“I’m sorry,” he said as he reached out to her.
She shook her head violently and he stopped.
“What?” she asked absently though she’d heard him quite clearly.
“Come with me,” he said, taking her arm and leading her to a balcony at the end of the hall.
He turned to face her and opened his mouth but nothing happened. He closed his mouth as he seemed to struggle with how to begin. Then he tried again.
“It looks like he came back here last night to check out a lead. From what we’ve found so far, it appears he was attacked in the master bedroom. There was clearly a struggle. He was murdered, strangled to death.”
Jessie felt her mind racing out of control and tried to rein it in. Part of her brain was already asking questions about the crime scene. But, furious with herself, she forcibly shut it down, actually squeezing her eyes closed tight as if that was some sort of internal off switch.
Garland was dead; the criminal profiler so legendary she’d been afraid to approach him at first. The man who’d eventually become a mentor to her, and later a friend she trusted with her darkest secrets, would never again tease her or test her or support her. He was gone.
Jessie felt a wave of grief wash over her even as she heard real waves in the distance. It was as if the ocean knew her pain and decided to give it a soundtrack. She bent over at the waist and instructed herself to take multiple deep breaths before trying to speak again.
When she finally felt like she had regained some measure of control over her body, she stood back up. Ryan was studying her with a concerned expression.
“I’m okay,” she said, though she wasn’t certain that was true. “Walk me through the scene.”
Ryan stared at her like she was crazy.
“I can’t do that,” he said in disbelief. “You’re in no condition to be reviewing a crime scene right now.”
“But you are?’ she demanded, feeling a sudden, inappropriate level of anger rising in her belly. “You knew him too.”
“Yes,” Ryan conceded. “I knew him and I liked him. But I was nowhere near as close to him as you were. And it was still brutal for me. I actually called in Trembley to help out because I was struggling with it.”
“Is he in there now?” Jessie asked. Alan Trembley was the junior detective in the HSS unit at Central Station. Despite his youth, he’d proven to be an energetic and capable member of the team.
“Yes, and he’s doing a great job. I’m going to tell him to take over so I can get you home.”
“No,” she argued. “I don’t want to you to miss something important because you weren’t here.”
“Jessie. We’ve got it locked tight up there. We’re not using MBPD for this investigation. The officers in there with Trembley are from our station. The deputy coroner and crime scene techs are ours. Captain Decker insisted on using all our own people and the Manhattan Beach chief didn’t say boo. We’ve got photos being taken, video being shot. Everything that can be done is being done. Let me take you home. I’ll have someone drive your car back. Trust me. You don’t want to be in there.”
Jessie glanced over his shoulder at the beach in the distance. The fog was starting to dissipate. She still couldn’t see the water but could make out the silhouettes of several people walking on the sand.
Who would be out walking on the beach at this hour?
She shook her head in frustration with herself.
What difference does that make right now? Get your head on straight!
“Okay,” she finally answered. “But let’s go down there first.”
Ryan looked in the direction she was facing and nodded.
“Just wait a minute,” he said. “I want to let Trembley know what’s going on first.”
“Go ahead,” she said distractedly. “I’ll meet you on the sand.”
Ryan led her down the stairs and then headed back up. Jessie walked out the front door and found a set of steps leading from the Strand down to the bike path below and beyond that, the beach. She took off her shoes and held them by the heels with her fingertips as she walked toward the water.
Thought it was early summer, at this hour the sand was still cool as it shifted under her feet and wriggled its way between her toes. She moved slowly so as to keep her balance, following the sound of the waves more than any visual cues. As she got closer, one of the old blue wooden lifeguard stations came into view.
She passed it and noticed that the sand was now harder and more tightly packed. A few steps farther and she felt the dampness under her feet where the tide had recently come in. The water was now visible. She watched as the waves collapsed in on each other, creating a frothy surf that bubbled white as it reached out longingly for her toes. She sat down just out of its reach and watched.
After a while—she wasn’t sure how long—Ryan arrived and sat down beside her. He didn’t say anything and neither did she. She reached her hand out and he took it. She leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. She thought that maybe the crashing waves hid her weeping. But she wasn’t sure and she didn’t really care.
*
He watched until the sun came up.
At first it was hard with the fog and because he was several blocks away. But after he found a pair of binoculars in the master closet, he was able to go on the rooftop deck and keep tabs on all the comings and goings six blocks down the Strand, where it had happened.
He was weirdly excited by it all. There was something satisfying in knowing that he was the reason the beachfront was a symphony of sirens the last two nights. He didn’t completely understand it. The first night made sense. But the police response in the middle of last night seemed even more intense than the night before. Maybe there was something he was missing.
Eventually, as the sun rose over the hills in the east, he retreated back into the home he’d adopted for the time being. He wanted to sleep but it was hard with all the excitement. His mind kept flashing back to what he’d done, what he’d taken away.
He’d never intended to kill that woman. After all, he was minding his own business in the Bloom house, the one they always left for weeks at a time during the summer. He wasn’t bothering anyone.
But then that busybody woman from next door, with her plastic body and even faker smile, had to show up. He thought she’d go away after a while but she actually entered the house, committing the same crime he had. He hoped she’d just go and let him get back to his life. But no, she had to get curious and give herself a tour of the house. If only she’d kept her nose out of it, she’d probably be alive today.
But once she saw him, he had no choice. She likely would have given a description of him to the police and then he’d be in a really desperate situation. So he had to stop her, had to silence her. He couldn’t let her take away the lifestyle he’d been living, even if it was only temporary.
So he’d strangled her. Initially, he was riding on adrenaline when he slammed her against the door and later, wrapped the stocking around her neck. There was a moment, when she was really flailing and struggling, that he briefly had second thoughts. Maybe he could just knock her out and make a run for it, go somewhere else entirely.
But then the old fury reared its head. Why should he have to leave to accommodate the desires of another rich bitch? He’d done enough of that in his life. Suddenly he was squeezing her neck even tighter, imagining she was one of the models who used to do whatever he wanted but wouldn’t even look at him now. He watched the stocking material dig into her flesh, cutting off her circulation, and felt a thrill of almost orgasmic excitement at the realization that her life was literally in his hands.