by Blake Pierce
The third marshal, a smallish forty-something guy named Collica with the sinewy build of an ultra-marathoner, was assigned to sit in the precinct waiting room and eyeball everyone who entered. The fourth member of her protective detail, a tall, barrel-chested, buzzcut-blond named Emerson, circled the block, parking intermittently. Occasionally he and Collica switched positions.
In the brief window while their equipment was being set up, Jessie asked Dolan to join her alone in the hallway. But Murph stopped them, saying he’d go outside instead. As soon as the door closed behind him, Jessie asked the question on her mind.
“Why did you back me up in there?”
“You didn’t want me to?” he asked. “I figured you’d be happy I did. You were seconds from being shut down.”
“I am happy,” she said, noting that he’d completely avoided the question. “But I want to know why. A few hours ago, you were ready to be done with this case and with me. You could have been back at your office by now. I seriously doubt you fought for this because of your deep respect for me. So why?”
“It’s not that complicated,” he insisted, shrugging. “I was serious about how moving around probably keeps you safer. And you seemed to care about this girl. I figured you deserved a chance to get justice for her. Does there have to be more to it than that?”
“Yes, because I don’t think you give a damn about either of those things. Besides, even if that’s true, you didn’t have to stick around. Hell, you strong-armed that case away from the detectives in North Hollywood Division even though this is hardly an FBI matter.”
“You might be surprised at what I care about,” he said, sounding genuinely hurt. “I’ll admit that staying around here at Central Station probably keeps me closer to developments in the search for these serial killers. But I don’t like to see young girls murdered either. There’s no reason I can’t work this case with you and keep my ears open around here.”
Jessie still didn’t buy it. But she wasn’t inclined to push too hard at the moment. After all, she was on the case, able to move around rather than stay cooped up in that house. Rather than be a potential victim, she was in pursuer mode. That’s the way she preferred it.
When everything was set up, they got to work. Dolan checked out Claire’s phone records while Jessie tried to get access to her dating site account. She was getting pushback.
“We value our clients’ privacy,” the British-accented woman on the phone said officiously over the speakerphone after hearing the situation.
“Even when it comes to a murder?” Jessie asked incredulously.
“No matter what the situation,” the woman replied with off-putting coldness.
Jessie looked down at her notes and found the name Carter Harrington had given her for the person who ran the company.
“Let me speak to Kane Sanders,” she said.
“I can pass along your message, but Kane is unavailable right now.”
Jessie felt the blood in her veins pump a little faster. She struggled to keep her voice even as she responded.
“Kane should know that the LAPD doesn’t appreciate being jerked around and that there may be a warrant in the near future to search the offices of the Look of Love website if you can’t be more accommodating.”
“And you should know,” the woman replied in the same obnoxious tone as before, “that Kane has a legal team that will quickly dispense with any such warrant. Also, you should know that harassment isn’t a great look on you.”
All of a sudden Jessie noticed Dolan standing over her.
“May I?” he asked, pointing at the phone.
Jessie nodded.
“Ma’am,” he said loudly, “this is agent Jack Dolan with the FBI. What’s your name?”
“My name is Darian,” the woman said, sounding slightly less sure of herself than before.
“Are you certain of that, ma’am?” Dolan asked. “Because, as you may or may not be aware, lying to a federal agent is a crime.”
“How dare you assert that—”
“Don’t waste my time,” Dolan interrupted, completely unfazed. “I think we both know that Kane is more than available. So stop screwing around.”
After a long pause, Darian replied.
“Hold for a moment, please.”
There were fifteen seconds of Muzak, after which another female voice came on the line.
“This is Kane Sanders. How may I help you?”
Jessie looked up at Dolan, who was smiling. She realized what he must have known all along. Kane was Darian, sans the crappy accent.
“Hi, Kane,” he replied, making no mention of what he knew. “Thanks for making the time. Here’s the deal. As I’m sure Darian informed you, I’m an FBI agent. My partner and I are investigating the death of a young woman who used your site. You’re going to give us full access to all your data today.”
“Why on Earth would I do that?” she demanded.
“Because if you don’t, me and some reporters from a few of my favorite local news stations will be outside your address for a press conference that will detail all the sordid particulars of how the Look of Love dating site works. We’ll wrap up just in time for the six o’clock news. Or, if you prefer, you can give us the information we need and I can postpone the press conference. How would you like to proceed, Darian, er, I mean Kane?”
There were several moments of silence. When Kane responded she sounded a little bit broken.
“Do you have a pen?” she asked.
“I do,” Dolan replied gleefully.
“Here’s her login information.”
“Nope,” he said. “I need administrator access.”
“But that would reveal the real names of our clients,” she protested.
“I’m not looking to shut you down, Kane,” he assured her with something close to sympathy. “My understanding is that your business, while reprehensible, isn’t illegal. I don’t intend to arrest anyone for simply using it, only for murdering Claire Stanton.”
“Do I have your word?” Kane pleaded.
“Sure,” Dolan said. “It’s not worth much. But if that’s what gets you over the hump, I give you my solemn word.”
As Kane dictated the login information and Jessie wrote it down, Dolan walked out of the conference room into the hall, where his laughing was less likely to be heard.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The website was a treasure trove.
It was full of salacious material on the predilections of their clients, many of whose names Jessie recognized. They included a well-known criminal defense attorney, several CEOs, a prominent local politician, and multiple major Hollywood players, including some executives, a couple of directors, and one extremely well-known movie star. According to the site data, Claire had been involved with almost a dozen of them over the last two years.
The website’s setup was actually quite clever. Almost all communication after initially signing up was done through the associated app. That way messaging was maintained in one discreet location, surely a selling point for these high-profile men. Even within the messaging portion of the app, clients and their potential dates were identified by numbers rather than names. It was a pretty impressive, secure operation. That is, unless it ran up against a pushy FBI agent.
The message exchange that showed the most promise to Jessie was one from member #401B22, who happened to be West Hollywood City Councilman Milton Jerebko. It was from two days ago.
In it, Claire—member 62W3—had overtly threatened to go public with their relationship. The reason wasn’t clear. But it had evoked a strong reaction from Jerebko. After a testy back and forth, his final message read: Do this and I will end you. That seemed worth checking out.
After checking with Jerebko’s office and learning that he was working from home that day, the group, or Four Musketeers as Dolan had taken to calling them, piled in the Marshals Service sedan. The drive to Jerebko’s house in the hills above West Hollywood took over a half hour, allowing Do
lan to fill Jessie in on what he’d learned from Claire’s phone records, which was: not much.
“She texted all the time but almost never made calls,” he noted. “And the ones she did make were mostly for retail services. She almost never actually talked to anyone.”
“Kids these days,” Jessie said in her best old man voice.
“There are several calls to and from pay phones in the last few weeks,” he continued, pretending not to hear her. “That seems odd for such a modern girl.”
“The same pay phone every time?” Jessie asked, suddenly interested.
“No. Each call is at a different location. But they’re all in the same general area, this side of the hills, along the corridor from Hollywood west to Beverly Hills.”
“Just the area that our friendly neighborhood councilman would be traveling in,” Jessie noted.
“True,” Dolan acknowledged, “but it seems odd that they would communicate that way when they were already being so direct over the app.”
“Maybe they had agreed to financial terms and he wanted an extra layer of security for that chat,” Jessie surmised.
“Or it could be something completely unrelated,” Dolan replied. “Maybe Claire bought her drugs from a dealer who liked to stay on the move.”
“So your theory is that out of nowhere, Claire became an addict who coordinated her pickups over a pay phone.”
“Addiction can happen fast,” Dolan countered.
Jessie was skeptical but not in the mood to argue about it.
“I guess the preliminary toxicology report will help with that,” she said. “We should have it later today.”
From the front seat, Jessie heard a soft grunt from Murph. Dolan clearly heard it too.
“You have thoughts on the matter, Marshal Murphy?” he asked.
“Not my area,” Murph replied.
“And yet, you have thoughts. I’d love to hear them.”
Murph sat still for a moment, seemingly debating whether to engage. Jessie could tell that he was itching to. A second later he did.
“I’m not an investigator but I doubt she’s an addict. The pictures in her room, even late-night party ones, never showed her looking cloudy-eyed or out of control. She had medals for multiple endurance races framed on her wall and a bib from the LA Marathon on her dresser. That was only a few weeks ago. It’s hard to imagine that she suddenly did a deep dive into drugs at the same time she was training for and completing a twenty-six-mile race. I guess anything is possible. But she didn’t strike me as the type.”
Both Jessie and Dolan sat in the backseat quietly, pondering what he’d said. Jessie silently chastised herself for not noticing all the running-related paraphernalia in the house. It was a reminder that she still had a lot to learn on this job.
The drive up to Jerebko’s house was an adventure. The roads leading into the Hollywood Hills were narrow, with cars parked on both sides. Often only one car could pass by at a time. And they were winding, with corkscrews and switchbacks that had Jessie borderline nauseated by the time they pulled up to the house.
“This place seems pretty extraordinary for a public servant,” Dolan noted.
Three stories high and consuming half a block, the whole property was surrounded by a ten-foot-tall stone wall. Jessie had done some preliminary research on the family and knew that it wasn’t purchased on a councilman’s salary.
“Actually, his wife bought it,” she said. “Gayle Martindale Jerebko is a descendant of the wealthy Martindales, who originally struck it rich in the California Gold Rush of 1849. Most of the clan still lives in San Francisco. But while at Stanford, Gayle fell in love with a scrappy young student activist named Milton Jerebko. When he moved to Southern California, she followed.”
“A woman from that background threw in her lot with a political activist?” Dolan asked incredulously.
“There’s no telling when it comes to love, Dolan. Also, I guess she saw potential in him,” Jessie replied. “Turns out she had good reason. Milton eventually entered politics after gaining popularity with the local community for his vocal support of healthcare for homeless gay youth. He swept to victory in his city council race six years ago and was rumored to be considering running for mayor of West Hollywood or maybe even Los Angeles itself. After he was elected to the council, Gayle took over leadership of their healthcare foundation. According to news reports, she’s known as a tireless fundraiser for the cause. Neither has ever been arrested.”
“Family?” Dolan wanted to know.
“They have two children in high school, a daughter entering her senior year and a son about to become a sophomore. The only brush with the law for any of them was when their daughter accidentally rear-ended another driver while taking her driver’s test.”
They seemed like the perfect couple, which made Jessie inherently suspicious. As she reviewed what she knew about the Jerebkos in her head, the four of them got out of the car and walked to the main gate, passing the other Marshal vehicle idling across the street. Dolan was about to hit the buzzer when a voice came over the speaker.
“Please state your business,” a clipped male voice said.
“At least we know it’s not Darian,” Jessie muttered under her breath.
Dolan forced back a smile as he responded.
“I’m Special Agent Jack Dolan of the FBI,” he said. “We need to speak to Councilman Jerebko.”
“May I see your identification, Agent?” the voice asked. “Please hold it up to the camera to your left.”
Dolan did as he was asked. After a moment, the voice continued.
“To what is this pertaining?”
“A matter that can only be discussed with the councilman. Please open the gate now.”
There was another pause, followed by a bell. The gate began to slowly grind open.
“Please proceed to the main entrance at the top of the driveway,” the voice said. “You will be met at the door.”
They did just that, traversing the steep cobblestone path to the imposing front door. On the way up, Jessie leaned over to Murph.
“You know, now that I’m back in the field, I think it might be advisable to return my service weapon. I feel a bit naked without it.”
Murph looked briefly conflicted before replying.
“It’s back at the safe house. I’ll have it taken to the station. Do you think you can question this middle-aged couple without it? Or should I call for more backup?”
Jessie considered a quippy comeback but still hadn’t come up with one when the front door opened. Jessie was mildly surprised not to see an elderly man in a butler’s suit. Instead it was a twenty-something guy in slacks and a button-down shirt.
“Hello, I’m Elias, the Jerebko family’s house manager. Are you all with the FBI?” he asked, trying to hide his obvious apprehension.
“They’re US Marshals. She’s LAPD,” Dolan said. “It’s a multi-jurisdictional unit.”
“I’ll need to see everyone’s identification,” Elias insisted.
Murph and Toomey pulled theirs out and shoved them in Elias’s face. Jessie was just about to show hers too when Murph grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand down.
“Enough of this,” he said impatiently. “This is a time-sensitive matter. We can give you our birth certificates later if you like. But we need to speak to the councilman now.”
“But she…” Elias started, nodding at Jessie.
“And don’t go anywhere,” Dolan added, interrupting him. “We may have questions for you later.”
Elias backed down and motioned for them to follow him. As he led them through the massive foyer and an ornate hallway, Jessie glanced first at Murph and then at Dolan. It didn’t escape her attention that the two of them had worked in concert to ensure that Elias never actually saw her ID, and therefore her name. Clearly everyone was serious about keeping her whereabouts as secret as possible.
It took a good minute to reach what Elias referred to as “the back den,” wh
ere the Jerebkos were waiting for them. They both stood up when the group entered. Beyond his age, somewhere in the mid-forties—Milton Jerebko was nothing like Jessie had predicted he would be. He wasn’t exactly good-looking. But he made the most of what he had.
Tall and muscular, he had a tanned face and his slightly thinning dark hair was groomed to perfection. His suit jacket rested casually on the arm of the couch beside him and he wore navy slacks and a bold pink dress shirt with his sky-blue tie slightly loosened. He had a broad smile and exuded confidence as he extended his hand to Jessie first and then the others as he introduced himself.
“I’m Milt,” he said in a booming voice. “This is my wife, Gayle.”
Gayle shook all their hands as well. Also in her forties, she was as immaculate as her husband. Blonde and statuesque with a figure that suggested hours of hard work at the gym, she looked like she could have been Claire’s mother. Jessie forced that uncomfortable thought from her head.
“To what do we owe the honor of the entire Los Angeles law enforcement community?” Jerebko asked after all the handshakes hand concluded.
“Well, Councilman,” Dolan began, “it might be better if we discussed this matter with you privately.”
Jessie noted that he used the man’s formal title rather than just his name, a subtle reminder that the stakes were higher than usual for a public official. But it didn’t seem to faze Jerebko—at least not yet.
“Anything you have to discuss with me, you can discuss in front of my wife,” he said confidently.
Jessie suspected he might regret being so blustery.
“All right,” she said, deciding to test the theory. “We’re here about Claire Stanton.”
“Ah, of course,” he said expectantly. “I had a feeling that might be what this was about. How many other folks has she tried to extort?”
“Excuse me?” Jessie asked, genuinely surprised.
“I’m assuming you’re doing some kind of investigation into her attempts to extort folks she’s been involved with. I can’t be the only one.”
