The Perfect Neighbor (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Nine)

by Blake Pierce

  It was sparsely decorated with nowhere to hide. Despite the dimness, it quickly became clear there was no one in the room. Then he saw the other door. He gathered it led to either a bathroom or closet. Either way it was closed.

  He shuffled to the right and approached the door from the side, briefly debating whether to try to access the room with stealth or force. But it didn’t take long to decide. If someone was behind that door, they surely heard him enter the cabana.

  He also doubted, though he couldn’t be sure, that the killer was armed with a gun. In his experience, if someone was a stabber, they carried only a knife. If they were a strangler, they usually only had a cord, or in this case, a stocking. Most killers were quite loyal to their weapon of choice.

  Still, he decided kicking in the door was wiser than trying to open it quietly, especially if it was locked. So he reared back and slammed the base of his shoe into the handle, which snapped off as the door flew open. Ryan leapt in, his eyes darting everywhere.

  It was indeed a bathroom. But other than a toilet, a small, glassed-in shower and a sink, it was empty. He was about to leave when he sensed it more than heard it—the presence of another person in the cabana. He was just swiveling around when he heard the heavy breathing of someone very close by. Before he could fully spin back to the door, a body slammed into him.

  As he felt the breath violently escape his chest, he flew backwards and his body smashed into the glass pane of the shower stall.

  *

  The first floor of the house was clear.

  Just to be safe, Jessie had cuffed Carl Landingham to the banister in the foyer as she searched the massive mansion. Assuming he hadn’t killed the girl, she felt bad about leaving him there, trapped with the dead body of his alleged mistress. But she didn’t have much choice.

  When she reached the top of the stairs, she saw the snapped-off heel of one of the victim’s stilettos. Leaving it where it lay, she continued down the hall, checking each room. Most looked undisturbed. On the bed in one guest room, she found a small backpack. Spread out next to it on the bed were clothes that she assumed belonged to the girl, including yoga pants and a hooded sweatshirt.

  Jessie left them there and continued down the hall, going room to room, until she reached the master bedroom. Unlike the others, it was clear that this room had been used recently. The bed was unmade. There was a plate with crumbs on the side table closest to the balcony. On one dresser, a man’s clothes were neatly folded with a pair of sneakers on the ground in front.

  Jessie left and headed back down the stairs to the foyer. She could hear the sound of sirens close by, not a shock since the department she’d called was only six blocks north. Carl was sitting on the bottom step with his head resting on his non-cuffed hand. The pool of blood around the woman’s head had now expanded and was seeping under her shoulders.

  As Jessie took the last few stair steps, she noticed something she hadn’t picked up on in the mad dash earlier. While one stocking was wrapped around the girl’s neck, she was still wearing the other one. That was different than the situation with Priscilla Barton at the Bloom house, when it seemed that the assailant had found the stocking in the dresser. This time he’d just used what was available. And yet, upon initial inspection, it looked like both stockings used were similar styles and brands. Was this the killer’s thing?

  Something about the sight made her recall the notes scribbled on Garland’s pad. She remembered his chicken scratch saying “fetish?” Was that a reference to the use of the stocking? Then she remembered another note, “missing h.” It seemed reasonable to guess that the “h” referred to hose, as in pantyhose. But what did he mean by “missing”? And she still had no idea what the term “OTB” meant. Jessie realized that another visit to the Bloom house was likely in order.

  The sirens were right outside now. Jessie holstered her weapon as a precaution, pulled out her ID, held it above her head, and looked at Carl, who seemed oblivious to the noise.

  “When they come in,” she yelled at him over the din, “don’t make any sudden moves.”

  He didn’t look likely to make any moves at all. In fact, she wasn’t even sure he’d heard her. His only priority seemed to be making sure not to look at the once-beautiful dead girl on the ground just feet away from him. She couldn’t really blame him.

  Her ears became overwhelmed by the endless sounds of sirens blaring only yards away. As she stood there, waiting for the cops to burst in, a random thought entered her head, one she tried not to let control her. Ryan hadn’t checked in.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ryan covered his face with his arm as glass rained down on him from above.

  When it subsided, he opened his eyes. He was still gasping for breath when he realized his attacker was right in front of him. He started to point his gun in the assailant’s direction but his foe smashed it away with a powerful forearm.

  The gun left his hand and hit the shower stall floor. He wanted to reach for it but couldn’t risk it as the attacker was now on top of him, pinning his chest down with one arm as he jammed a forearm into his throat. As Ryan struggled to break free, he got his first look at the person trying to kill him.

  It was clearly a man, one Ryan judged to be larger than himself. But discerning any other features was complicated by the fact that the man was wearing a black mask over his head, which had only small slits for his eyes and mouth. Making identifying him more difficult was the additional problem that he was being choked to death.

  Ryan was a strong, well-built guy, but whoever this person on top of him was, he was bigger and just as brawny. Ryan punched at the man’s arms but the guy seemed oblivious. He gripped the man’s forearms and tried to rip them away so that he could wriggle loose. But the man barely seemed to budge. If Ryan couldn’t think of something fast, he was going to suffer the same fate as Garland Moses and the women in those mansions.

  He was just starting to feel panic set in when he heard sirens, loud and close. He saw his attacker, dressed all in black, perk up at the sound as well. Ryan took advantage of the man’s half-second of inattention to smash him in the upper chest with an open palm.

  It wasn’t the hardest blow ever but the guy winced audibly and he involuntarily shrunk back. Ryan didn’t wait, swinging his other arm, fist closed, upward. He made contact with his attacker’s jaw. The man fell backward, his body toppling off Ryan’s and onto the bathroom floor just outside the shower.

  Ryan looked back for his gun. It was in the corner of the shower, mixed in with a heap of shattered glass. He reached for it anyway, grabbing it by the grip and giving it a little shake to free it from additional shards.

  Gripping it firmly, he looked back toward his attacker, ready to pull the trigger. But the man was already up and scrambling out the bathroom door. Before Ryan could fire, the man disappeared from sight.

  Ryan got to his feet, ignoring the slivers of glass that embedded in his hands as he pushed off the stall floor. He hurried out of the bathroom into the cabana, which was empty, and then out the door into the yard.

  He saw that the larger man had already scaled the fence and was running south along the alley, away from where they’d found the dead woman. Ryan chased after him, holstering his gun as he prepared to climb the fence again. But as he reached up to grab the top of the pickets, he felt a sharp pain in his upper back.

  He hopped back down and looked over his left shoulder, where he saw a shard of glass sticking out of his skin just above his shoulder blade. Reaching back with his right hand, he yanked it out, trying to ignore the searing sensation that nearly made his knees buckle.

  He tossed the glass to the ground and looked back in the direction where his attacker had gone. But now the alley was empty. He considered trying to leap over the fence again but quickly decided it was a waste of time. The guy was gone. He’d be better off returning to the crime scene and giving the local cops a description so they could start a search.

  Frustrated, and with his sh
oulder throbbing, Ryan returned to grab his sport jacket from just outside the cabana door. As he trudged over, a woman opened the sliding door to the main house and shouted out to him.

  “Who the hell are you?” she screamed.

  Ryan sighed deeply. Trying to keep his irritation in check, he reminded himself why he was here: to protect and to serve. When he was sure he could keep his tone calm, he forced a smile onto his face and reached for his badge. As he did, a sour thought entered his head.

  I thought the beach was supposed to be relaxing.

  *

  It took several minutes to get Carl Landingham calm enough to talk. It was made doubly challenging by the fact that Jessie still hadn’t heard from Ryan.

  Focus on what you can control.

  She had taken Carl to the breakfast table, far from the dead body. But it was only now, after half the MBPD had arrived and locked everything down, that he was finally starting to speak. He looked nervously at the uniformed officer who had accompanied them to the kitchen, as if the man might shoot him at any moment.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Landingham,” she lied soothingly. “The officer is here for both our protection. Now why don’t you tell me what happened while it’s still fresh in your mind?”

  Landingham nodded but still didn’t speak. Jessie thought she was going to have to prod him again when he unexpectedly began.

  “Her name’s Kelly. She’s not my wife. I was seeing her secretly. She’s a lingerie model. We’d been getting together for a few months. I just got back in town from New York. She was going to meet me here at the house to welcome me back. She had her own key. I came in and was about to go upstairs because I assumed she’d be in the bedroom. But when I got to the stairs, I saw…”

  His voice trailed off at the memory. Jessie could see that he was in shock but needed to press him anyway. The longer she waited to get the details, the less she could count on their accuracy.

  “You said you tried to help her because you thought she was still alive, right?”

  “Yeah. When I touched her, she was warm. I thought maybe she was just unconscious. Her head was bleeding. I figured she’d fallen down the stairs. So I started to give her mouth to mouth. That’s when I noticed the thing wrapped around her neck. And then I saw bloody footprints on the floor. I realized someone had done this to her. That’s when I ran outside.”

  He stopped talking, breaking down again. Jessie nodded sympathetically and gave him a moment to recover. She glanced out the kitchen window, from where she could clearly see the Strand. In fact, she had a clear view of Randy Fuller, who was still sitting on his porch, sipping his drink. The man was leaning forward, obviously watching the activity two doors down, while trying to maintain an air of casual disregard.

  Jessie was about to try again with Carl when Ryan hobbled in the back door, holding his jacket and looking exhausted and in pain.

  “What happened to you?” she demanded, standing up to help him. He quickly waved her off.

  “I’m okay,” he assured her, though his voice sounded hoarse. “But I could use a glass of water.”

  She got up to look for a glass but the uniformed officer stepped forward to do it. As he moved past Ryan, his eyes, wide with surprise, lingered on the detective’s back. Jessie moved over to get a better look.

  “You have blood seeping through the back of your shirt,” she said, hoping she sounded detached, though she didn’t feel it.

  “Yeah, I had a bit of an altercation. You mind if I sit down?”

  She pulled out a chair and he settled into it gingerly. From behind him, Jessie could see that he had some kind of gash in his upper back just above his left shoulder blade. The officer put the glass of water on the table in front of Ryan.

  “Could you see if there’s a medic available?” she asked the officer before turning her attention back to Ryan. “Explain.”

  First he took a big glug of water. Then he dived in, explaining what had just occurred, including his close call at the hands of a man who easily overpowered him.

  “By the time I got the glass out of my back,” he concluded, “he’d disappeared from sight. I called in a description. But with all the empty houses here over the summer, he could be hiding anywhere.”

  The officer returned with an EMT, who promptly removed Ryan’s shirt and began studying the wound. After cleaning it up, he got out a suture kit.

  “It could have been a lot worse,” the EMT said. “I can sew it up but I recommend you go to urgent care to get it checked out when you get a chance.”

  “Thanks,” Ryan said, clearly relieved. “I also have some shards in my palms. Do you think you could pull those out afterward?”

  The EMT nodded. While he did his thing, Jessie looked outside and saw that Randy and his margarita hadn’t moved.

  “You mind if I check on something?” she asked Ryan. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. “I’ll check to see if anyone’s spotted my friendly man in black.”

  Jessie nodded approvingly, though something about Ryan’s demeanor was unsettling. As she walked back to Randy’s place, she realized what it was. Ryan looked shaken by the encounter in the cabana. Jessie felt a bit of fear creep into her own gut.

  Almost nothing shook Detective Ryan Hernandez. If this man in black had, he must really be bad.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Kelly’s murderer, still clad in the silk pajamas, peeked out the window from behind a curtain. He was four houses south of the Landingham place but from his vantage point in the third-floor master bathroom, he could see everything the cops outside were doing.

  He’d been lucky. He knew that the owner of this condo, the middle of the three massive units, was out of town. He also knew that the idiot kept his key in a fake plastic rock mixed among others just outside the door to the place. He knew that because he’d stayed in this condo before, more than once. Lastly, he knew that even in pajamas, with bloody feet, he could get here before the cops even made it out of the station.

  In fact, he’d been just unlocking the condo door when he heard Carl Landingham’s wail of anguish just half a block north. It was terrible and thrilling at the same time. His heart was still beating wildly at the memory of it.

  As with the annoying woman at the Bloom house, he hadn’t intended to kill the girl, at least not at first. After all, he was minding his own business. She was the one who’d startled him awake while he was sleeping.

  After the spill she took down the stairs and his subsequent shove, he could have left. She was bleeding badly from the head and both an arm and a leg were badly broken. But she’d seen his face. She could identify him. Even then, he was on the fence. That was, until he saw the stockings.

  It was like a talisman, calling out to him, telling him he had to do this. What were the chances that this lithesome young thing would be wearing the same brand of pantyhose that he’d been carrying at the Bloom house? It was as if it was all meant to be. It was as if he was supposed to use the stocking on her.

  When he did, he felt that same buzz of exhilaration as he had the first night, only this time it was even more pronounced. He knew it was because it hadn’t all happened in such a rush this time. He’d had time to consciously choose to do this. He’d been able to roll the stocking off the girl’s leg, to savor the anticipation of wrapping it around her long, delicate neck.

  And it was everything he hoped. As he watched the life drain out of her eyes, he felt more powerful than he ever had before, almost like a god. It was even better than the old days, when he’d actually been a man of power, a man of respect.

  Despite that respect, he’d still been underappreciated by the women he coveted; the trophy wives like the one the other night, the models like the one he’d just snuffed out. Sure, they admired him. Some were even awed to be in his presence. But despite what he did for them, the contribution he’d made to their lives, none of them arrived at his place in sports bras with bottles of wine. None of them
woke him up from a nap in just a teddy and stilettos.

  He pictured the woman who’d put him in this position, who’d made his life what it was. She didn’t look that different from the gal at the bottom of the stairs. He imagined it was her he was squeezing the life out of. As he did, he was unaware that he was grinding his teeth together.

  The fantasy made him tingle all over again. That’s when he accepted something he’d been keeping at bay in his mind for the last few minutes. He wanted to do this again. He had to.

  *

  Jessie stood in front of Randy Fuller, trying to get a bead on the guy. He smiled back amiably, a vague tequila haze in his eyes. The man seemed tickled to have her back.

  “Lot of excitement over there,” he noted, nodding at the Landingham mansion, currently swarmed by police.

  “You seem very interested,” Jessie replied. “Almost like you have a personal stake in what’s going on.”

  Fuller smiled widely, squinting at her as he held up his hand to block the sun.

  “Like I said, I’m a one-man neighborhood watch. I’m always interested in what happens here.”

  “Randy,” she said, sitting down on the porch next to him. “Can I be straight with you?”

  “I’d prefer it,” he said, taking another big glug. The massive glass was almost two-thirds empty now.

  “I think you’re holding back.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked coyly.

  “I mean, you just reiterated that you’re a one-man neighborhood watch. You specifically referenced Carl when we spoke earlier, as if he was on your mind. I can’t help but wonder what put him there. Care to share?”

  “I feel very much under attack here, Jessie,” he said, not sounding at all like he thought he was under attack.