Social media made it even easier. Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter, Instagram, Tinder, Grindr. Birthdates, anniversaries, holiday destinations, parents’ names, maiden names, the kids’ school, place of work, allergies, pets, pet hates, single, divorced, it’s complicated, red or white wine, celebrity crush, real life crush, favorite movies, music, and TV shows.
It was all right there, in the public domain for anyone to find, if you were prepared to look hard enough. But garnering information from behind a keyboard wasn’t enough for Burden.
He liked to get right up close and personal too.
So close he could smell the coconut shampoo from their morning shower, feel the heat radiating off their body. Sometimes, he’d allow himself to touch them. A gentle graze of the shoulder in a crowded bar or an accidental collision in the freezer aisle at the grocery store.
Routine made it possible to infiltrate the lives of complete strangers—and Cara Zelenka was definitely a creature of habit.
Yesterday was Monday, which meant laundry night. As usual, she’d visited the strip mall just off Vine, a plastic basket stuffed full of clothing balanced on a hip, plenty of coins in her pocket. Burden had watched her through the telephoto lens of his camera from his regular spot, parked in front of a Thai massage place, a few units down from the coin laundromat.
Cara was tall and slim with small breasts and long legs and fingers. Her straight dark hair hung to her elbows and she had thick bangs that got in her eyes. She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a ’70s movie, like a young Ali MacGraw or Jaclyn Smith. Her choice of outfit was always the same—jeans slung low on narrow hips, tight tank top or tee, battered sneakers. Some might call her a tomboy but Burden knew from observing her through the big window, while she loaded the machine, that the casual clothing hid lacy bras and tiny panties in shades of black and red and shocking pink.
Like a present waiting to be unwrapped, Burden thought. Their little secret.
He knew she made the weekly trip to the laundromat because there wasn’t enough room in her tiny apartment for a washer-dryer. And he knew this because he’d found an old rental listing online that had included a floor-plan of her studio apartment, which was situated in what the rental firm had referred to as “a prime location” just a few blocks south of Sunset.
He had watched last night as she’d sat cross-legged on a bench and read a book while the dryer went through its cycle. At one point, she’d set the paperback down and stared at the clothes being whipped around, as though hypnotized by the motion or deep in thought about something.
Burden had really wanted to know what she was thinking about at that exact moment.
Then, suddenly, she’d turned and looked out the window, as though feeling the weight of his gaze upon her, and he had slid down in his seat, heart thumping like he’d just run a fast mile. He’d waited a full minute before risking another look. She was reading the book again. He could see the cover now. A Clockwork Orange. Always contemporary classics for Cara.
After a while, she’d gotten up from the bench, opened the dryer door and pulled out jeans and tees and underwear from the machine. Folded them all neatly, stacked them in the plastic basket, and made her way outside to where her yellow VW Bug was parked right next to the front door.
He’d then followed at a safe distance to her studio apartment on Afton Place and parked across the street in his usual spot. Her apartment was on the ground floor of a two-story, ten-unit complex, with tuck-under parking and a tiny patio out front. It was dark now but he knew in daylight the building was piglet pink with pistachio trim. It looked pretty from a distance but showed wear and tear upon closer inspection, mold smudges ruining the paintwork like sooty mascara tears on flushed cheeks.
Her windows were to the side and rear so he couldn’t tell if her lights were on or off. As always, he’d waited until midnight, when he guessed she’d be in bed, wearing only an oversized t-shirt and panties. No pajamas. He’d never once seen any in her basket at the laundromat. He’d started the car and driven the few blocks to his own rental place. The one he’d chosen specifically to be close to her.
Tonight, Cara was where she always was this time of week.
Of course she was.
The jazz bar on the corner of Vine and De Longpre had live music every Tuesday and the place was always busy. Cara had arrived to find all the tables taken but had managed to grab a vacant high stool at the bar. Burden was already there, occupying one of the coveted candlelit tables in the rear of the room.
He watched now as she placed a drinks order and knew it’d be for a beer because she couldn’t justify the fourteen-dollar cocktails and even the wine was too expensive. The bartender placed a stubby bottle of Red Stripe on the counter in front of her and she took a pull and spun the stool around so she had a good view of the performance area. She’d have two, maybe three, beers over the course of the evening. He’d never seen her properly lit. For Cara, it was all about the music, not the booze.
Burden hated jazz. It was too messy and improvised. The scat singing was the worst of it, a bunch of no-word nonsense syllables that gave him a headache. But he liked the way Cara looked when she was lost in the music. He took a sip of his California Cabernet Sauvignon—the most expensive red they had on the menu—and watched her over the rim of the glass.
Eyes closed, a small smile on her lips, fingers tapping the side of the beer bottle along with the erratic beat.
He saw her but she’d never notice a guy like him. Long, unwashed hair and a hipster beard he could never quite get used to. Wire-rimmed glasses, even though his eyesight was perfect. Padding under a plaid shirt to give the impression of a middle-aged spread and disguise his hard muscles.
He reluctantly dragged his gaze away from her and turned his attention back to the four-piece band, pretended to be interested in the glissando, stabs, and swung rhythms that were drawing appreciative “oh yeah”s from the crowd.
Burden realized he had grown rather fond of Cara Zelenka over these last few months.
But it didn’t change what he had to do to her.
5
JESSICA
Jessica decided to kick off the Laurie Simmonds investigation in the missing woman’s Venice Beach neighborhood, while Connor took a closer look at Mallory Wilcox and Amanda Meyers.
Venice was the second largest tourist attraction in California after Disneyland. Jessica thought it was kind of like a theme park for adults, what with the touristy t-shirts, garish knick-knacks and fast food stalls—just with more tattooists, weed, and bare-chested men in tiny shorts on skateboards. She hoped she might fit in here, with her nose piercing and tattoos.
Jessica took the scenic route to Laurie’s workspace, setting off down Washington in the direction of the glittering blue ocean a couple of blocks ahead. The sidewalk was crowded with bikes and scooters for sale or rent and the air was filled with the tempting aroma of garlic rolls and melted mozzarella from a nearby trattoria that made Jessica’s stomach growl. She hooked a right at the Venice Whaler onto Ocean Front Walk. Strolled past sidewalk markets, with their plastic sunglasses, floppy hats, tiny neon bikinis and cheap jewelry on display. Passed henna artists, fortune tellers, and hot-dog and gyros stands. She bought a cheeseburger and soda at one and ate her lunch while watching wannabe Arnies pumping iron at Muscle Beach.