents reported money was stolen from the family’s bank account.”
“Nadia you had said that Sandy came out to California for a vacation and wasn’t the same when she got back?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Nadia seemed hesitant.
“What if that’s when Leslie and Sandy first crossed paths?” I brainstormed out loud. “Maybe something happened here that made Leslie follow Sandy back to Texas and kill her.”
“Or maybe Leslie just found out about Sandy’s money,” Paige suggested.
“We don’t believe money was Leslie’s motive. Didn’t you just say that?” I looked at Paige.
Paige narrowed her eyes at me and crossed her arms.
There was a brief lull in the conversation, and Nadia broke the silence.
“I finally made headway with that vacant property listed on Leslie Shaw’s bank account,” Nadia began, “as well as with Simpson’s employment history. It seems they are connected.”
“Talk,” Jack said.
“There used to be a club called Clancy’s on the property. It was—”
“A gay night club…” Paige’s eyes were wide. “Malone’s building manager said that Malone would go there, but that it had shut down.”
[Brandon Fisher FBI 05.0] Violated Page 20
