by Blake Pierce
“Who lives here?’ she asked no one in particular.
A youngish-looking uniformed officer with sandy blond hair standing in the corner heard and walked over.
“I thought the detectives were all done,” he said.
“FBI is helping out,” Dolan volunteered, flashing his badge and looking at the young cop’s name tag. “What can you tell us, Officer Martin?”
“Yes sir,” Martin replied. “The home is rented by two women. Gabrielle Cantu and Claire Stanton. Stanton is the victim. She was twenty-three years old. She was found early this morning by Cantu and her date.”
“Where is Cantu now?” Jessie asked.
“At her date’s place,” Officer Martin answered. “He lives just over the hill off Mulholland Drive. She doesn’t have any family in town so he said he’d let her stay there until she felt better. She obviously isn’t comfortable coming back here any time soon.”
“Where was Stanton’s body found?” Dolan asked.
“In the bathroom,” Martin said. “I’ll show you.”
As he led them down the hall, Jessie noticed that marshals Murph and Toomey kept their distance. They seemed less interested in the minutiae of the case than in scoping out everyone else—officers, crime scene folks—in the house. Even in a home filled with law enforcement, they were all considered potential threats to the protectee, in this case, her.
She wondered what kind of business Gabrielle and Claire were in that they could afford to rent a place like this in their early twenties. She supposed they could both be associates at white shoe law firms.
But her experience in this job so far told her they were more likely models or trust fund babies. They might be actresses too. And though it was a stereotype, the fact that they lived in the San Fernando Valley increased the chances that they were performers of an adult variety.
The living room had a big-screen television with surround sound speakers, leather couches, and a bar. As they entered the hall to the bedrooms, Jessie noted that there wasn’t much to speak of in the way of art. There were toys and tech but nothing that suggested the residents had a long-term investment in the place.
When they reached the first bedroom, Officer Martin stopped.
“This was Claire Stanton’s room,” he said. “The bathroom connects with the other girl’s bedroom. That’s how she found her. Stanton was in the tub.”
“Has the crime scene team finished up in there?” Jessie asked. “Is it okay if we go in?”
“Yes. The body has been transported. I can have the lead CSU investigator text you the photos if you like.”
“Please,” Jessie said, stepping into the bathroom.
The body may have been gone but the remnants of the carnage remained. While the rest of the bathroom looked unaffected, the tub, an old-fashioned freestanding type in the middle of the room, was covered in blood, much of which had pooled into a dark, viscous puddle near the drain.
As Jessie studied the scene, the photos from CSI popped up on her phone. She pulled them up while Dolan, who had gotten the same message, did the same on his.
In the first wide shot, Claire Stanton’s body could be seen lying in the tub, face-up, with one arm extended over the edge. Her eyes were open and blood extended out from her neck, covering her chest and much of her face.
Despite that, Jessie could tell the girl had been beautiful, even more so than the busloads of pretty, aspiring Hollywood transplants. Blonde and petite, with toned, tanned limbs, she looked like the head cheerleader for a major university.
Additional photos showed close-ups of her neck and the damage done to it. While it was hard to be sure, on first inspection the wounds looked too jagged and rough to be caused by most knives. If Jessie had to guess, it looked more like the result of a screwdriver or…
“Keys,” Dolan said.
“What?” Officer Martin said from the corner of the room.
“These injuries to her neck—they look like someone punctured it with long keys. Did the crime scene people have any guesses?”
“I wasn’t around when they were evaluating the scene, Agent,” he admitted.
“I think you’re right,” Jessie said. “The puncture marks look like they came at different angles and landed at different depths, almost as if the assailant was clutching multiple keys and jammed them all into her at the same time.”
“I didn’t know you were trained in crime scene analysis,” Dolan said, his eyes raised skeptically.
“I’m not. But I am trained in seeing what’s right in front of me,” she retorted. “Also, I have some experience with knife attacks. More importantly, I am trained in psychological behavior. And based on the preliminary images here, I’d say we’re likely dealing with a crime of passion rather than a preplanned assault.”
“Why do you say that?” Dolan asked, not arguing.
“It’s hard to imagine that someone planning ahead would choose keys as his method of attack. It’s too messy and not a sure thing in terms of effectiveness. This feels more impromptu.”
“A crime of passion?” Dolan repeated teasingly.
“It’s a cliché, but yeah.”
“That doesn’t do much to support the theory that this was Crutchfield or Thurman,” he noted. “From what I understand, they’re both pretty meticulous.”
“I’d agree that it makes it less likely.”
“When did the call come in?” Dolan asked, turning his attention back to Officer Martin.
“A little after two in the morning. Cantu and her date had returned from a night out. She went into the bathroom and found her there. The guy, name of Carter Harrington, called nine-one-one.”
Dolan walked around the bathroom for a few more seconds, looking bored.
“I think we’ve learned all we can here for the time being,” he said, turning to Jessie. “What do you say we pay a visit to Gabrielle Cantu and see if she can provide a little color for us?”
Jessie nodded. She could sense him trying to move things along. If this case wasn’t related to one of their outstanding serial killers, he clearly wanted to establish that quickly so he could dump the case and her along with it.
Though it struck her as cold, Jessie couldn’t really blame him. He was after serial killers, not victims of clumsy key stabbings. And though she was loath to admit it, so was she.
CHAPTER FIVE
Whatever Gabrielle’s date, Carter Harrington, did for a living, it paid well. The file she read on the way over only identified him as a “market investor,” which could mean pretty much anything. His gated mansion on Briar Summit Drive, just off Mulholland Drive, was three stories tall with views of both the San Fernando Valley and the west side of Los Angeles. After they were buzzed in, the car with Jessie, Dolan, Murph, and Toomey eased down the long driveway to the parking circle in front of the home. The other marshals stayed outside the estate in their vehicle.
Carter Harrington came out to meet them. In his late forties, with salt and pepper hair and a fit physique that suggested he had lots of time to work out, Harrington was dressed casually in a polo shirt, tan slacks, and sandals. He smiled but it was clear from his red, bleary eyes that he’d been up all night.
“Carter Harrington,” he said, extending his hand to Jessie first and then Dolan. “Sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”
“Of course,” Jessie said. “I’m Jessie Hunt with the LAPD and this is Jack Dolan of the FBI. Thanks for agreeing to see us so quickly.”
“The FBI?” Harrington repeated, clearly surprised. “What about the detectives I talked to back at the house?”
“Oh, they’re still the primary team on the investigation,” Dolan said offhandedly. “But we’re treating this as a multi-jurisdictional case. It’s not that unusual.”
Harrington seemed to accept that answer, though to Jessie’s mind, it was a completely meaningless response, which was likely why Dolan said it.
“Where’s Ms. Cantu?” she asked.
“Oh, right,”
he said, as if remembering why they were there in the first place. “Gabby’s in the den, watching TV. She took a dose of Zoloft to settle her nerves but she’s awake. You may have come at the ideal time. She’s conscious but not agitated.”
“Great,” Dolan said. “Maybe you can give us your version of events on the way to see her.”
“Sure,” Harrington agreed, before noticing that only Murph was joining them as Toomey stood by the car.
“Um, what’s up with your friend there?” he asked.
“Oh, he’s here for moral support,” Dolan said, straight-faced. “Don’t pay him or this other fella any mind. Hunt and I are handling the particulars.”
“Okay,” Harrington said, leading them into the house without following up, though he was obviously perplexed by the whole thing.
“So,” Jessie said, trying to move them past that bump in the road. “What were you doing at the house last night?”
“Right. That,” he said, suddenly sounding uncomfortable as he walked along the wood-paneled hallway in front of them. “Gabby and I had been out that night. It was our first date and we went dancing at a few clubs. She invited me back to her place and I said sure. I was…settling into her bedroom while she went to the bathroom for a minute. Suddenly I heard her screaming and ran in. I found what your colleagues found. Her roommate was lying in the tub. I called nine-one-one right away. We went out to the living room and stayed there until help arrived.”
“You’d never met Claire before?” Dolan asked.
Harrington came to a stop at the entrance to a large room Jessie assumed was the den. She could hear the sound of the TV in the background.
“No. I didn’t even know Gabby had a housemate. Like I said, it was our first date. We’d only texted and talked on the phone before that.”
“How did you meet Gabby?” Jessie asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Through a dating site,” he answered simply.
Does your wife know?
Jessie was tempted to ask the question out loud but decided to hold off for later if she needed it. The circle of pale skin on Harington’s otherwise tanned ring finger suggested he was either very recently divorced or had taken his band off for this occasion.
“Care to make the introductions?” Dolan asked. “We don’t want to freak her out by barging in.”
“Sure,” Harrington said, leading them into the cavernous den with its vaulted ceiling and floor to ceiling glass windows.
“Gabby,” he said in a firm but gentle voice. “There are some folks here to see you.”
A woman lying on the chaise lounge poked her head up. Though she looked wiped out and her eyes were red from what Jessie suspected was hours of crying, she was still stunning. More exotic and sultry than the all-American look of Claire, she had long dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders. As she sat up, Jessie saw that she had the kind of voluptuous body that might make someone like Carter Harrington hide his wedding ring.
“Who are they?” she asked, half-scared, half-defiant.
“My name is Jessie, Gabby,” Jessie replied kindly, taking the initiative. “This is Jack. We’re part of the team investigating what happened last night. We know you already answered some questions but we have a few more for you. Do you think you’re up for that?”
“I guess,” Gabby said reluctantly.
“Thanks,” Jessie said, walking over and sitting on the couch closest to the chaise. “We’ll try to keep it brief. I know you must be wiped out.”
Gabby nodded, then looked to the corner of the room.
“Who’s that?’ she asked, indicating the US marshal who had positioned himself between the entrance to the den and the hallway they’d just passed through.
“That’s Murph,” Jessie said. “He’s not a big talker. But he’s really smart. He’ll mostly just listen. Jack and I will be asking the questions. Why don’t you have a seat, Jack?”
She gave Dolan her best “sit down—you’re freaking her out” look. And, seeming to get it, he did so.
“So, let’s start with this, Gabby,” Jessie began. “Do you know if anyone had threatened Claire recently? Maybe an ex or a co-worker she’d had a falling out with?”
Gabby sat quietly for a moment, searching her memory.
“Not that I can think of,” she finally said. “She was a sweetie. It was hard for anyone to truly get mad at her.”
“Really?” Jessie pressed. “A pretty girl like her—I’d imagine she probably had to deal with letting down some disappointed pursuers.”
“Maybe. I guess. But she was really good at letting guys down easy. Like just yesterday, I heard her on the phone, telling someone she couldn’t see him anymore. She was really gentle about it.”
“So then she did have a dispute recently,” Dolan noted.
“Oh, yeah, I guess,” Gabby said, seeming to realize only now that the call fit the profile Jessie had described.
“Who was she talking to?” Jessie asked quickly, not wanting the vibe to get too accusatory.
“I don’t know. The other voice on the line was loud. But I was in a different room. I didn’t want Claire to know I was listening in. Can’t you guys trace that kind of thing?”
“Yes, we can, Gabby,” Jessie said reassuringly. “What else can you tell us about last night?”
“I already told the other detectives about the date she had that night. She usually kept all the details in her phone.”
“Is it possible that she brought her date back to the house, as you did with Carter?” Jessie asked.
“I doubt it,” Gabby said, settling into the chaise a little more. She looked like she was fading a bit.
“Why not?” Jessie asked.
“She didn’t like to bring guys back to our place. If she was feeling…friendly she’d usually go to theirs. She didn’t like people knowing where she lived. She’s had a few bad experiences, you know?”
“Actually,” Dolan said, looking peeved, “we don’t know. But it sounds like exactly the sort of think we’d want to pursue. Can you give us any names?”
“None jump to mind,” Gabby said, oblivious to the fact that she was contradicting herself repeatedly. “I didn’t really keep track of her dates unless she mentioned a name a few times. I figured that if it wasn’t important enough to her, I didn’t need to commit it to memory either.”
Jessie got the sense that there were enough “dates” between the two of them that keeping track of names might be challenging. She looked over at Carter Harrington, who was shifting the weight on his feet back and forth uncomfortably, as if the conversation was getting into territory he’d rather avoid. She was debating whether this was the moment to go to those places when Dolan dived in.
“Ms. Cantu,” he said, his tone dropping any pretense of warmth, “it’s pretty clear you’re hiding a few things from us. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but lying to a federal agent is a crime.”
Jessie’s heart sank. The girl was already fragile, and threatening her seemed counterproductive
“I’m not lyi—” Gabby started to insist.
Dolan cut her off.
“Even saying you’re not lying could be construed as a lie,” he noted. “There is clearly something going on with your and Claire’s dates that you are holding back on sharing with us. I get it. You don’t want to incriminate yourself. But here’s the thing, we’re going to find everything out anyway, eventually. The only questions are: will it be sooner or later and will you be helpful or not. If it’s sooner and you’re helpful, we can be very accommodating. If it’s later and you’re not, we can be very tough.”
Gabby looked terrified. Jessie tried to tamp things down a bit without stepping on Dolan’s toes too much. She decided not to play good cop so much as less terrifying cop.
“Gabby, your help, right now, could be the difference between us catching whoever did this to Claire or not. Every second we’re in the dark is another second her killer has to hide his involvement and c
over his tracks. You don’t want to be responsible for that, do you?”
She shook her head.
“And you don’t want to face charges of obstructing a federal investigation either,” Dolan added forcefully.
“No,” Gabby whispered.
“Then let’s have it,” he demanded.
“We didn’t break any laws,” she insisted plaintively. “We just…date a lot of guys. Mostly older guys, sometimes married.”
“Are you escorts?” Dolan asked, refusing to play nice.
“No!” she said adamantly. “We just let them buy us stuff. Every now and then, we hit the jackpot and one of them becomes a—have you ever heard the term ‘sugar daddy’?”
“Yes,” Dolan said, admirably keeping the condescension out of his voice this once.
“Well, that’s what we’re after,” she said before turning to Harrington and adding, “no offense.”
“Believe me,” Jessie said, “none of this comes as a shock to him. He knew what he was signing up for. Go on.”
“So when one of us found a sugar daddy, he’d usually agree to help pay for our rent and other stuff like that. Sometimes that might last a few weeks. Sometimes it would go on for months. We’d usually rotate guys in and out. But sometimes it would turn into something more. One of us would become sort of a professional mistress for a while. Eventually, we’d break it off when it got boring. It almost always got boring. Sometimes he’d end it, usually if he thought his wife might find out.”
“How might his wife find out?” Jessie asked, sensing the answer. “And remember what Agent Dolan said about lying to the FBI.”
“It’s possible that me or Claire would tell a guy his wife should know the truth. Usually that would scare them off. Sometimes they’d even give us a little extra to make sure we kept quiet.”
“That’s called extortion,” Dolan pointed out.
“It’s what?” Gabby said, genuinely clueless.
