“Tell the officers I’ll be outside in five minutes.”
CHAPTER TWO
The wind was biting.
Even with the helicopter doors closed and her thick jacket, Jessie feltchilled as they tore through the air, a few thousand feet above the PacificOcean. It didn’t take long to see the twinkling lights of Avalon, the only townof note on tourist-centric Catalina Island.
As the copter approached the heliport, she hoped that her assigned liaison,Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department Detective Colby Peters, could offer moredetails than Captain Decker had. All he knew was that a female guest at a ritzyhotel had been found naked in bed, with a knife in her chest.
The copter began its descent, zipping past the island’s most iconic landmark,the Catalina Casino, a massive, oceanfront structure that had never actuallyallowed gambling but had been employed as an elaborate theater and event venuesince 1929. Jessie remembered taking a tour of the ornate, Art Deco building onher one visit to the island, back when she and Kyle were dating, long beforeshe knew her future husband was a murderous sociopath.
The helicopter passed over Avalon Bay, high enough to avoid waking thepeople sleeping in the fancy yachts below, before hovering over the helipad andgently touching down. As the rotor slowed, Jessie saw a man in a jacketemblazoned with the sheriff’s department logo wave at her from a safe distance.She waved back, waiting for the blades to come to a full stop. When they did,the pilot opened the door, gave her the backpack she’d brought along, andpointed her to the man she assumed was Colby Peters.
She zipped her jacket up to her neck in a likely fruitless attempt to staveoff the bitter, middle-of-the-night January cold on an exposed island. As shewalked over, she saw that Peters was better prepared for the elements. His puffyjacket looked cozy and he had on gloves and a watch cap on under his sheriff’scap. She’d never met the guy but the scowl on his face suggested that he wasn’texactly enthused to be assigned to this job.
“Deputy Peters?” she asked when she was close enough to be heard overthe nearby crashing waves.
“Detective Peters,” he corrected sharply. “I assume you’re Hunt?”
“Call me Jessie,” she said, hoping to get off on the right foot.
“Let me fill you in on what we’ve got,” he replied, not making the sameoffer to go by first names as he motioned for him to join her.
He moved over to a golf cart parked on the sidewalk and indicated forJessie to get in the passenger seat. She’d forgotten that there was a strictlimit on both the size and number of cars allowed on the island and that manyfolks got around in these carts. She’d thought it was charming on her previousvisit, but tonight she longed for an enclosed vehicle. Peters, who appearedoblivious, launched in.
“The victim is Gabrielle Crewe, age thirty-three. She was found in hersuite at the Paragon Hotel, where she was staying with her husband, Steve, and somefriends. They were on a group weekend outing. The body was discovered by one ofthem, Melissa Ferro, whose suite was next door. Ferro said the door wasslightly open. A room service waiter secured the suite until we got there. Thehusband was in the bar at the time. Before he lost it completely, I got him tolook around the suite. It doesn’t seem anything was stolen.”
“When was she found?” Jessie asked as Peters tore down the narrowstreet, populated by closed shops and open bars, occasionally weaving to avoida drunk reveler on the main drag that ran alongside the harbor front.
“The call to the station came in at eleven twenty-four p.m. We’re onlya three-minute drive away. When we entered the room at eleven thirty-one,pallor mortis had just started to set in. I doubt she’d been dead more than ahalf hour at that point.”
They veered off the main drag and headed inland. Without the lights ofa major street, the island was draped in darkness. Jessie didn’t know howPeters could see where he was going. He made a sharp right turn and then a leftbefore hitting another straightaway. In the distance, Jessie saw a large complexthat she assumed was the Paragon Hotel. When Peters pulled into the drivewayand hit the brakes hard, she knew she was right.
From the outside, the place had the look of a New Orleans FrenchQuarter hotel, covered in ornate grillwork designs, with long, narrow balconieson all the upper floors that ran the length of the building and were adornedwith hanging plants and planter boxes full of flowers.
“We’re here,” he said, hopping out. “How do you want do proceed?”
“Where’s the body?” Jessie asked him.
“She’s waiting for you in the room,” he replied. “Do you want to see herfirst or talk to witnesses?”
“Depends,” she told him. “Are the witnesses all being held separatelyfrom each other?”
“All the potential witnesses and friends are away from the other hotel guestsin a ballroom with hotel security but they’re not being kept apart from eachother.”
Jessie didn’t love that. The more these people interacted, the lessdistinct their recollections would get. It might also allow a suspect to gleaninformation he or she shouldn’t have.
“Let’s deal with them first and then check out the body. We can returnto do full interviews afterward. Lead the way.”
Peters marched through the lobby, unconcerned whether Jessie waskeeping up. As they hurried through the cavernous central lounge, she triedtake in her surroundings. To her surprise, it didn’t match the exterior at all,instead going for more of a Polynesian look.
The ceiling had exposed dark wood beams, separated by what she appearedto be a faux-thatched roof. Multiple fans hung low, though they were unmovingconsidering the season. All the furniture was wooden and seemingly hand-carved.The floor was comprised of a composite meant to look like stone pavers. Theywalked up the stairs to the second floor, where a scared-looking young manstood outside a large, closed door.
“This is Tommy,” Peters said. “He’s a bellman here and graciouslyoffered to make sure no one entered or left the ballroom other than forrestroom visits. Tommy, this is Jessie Hunt. She’s a fancy LAPD profiler, herefrom the mainland to offer her
