by Blake Pierce
Jessie disagreed but it was clear that they weren’t going to get any more out of the woman, at least not without risking the investigation or their cover stories. As if the universe had decided it agreed with her, a text came in to both her and Ryan at the same time. It was from Rich McClane and it got straight to the point.
Your warrant was approved.
Jessie and Ryan looked at each other. Both stood up.
“Thanks for your time,” Ryan said brusquely as they headed for the door. “We’ll be in touch if we have additional questions.”
Porter looked like she had a few of her own but they were out the door before she could ask any. They were already leaving the Gazette newsroom, bundling up against the mid-morning cold, when a second text from Rich came through.
You have permission to access the website chat room. Garret will meet you at Martin Kimble’s place with a hard copy. Move fast. Things are getting hairy around here.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The Night Hunter sat patiently in his booth, staring out the diner window at the hostel across the street.
At times like this it was hard to fight off the giddiness. But he knew that the sight of an excitable old man would be more memorable to future witnesses than a weary one, so he maintained the façade of an elderly gentleman sipping coffee while he read the paper and occasionally looked out the window at passers-by.
On the inside it was a much different story. After over a week without any success, he finally had cause for hope. He had started to wonder whether his used car ploy would ever pay off—in fact, he’d almost forgotten about it altogether— but now it seemed like it finally might.
Weeks ago, he’d bought a used Ford Tempo he never intended to take ownership of. The purchase was one of several potential fail-safe methods to help him get to Jessie Hunt if she decided to go to ground. None of the others had panned out but this one had promise.
He’d placed a tiny camera under the eaves of a storage shack across from where the 1988 Tempo sat beside a nearly-as-old Honda Civic. It was motion-activated and since few customers were interested in those cars, there wasn’t much motion most days.
Still, he checked the footage every evening just in case and last night he hit pay dirt. Jessie’s private investigator friend, Katherine Gentry, had found the Tempo. And later that night, much to his delight, she’d put the pieces together and returned to look at the Civic. He’d nearly giggled out loud as he watched her take notice of the “crumpled up” piece of paper on the floor of the backseat. He got an adrenaline shot when he watched her immediately pull out her phone and make a call. At that point, he had to stop watching. After all, he had work to do.
Finally, after over a week of frustration, of total silence in which he could find neither hide nor hair of Jessie, her paramour Ryan Hernandez or her half-sister, Hannah Dorsey, there was renewed hope that he could track them down.
It was that potential that made him drive to Pasadena in the middle of the night to set everything up. He wanted to watch the upcoming show, of course. But more importantly, he needed to set everything up for the real performance, the one that would get him what he needed: access to Jessie.
And the most delicious part of the whole thing was that if his plan worked out, it would be Katherine Gentry, Jessie’s loyal, brave, quick-witted best friend who inadvertently led him to her.
As the waitress passed by, he felt another giggle coming on and coughed softly to hide it. She didn’t even look at him.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Hannah started to worry that he was bailing on her.
Chris and the others were supposed to meet her at Elevated Grounds on their lunch break. But just after Jessie and Ryan dropped her off at the coffeehouse on the way to The Wildpines Gazette office, he texted: Delayed a bit. Instructor droning on. Can you wait?
She said that she could and decided to window shop for a bit. This time she walked in the opposite direction from where she’d gone yesterday, to the largest building in town, a three-story, all-wood, outdoor shopping plaza that had everything from a retro arcade to a blown-glass gallery.
She stopped into an artisanal soap shop on the third floor called Sense of Scents. The place was surprisingly crowded for midday on a weekday. It only took a few seconds to understand why. There was a photo of a woman attached to a corkboard on the wall. Below the picture was message that read: Clarice, you were a good boss and a great friend. You’ll be missed. Always in our hearts, The SOS Team.
This was the store of one of the murdered women Jessie and Ryan were investigating. She briefly considered leaving out of a sense of respect. But then a stronger feeling took hold of her: morbid curiosity.
She knew that Dr. Lemmon wouldn’t approve but she stuck around, enjoying watching the staff and patrons play-act at sorrow over the loss of someone that seemed, based on everything she’d heard, like a bit of a pill. In one corner, a female employee was hugging an older woman, who was dabbing at her eye with a tissue.
Hannah wandered closer, hoping to pick up their conversation, but they were whispering too quietly to be heard. Frustrated and slightly ashamed, she moved over to the citrus soap section and started smelling different bars.
She tried to remember what Dr. Lemmon had said in their video chat last night; it was normal to have the impulse to pursue the adrenaline highs. The key was deciding whether the high she was after was healthy or self-destructive, and if it was the latter, to stop herself from acting on it.
Lemmon reminded her that last night, she’d confronted a creep who was borderline stalking her. She hadn’t initiated the incident and she’d taken action with the safety of a large group around. For a more traditional person, it was a bold, high-risk move. But for Hannah, it was actually far more restrained than her past responses to similar situations.
Lemmon wasn’t happy that she had Chris push her to create a physical moment, or that she then lied about it to everyone there, but the doctor was pleased that she was at least honest about it in their conversation. And she was especially proud that Hannah had backed out of going to the second bar with her new friends. That was the epitome of stopping herself from making a self-destructive choice. When she hung up, Hannah felt good about that choice, like she’d turned a questionable situation into a positive one.
She’d didn’t want to undermine all that one day later. And yet, as she looked around the bustling shop, she recognized the familiar urge growing in her belly. Every employee was engaged with a customer. There were no obvious cameras in the store, nor any signs saying recording was taking place. The soaps didn’t have security stickers and the front door wasn’t equipped with the technology to detect them anyway. She could drop a bar of Mandarin Musk into her pocket and walk out without anyone being the wiser.
Without even thinking about it, she picked up the soap and slid into her interior coat pocket. After pretending to peruse a few hemp lotions, she moved toward the door. As she reached for the handle, her phone buzzed. She looked down. It was a text from Chris: Just left the Conservatory. See you in five.
She stood in front of the door, thoughts bouncing around her mind. Was this a sign; the universe trying to give her one last chance to stop before she made a mistake? She glanced back at the table with the citrus soaps and an embarrassing thought occurred to her. She didn’t even like mandarin. The Luscious Lemon bar had appealed to her much more and yet she’d left it alone. Had she left it on the table because taking that one would be an affront to the efforts of Dr. Janice Lemmon? Was she a shoplifter with a conscience?
Someone opened the door from the outside and she stepped to the right to let them in. Glancing behind her, Hannah saw that the only employee with a clear view of her was busy lighting a candle for a customer. Quickly and smoothly, she pulled the Mandarin Musk bar of soap out of her pocket and placed it on the shelf closest to her. Then she walked outside and moved toward the stairs, never looking back.
As she darted across the street to the coffeehouse,
she tried to put the whole incident behind her. She didn’t want to think about why she had backslid right after a moment of success. She didn’t want to wonder if she would ever truly move past this.
She arrived at Elevated Grounds just as the Conservatory bus pulled up outside. Chris, Patrice, Carlos, and Melina hopped out. They all greeted her with hugs. Patrice and Melina even kissed her on both cheeks. Chris did not, though he watched the exchanges with interest.
“Did you hear the news?” Patrice asked as they all walked inside.
Hannah shook her head. That could mean anything. If it was related to the murder of the mother of two young kids, she had. But she didn’t want to tip her hand so she feigned ignorance.
“No, I’m kind of out of the news loop up here. What happened?”
“Gunnar Quaid, the guy you called out last night, got arrested!”
“When?” Hannah demanded. “For what?”
“That’s a bit of an overstatement, Patrice,” Chris said, smiling as if he was used to drama from his friend. “He wasn’t formally arrested. Apparently after he got kicked out of Wildyology, he went down to a bar called Wild Things where he promptly harassed some gal who slapped him and called the cops.”
“Yeah,” Melina added. “Deputy Hicks—we all call him Garrett—came down and threw him in the station lockup for the night. He said that he’d heard about what happened at Wildyology and that if there was one more incident like that, he was going to officially charge him and send him down to the Southwest Detention Center in Murrietta to face the folks there. I hear that place is hardcore. Supposedly Gunnar was crying when he got dragged out.”
“Do you know what time that happened?” Hannah asked, trying to remember when she overheard Jessie and Ryan saying the woman was killed last night.
“I’m not sure,” Patrice said, “but I don’t think it was that long after your little adventure. Why?”
“No reason,” Hannah said quickly. “But it’s nice to know someone around here in law enforcement gives a damn.”
They reached the front of the line and everyone turned their attention to the server. As Melina gave her order, Hannah’s thoughts drifted off. She had wondered if a sketchy guy like Gunnar might be the killer Jessie and Ryan were looking for, if he was even on their radar.
Should she mention that he was locked up at the time the third woman was killed or would they have already figured that out? If she said anything, her confrontation with the guy would inevitably come up. That would almost certainly lead to Jessie questioning her judgment and end the chances of any future hangouts with these people.
“You’re up,” Chris said, snapping her back into the moment.
As she looked at the menu, Hannah came to a decision about Gunnar: she was keeping her mouth shut.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Deputy Garrett Hicks was waiting outside his car when Jessie and Ryan arrived at Martin Kimble’s house.
“Does Kimble know about the warrant?” Ryan asked as they joined him.
“No,” Garrett said, handing over the hard copy of the warrant, “I didn’t want to give him a heads up.”
“Good call,” Ryan said as he walked quickly to the door. “Kimble may claim he doesn’t know anything about the site but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to wipe it.”
Jessie noticed that when he moved with purpose, Ryan’s limp was barely noticeable.
“Are you sure he’s even home?” she asked Garrett.
“That’s his car,” the deputy said, pointing at a pickup at the edge of the driveway. “Martin does most of his field work when the weather is better. In the winter he works from home a lot, writing ecological reports for the Forest Service.”
Ryan knocked on the door urgently. It didn’t take long for Kimble to answer.
“What is it now?” he demanded angrily. “This is bordering on harassment.”
Ryan showed him the warrant.
“This gives us legal authority to review the WBA website chat room comments. You’re required to give us the administrator log-in information. If you object, you’ll be arrested for obstruction of justice and we’ll get the data anyway, so I recommend you cooperate.”
For half a second, Kimble looked like he might actually object but then his expression changed to resignation.
“I’ll get the log-in,” he said dejectedly before walking over to a cabinet and pulling out a file. He handed it over.
Jessie sat down at Clarice Kimble’s desk. By the time she’d booted up the woman’s computer, Ryan had the log-in ready. She punched it in as the administrator. As it loaded, Ryan pulled out the laptop he’d brought along. He logged in as a member and the two of them scrolled through the comments. Garrett stood nearby and kept an eye on Kimble, who sat forlornly on the couch.
It didn’t take long to understand why the man had been so reticent to hand over the log-in info. There were a variety of subject categories with bland names like “startups, “support,” and “teambuilding.” But at the very end of the list was one called “communication” that seemed to need a secondary log-in.
“What’s this?” Jessie asked Kimble.
He walked over and looked at the screen. She could tell she’d found the very thing he was hoping she’d miss.
“Just another chat category,” he said unconvincingly.
“One that requires an additional password?” Jessie asked. She was skeptical.
“That category doesn’t show up on my member screen at all,” Ryan noted.
“Mr. Kimble, up until now you’ve just been difficult,” Jessie said deliberately, “But we’re entering criminal territory here. Give me the log-in for the “communication” category now.”
Kimble sighed heavily, then returned to the cabinet and pulled out another file labeled “long term records.” He handed over the second to last page, an old phone bill summary. It had a Post-It attached with some unintelligible words scrawled on it.
“What does it say?” Jessie demanded impatiently.
“SpecialFriends4Ever—all one word.”
Without comment, Jessie typed it in and waited for the page to load. At first she didn’t understand what she was looking at. The most recent exchange began “My place tomorrow. Usual time.” The response said simply “confirm.” The exchange prior to that started with the line “Have to postpone until Fri. His mtg. was delayed a day.” The response was succinct, “OK, L.”
But it all became more clear a few seconds later when she read the next exchange . It began with the message “dtf 2nite @ your place?” The answer was definitive. “Y. She has PTA @ 7. Come at 7:30. Watch for her car.”
Jessie looked over at Kimble, whose face turned red. He averted his eyes. His reaction confirmed what she suspected: this wasn’t a chat room at all. It appeared to be a matchmaking service for locals who wanted to have flings and it seemed that Clarice Kimble ran the whole thing.
“So if I understand this correctly,” she said to Kimble, trying not to let her excitement at the discovery overpower her, “This whole WBA group is just a front for people to have affairs?”
“No,” Kimble insisted haughtily. “The group is real and it helps people. This is just an additional feature for those who are interested, a discreet way for folks to get the pleasure they can’t get at home.”
“But I thought you said you and Clarice were swingers,” Ryan reminded him.
“We are,” Kimble said, as if he was talking to a slow child, “but not everyone around here is on board with that kind of activity. Sometimes one partner wants to swing and the other doesn’t. They might even consider doing so cheating. In those cases, Clarice provided a way for the interested party to get the satisfaction they needed without upsetting their significant other.”
“Did she take a fee?” Jessie asked expectantly.
“There is a small membership fee to join the WBA. Those invited to become members of the overall chat forum don’t pay extra.”
Jessie thought he was b
eing too cute by half and she was losing patience with him.
“Mr. Kimble, you said they don’t get charged to be in the ‘overall’ chat forum but what about to join the specific ‘communication’ forum?”
Kimble hesitated before answering. “She may have charged a small fee for maintenance, so that participants could interact in a safe, private manner.”
“How much was the maintenance fee?” Ryan asked.
“$250 a month.”
“So people basically paid $3000 a year to be in her adultery club?” Jessie clarified.
“I wouldn’t use that term,” Kimble huffed.
“I’ll bet,” Jessie shot back. “I’m not a huge fan of it either. How about we just call it the ‘Special Friends Forum’ from now on? Would you prefer that euphemism?”
Kimble didn’t respond and instead looked away petulantly. They left him to stew in his self-righteousness as they pored over the details of the forum. Kimble was nothing if not thorough. Because all of the “get-togethers,” as she called them, had to be scheduled through the site to ensure privacy, she had a complete record of every member interaction.
That meant she could keep tabs on all their activities. That included everything from direct messages they exchanged with other interested members to the dates, times, locations, and even quantity of those get-togethers. No one could balk because, with calls and texts too risky, this was the only way to ensure their communications were secure.
And just as Jessie had suspected, all three murder victims were right in the thick of it. Of course, Clarice ran the whole thing, though she didn’t seem to have partaken of the festivities. Apparently she was satisfied with swinging. But there was Ellen Wade. Her profile listed dozens of meet ups with the same two or three partners. They always took place during the same window of time when she supposedly went to Mile High Muscle. Jessie suspected that on the nights that she didn’t legitimately go to the club, she was getting another kind of workout.
