Читать книгу The Perfect Block - Блейк Пирс - Страница 9

The club was loud and dark and Jessie could feel a headache coming on.

An hour ago, when she and Lacy had been getting ready, things seemed much more promising. Her roommate’s enthusiasm was infectious and she found herself almost looking forward to the evening as they put on their dresses and did their hair.

When they left the apartment, she couldn’t say she disagreed with Lacy’s contention that she looking “smokin’ hot.” She was wearing her red skirt with the slit up the thigh, the one she never got to bust out in her brief but tumultuous Orange County suburban existence. She wore a black sleeveless top that accentuated the muscle tone she’d developed during physical therapy.

She even deigned to put on a pair of three-inch black pumps that officially put her over six feet and in the Amazon woman club alongside Lacy. Originally she wore her brown hair up but her fashion impresario roommate convinced her to let it down, so that it cascaded past her shoulders to her upper back. Looking in the mirror, she didn’t think it was totally ridiculous when Lacy said they looked like a couple of models slumming for the evening.

But an hour later her mood had soured. Lacy was having a great time, playfully flirting with guys she wasn’t interested in and seriously flirting with girls that she was. Jessie found herself at the bar talking to the bartender, who was obviously well practiced in entertaining girls not used to the scene.

She wasn’t sure when she’d gotten so lame. It was true that she hadn’t really been single in nearly a decade. But she and Kyle had gone out to exactly these kinds of clubs back when they lived here, before the move to Westport Beach. She had never felt out of place.

In fact, she used to love to check out new downtown L.A.—DTLA to locals—clubs, bars, and restaurants, a few of which seemed to open every week. The two of them would swoop in and take over the place, trying the most unconventional menu item or drink, dancing goofily in the center of the club, oblivious to the dubious glances they got. She didn’t miss Kyle but she had to admit she longed for the life they’d shared together before everything went sideways.

A young guy, likely not older than twenty-five, sidled up next to her and eased onto the empty bar stool to her left. She gave him the once-over in the bar mirror, quietly sizing him up.

It was part of a private game she liked to play with herself. She informally called it “People Prediction.” In it, she would try to guess as much about a person’s life as possible, based only on how they looked, acted, and spoke. As she surreptitiously gave the guy a sideways glance, she was delighted to realize that the game now had professional benefits. After all, she was a junior, interim criminal profiler. This was fieldwork.

The guy was moderately attractive, with shaggy, dirty-blond hair that swept down over the right side of his forehead. He was tan, but not in a beachy kind of way. It was too even and perfect. She suspected he visited a tanning salon periodically. He was in good shape but looked almost unnaturally lean, like a wolf that hadn’t eaten in a while.

He’d clearly come from work, as he was still in “the uniform”—suit, shiny shoes, slightly loosened tie to show he was in relaxed mode. It was approaching 10 p.m. and if he was only just getting off work, it suggested he worked a job that required long office hours. Maybe finance, though that usually meant early starts more than late nights.

He was more likely a lawyer. Not for the government though; maybe an associate in his first year at some fancy firm in a nearby high rise where they were working him to death. He was well-paid, as the tailored suit proved. But he didn’t have much time to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

He seemed to be deciding what line to use on her. He couldn’t offer her a drink as she already had one that was still half full. Jessie decided to give him a hand.

“What firm?” she asked, turning to face him.

“What?”

“What legal firm are you with?” she repeated, nearly shouting to be heard over the pulsating music.

“Benson & Aguirre,” he answered in an East Coast accent she couldn’t quite identify. “How did you know I was a lawyer?”

“Lucky guess; looks like they’re really working you to the bone. You just get off?”

“About a half hour ago,” he said, his voice betraying a tone more Mid-Atlantic than New York. “I’ve been looking forward to a drink for about three hours now. I could really go for a water ice but this’ll have to do.”

He took a swig from his bottle of beer.

“How does L.A. compare to Philadelphia?” Jessie asked. “I know it’s been less than six months but do you feel like you’re adjusting okay?”

“Jeez, what the hell? Are you some kind of private detective? How do you know I’m from Philly and that I only moved here in August?”

“It’s kind of a talent I have. I’m Jessie, by the way,” she said, extending her hand.

“Doyle,” he said, shaking it. “Are you gonna tell me how you do that parlor trick? Because I’m kind of freaking out over here.”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the mystery. Mystery’s very important. Let me ask one more question, just to complete the picture. Did you go to Temple or Villanova for law school?”

He stared at her with his mouth agape. After blinking a few times, he regrouped.

“How do you know I didn’t go to Penn?” he asked, feigning insult.

“Nah, you didn’t order any water ices at Penn. Which is it?”

“’Nova all the way, baby!” he shouted. “Go Wildcats!”

Jessie nodded appreciatively.

“I’m a Trojan girl myself,” she said.

“Oh, jeez. You went to USC? Did you hear about that Lionel Little guy—former ball player there? He got killed today.”

“I heard,” Jessie said. “Sad story.”

“I heard he was killed for his shoes,” Doyle said, shaking his head. “Can you believe that?”

“You should take care of yours, Doyle. They don’t look cheap either.”

Doyle glanced down, then leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Eight hundred bucks.”

Jessie whistled in fake awe. She was fast losing interest in Doyle, whose youthful exuberance was starting to be overwhelmed by his youthful self-satisfaction.

“So what’s your story?” he asked.

“You don’t want to try to guess?”

“Oh man, I’m not so good at that.”

“Give it a try, Doyle,” she coaxed. “You might surprise yourself. Besides, a lawyer needs to be perceptive, right?”

“That’s true. Okay, I’ll give it a shot. I’d say you’re an actress. You’re pretty enough to be one. But DTLA isn’t really actress territory. That’s more like Hollywood and points west. Model maybe? You could be. But you seem too smart to have that be your main thing as like, a career. Maybe you did some modeling as a teenager but now you’re into something more professional. Oh, I’ve got it, you’re in public relations. That’s why you’re so good at reading people. Am I right? I know I am.”

“Really close, Doyle. But not quite.”

“So what do you do then?” he demanded.

“I’m a criminal profiler with the LAPD.”

It felt good to say it out loud, especially as she watched his eyes widen in shock.

“Like that show Mindhunter?”

“Yeah, kind of. I help the police get inside the heads of criminals so they have a better chance of catching them.”

“Whoa. So do you hunt serial killers and stuff?”

“For a while now,” she said, neglecting to mention that her search was for one particular serial killer and that it had nothing to do with work.

“That’s awesome. What a cool job.”

“Thanks,” Jessie said, sensing that he’d finally built up the courage to ask what had been on his mind for a while now.

“So what’s your deal? Are you single?”

“Divorced actually.”

“Really?” he said. “You seem too young to be divorced.”

“I know, right? Unusual circumstances. It didn’t pan out.”

“I don’t want to be rude but can I ask—what was so unusual? I mean, you seem like a catch. Are you a psycho or something?”

Jessie knew he didn’t mean any harm with the question. He was genuinely interested in both the answer and in her and he’d just fumbled it horribly. Still, she could feel all her remaining interest in Doyle drain from her at that moment. In the same instant, the weight of the day and the discomfort of her high heels reared their heads. She decided to close out the evening with a bang.

“I wouldn’t call myself a psycho, Doyle. I’m definitely damaged, to the point of waking up screaming most nights. But psycho? I wouldn’t say that. Mostly we got divorced because my husband was a sociopath who murdered a woman he was sleeping with, attempted to frame me for it, and ultimately tried to kill me and two of our neighbors. He really embraced the ‘death do us part’ thing.”

Doyle stared at her, his mouth so wide it could have caught flies. She waited for him to recover, curious to see how smoothly he’d extricate himself. Not very, as it turned out.

“Oh, that really sucks. I would ask more about it but I just remembered I have an early deposition tomorrow. I should probably get home. Hope to see you around some time.”

He was off the stool and halfway to the door before she could get out a “Bye, Doyle.”

*

Jessica Thurman pulled the blanket up to cover her half-freezing little body. She’d been alone in the cabin with her dead mother for three days now. She was so delirious from lack of water, warmth, and human interaction that sometimes she thought her mother was talking to her, even as her corpse slumped, unmoving, her arms held in the air by manacles attached to the wooden roof beams.

Suddenly there was banging on the door. Someone was just outside the cabin. It couldn’t be her father. He had no reason to knock. He entered whatever place he wanted whenever he wanted.

The banging came again, only this time it sounded different. There was a ringing sound mixed in. But that made no sense. The cabin didn’t have a doorbell. The ringing came again, this time without any knocking at all.

Suddenly Jessie’s eyes popped open. She lay there in bed, allowing her brain a second to process that the ringing she’d heard had come from her cell phone. She leaned over to grab it, noting that while her heart was pumping fast and her breathing was shallow, she wasn’t as sweaty as usual in the aftermath of a nightmare.

It was Detective Ryan Hernandez. As she answered the call, she glanced at the time: 2:13 a.m.

“Hello,” she said, with almost no grogginess in her voice.

“Jessie. It’s Ryan Hernandez. Sorry to call at this hour but I got a call to investigate a suspicious death in Hancock Park. Garland Moses doesn’t do middle of the night calls anymore and everyone else is already spoken for. You up for it?”

“Sure,” Jessie replied.

“If I text you the address, can you be here in thirty minutes?” he asked.

“I can be there in fifteen.”