He was immediately overcome by the combination of the cooling breeze and salty scent in the air, quite a change from his usual downtown haunts, which smelled more of exhaust and asphalt. He walked briskly until he arrived at the walking path that locals called the Strand. A half block north, he saw police tape and multiple officers blocking off part of the Strand to pedestrians.
As he headed in that direction, his investigative senses nudged his appreciation of his surroundings to the side. He still took in the sight of post-work volleyball matches on the sand and moms pushing strollers as they got in an evening jog. But he also studied the homes close to the crime scene.
They all faced the beach with doors that were only feet away from passersby. Very few had yards and almost none had protective gates. It seemed that in this neighborhood, ease of beach access trumped security precautions.
He felt slightly out of his element in this environment. Though he lived in central Los Angeles, he was embarrassed to admit that he rarely got to the beach, spending most of his time in the area surrounding the downtown station where he worked.
In that part of town, every homeowner or renter had some measure of security, whether it was a gate, bars on the windows, a security system, or all of the above. His friend and fellow profiler, Jessie Hunt, had all of the above, along with cameras, on-site security guards, a patrolled parking garage, and more door locks than light switches. Of course she had good reason. Still, he wasn’t used to the laissez-faire attitude of this beach community. But he’d have to deal with it. He hadn’t been given much of a choice.
Normally Garland Moses got his pick of cases. After all, for decades he’d been a celebrated FBI profiler in the Behavioral Sciences unit. Widowed young and childless, he’d been relentless about his work. When he finally moved to Southern California to retire, he’d been persuaded to work for the LAPD as a consultant. But only on the condition that he could choose the cases he wanted to pursue.
But not today. In this instance, Central Station’s captain, Roy Decker, had pleaded with him to make an exception. The victim’s husband, a wealthy oil and gas executive named Garth Barton, had given over $400,000 to the police union in the last three years. Though the couple now lived in Manhattan Beach, which had its own police department, Barton worked downtown and was well aware of the reputation of legendary profiler Garland Moses.
“Barton insists on bringing you in,” Decker had told him over the phone. “He’s hinting that his union contributions might end if you don’t take the case. I’d consider it a personal favor, Garland.”
Considering it was the first favor the captain had ever asked of him, he was inclined to do it. Once he said yes Decker continued talking quickly, as if worried Garland might change his mind.
“I promise that the MBPD will defer to you and your preferred team,” the captain had assured him. “In fact, they seem enthusiastic about the prospect. Apparently Barton has a reputation as a real pain in the ass and they’re more than happy to hand off dealing with him to someone else, especially when he’s emotionally overwrought, as they say he seems to be now.”
As Garland got closer to the cordoned off area of the Strand, he pushed the politics out of his head and returned his focus to the crime itself. He knew little, other than that Priscilla Barton had been found dead in a neighbor’s house and that foul play was suspected. He arrived at the scene and looked around to see if Ryan Hernandez, the Homicide Special Section detective he’d asked to partner with him on the case, had arrived yet.
Not seeing him, he approached the closest MBPD officer and flashed his credentials.
“Garland Moses, LAPD forensic profiling consultant. Who’s in charge here?”
The officer, whose name tag read Timms and who didn’t look a day over twenty-two, gulped hard.
“Sergeant Breem is handling things until the detective gets here,” he said, his voice quavering nervously. “He’s inside right now.”
“Mind if I join him?” Garland asked.
“No sir. He’s in the foyer. That’s where the body is.”
“Thanks,” Garland said. He started in that direction before stopping and turning around. “Did you know the Bartons, Officer Timms?”
“Not really,” Timms said. “I never interacted with them personally but knew of them by reputation.”
“How so?”
“Mr. Barton called in a lot with complaints about his neighbors, noise violations, stuff like that.”
“And Mrs. Barton?” Garland pressed, scribbling notes furiously on his tiny pad.
“I don’t want to speak ill of the dead,” Timms said hesitantly.
“You’re not speaking ill. You’re just sharing information. And information is how we’re going to catch her killer.”
Timms nodded, seemingly convinced.
“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “She had a reputation as a bit of a celebrity stalker, harmless but annoying. A few times well-known folks who live here complained that she would follow them around, even try to buddy up to them, try to sit down and have drinks with them. It wasn’t anything that serious. It’s not like she was breaking into people’s homes and waiting in bed for them.”
“Are we sure about that?” Garland asked skeptically. “This isn’t her house, correct?”
Timms’s face turned red.
“I hadn’t thought about it like that,” he said, clearly embarrassed.
“Like what?” someone asked from behind them.
Garland turned around to find Detective Ryan Hernandez smiling at him.
“Never mind,” he said. “How are you, Detective?”
“Considering I was ripped from the comforts of home and companionship, okay I guess. And yourself?”
“I’m actually quite enjoying the change of scenery,” Garland confessed. “I almost don’t want to go inside.”
“And yet…” Ryan said reluctantly.
“…we must,” Garland finished, waving his arm to indicate the detective should take the lead.
As Hernandez walked ahead of him toward the front door, Garland marveled at his younger counterpart. Even when he was in his early thirties, he never looked as put together as Ryan Hernandez. Of course, he didn’t have the good looks of Hernandez either.
He had occasionally teased Jessie that her near-Amazonian height, deep green eyes, wavy brown hair, and well-defined cheekbones mixed with her boyfriend’s short black hair, brown eyes, and well-defined pecs would ensure that their future children would eventually assume their rightful place on Mount Olympus. It almost always made her blush. He decided not to try the same crack with him.
They stepped inside where Sergeant Breem, a lanky, deeply tanned guy in his forties who Garland suspected was a surfer was waiting with two other uniformed officers and a crime scene unit. A deputy coroner was taking pictures of the body. The husband was nowhere to be found.
Garland looked around the foyer, making notes on his pad as he let his eyes take in everything. Only when he was sure he had a sense of the room did he look at the victim. Priscilla Barton was lying on her back with what looked like a stocking wrapped around her neck.
She had obvious burst blood vessels in her wide open eyes, a likely sign of strangulation. She was wearing a red sports bra, yoga pants, and one flip-flop. The other was lying forlornly halfway down the hall. There was no rigor mortis; she wasn’t yet bloated and her skin was only slightly discolored, all suggesting her death was quite recent, likely not more than a couple of hours ago.