THE PERFECT IMAGE

by Blake Pierce

They left him alone with his clear liquid and his TV remote to return to the Santa Monica police station, where they’d have to start from scratch. If Pierson was innocent, the killer was still out there. And Jessie got the strong feeling that whoever had committed these murders wasn’t done yet.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Whitney Carlisle felt guilty.

  She loved her husband, but there was something about a glass of white wine and having the whole house to herself that made her inappropriately—and therefore guiltily— happy.

  She reminded herself not to feel too bad. After all, Gordo wasn’t home because he was attending a bachelor party. She found it odd that it was being held on a Monday evening. But the wedding was a last-minute affair next weekend and the boys’ night out had been thrown together on the fly. All she knew—all she wanted to know—was that after the night’s festivities, the guys would be staying at a hotel in Orange County. Gordo was taking tomorrow off. She considered that a wise move.

  She had considered calling a few girlfriends to come over but decided she’d prefer an evening of self-care. That meant sushi from the Japanese market by the pier, a bottle of Viognier, and a yet-to-be-determined trashy erotic thriller.

  She looked out the window. It was late afternoon, almost 5:15 p.m. The sun was already starting to set. By the time she settled in for the evening, it would be dark out. She searched her streaming services for a movie that had the exact mix of scary and trashy that she was after and had narrowed it down to three choices when Yaz, her little schnauzer, started barking.

  Reluctantly, she got up to see what had piqued his interest. She walked over to the living room sliding door that led to the half-finished deck and followed Yaz’s gaze until she found what had him so agitated. There was a strange man in the backyard. A chill ran up her spine.

  He was large, easily six foot two and 220 pounds. He had on jeans, work boots, and a hooded sweatshirt that made it impossible to see his face. He was walking straight toward her, though he didn’t appear to have noticed her yet.

  She darted behind the curtain out of sight. The man was all the way to the deck stairs now. She pulled out her cell phone and started to dial 911 when the man yanked the hood off his sweatshirt, revealing his face.

  Whitney breathed an audible sigh of relief. She knew the man. It was Frank Marr, their contractor. He’d been working on some home renovations for them, including the deck, for the last few months. Even though she’d seen him almost every day, he had suddenly looked menacing and unfamiliar with his face covered by a hood. She put her phone back in her pocket and opened the sliding door.

  “Hi, Frank,” she said, stepping outside and walking over to the deck railing. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, seemingly startled to find her there. “I’m just a little frustrated. I was headed home to Thousand Oaks when I realized I forgot my tool belt under the deck. I knew I wouldn’t get any sleep if I didn’t come and get it.”

  He bent down out of sight. After a few seconds, he reappeared with the belt, which he strapped around his waist.

  “You could have called and we’d have kept it inside for you,” Whitney told him.

  “That’s nice, but I didn’t want to put you out.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But next time, please give me a heads-up if you’re stopping by. Yaz started barking at some ‘unidentified’ guy in a hoodie in the backyard and I freaked out a little. I almost called 911.”

  “Oh man,” he replied sheepishly. “Sorry about that. It just got a bit chilly with the sun going down. Speaking of that, have you taken advantage of the deck yet for sunsets? It looks like this one’s going to be a beauty.”

  He turned around. Whitney realized he was right. Their backyard faced west toward the Pacific Ocean and with the elevated deck, they now had an unfiltered view of the sun setting behind Point Dume. Streaks of orange, pink, and purple painted the sky just above the horizon, with the darkness of night closing in quickly just above them.

  Both of them stood there silently for close to a minute as the last vestiges of sunlight dipped out of sight, leaving only dim remnants behind. Even Yaz had stopped barking in what she told herself was awe. Frank turned back around with a smile.

  “Worse places to live,” he said earnestly.

  “No argument here,” she agreed.

  “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Carlisle. Things are moving along nicely. The office is done, as are the changes to the bedroom wing and the front door. We’re on the last phase now with this deck. We should complete it by the end of the week. I expect my guys to show up around nine and I’ll stop by before lunchtime to check on their progress. That sound okay to you?”

  “It sounds good,” she told him. “You have a good evening, Frank.”

  “You too,” he said and headed off toward the side door of the yard. Once he was out of sight, Whitney stepped back inside and locked the sliding door. She was about to pull the curtains across but then stopped when she got a glimpse of herself in the door’s reflection.

  She liked what its shimmering, slightly gauzy effect did to her. Whitney knew that she was an attractive woman, with her yoga-firm body, short, dyed blonde hair, deep tan, and aquamarine eyes. But at twenty-seven, and after three years of marriage, she thought she could see the beginnings of the aging process at work. In the sliding door reflection, however, that was muted, leaving only the best parts.

  “Enough narcissism,” she said out loud, turning away from the door and heading back to the kitchen to get the sushi and wine. Her phone buzzed. It was a text from her sister, Janey, which read: While the boys are playing, you want company?

  Whitney had completely forgotten that Janey’s husband, Stewart, was also at the bachelor party. For half a second, she considered saying no. After all, this was supposed to a solo evening. But Janey was always good for a fun night. Besides, she liked trashy thrillers too.

  So she texted back: Sounds good. A nice bottle of white will guarantee you admission.

  Janey texted a thumbs-up emoji followed by: See you soon.

  “Yaz,” Whitney called out, “we’re having company so you better be on your best behavior. No barking when she shows up.”

  It occurred to her that she hadn’t heard Yaz bark at all recently, not since the sun set. In fact, she hadn’t even seen him.

  “Yaz, where are you?” she shouted. “Yazoo, come to mommy!”

  There was no response. She wandered through the kitchen, then the dining room, and back out to the living room but he was nowhere to be found. She tried the bedroom wing, opening each door and calling out for the schnauzer, to no avail. Frustrated, she returned to the living room and leaned against a couch.

  Where is that little troublemaker hiding?

  Whitney could feel anxiety rising in her chest but refused to acknowledge it. She’d already overreacted to the hoodie thing. She wasn’t going to do it again just because Yaz was messing with her.

  *

  He watched with malicious glee as she searched the house.

  From his position in the coat closet near the front door, he could observe all her increasingly fretful movements as she moved from one room to the next. Of course, she wouldn’t find her little Yaz. He was in the closet on the top shelf, with a broken neck.

  Part of him wondered if he should leave a few breadcrumbs for those detectives he saw earlier outside the Pierson mansion. After all, so far it had been almost too easy.

  While Whitney Carlisle and her contractor watched the sun set, he had slipped behind her on the deck and gone inside. She’d been oblivious to the dog’s frenzied barks of warning, assuming they were still directed at the contractor and not the man who had silently entered her home.

  After quickly dispensing with Yaz, he took the knife from the block on the kitchen counter and moved to the closet just as the woman and her contractor were saying their goodbyes. Then he watched through the slightly open closet door as she locked the sliding one and first admired he
r reflection in the glass, and then reprimanded herself for the admiration. After that came the dog search. And now there was the confusion and growing apprehension. It was magnificent. He imagined how fast her heart was already pumping and how far her blood would spurt.

  She turned back to the sliding door and he knew he had to make his move. If she thought the animal was outside and went out to look for him, there were too many variables. What if she walked down the block? What if he had to pull her inside and she screamed? Or escaped? He had to act now.

  He quietly opened the closet door and moved toward her in the shoes he wore specifically for this occasion. They made no noise and left no prints. He tiptoed quickly and was less than ten feet from her when he saw her back stiffen and realized his mistake.

  He was visible behind her in the reflection of the sliding door. Before he could make his move, the woman darted to the left, back toward the bedroom wing. Despite his frustration, he was impressed. She hadn’t turned to look at him or even screamed. Instead, she saw that she was in danger and did something to protect herself.

  It wouldn’t do any good, of course. He knew where she was going because of his previous visit and he’d written down a detailed sketch of the entire house as soon as he’d left it. That’s how he knew that the room she was running to at the end of the hall on the left was a trap. Other than the one door, there was no way out unless she jumped out the window, which overlooked a cliff at least 150 feet high.

  She locked the door from the inside just as he arrived. He stepped back and kicked, splintering it. The second kick finished the job as the door slammed open. He stepped inside the darkened room and turned on the light. She was nowhere in sight. The window was still closed so she had to still be in here. He was just about to kneel down to look under the bed when he noticed the room was different than he remembered.

  It used to be much larger. And then, as growing dismay took hold of him, he comprehended the difference. A wall had been installed, turning one large bedroom into two smaller ones. More importantly, a door connecting the rooms had been added. Carlisle could have gone into the second bedroom and back out into the hallway.

  He rushed back out. Sure enough he caught sight of her just as she tore from the hall back to the living room. He raced after her, expecting her to be at the front door by now. But she wasn’t.

  Just as he emerged, he felt a sharp pain as something solid slammed into his gut. He fell to the floor and rolled over to see Carlisle advancing on him with a thick, standing lamp she had yanked out of the socket.

  Luckily for him, she led with her feet and not the lamp. Gasping for breath, he struck out at her leg with his foot and heard a sickening, beautiful crunch. She dropped to the ground, howling in pain. He allowed himself a moment to recover before getting to his knees and shuffling over to her. Then he removed his mask.

  Through squinty, pained eyes she looked up at him. Those eyes widened and he knew she recognized him. That was almost his favorite part. She started to raise her hands in defense but she was just a hair too slow. By the time they were up, he’d already sliced the desired spot on her neck.

  As he’d hoped, blood shot out to the left with incredible force. He had to dart to the side to avoid being splattered by it. Her hands were at her throat now, which made it easy to inflict the second wound, directed at her upper thigh. That one didn’t bleed as dramatically because of the yoga pants she wore. But the carpet underneath the leg quickly turned dark.

  He stood and looked down at Whitney Carlisle as the life drained out of her. She stared up at him with baffled, glassy eyes. But a few seconds later they lost their focus. She was gone. After dropping the knife beside her body, he was too.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  They didn’t stay at the Santa Monica police station for long.

  When Ryan hit his limit in the overheated conference room, they decided to take the case files and their laptops and head over to the Third Street Promenade to work there for part of the afternoon. That’s where they’d been ever since, sitting at a shaded table of an outdoor French bakery, where they spread out the case file paperwork and sustained themselves on a steady supply of croissants and cappuccinos.

  They did their best to stay focused but it was occasionally a challenge. The Promenade was a walking-only, closed-off stretch of Third Street in downtown Santa Monica, just blocks from both the police station and the beach. There were high-end stores on either side of the street. In the middle of it, there were occasional kiosks—newsstands, sunglasses vendors, and folks selling tourist-friendly T-shirts. Multiple street performers—from break dancers to beat boxers to mimes—competed for window shoppers’ attention. Despite the entertainment and the warm caffeine delivery system, Jessie was getting cold.

  “Ryan,” she said reluctantly, knowing he wouldn’t like what she had to say, “it’s too chilly to stay out here. And we’re hitting a wall here. It’s been all dead end leads since we left Pierson’s place. I think we either have to go back to the station or head home. Besides, I need to check in with Hannah.”

  “You mean check on her, right?” he replied snarkily.

  Jessie stuck out her tongue even as she called her little sister. Surprisingly, she picked up right away.

  “You’re going to be late getting home because of this case, right?” Hannah accused before Jessie could speak a word.

  “Hello, little sis,” she replied saccharinely, “nice to hear your voice. How are you?”

  “Okay,” Hannah said with slightly less surliness. “I was going to make some dinner but I don’t know how many servings to prep.”

  “First of all, thanks for doing that,” Jessie said, trying to get back on the right foot. “And to answer your question, as of now it looks like there’s not much more we can do tonight, so we’ll be coming home. But we’re in Santa Monica so it’ll probably be at least an hour. Time your meal prep accordingly. How was your session with Dr. Lemmon, by the way?”

  She heard a brief hesitation before Hannah responded, just enough to make her worry.

  “Fine—we talked about how I’m doing in school, my plans to go to that cooking camp in Wildpines over the summer, and the possibility of culinary school in the fall.”

  “Nothing else?” Jessie asked.

  “Not what you’re hinting at,” Hannah replied.

  “Okay,” Jessie sighed, deciding not to push it any further for now. “We’ll see you soon.”

  When she hung up, she helped Ryan gather the last of the files and put them in his satchel.

  “She didn’t tell Lemmon, huh?” he asked.

  “Nope. I feel like if she just opened up about this, she could finally start to deal with it. I know it’s eating at her.”

  “Maybe next time,” he offered.

  “Maybe,” she conceded, though with little hope. “Hey, do you think it would be a good idea if I went to her next session?”

  Ryan was opening his mouth to reply when his phone rang. They both looked at the caller. It was Decker.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Ryan said before hitting the speaker button. “Hi, Captain, Jessie’s here with me. You’re on speaker.”

  “It sounds noisy where you are,” Decker replied.

  “We’re at the Promenade,” Jessie told him.

  “Call me back as soon as you can talk privately,” he instructed. “There’s been another murder.”

  *

  Hannah was just starting to mix the rub for the lamb chops when Jessie called back.

  “Reaching out again so soon?” she asked.

  She suspected from the pause before her sister answered that it was bad news. When she heard the deflated tone in her voice, she knew she was right.

  “Hey,” Jessie said, “right after I hung up with you we got word that there’s been another murder. We don’t know details yet but I’m certain that we’ll have to go to the crime scene. I don’t know when we’ll be home.”

  “I guess it’s dinner for one then
,” Hannah replied, trying to mask her disappointment.

  “Actually, better make that for two.”

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded, suspicious.

  “We don’t know how long we’re going to be out. It could be all night. So I asked Kat to spend the evening with you and stay over if need be.”

  “Jessie, I’m going to be eighteen in a couple of months,” she pointed out. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “She’s not a babysitter, Hannah. It’s just that you—we’ve all been through a lot lately and it would set my mind at ease if Kat was there.”

  “Why?” Hannah wanted to know. “Do you think I’m going slice my wrists? Or shoot some senior citizen as he walks down the street outside the house?”

  “I can’t do this right now,” Jessie told her. “We have to call Captain Decker back and find out the details on the person who was just murdered. If you think you’re old enough to stay home by yourself, prove it. Show the emotional maturity to handle having Kat stay with you tonight and then we’ll talk about what happens in the future. Can you do that?”

  Hannah wanted to come back at her hard for her patronizing tone but knew it would only make things worse. Once her sister—the brilliant, beloved profiler Jessie Hunt—made a decision, there was no talking her out of it.

  “Sure, I’ll do that. I just hope that I’m proficient enough with the oven that I don’t accidentally blow the house up before she gets here.”

  She hung up without another word. It was only after the aggrieved feeling she was nursing began to fade that Hannah started to wonder if she could have handled the call better. But by then it was too late. Calling back to apologize was a sign of weakness. And Hannah didn’t like to show weakness.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Three minutes by car.

  That’s how far away from them a woman was being murdered while they noshed on croissants. Jessie tried not to think about that as Decker updated them on the short drive over. Since the killing was so recent, there wasn’t much to tell.