The Perfect Affair (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Seven)

by Blake Pierce

  “My point,” he said, not looking at her but at one of the fish swimming back and forth, “is that you’re obviously screwed up. No sane person wouldn’t be after what you’ve been through. The question is: why do you consider yourself a screw-up too?”

  “I never said I did,” Hannah protested.

  “But you do feel that way, right? Otherwise you wouldn’t have responded like there was something to be ashamed of. You can’t help being screwed up. But if you’re a screw-up, that’s kind of on you, right?”

  Hannah felt the heat rise to her cheeks.

  “Are you blaming me for what happened to me?” she demanded.

  “No. But I think you are.”

  “Where do you get that from?”

  “I think you feel guilty about your mistakes before your parents died, about the bad choices you made. I think you feel guilty, as if everything that happened to you, to them, was a result of whatever you were doing that you didn’t want them to know about.”

  Hannah stood up and looked down at him. She knew he was intentionally poking at her, trying to get a rise. But she couldn’t stop herself from responding.

  “What didn’t I want them to know about?” she asked accusatorily.

  “I couldn’t possibly know,” he said. “Probably nothing; maybe sneaking off to a keg party in the woods, smoking weed in the bathroom during lunch, letting that guy with the tattoos feel you up behind the bleachers, stealing makeup from the department store. That kind of thing.”

  “You think I did all that stuff?”

  “I don’t know what choices you made. But I think you feel like you were punished for making those kinds of choices, like you deserve what’s happened to you, like your parents paid the price that you owed.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said, pretending not to notice the tears that burned in her eyes.

  “Probably,” he conceded. “I usually am. Just out of curiosity, what exactly am I wrong about this time around?”

  “You’re wrong that I feel guilty about what happened to them,” she said, her voice quiet as she spoke aloud for the first time what she’d thought silently many times before. “I feel guilty because I don’t feel bad about what happened to them. I know I should. But in the spot where the sadness and the guilt should go, there’s nothing. I don’t feel anything at all, at least not for them.”

  She couldn’t help but notice that Garland had stopped feeding the fish.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  They didn’t have much time.

  Between the Zellers interview, the Aaron Rose interrogation, and all their sneaking around, it was bound to get back to someone that they weren’t spending all their time on the Ristore tennis murder.

  Once word got out, there were likely two outcomes. Decker shut them down and took their badges. Or worse, Commander Butters and his minions came after them. But they were committed now. The only way out of this, both professionally and personally, was to find out who killed Michaela Penn.

  “Do you still have the GPS data from Michaela’s calls?” Jessie asked Ryan as they drove back from Culver City to the station in his car. They’d left hers in the parking structure.

  “Yeah,” he said, handing it over. “What are you thinking?”

  “Now that we know three of Michaela’s clients, I was hoping we could find some connection among them that might lead us to the other one listed on her Post-it list. We still don’t know who D.K. is.”

  Ryan shook his head.

  “Normally I’d suggest we give the data to the tech team,” he said. “But I’m sure Butters has tagged his name in the system. If we include him on any list, he’ll know and we’ll have shown our hand.”

  “So we’ll have to do it old school,” Jessie said, looking over Michaela’s location data. “It actually shouldn’t be that hard. The girl led a pretty provincial life, all things considered. In the last month, she rarely went more than ten miles from her apartment; lots of trips to work, the grocery store, the mall, the movies. She almost never left her little corner of the Valley.”

  “That makes sense,” Ryan said. “It’s the area she knew best and probably where she felt safest.”

  Jessie was only half-listening. One of her own comments had given her an idea. She began flipping back among different days, making notations on the sheet as she went along.

  “What is it?” Ryan asked, watching her out of the corner of his eye as he drove.

  “It just occurred to me how regular her habits were. I mean, she truly almost never left her neck of the woods. I count only eleven total trips over the hills into L.A. proper in the last four weeks.”

  “For an independent teenage girl who was making serious money, that is surprising,” Ryan agreed.

  Jessie started tallying up the visits.

  “Yeah, I’m starting to think she may have only left the Valley to meet clients. Two of the trips appear to be to Aaron Rose’s Culver City office, both on Thursdays, just like he said. Two more trips are to the Zellers’s house. Those stop about a week ago, right around the time they broke things off. There are also two trips to a Travelodge motel in the Adams district.”

  “That would probably be her meeting Butters,” Ryan said. “The department has a deal with the chain for reduced, sometimes even waived rates. And the location you’re looking at is about halfway between LAPD headquarters and where Butters lives in Hancock Park. I can’t prove it, but it fits.”

  “Okay,” Jessie said, making a note on the paper. “That leaves five more times she left the valley in the last month. If we could determine where she was going, maybe we could identify other clients.”

  Ryan sighed from the driver’s seat.

  “What?” she said. Something was obviously bothering him.

  “Nothing,” he said, though it clearly wasn’t. “Tell me what you found.”

  She decided not to push him and returned to the list.

  “Of the five other times she came to the city, one was to Hollywood and one was to Santa Monica. Both stops were in large shopping districts. They might be dead ends. But the three other visits were all to an address in Beverly Hills, on Wilshire just off Rodeo Drive. It looks like it’s a medical office tower. Three times in a month? That sounds like a regular client to me. We should check it out.”

  “An entire medical building?” Ryan asked, sounding exasperated. “Come on. It’s one thing if it’s a home but there are likely dozens of offices in that tower. How do you propose we narrow it down?”

  “The same way we would have done if we had gone to Aaron Rose’s building without knowing he was the client. We’d look at the tenants and see if any names match the initials on the Post-it.”

  “But Rose wasn’t listed in the building directory,” he reminded her. “Only the name of the firm was. Without knowing his name ahead of time from that photo, we would never have found him.”

  Jessie felt his frustration seeping into her.

  “Well, what do you suggest?” she asked snippily.

  He looked over at her, reluctant to answer.

  “You’re not going to like it,” he said.

  “Don’t let that stop you.”

  “Okay. Maybe we don’t go to Beverly Hills. Maybe we stop running around, putting our careers at risk, for what feels like a wild goose chase.”

  “I don’t get it,” she protested. “Less than twenty minutes ago, we agreed that the only way to save our careers was to solve this.”

  “Right. But that only works if there’s something to solve. All this hunting around that we’re doing doesn’t guarantee that we’re going to find anything other than more people who paid Michaela for sex. As bad as that is, it’s not murder.”

  “What are you getting at?” she asked, sensing she didn’t like where he was going.

  “Maybe this case has already been solved. Maybe the person who stabbed Michaela Penn to death is already in jail. Nothing we’ve uncovered so far, not even what Costabile has done to protect Commander Butters, ha
s suggested anyone other than Pete Vasquez did this. He had her laptop, the one stolen from her apartment. That is hard evidence. And he has no alibi, unless you’re convinced by his claim of drinking in a park alone. Maybe this case is like the tennis coach thing. Maybe the most likely suspect really is guilty of the crime.”

  Jessie sat quietly, processing everything he’d said. None of it was unreasonable. In fact, objectively, she was the one being unreasonable by pursuing this without anything definitive to suggest she was on the right track. And yet, she couldn’t let it go.

  “I just have this feeling, Ryan,” she said softly.

  “I thought you told me you were trying to work less off feelings and more off the evidence. Isn’t that what they emphasized in the FBI Academy training you did?”

  “You’re going to throw that back at me now?” she asked, her voice rising in irritation.

  Ryan didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled over to the side of the road. He put the car in park and looked over at her.

  “Yes, I’m going to throw that back at you, because we’re talking about both our careers here. We can’t just count on some feeling you have, no matter how much you trust it.”

  “But it’s not just that and you know it,” she reminded him. “My sister was threatened by someone. That wasn’t imaginary. And you’re the one who got the call from Chatty Cathy that started this whole thing.”

  Ryan sighed heavily. It made Jessie feel like she was an obstinate child he was humoring. She didn’t like it. He got out of the car and closed the door. She did the same, then walked over to where he stood looking down at the asphalt road.

  “Yes,” he said when he’d calmed down enough to speak, “I got the call. But I already told you, that could easily have just been about Butters being sexually involved with Michaela. We don’t have any credible reason to suggest it was more than that. And as frustrating as it is that he might skate on this, we’re kind of stuck.”

  “But what if Chatty Cathy thought there was more to it than just paying for sex?” she pressed.

  “I’m all ears if you have any evidence to back that up. Otherwise, it’s just supposition, and suicidal supposition at that.”

  “Can’t you just trust me on this?” she pleaded.

  “I do trust you, Jessie. But despite what you may believe, this isn’t about you. Not everything is.”

  She stared at him, briefly struck dumb.

  “What the hell does that mean?” she finally demanded.

  “It means you have a habit of making yourself the center of the universe,” he told her, not backing down. “There always has to be a conspiracy and you always have to be the one to uncover it, to solve it. You’re always at a fever pitch. It’s like you won’t slow down for anything else, not even us.”

  Again, Jessie was briefly stunned into silence. But only briefly.

  “How did a murder investigation suddenly become a test of our relationship?”

  “How can it not be?” he challenged.

  She was about to come back at him, to let him know just what a cheap shot she thought that was, when she saw his attention focus on something behind her and his eyes open wide. She turned around to determine what had distracted him, to see a gray sedan barreling down on them, veering dangerously from the next lane over.

  Before she could react, she felt Ryan’s hands on her hips as he physically lifted her and tossed her onto the hood of his car, diving up right after her.

  The sedan scraped the edge of his car as it continued down the road, unabated. Just before it made a sharp right onto the next street, Jessie noted that the car had no license plate.

  “Are you okay?” Ryan asked as he rolled off the now-crushed hood of his car.

  “I think so,” she said, easing off herself. “Thanks.”

  He nodded.

  “Did you notice that the driver wore a mask?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “But I saw that the car was unmarked. Between the two, it’s hard to believe that was an accidental hit and run.”

  “I’d agree it’s a stretch.”

  “So what do we do now?” she asked.

  “Look,” he replied. “We’ve obviously got some stuff to work out. But this thing has escalated from just your gut feelings. Someone tried to take us out. I don’t know who. But until this gets resolved, we’re clearly not safe.”

  “So how do you want to resolve it?”

  “I guess we’re going to Beverly Hills.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  They were almost there when they got the call.

  “Don’t answer it,” Jessie implored.

  “I have to,” Ryan said. “It’s from the chief’s office. There’s a standing policy for every cop in the department. If you get a direct call from this number, you answer it immediately, no matter what.”

  He pushed “accept” and put the call on speaker.

  “This is Detective Ryan Hernandez,” he said, trying not to sound intimidated.

  “Hold for Chief Laird,” a female voice said.

  Before Ryan could reply, another voice came on the line.

  “Is this Hernandez?” a booming, gravelly voice demanded.

  “It is, sir,” Ryan replied.

  “Is Hunt with you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I understand that you were removed from a case you were working in tandem with Valley Bureau, is that correct?”

  “Yes sir,” Ryan conceded.

  “I further understand that you were reassigned to a new case by your captain this morning. Is that also correct?”

  “Yes sir,” Ryan repeated.

  “It has been brought to my attention that, despite your removal and a clear warning that pursuing the case would result in disciplinary action, you have continued to investigate. Is that correct?”

  “Where did you hear that, sir?” Jessie asked, trying not to sound too accusatory and mostly failing.

  “That’s not your concern, Ms. Hunt. The more important question is: is it true?”

  Ryan looked at Jessie, shrugging resignedly.

  “It is, sir,” he said.

  “All right then. Let me be clear. You are both suspended with pay pending a formal disciplinary hearing. You have thirty minutes to return to your station and turn in your badges and weapons. If you haven’t done so by that time, your suspension will be without pay and you may be brought up on charges. Are we clear?”

  “Yes sir,” Ryan said, shaking his head at Jessie, who had opened her mouth to protest.

  “All right then,” Chief Laird said. “Good day.”

  The line went dead just as they pulled up in front of the Wilshire Medical Center.

  “So I guess we’re turning around then?” Jessie asked playfully.

  “Is that what you’re thinking?” Ryan asked, his eyebrows raised.

  “Well, let’s see. Since we started on this case, members of the organization we work for have covered up details about the death of an underage porn actress, likely threatened my sister’s safety, surveilled our movements, and quite possibly tried to hit us with an unmarked car. I think I’m gonna take a pass on going back to the station. I think I’m gonna stick around here and see what I can find out. You?”

  “Considering I was being sarcastic,” he replied, grinning widely, “I think I’ll hang out here too.”

  “Then it’s settled. Let’s get in there.”

  *

  Forty-five minutes later, they still had nothing.

  There were a total of five doctors in the building’s lobby directory who had the initials D.K. but none of them matched the photo. It was possible that D.K. was someone other than a doctor but that seemed less likely, considering the cost of Michaela’s services.

  After going through the list, Ryan suggested that maybe the building was simply slow to add recent doctor names to the board. As a result, they’d been reduced to checking the list of doctor names outside each office individually in the hope that they’d come across one
who hadn’t been listed in the lobby directory. When they reached the sixth and final floor, Ryan showed Jessie a text he’d just gotten from Captain Decker. It read:

  We have passed insubordination. Your phone shows that you are in Beverly Hills. You were supposed to be at the station fifteen minutes ago. Captain Laird is demanding your arrest. I am en route to your location. Turn yourselves in to avoid additional penalties.

  “Well,” she said. “We’re on the top floor. If we don’t have luck here, we may as well turn ourselves in. At least we can cut through traffic if we’re in a squad car with sirens, right?”

  “You are a ray of light, Jessie Hunt,” Ryan said, smiling through his anxiety.

  “Remember that when they’re slapping the cuffs on you,” she replied.

  They took opposite sides of the hallway, checking the names on placards for a match. Jessie looked at the four doctors listed outside Wilshire Plastic Surgery Associates. When she got to the third name, she stopped in her tracks. After a moment, she quickly typed it into Google. When the image came up, she stared at it for several seconds.

  “Ryan,” she called out as she checked additional images for the doctor, “can you come over here?”

  He walked over and she showed him the photo on her phone. Then she pulled out the picture of the sleeping guy from Michaela’s picture.

  “Hard to be sure,” Ryan said. “But they definitely look similar. What’s his name?”

  “Dr. Richard Kallas,” Jessie said. “I wonder if he goes by the nickname Dick.”

  Ryan’s eyes lit up.

  “D.K,” he breathed. “I’m thinking maybe we should have a chat with the good doctor.”

  “Me too,” Jessie said.

  Ryan started to open the door but Jessie stopped him for a moment so she could get out her phone. She typed a message to Decker and before Ryan could stop her she hit “send.”

  “Why did you do that?” he demanded.

  “Gut feeling,” she said and gave him a wink.

  Shaking his head, he opened the door and followed her in.

  The receptionist looked up, startled.