“Any news from the crime scene?” I unlock the car while Sloan walks around to the passenger side.
“Not really. Body was only released an hour ago.” She opens the door and we both climb in together before she continues. “Photographs are complete but the Forensics guys are still looking over the area. And they’re still casting and cataloging the footprints.”
“I wonder if we’ll have a better idea of how many people were involved in Sherry’s death once they’re done.” I start the car, unsure where we’re going next.
“I’m not hopeful. The ranger said that most walkers take the detour for the view, which means a lot of non-relevant data.”
“But did our perps know that?” I pause. “They certainly didn’t try to hide the body.”
“True.”
We’re both silent, focused on the evidence.
“So where to?” I ask. “The ex-boyfriend.”
“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.”
Three
Sunday, 2:00 p.m.
Like 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.