He needed the credibility that came with a position at a well-respected firm. And though he didn’t like to admit it, he needed the money too. He’d made a pretty penny before the whole murder thing. But the divorce from Jessie and his legal defense had drained much of his resources. He still had access to funds he’d cleverly squirreled away during the marriage. But that wasn’t enough to run the foundation, support the lifestyle he wanted, and finance the total destruction of his ex-wife’s world. He simply needed more income.
He was just finishing up breakfast when the front doorbell rang. He checked the security camera using his phone and saw that it was his parole officer, which wasn’t a total shock. He’d been warned that unscheduled home visits weren’t uncommon and to be prepared.
“Hi, Mr. Salazar,” he said, opening the door. “I thought we were supposed to meet up at your office at nine. Just couldn’t wait, huh?”
“You’re aware that unannounced home visits are permitted, Mr. Voss?” Salazar asked crisply.
“Of course,” Kyle said as if he’d been expecting him. “I figured that after so many trips to your place that you’d return the favor at some point. I was just finishing up breakfast. Can I offer you anything? Coffee? I make a mean cheesy egg scramble.”
“No thank you. This needn’t take too long. I just wanted to see what you had planned for the week to make sure you were meeting your court-ordered obligations.”
“Sure thing,” Kyle said warmly, turning and heading back into the house. “My calendar is in the kitchen.”
Salazar followed him cautiously. Kyle continued to act as if they were just old buddies catching up, pouring the man a cup of coffee and putting it on the table across from him. Salazar, despite his earlier protestations, took a sip.
Kyle walked the man through the very itinerary he’d been assessing only moments earlier, minus a few details, of course. He could tell within minutes that Salazar was satisfied but kept going, poring over every appointment he had all week. The goal was to be so forthcoming that Salazar didn’t feel the need for another in-home visit any time soon.
It worked. Less than ten minutes later the parole officer was leaving, along with a to-go cup of coffee and a plastic container of cheesy eggs he’d changed his mind about.
“See you on Friday,” he reminded Kyle. “Nine a.m. sharp in my office.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Five minutes later he was out the door himself. As he got into his car and waved at the FBI agents parked across the street, where they’d been intermittently since he moved in, he mentally reviewed his schedule. He knew that in between all the meetings and interviews, it would be challenging to organize the metaphorical and physical destruction of Jessie Hunt. But he was confident that he could do it. After all, he’d already stage-managed the near collapse of her career from behind bars.
With the formidable assistance of the Monterrey-based Monzon drug cartel, he’d coordinated all manner of nightmares for Jessie. It had started small, having the cartel soldiers knife her car tires. It escalated to planting drugs, making anonymous calls to social services suggesting she’d abused her sister, and best of all, hacking into her social media and posting racist rants. That one was still resonating, making his ex-wife persona non grata with many in L.A., even after she was technically exonerated.
The cartel was helping ensure that there would still be protests outside the station where she worked. Her car was scheduled to be tagged with graffiti soon. And then the good stuff would start.
First, there would be the elimination of those closest to her. And then, when she was at her most emotionally vulnerable, he’d come for her and do what he’d been dreaming of for years now. At first he’d planned to slice her open and watch her face fill with horror as he cut out her organs and burned them in front of her. But now he actually had something far worse in mind for her. Payback would be a bitch for this bitch.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jessie nibbled at her muffin nervously.
As she sat in the Nickel Diner on South Main Street, waiting for Garland Moses to arrive, she had the weird feeling that someone was cheating. Usually she and Ryan worked together. But Ryan had investigated a case with Garland last night in Manhattan Beach. Was their team-up a personal violation of some sort? Was this morning’s breakfast get-together? She knew that logically, it was ridiculous. And yet the feeling lingered.
Garland finally shuffled in at 8:30 a.m., a full half hour after they were supposed to meet. His white hair seemed even wilder and more disheveled than usual. His bifocals appeared to be in danger of tumbling off the tip of his nose. He didn’t even look up as he made his way to the booth Jessie knew he preferred.
She caught the server’s eye and motioned for her to bring over some coffee for the guy, who looked wiped out. After being up so late, she would have been too and she was thirty, not seventy-one.
“Rough night?’ she asked as he slid into the seat.
He smiled ruefully.
“I was up way past my bedtime,” he admitted. “As I’m sure your boyfriend can attest to. I could really use some coff—”
He stopped speaking as a mug was placed on the table and filled up.
“You read my mind,” he said to the server, who pointed at Jessie.
“Actually, she did.”
“That’s some quality profiling,” he said as he took a careful sip.
“That’s not profiling, Garland. Knowing you want coffee when you walk in here is like knowing the sun rises in the east.”
“Thanks all the same,” he said.
“How did it go last night?” she asked.
“Hernandez didn’t tell you?”
“He was leaving when I got up. He didn’t want to wake me, keeps telling me to rest and stuff.”
“Maybe you should listen to him,” Garland suggested protectively. “You are recovering from multiple burns, a concussion, and a bruised stubborn bone.”
“Is that you trying to be funny, Garland?” she asked. “Because if it is, you should definitely stick with your day job, which is apparently also now a night job.”
“Don’t try to change the subject,” Garland countered. “I know you’re trying to get back to work earlier than the doctor wants and you shouldn’t do it. Wait until your body is ready.”
“How do you know I’m trying to get back early?” she demanded.
“Easy,” he answered with a mischievous smile. “Any time you bend or twist, you involuntarily wince a little, which tells me you’re taking a lower dose of your pains meds than was prescribed. Also, you keep leaning forward like a schoolgirl worried the nun will slap your hand for slouching at your desk.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re afraid to let your back bump the back of the booth because it’s still tender. So you’ve adopted the primmest posture I’ve seen outside an E.M. Forster novel.”
She shook her head in both frustration and amazement.
“It’s almost as if you should do this professionally.”
“Flattery will you get everywhere,” he said, taking another sip. “But I’m serious. You should take it easy as long as you can. Plus, staying out of the public eye might help the backlash from those racist posts subside a bit.”