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

by Blake Pierce

  Furthermore, not only did Gail Bloom have no pairs of OTB stockings in that drawer, she didn’t seem to own any pantyhose at all. If that was true then there was only one other conclusion to draw—the killer had brought the stocking with him into the home and had it in his possession at the time of the attack.

  What kind of man sneaks into a wealthy stranger’s home to squat, and when discovered, kills the woman with a high-end stocking that he had already had in his possession? And what kind of man uses that same brand of stocking to kill a second woman two days later?

  While the obvious answer was a very troubled man, the other, perhaps less obvious but equally intriguing one, was this: a man for whom OTB stockings held some personal significance.

  Jessie closed the drawer and walked back out of the bedroom, down the stairs, out of the house, and back to the MBPD station to do the same thing Garland would have done if he hadn’t been killed: research hosiery.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  A half hour later, Jessie stared the computer screen, ignoring the exhaustion that made her eyes periodically droop.

  She didn’t know what she expected, maybe a news story saying some guy obsessed with these stockings had been arrested for stealing them or accosting women wearing them. But there was nothing like that.

  In fact, her initial research suggested that the company was both beloved and well-respected. The testimonial page was littered with effusive praise from customers. Review sites like Yelp were equally enthusiastic. Jessie couldn’t find a bad word about the quality of the product or the customer service, either online or in the boutique just four blocks over from where she now sat.

  Ryan and Jamil sat at nearby computers and she could tell from their silence that they were meeting with the same level of frustration. Ryan in particular looked annoyed. When she had returned to the police station earlier, she saw that any satisfaction he’d gotten from arresting Barney had quickly faded. It was clear that, based on the evidence they currently had, they’d be lucky if he ultimately faced trial on the assault charge for poking Ryan in the chest, much less murder.

  She stood up and stretched. Glancing out into the station bullpen, she saw Sergeant Breem. He was the man who’d initially refused to let her go upstairs last night after Garland’s body was discovered. She later learned he’d also honchoed the crime scene for Priscilla Barton’s murder. Breem was in civilian clothes and looked to be leaving for the evening. On a whim, she stepped outside and chased after him as he headed out the door.

  “Sergeant Breem,” she called out, “can I bother you for a second?”

  Breem turned around. He looked tired but when he saw it was the profiler whose mentor had been murdered the night before, he made a gallant attempt to hide it.

  “Of course,” he said, “and I’m off duty so call me Drake.”

  “Drake,” she said after catching her breath. “How long have you worked for the department?”

  He thought about it for a second.

  “About fifteen years. I grew up here back when it wasn’t so hoity-toity. But I couldn’t get on the force here for a while so I went to work for the Long Beach PD. But I live in the area, surf right down the block from here most mornings, so when a position opened up back here, I jumped on it. I’ve been here ever since.”

  “So you know the community pretty well?” she asked.

  “I think I can safely say that,” he said, smiling.

  “What do you know about Only the Best?”

  “The boutique?” he said. “It’s over on Manhattan Avenue, just off the main drag.”

  “No, the company more generally,” she said. “As you may know, both female victims were strangled using that brand of stocking, which made me think the killer might have some animosity to the brand or the store. But I’ve been looking online and I can’t find a whiff of controversy related to it. I thought maybe a well-steeped local might know something that didn’t get out to the general public.”

  “Wow,” he said. “Nothing immediately comes to mind. I know they had an executive shake-up a few months ago. But that seems kind of dry compared to what you’re looking for. I don’t recall there ever having been a criminal incident. Sorry I can’t offer more help.”

  Though deflated, Jessie smiled.

  “That’s okay. It’s my fault for thinking there might be some secret key that unlocked this whole thing. There almost never is. You should go home and get some rest. I don’t want you too sleepy to catch those waves tomorrow.”

  Breem smiled, apparently whisked away by the very idea.

  “All right. By the way, I’m really sorry about Mr. Moses. I know you two were close. I actually followed his career. He was a real genius. I was a bit of a fan boy. I’m planning to go to his funeral on Friday if I can get the time off. Will I see you there?”

  “Almost definitely,” she said.

  As he headed off, she felt her phone buzz and checked it. Hannah had texted.

  Cops didn’t find anything suspicious. One is staying outside our apartment. Another is downstairs in the lobby with the guards. The other one left.

  Jessie texted back:

  Thanks for the update. Still working the case. Running out of leads for the night but don’t wait up just in case. Tell the cops we’ll relieve them when we get back.

  Hannah texted her back with a thumbs-up emoji and she walked back inside to rejoin Ryan and Jamil, who looked even more downtrodden than when she’d left.

  “Why don’t you head home, Jamil?’ she suggested. “You’ve done so much for us today and you look like you’re about to collapse on your keyboard.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I have tomorrow off so I don’t mind. This is more interesting than anything I’ve worked on so far this year. I kind of don’t want it to end.”

  “Sick puppy,” Ryan said, chuckling slightly. It was the first time Jessie had seen him smile since she’d returned to the station.

  “We’re all a little messed up to keep trying to get blood from this stone,” she said. “But I was going to try just a little longer, if you guys don’t mind.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Jamil asked.

  “I was just talking to Sergeant Breem and he mentioned that there was a change of leadership at the company a few months back. He didn’t seem to think it was all that noteworthy. But sometimes there are skeletons in seemingly boring closets. Maybe we do a little spring cleaning?”

  “That sounds stunningly tedious,” Ryan said forlornly. “I’m definitely going to need a coffee break before diving in. What about you, kid?”

  Jamil nodded and the two of them went to the break room, leaving Jessie alone with her pitiless screen. She sighed deeply, blinked a few times, and then dived back in.

  First she went to the “news” tab of the company website and searched through the press releases. As she scrolled through, she noticed something odd. In the last four months there were only three of them, all related to sales figures and upcoming product rollouts. And in the period from about six months ago going back five years, there were a total of eleven releases, all of a similar nature, with occasional updates on promotions and expansion.

  But from January 17 through February 2 of this year, there were thirty-one press releases on everything from online sales in Argentina to a new air-conditioning system in the company’s Torrance production facility. No topic was too small to earn a news item. At no other time but during this two-week window did such minute changes or updates get such exhaustive discussion.

  It’s almost like the public relations team was trying to flood the site with inconsequential information in order to hide some real news they hoped might get missed.

  All of a sudden, Jessie felt a renewed sense of energy. She started printing out all the releases from that period. By the time Ryan and Jamil returned, she’d placed ten releases on each of their desks, along with highlighters.

  “What’s all this?’ Ryan asked dourly.

  “Welcome back, bo
ys,” she announced happily. “We’re about to do a deep dive.”

  “Into what?” Jamil asked with more enthusiasm than Ryan had expressed.

  “I’m not sure yet. But this company is desperately trying to hide something and we’re going to find out what.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  It was Jamil who found it.

  Jessie had given them a few more instructions before they started: they were looking for a press release that included actual news, not just puffery. It would probably be bad news hidden among positive updates and made to look like it was just business as usual. It was likely personnel related, referencing a promotion, lateral move, retirement, or resignation. The press release Jamil identified had almost all of that.

  “It’s dated January twenty-second and titled ‘New Design Addition Expected to Spur Growth in International Markets,’” he began. “The release runs three pages, the bulk of which touts the latest hire in the Creative Design team, Massimo Torini, formerly of the Italian women’s wear company, Max Ultra.”

  Jamil skimmed the page before continuing.

  “There’s a long description of his accomplishments, as well those of two other designers he’s bringing with him. It mentions several additional promotions and department shifts, foremost among them the promotion of Greg Petrie to head of the design unit. Lastly, it notes that the now-former Head of Design Pierce Cunningham will move to an advisory role. The rest of the press release mentions several adjustments to the marketing and finance teams, none of which seem to be more than title alterations without actual changes in job description.”

  Jessie smiled broadly.

  “Why did you pick that one, Jamil?” she asked expectantly.

  “Well, it sure looks like they were trying to hide one piece of bad news in a long announcement about good news.”

  “I bet Pierce Cunningham would agree with you,” Jessie said.

  Ryan, who had been poring over a document of his own, poked his head up with an energy that Jessie knew meant something big.

  “If you think he was bummed about that news, he must have really hated this.”

  “What?” Jessie asked excitedly.

  “It’s from January twenty-eighth. So we’re talking just six days after he got dumped as head of the design unit. The title of the release is about as dry as they get—‘Torrance Facility Upgrades Increase Productivity.’ They go on for a page and a half about things like a nicer break room and revised production line standards. Then there’s this one: ‘Design Advisor Pierce Cunningham has chosen to take advantage of the company’s early retirement program.” After that, the announcement goes on for another paragraph about the solar panels in the parking lot.”

  “That’s it?” Jessie asked. “No ‘we thank him for his service’ or ‘OTB wishes him success in his future endeavors’?”

  “Nothing like that,” Ryan replied.

  Jessie did a quick term search through all the press releases and found that other than those two references, Pierce Cunningham’s name, which was mentioned repeatedly prior to January 17, never came up again.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, after relaying that information, “does it seem possible that almost all thirty-one of these press releases were specifically designed to hide one piece of information— that OTB fired Pierce Cunningham quickly and unceremoniously and didn’t want anyone to notice?”

  Both men nodded in agreement. Jessie continued.

  “I think it’s time we get to know Mr. Cunningham a little better, don’t you?”

  After another half hour, they had a pretty good picture of the man. His biography was impressive, if pretty straightforward. He grew up in rural West Virginia, where he excelled as a student and got a scholarship to the University of Virginia. Success there led to acceptance at the Parsons School of Design, where he got a graduate degree in Fashion Studies. From there, he worked at several New York fashion houses until moving west to become the head designer for Joben Couture.

  Nothing overtly suspicious so far.

  Somewhere in that stretch, he met Irina Letsch, an up-and-coming runway model, who would subsequently become his wife. A few years later, he co-launched Only the Best, a lingerie company, where he was responsible for multiple designs.

  In several profile pieces, he was described as having a reputation for being “eccentric” and “mildly obsessive,” with a “strong workaholic streak,” but nothing else was shockingly out of the ordinary. He and Irina moved into a huge house on the Strand and had been there ever since, which meant for well over a decade.

  Seems like a man who would know when his neighbors were in town or away on vacation.

  Everything appeared fairly conventional. He was forty-eight. He and Irina, nine years his junior, had no children. Photos of Cunningham showed him to be a pleasantly bland-looking man, slightly paunchy, with blond hair that was just starting to recede.

  For a fashion marvel, he’s not particularly memorable to look at, the kind of guy who could move around largely unnoticed.

  While Jessie reviewed his biography, Ryan was checking the legal databases and hit, if not gold, at least, bronze.

  “Cunningham was involved in a legal proceeding on January fourteenth,” he said. “It concerned a financial settlement with an undisclosed individual for an undisclosed amount. He is not specifically named, but his LLC, PC Perspectives, is. Cunningham is the only person affiliated with the company. The settlement language is extremely vague, with only a passing reference to restitution for emotional injury.”

  “That’s interesting,” Jessie mused.

  “There’s more,” Ryan added. “I find his name associated with a complaint that was filed on January ninth and withdrawn on the tenth. The complainant was an anonymous female and the specifics of the complaint are unknown. Since it was withdrawn, all of that information was expunged from the system.”

  Jamil waved his hand enthusiastically.

  “I think I might have an idea about the nature of the complaint.”

  “Do tell,” Jessie said.

  “I’ve been going through the social media accounts of OTB employees from the beginning of the year, trying to see if I could get their unofficial take on Cunningham. There was nothing, which I found more suspicious than if there was some bad-mouthing. So I accessed some web archive sites to see if there were any deleted tweets or posts of interest.”

  “How did you do that?” Jessie asked.

  “There are several sites that archive tweets, posts, and Instagram stories. A few take periodic screenshots. It gets a little complicated and I can give you a primer later. But here’s the point. I found one I think you’ll be interested in. It’s from a design associate at OTB named Annie Cole, dated ten twenty-one a.m. on January first.”

  Ryan and Jessie came over to screen and looked at the tweet. It read:

  Can’t believe what happened last nite. Boss cornered me at New Year’s Party at The Portico. Hit on me. When I said no, tried pull my skirt down. Scary stuff. #meto.

  “She misspelled ‘me too,’” Ryan noted.

  “Amazingly, that may be the only reason we don’t already know about this,” Jamil replied. “If she’d typed the hashtag correctly, it would have joined all the others in that trending topic and there’s no way it would have stayed hidden. Multiple people would have taken screenshots and done research. Considering that she mentions The Portico, where they held the party, it would have been traced back to Cunningham within hours. But because she deleted it less than fifteen minutes after posting it on New Year’s Day morning, it slipped under the radar. Unless you knew to specifically look for something like this, there’s no way you’d ever find it.”

  “Okay,” Jessie said, her mind working faster than she could get the words out, “so she deleted the tweet. But I think we can safely assume that wasn’t the end of it. Clearly sometime between January first and January ninth she made the decision to file a complaint against Cunningham. And it would appear that she was conv
inced to withdraw the complaint by the end of business the next day, which suggests some furious legal wrangling during that time, leading to the settlement agreement on January fourteenth.”

  “Right,” Ryan agreed, following her logic. “And once the settlement was agreed to, surely including requirements of confidentiality, the company was free to start the process of quietly jettisoning Cunningham.”

  Jamil jumped in.

  “Interestingly, on January fifteenth, the day after the settlement was finalized, Annie Cole posted an Instagram story saying she was leaving OTB and moving back to her hometown of Kansas City to start her own boutique. That timing can’t be coincidental.”

  “Nope,” Jessie agreed. “And neither was the timing of OTB’s plan to flood their website with press releases and slip in the notification about Cunningham’s changed status. OTB is a publicly traded company. They’re required to disclose details like management changes. So they mention a revised role for him, and then six days later make a passing reference to him retiring early. No one even notices.”

  “Someone noticed,” Ryan said, looking at his own computer screen.

  “Who?” Jamil asked.

  “Cunningham. After he ‘retired,’ he had a real run of bad luck. He transferred all his stock options to an unknown individual. I’m guessing that might have been part of the settlement with Annie Cole. Irina divorced him and got the house. He had to move into an apartment in Westchester, which he was subsequently evicted from. He even had his car impounded. He was also briefly institutionalized, involuntarily, for self-harm. It seems that a few months after he moved out Irina found him in their bathtub. He’d taken a bunch of pills. He spent time at the hospital physically recovering before being transferred to a longer-term care facility. He was only released a couple of weeks ago.”