Kiss of Death (5 page)

“We should also speak to the best friend, and I'd like to check out a Goth club and the two guys who were done for trespassing, Riley and Davidson.”

Sloan lets out a sigh. “Busy day. I've also got a load of paperwork I need to start on. Credit card and bank account information for Sherry, plus I'll put a request in for phone records.”

“I hear you.” Sloan's not the only one with paperwork. I still haven't read the file and I'm keen to get more info on Anton Ward and the L.A. vampire scene.

“Maybe we should split up. You can do the FBI-profiler thing, and I can look after the LAPD's interests.” There's a hint of frustration in her voice, but that ties in with the
occasional vibe I'm getting off Sloan—like maybe she's regretting calling the FBI to her turf.

The problem is I want to be there when she questions the ex-boyfriend and the best friend. They'll give me a good insight into Sherry, and victimology is always my starting point.

“Let's see how we go. The best friend is around the corner, so we could visit her first, then the ex, and after that I'll get caught up on the file and you can log your paperwork,” I suggest.

“Sounds like a plan.” Sloan fastens her seat belt.

I pull into the traffic and head for Desiree's address. I don't mind if we don't get time for Riley and Davidson today, because I'd like to soak up the atmosphere at one of the Goth clubs—that would be a better introduction to the scene than interviewing two members in their homes.

“I'm actually considering going to one of the clubs tonight…dressed up.” I need to look like one of them, otherwise I'll be too conspicuous.

“Really?” Sloan gives me a sideways glance. “You're thorough.”

“If After Dark is involved, I need to get an insight into the culture.”

She shrugs. “I'll definitely pass on that one. Besides, I'm guessing the Goth scene doesn't have too many men or women in their fifties.”

I laugh. “How old are Riley and Davidson?”

“Riley's twenty-two and Davidson's twenty.”

I wince. “Maybe
I'm
too old.”

“Ward's in his thirties.” Sloan takes out her mobile phone. “I'm just going to check in with the officer who took the missing persons call this morning.” She dials a number and after a few minutes on hold she's redirected to his mobile—he's off duty. She places her phone on the center console between us.

“Is this Detective Saporo?” Sloan asks.

“Yup.”

“It's Detective Sloan calling from Homicide. I believe you took a missing persons report on Sherry Taylor this morning.”

“That's right.” A heartbeat of silence while recognition hits…he's getting a call from a homicide detective. “Oh, shit. You're
friggin' joking
.”

“Sherry Taylor's body was found in Temescal Gateway Park this morning.”

“Dammit.” Saporo draws the word out forcefully. “I thought…I mean she's twenty and lived with her parents. Shit! She told me her daughter wouldn't just stay out all night.”

“No one would have handled the call any differently given the circumstances. In fact, you read the situation well to even issue the APB.” Sloan moves on quickly. “Where's the missing persons report at now?”

“I presume it's in the Missing Persons Unit's queue.” He swallows loudly.

“Okay, thanks. I'll let them know. You followed procedure, it's just this was the one in a thousand.”

Sunday, 2:00 p.m.

L
ike Sherry Taylor, Desiree Jones lives with affluent parents in Brentwood. The house is significantly smaller, but in a much more ornate, almost Tuscan-villa style with wrought-iron window fittings and bright ceramic patterned tiles running beneath each window. While set back from the road and with a tall fence, the property doesn't have a security gate.

An older Mexican woman answers the door.

“Hola.”
Sloan smiles.

“Hola.”

In my eight months in California, I've noticed the influence of the Latino culture on the city. With over twenty-eight percent of the population Latino, guess I'd better learn a few words in Spanish.

Sloan flashes her badge. “We're here to see Desiree Jones.”

“
Sí.
Come in.” She looks concerned, but also curious, and I wonder if Desiree and her family have been contacted by the Taylors. When we left them fifteen minutes ago they hadn't told their other daughter about Sherry's
death, so I doubt Desiree knows. Still, she likely knows Sherry's parents were concerned about her.

The woman beckons us inside and takes us through to the first door on the left. Unlike the Taylors', this house has more traditional rooms—one door in and out.

“Coffee? A cold drink?”

Sloan and I both accept the offer of a coffee and a couple of minutes later Desiree and her mother appear at the doorway. Mrs. Jones is a tall, striking African-American woman and while Desiree has inherited her mother's beauty, she's more than a head shorter.

Sloan does the introductions and Mrs. Jones and Desiree both look uncertain rather than devastated. This is definitely a death knock. I've made my fair share of them working homicide in Melbourne, but it doesn't get any easier. How do you prepare someone for this type of news?

“Have you found Sherry?” Mrs. Jones asks.

“You haven't spoken to the Taylors today, ma'am?” Sloan confirms.

“No. Is…is everything okay?”

“I'm afraid we've got some bad news…”

“Yes?” Mrs. Jones wraps her arms around her daughter.

Sloan takes a breath. “Sherry Taylor was found murdered this morning in Temescal Gateway Park.”

Desiree immediately bursts into tears and turns to bury her face into her mother's chest.

Mrs. Jones pulls her daughter closer and strokes her hair. “No, that's not possible.” She bites her lip. “Are you sure it was Sherry?”

“Mr. Taylor is making the formal identification at three, but I'm afraid we're quite certain it's her. I'm sorry.”

The maid enters, with a tray in hand. She immediately
parks the tray on the coffee table and speaks in rapid Spanish to Mrs. Jones.

“It's Sherry, Gabriella. She's…dead. Murdered.”

Gabriella responds in Spanish and makes the sign of the cross before moving to Desiree and stroking her cheek gently. She's obviously close to the family, close to Desiree.

Desiree manages to speak. “How…how was she killed?” She turns around.

“We're still waiting for an official cause of death from the coroner.”

While the statement is true, Sloan is purposefully leaving out the details of blood loss and puncture marks.

“Was she…” Desiree takes an audible gulp. “Was she raped?”

“Again, we're not able to say conclusively at this stage.”

We sit out the silence until Desiree and her mum both manage to sit down.

“Please, your coffees.” Mrs. Jones motions to the tray. A good host, even in distressing times.

“I'm sorry we have to give you this news.” I sit down. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

They both nod and after several seconds of silence Mrs. Jones motions to the coffee again.

I take a cup and add a generous amount of milk. “How long have you known Sherry, Desiree?”

“We met in middle school.” She bites her middle fingernail. “At Edna Hill Middle School. And we've been best friends ever since.”

“How often did you see her?” Sloan scoots back on the couch and takes a sip of the coffee she's just poured.

“Pretty much every day.”

“The girls were inseparable. They were either over here with me or at the Taylors' with Mandy most days. Plus the girls are at college together, too.”

“UCLA?”

“Yes.” Desiree nods her head, but she's barely present in the conversation. “We're both studying theater…acting.”

Mrs. Jones bites her lip. “I can't believe…can't believe she's gone. She was such an amazing young woman. Vivacious, kind, charismatic.” She gives Desiree a squeeze.

“When did you last see Sherry?” I ask Desiree.

“Friday afternoon.”

“You didn't see her last night?”

“Desiree was here.” Mrs. Jones shakes her head. “My husband just got back from a one-week business trip and I wanted the family to be together. Maybe if I hadn't insisted…”

Desiree puts her hand on her mother's knee. “Mom, Sherry didn't ask me to go out with her or anything.”

Mrs. Jones nods and strokes her daughter's cheek.

“So, what did you do Friday?” I ask.

Desiree rests her elbow on the couch arm, moving closer to her mother, who's sitting on the arm with her hand resting on Desiree's shoulder. “We met at UCLA and rehearsed for a performance we've got coming up. After that we went for a bite to eat at Noah's and then came back here and hung out for a bit.”

I nod. There's a Noah's Bagels in Westwood Village, close to both UCLA and the FBI building. On the odd occasion that I go there for a bagel, the place is packed with students. “What time did she leave here?”

“About eight.”

“And what about last night?” Sloan takes a sip of her coffee. “Sherry went out…do you know where? Or who with?”

“She had a date.”

“What?” There's a hint of annoyance in Sloan's voice. “Did you tell Mr. and Mrs. Taylor this?”

Desiree hangs her head. “No. Sherry swore me to
secrecy. Told me it was someone new and it was just a date.”

“Honey, why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell Mandy and Brian when they called this morning?” Mrs. Jones stands up and starts pacing.

I keep my voice even so Desiree doesn't have all three of us coming down on her. “Do you know who the date was with?”

“No. It was some guy she met recently.”

“Where did she meet him?”

Desiree lets out a tearful sigh. “I'm sorry, I don't know. She wouldn't tell me.” She looks up at her mum. “I'm sorry, Mom.”

“But she didn't come home, Desiree. What were you thinking?”

Desiree bursts into tears. “I thought she must have stayed over at this guy's house, and I couldn't tell her parents that….” She takes a gasping breath between sobs. “And…now…Sherry's…dead.”

Mrs. Jones lets out an exasperated sigh but then kneels down next to her daughter, holding her hand. “It's all right, honey. You weren't to know.”

“And the Taylors called you at seven-thirty this morning?” Sloan asks.

The phone call must have been part of the missing persons report, because it's not something we discussed with the Taylors.

“Yes. But it was so early. If she'd stayed the night with this guy…”

It's fair enough. A Saturday-night date could easily run into the early hours of the morning.

“So you weren't worried when her parents told you they couldn't get her on her cell?” Sloan crosses her legs.

“No.” Desiree sweeps a chunk of hair off her face and
tucks it behind her ear. “I figured she forgot to charge her cell or turned it off for, you know, privacy.”

There's something Desiree's not telling us and I don't know if she's hiding it from her mum or from us. I contemplate the direct approach. I could just ask Mrs. Jones to leave the room, tell her I want to talk to her daughter alone. But it may backfire and make Desiree clam up.

“Do you know if this guy went to UCLA?” Sloan asks.

“I don't think so.”

I lean forward. “Did you ever see him?”

Again she shakes her head. “I'm sorry.”

The two girls seemed to tell each other everything, so it's unlikely that Sherry would hide a date from Desiree without good reason. A married man, perhaps? Or someone from the Goth world that Sherry was hiding from her friends and family.

I take out my card. “If you can think of anything else, Desiree, about Sherry or her mystery date, please call us. It's very important.”

Sloan and I offer our condolences again and thank Mrs. Jones for her hospitality before heading back to the street and my car.

“She's hiding something,” I say to Sloan once we're inside.

“Agreed. But what? And is it something that could get Sherry killed?”

Sunday, 3:30 p.m.

Todd Fischer lives with his mum in E 219th Street, Merit-Carson. Their small house is nestled between two much larger and newer properties. And while the houses on either side show off new paint jobs, new roofs and are both double-story, the Fischer residence is single-story with a pebble-mix finish that was once perhaps a high
contrast of white, black and gray stones, but is now decidedly gray all over. The red tiled roof is in need of repair; however, the small front garden is neat and well kept. The house is very different from the Taylor residence.

I look at the house. “I wonder how Todd and Sherry met. Doesn't seem to me like they'd move in the same circles.”

“No.” Sloan gets out of the car and pulls down her suit jacket, which has ridden up. “Do you think he knows?”

“Not unless the Taylors have started the ring-around. Or got someone else to start it.”

Sloan moves to my side of the car. “Let's have a chat before we tell him then, huh?”

I nod, but feel a little torn. If Todd is our man, it makes sense to hold back and see if he hangs himself. An innocent man wouldn't know Sherry was dead, and wouldn't hide anything. At the same time, if he
is
in the clear, it's pretty cruel to question him for God knows how long without telling him his ex-girlfriend's dead. Still, it goes with the territory. Our duty is to Sherry Taylor.

We cross the road and knock on the door. After a minute or so a woman in her forties, dressed like she's twenty, answers.

“Yeah?” She chews gum loudly.

We take out our ID and identify ourselves.

She narrows her eyes. “What do you want?” There's a hint of both annoyance and concern in her voice.

“We'd like to talk to Todd Fischer. Is he home?” Carson is a long drive if Fischer's not in, but unannounced visits are always more effective in this game.

“Todd!” the woman yells without moving farther into the house.

After a few seconds with no response she yells again. “Todd! Get your ass down here.”

Heavy footsteps sound above us, moving toward the
stairs. “Mom, I told you not to disturb me.” Todd's feet appear on the steps. “What is it?”

“Cops are here to see you.”

“Oh… Okay.” He doesn't seem surprised.

Once he's halfway down the stairs he comes into full view. Todd Fischer is about six-one, tall and lanky, with black hair and pale skin that looks paler against his red lips and rosy cheeks.

“Is this about Sherry?” He moves off the stairs and toward us.

His mother turns to him. “Told you no good would come out of dating some rich bitch.”

He gives his mother a scathing look. “Give it a rest, Mom.”

“Whatever.” She pops the gum in her mouth.

He turns back to us, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “She's really missing then?”

We don't have a chance to answer before his mum blurts, “You don't have to talk to them, Todd.”

“I'll handle this, Mom. You go back to…whatever you were doing.”

She gives us a sneer. “Whatever.” She chews her gum noisily and moves off to the left and the background hum of a TV set.

“We can talk in the kitchen.” Todd leads us in the opposite direction, through an extremely messy room that is presumably the dining area but is sparsely furnished and covered in old newspapers and bric-a-brac.

Following him through a swinging door, we move into a seventies-style kitchen. The decor is red and white, which makes it look almost retro rather than dated. A splash of paint and new appliances and it could look good. Certainly a few less dishes in the sink would help.

Todd looks around and sighs. “Sorry about the mess.” He shakes his head. “Can I get you a drink? Coffee?”

At the rate we're going, I'll be getting the caffeine shakes soon.

“Sure,” I say politely.

Todd flicks on the kettle and then starts opening cupboards, obviously searching for clean cups. “I can't believe Sherry's really missing.”

“Have you spoken to the Taylors recently?” Sloan takes a seat at the kitchen table. The chairs are metal-framed with patterned vinyl for your butt and a curved, thin backrest. They remind me of our kitchen set during my childhood. But ours was brand-new, and the Fischers' is over thirty years old.

“They rang this morning. To see if Sherry was with me.” He takes three cups from the pile of dirty dishes, squirts dishwashing liquid into each of them and runs the hot-water tap for a minute before half filling each cup.

“When did you see her last?” Sloan asks.

He takes a dish brush to the cups. “Last night.”

Last night? Could Todd have been the mystery date? It seems unlikely Sherry would lie to her best friend if she was going out with her ex.

“The Taylors didn't know that, did they?”

He shakes his head. “Sherry doesn't want them to know.”

“Why?” Sloan leans her elbow on the table.

“She doesn't want her mom getting her hopes up.”