by Blake Pierce
This was the last walk of the night. It typically lasted twenty to thirty minutes, which should give him more than enough time to get inside, grab the knife, and be ready to do the deed. He crossed the street and started in their direction, staying well back so as not to spook Sheena.
He was already an intimidating presence because of his height. If she glanced back and saw a tall guy in a hoodie only a half block behind her, she might panic and call 911, messing everything up. So he shuffled along slowly, planning to dart to the edge of their yard only when he could no longer see Georgie Boy’s golden fur.
He was now in front of the Lennox home. For all intents and purposes, he looked like just another unidentifiable neighborhood guy out for an evening stroll. A few more steps and he’d be out of range of the camera, able to sneak along the fence line to the side gate.
Just then, Sheena paused to let Georgie Boy poop, so Curt stopped moving too. To stall, he bent down to untie and then retie his shoe. As he did, he winced audibly. His ribs were still sore from where Whitney Carlisle had whacked him with the lamp last night.
While he waited, his thoughts drifted back to that odd conversation with Cyndi. Why had she sounded so jumpy? It wasn’t like her. That’s one of the reasons he’d hired her in the first place—her chill, unruffled demeanor.
He wondered if that was her awkward way of hitting on him. She’d never given any indication that she was into him. And though she was cute, he wasn’t interested in her for any number of reasons, foremost among them, that it would complicate nights like this.
But if she was into him, was this her way of finding out if he was really home so she could surprise him? The thought gave him a flicker of trepidation. Cyndi said she was just closing up at work. If she made an impromptu appearance at his house, it would ruin everything.
He told himself that he was overreacting, that she was just tired like she said. Looking up, he saw that Georgie Boy was done with his business. He and Sheena were just passing the house on the corner.
It was now or never. If he waited any longer, he wouldn’t have time to properly prep for Sheena’s return. And because of the couple’s complicated schedule, if he didn’t do the Elimination Event tonight, it might be weeks before he’d get another chance. Not to mention that he was really hoping to make up for the missteps with Whitney Carlisle last night. He was still reprimanding himself for not anticipating that bedroom issue.
He stood up, this time moving slowly. It didn’t help. His ribs were throbbing. He started to doubt whether he’d even be able to scale the house’s side fence in this condition.
Again he thought of Cyndi’s peculiar vibe on the phone. Something was definitely up with her, even if he couldn’t decide what it was. In that moment he decided: he was calling it off.
Between the ribs and his assistant’s unsettling, potentially longing phone call, it was just too much. He couldn’t chance the girl showing up on his doorstep and him not being there. Sheena Lennox would have to wait. He needed to get home. There was work to do and not much time to do it.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
They pulled up just down the street from Curt Sumner’s house fourteen minutes after Cyndi hung up with him.
Even that was longer than Jessie would have liked, but they couldn’t risk her calling Curt back once they left the office. So they took her back to the station, where she was left with an officer who would hold onto her phone until given an all clear. Once they dropped her off, they sped toward Sumner’s home. On the way, they called Jamil to see if he’d gotten the court order to check Sumner’s phone.
“It’s pinging at his house,” he answered before being asked.
“That was fast,’ Ryan said, impressed.
“What can I say?” Jamil replied more brashly than usual. “I’m good at what I do. His vehicle GPS is also pinging from the house.”
“Nice,” Jessie said. “Since you’re feeling so cocky, how about I give you a few more requests? Maybe they’ll actually challenge you.”
“Go for it,” Jamil tossed back.
“Okay, first, I need you to check Sumner’s criminal history.”
“Already done,’ Jamil told her. “I was about to tell you before you started questioning my skills. He got a DUI twelve years ago, but nothing before or since.”
“Okay, smart guy,” Jessie replied. “That was the easy one. I’m about to send you a full client list we got from Sumner’s assistant. Can you look into whether any of them have been hurt or killed? Start with the most recent and work your way back.”
“Will do,” Jamil said confidently.
“And one more thing,” she added. “Be careful.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she said, “I’m worried that with your skinny frame and your head getting so big, you might topple over.”
She hung up without waiting for a response. Ryan’s broad smile from the driver’s seat was almost as satisfying as the dig itself.
But now, sitting in the car a half block from Sumner’s house, all vestiges of jokiness were gone. They both activated the hidden wires they’d been given by an SMPD tech and tested that they were working with their support team.
As they got out of the car, Jessie tried not to think about how poorly Cyndi’s call with Sumner had gone. She’d never heard those two people talk to each other before but she knew it couldn’t normally be that stilted. And if she sensed it, Sumner surely did too. That might be all the forewarning he needed to hide evidence of his crimes. They walked over to one of the two squad cars that had arrived with them. The officer in the lead car lowered his window.
“Stay here out of sight until you see us enter the home,” Ryan instructed. “That is, assuming he lets us in. Then you all can wait out front. Hunt and I are both wired up so don’t go breaking down any doors unless we say something or you hear gunshots, okay?”
“Got it,” the officer said.
Jessie and Ryan made the short walk to Sumner’s home. It was more modest than those of the victims, but then again, that was true of ninety-five percent of the houses in L.A. His place was a cute, one-story cottage-style place. Getting on her tiptoes, Jessie could see over the fence to the edge of a small yard in the back. Even though the whole place was probably less than twelve hundred square feet, she estimated that it would probably go for over two million dollars if Sumner tried to sell it today.
“You ready?” Ryan asked, unsnapping his weapon’s holster when they reached the front door.
“As I’ll ever be,” she replied with a smile of confidence she didn’t really feel. She also released her holster guard.
Ryan was reaching out to ring the bell when the door opened, revealing a darkly handsome, very tall, very pale man with stormy gray eyes and black hair pulled back with a tie. He reminded Jessie of Trent Reznor twenty years ago. He was wearing jeans, a casual dress shirt, and an apron with traces of something red splattered on it.
“I have a motion detector,” he said when he saw their surprised faces. “So I figured I’d save you the trouble of ringing the bell.”
It occurred to Jessie that the man would also have a heads-up when the uniformed officers arrived at the door. Hopefully they’d heard what he said on the wire and would act accordingly.
“Do you always open your front door to strangers?” she asked, hoping to throw him off guard and get a sense of his real reactions before he realized what this was all about.
Sumner smiled comfortably.
“To be honest, no,” he admitted. “But I just finished prepping dinner and was feeling sociable. Besides you two don’t exactly look like you’re selling bibles door to door. Have I made a terrible mistake?”
“I hope not, Mr. Sumner,” Ryan said, “Although you might find us more objectionable than bible salesman. We’re with the LAPD. I’m Detective Ryan Hernandez and this is Jessie Hunt. She’s a consulting profiler for the department.”
“I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” Sumner said, pointing at
Jessie excitedly. “You’re the one who stopped that old guy a few weeks back, right? What did the news call him—the Senior Citizen Serial Killer or something like that?”
“That’s what the news called him,” Jessie confirmed, cringing at the memory of how much fun the media had turning a man who likely killed hundreds of people into a cheesy alliteration.
“But you guys had another name for him. Wasn’t it the Night Killer?”
“The Night Hunter,” Ryan corrected.
“Right,” Sumner said before asking the obvious question. “So what brings you to my doorstep?”
“We’re actually investigating a suspicious death involving a former client of yours, a woman named Siobhan Pierson,” Ryan said, giving only the most bare bones information. “We’ve hit a bit of an investigative wall so we’re reaching out to all manner of folks who interacted with her, trying to get some background, anything that can help us. At this point we’re really grasping at straws.”
Sumner nodded sympathetically. He appeared generally concerned but otherwise personally unflustered.
“Of course,” he said, opening the door wider. “I was stunned when I heard about that on the news a while back. Anything I can do to help. Please come in.”
They stepped inside and he closed and locked the door behind them.
“So how exactly can I help?” he asked.
“Maybe we should sit down somewhere for that,” Ryan suggested.
“Sure,” Sumner said. “Do you mind if we go to the kitchen? I was just wrapping something up in there.”
“Lead the way,” Ryan said.
Sumner walked down the narrow hall, which opened into an amazing kitchen that Jessie suspected took up a full third of the home’s square footage. There was a giant island in the middle with seating for four and a six-burner stove next to a large butcher block. She paid particular attention to the knife block on top and noted that all the knives were accounted for.
Sumner also had two double ovens and a refrigerator the size of small shed. Connected to the ceiling above were several overhead lights and a couple of boom mics that hung down just out of view of the multiple cameras in the room. On top of all that, something smelled incredible.
“Whoa,” she muttered despite herself.
“Thanks,” Sumner said nonchalantly. “I’m a chef, mostly for private events. I call them ‘House Cooks.’ But another part of the chef gig these days involves doing on-camera tutorials for an online cooking channel I work with. I just finished one. In fact I posted it right before you arrived. I was just about to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Would you like some? I made enough to serve four. I was just going to freeze what I didn’t eat myself.”
Jessie looked at the counter by the sink, where a serving dish was filled to the brim with bubbling cheese and some kind of red sauce. In the sink were several bowls and pans, piled high. She could feel the residual heat from the overhead lights and the closest oven, even though they were all off now.
She found it all impressive but disconcerting. Was Curt Sumner the kind of person who could cook an entire meal for a viewing audience, then eat it, all before going out to slice a woman to death? Or was this his reward for a job already well done?
“I don’t think we’ll be here that long,” Ryan said to the dinner offer. “But I don’t want it to get cold so you go ahead. We can talk while you eat.”
“Okay,” Sumner said, scooping a healthy portion of what looked like something Italian into a bowl. “Please have a seat.”
“What is that?” Jessie asked as they sat at the kitchen island barstools. She was sure Hannah would have known the answer upon sight. Thinking of her sister reminded her that she hadn’t checked in for a while and probably wouldn’t be able to for some time. She forced the needling guilt she felt out of her system. There was no time for it right now.
“Just eggplant Parmigiana,” he said dismissively. “I’m in the middle of a ‘hearty meals for winter’ series. Sometimes I go more upscale but this dish is designed to be something easy that can feed a whole family. Nothing complicated about it, although I always like to add a few personal touches.”
“Like what?” Jessie asked, both interested and hoping to keep the vibe casual for as long as possible.
“In this case, some brown sugar, along with sun-dried tomatoes for a hit of tanginess,” he said, opening the fridge. “Would either of you like a drink?”
“Not for me,” she told him.
She’d learned the hard way from Andrea Robinson never to accept food or beverages from someone connected to a case. The peanut oil that Andy had snuck into her Mojito on their ill-fated girls’ night made her throat close up so fast that she nearly asphyxiated. Ryan shook his head as well.
While Sumner picked out something to drink for himself, Jessie looked around the kitchen. She was impressed with how he managed to keep everything so orderly. Not a cookbook on the bookshelf was out of place. Every appliance was perfectly equidistant from those on either side of it. Even the hand towels hung immaculately on their hooks.
She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. Hannah was the same way when she cooked. Jessie shivered slightly at the thought of comparing her sister to a man who might have killed three women. But the fact remained: there was nothing out of place, at least not in the kitchen.
She did notice that in the adjoining living room, a pair of black pants and a black, hooded sweatshirt had been tossed carelessly on the back of the couch. It was at odds with everything else but maybe his attention to detail only extended to what he considered the most important room in his house.
Sumner, who had chosen a bottled IPA to go with his dinner, took the seat next to Jessie. She eyed the beer bottle warily, fully cognizant that it could easily be turned into a makeshift weapon.
With that realization fresh in mind, she decided that he was as comfortable as they could make him. If they were going to catch him in a deception, this was the ideal the moment. The time for pleasantries was over. She looked him directly in the eye as she asked her question.
“So Curt, what can you tell us about Gillian Fahey and Whitney Carlisle?”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
It wasn’t that he didn’t react. He did.
The problem was his reaction was completely normal, the response of a reasonably confused person.
“Who are they?” he asked, curious but in no way tense or startled.
“You don’t know those names?” Ryan pressed, clearly getting what Jessie was trying to do.
“Should I?”
“Those are the women who were killed on the last two nights in precisely the same way as Siobhan Pierson,” Ryan told him.
“That’s terrible,” Sumner said, putting down his beer empathetically. “I hadn’t heard about this. Three women killed the same way? Shouldn’t that be all over the news?”
“I’m sure it will be soon,” Jessie replied. “Do they sound familiar to you, Mr. Sumner?”
He appeared to search his memory for a few seconds.
“I don’t think so,” he finally said, “but I’m getting the strong sense that you think they ought to.”
“It’s just they were also both clients of yours,” she “informed” him, though she had her doubts about just how hazy his recollection really was. “You did events—House Cooks, I think you called them—for both of them in the last six months.”
“Wow,” he said, shaking his head in seeming disbelief. “That is a horrifying coincidence. And now I’m embarrassed that I don’t remember their names. I know this is awful to say but I do private events five or six nights a week. They all start to run together after a while. The only reason I remember Siobhan Pierson was because she was a public figure and lived in this over-the-top, ornate mansion. So when I saw her on the news after she died, it all came flooding back. I’m ashamed to say these other women didn’t stick out like that.”
“That’s understandable, Mr. Sumner,” Ryan said. “But we’re hoping that i
f we showed you pictures of them and their homes, then that might refresh your recollection. Would you be willing to do that?”
“Of course,” Sumner offered. “Do you have them with you?”
“Unfortunately no,” Ryan said. “They’re all back at the police station over on Olympic. But hopefully that won’t put you out too much. We just came from there and it only took about five minutes to get here.”
“I know where it is,” he said with good cheer. “My office is actually in downtown Santa Monica. That’s fine. What time is good for you? Maybe I could stop by in the morning before I go to work.”
“Actually,” Jessie said, gently putting her hand on top of his—the one without the beer, “we were really hoping you might come over now.”
Sumner frowned but didn’t object outright. She continued before he tried.
“It’s just that we’ve got these grieving families and every second counts,” she said, delicately removing her hand from his. “It’s like Detective Hernandez said earlier, we’re at our wits’ end here. We have virtually no good leads. That’s why we’re bugging a chef who cooked for them months ago in the hopes that seeing some photos might jog a memory that could be useful. We’re really pulling at every loose strand at this point. Detective Hernandez and I got the lucky assignment. There’s another detective currently interviewing these victims’ plastic surgeon. I guarantee you that cop wasn’t offered eggplant Parmigiana.”
“I don’t know—” Sumner started to say before Jessie cut him off.
“Speaking of dinner, why don’t you package it up and take it with you?” she suggested. “You can eat while we review the photos. Hell, we’ll give you a ride so you can take your beer too. Please, you’d be doing us a huge favor.”
Sumner was quiet for several seconds. Jessie sensed that he was, against all odds, actually considering the idea. She decided to give him an extra push.
“Of course,” she added, “if the idea of going to a police station is too intimidating for you, I get it. Not everybody is up for it. You’d be surprised at how many people can’t handle looking at a few photos or answering a question or two from a cop. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
