The Perfect Look, page 15
And then, one crisp November evening, she must have hit her limit. Maybe Daniel Beane made her do something her stepfather had. Maybe he made her do something she’d done a hundred times before. Maybe he threatened her life. Whatever he did, it was clearly the last straw. The remnants of Daniel Beane’s spongy, butchered face were proof of that.
How must that have felt, after so many years without any power, to finally be the one in control? Surely it was a rush to get payback against someone who’d treated her like an object to be used. It was almost certainly a feeling she’d want to recreate.
And since her job repeatedly put her in a position where she had to attend to the basest desires of men who had no respect for her, it must have been a constant itch, one that she eventually decided to scratch again with Dr. Harvey Kostner.
Only this time she was prepared. This time she planned it out. Had she gotten the sedative from Kostner, a doctor with a reputation as a drunk, and one who had been accused of selling prescriptions, though he was never formally charged? It seemed plausible.
And once her plan worked with him, it made sense that she would leave town. It was simply too risky to stay in a city where she might bump into someone she knew. Everyone assumed Alexis Cutter was dead. If they learned otherwise, people might start asking questions. And her burgeoning obsession depended on being the kind of person no one asked questions about.
So she must have fled to Los Angeles, where she kept a low profile for several months, figuring out how the city’s sex business worked and where she could fit in without rocking the boat. Apparently she determined that the downtown scene best met her needs.
So very recently, as she was a new face to local bartenders, she would have started working the local upscale hotels. And after a stretch during which she’d managed to hold out on feeding her thirst for vengeance, she had picked up where she left off in Las Vegas.
She was punishing the kinds of men who had hurt and abused her. All of them were powerful men who didn’t care about the people they used: a slimy banker, a shady doctor, a corrupt politician, a lecherous agent—all of them users, all potential abusers.
Of course there was one supposed victim who didn’t fit the profile—the computer programmer from Redlands. He was none of those things, at least not on the surface. Jessie started to ponder how he might be connected when another idea invaded her thoughts.
“She’s not going to stop,” she said, more to herself than Ryan.
“What?” he asked.
“Alexis is a planner. But last night was much more slapdash than her first LA kill. Unlike with Gordon Maines, she murdered the agent in the same hotel where she met him. I think she’s losing her ability to be methodical and patient. She’s developing a tolerance for the high she gets from the kills because it’ll never be enough. As long as her stepfather still haunts her, she’ll never be able to stop. Each new kill is an opportunity to punish him by proxy, to make him suffer through their torment.”
“Okay,” Ryan said. “So what does that mean? That she’s going after her stepfather next? You think she’s gone back to Vegas?”
“She can’t. He’s in jail awaiting trial. I guarantee you she knows that. Otherwise I’m sure she would have gone after him by now. It must be infuriating that he’s out of her grasp. I think that’s why this is escalating. She’s pouring her fury into these other men. And no amount of strangling is going to fill the emptiness she feels. She’s not going to stop until she’s caught or killed. And I’m worried about something else too.”
“Like that’s not enough?” Ryan said. “What else could there be?”
“I’m worried that she’s so far gone now, she won’t just try to hunt down some scumbag. She might just pick the first guy she can find, no matter how innocent he is.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Alex loved Hollywood.
Something about the old-world glamour of the town appealed to her, even if it was sometimes hard to find it these days amid all the multiplexes and strip malls.
She loved having dates take her to places like Musso & Frank Grill, the 100-year-old steakhouse where the waiters still wore tuxedos; or the Magic Castle, the slightly cheesy but still enthralling Hollywood Hills establishment that only allowed entry (through a hidden door) to professional magician club members and their guests. She was a sucker for all of it, especially the stuff that reminded her of those classic black-and-white movies. It was nothing like the permanent neon glow that lit the Vegas nightscape.
That’s why she was so excited that the next Reckoning, her final one in Los Angeles, would take place here at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. It was only eight miles away from downtown, but it was a universe away from the sleek, modern towers that dotted the skyline.
The legend was that the ghost of Montgomery Clift haunted a room on the ninth floor. She was tempted to ask her next mark to request it specifically. But it was almost certainly already booked. Besides, that kind of request draws attention, which makes people like front desk clerks remember the requester. That was counterproductive.
She sat at the bar, Teddy’s, and, as was her habit, gave herself a quick once-over in the closest mirror. Everything was in place. Her blue cocktail dress not only matched her eyes, it popped nicely against her flowing red hair. Her creamy silk scarf covered her shoulders against the surprising chill in the air. She settled in. It was 9:06 p.m.—prime hunting time. Her prey would be arriving soon.
*
Jessie was starting to doubt herself.
They’d been at it for hours. It was after nine and still nothing. Not a single hit at any of the apartment buildings or hotels they’d checked.
She’d been sure that Alex would have set up home base at a cheap place in the downtown area, one that was within walking distance of most of the hotels she frequented. But it also had to accept cash and not require ID, which would be priorities for a woman trying to stay off the grid.
Unfortunately, it became clear after about an hour of making calls that no one who ran these places was going to volunteer that they operated that way. This had to be an in-person undertaking. So Ryan and Jessie, along with four uniformed officers, were canvassing the neighborhood, visiting every shady residential option within the general vicinity of the hotels Alex had visited.
Jessie, after some prodding from Ryan, had even reluctantly relented and agreed to tell Agents Mosely and Peretti about Alex’s identity so they could enlist the bureau’s resources. Her concern that they would bungle the case and let Alex escape was outweighed by the realization that they needed all the help they could get. Still, she told the uniformed officers that if they uncovered anything suspicious, to contact her or Ryan on a private channel.
Around 9:15, just as Jessie felt a blister pop on her throbbing left pinkie toe, they got a call. Officer Beatty, getting a break from condo security duty, was at the Central Arms, a weekly hotel just off Pershing Square, only blocks from the Biltmore Hotel where Alex had met up with Gordon Maines. According to him, the night manager was being “especially squirrelly” in answering questions.
“We’ll be there in two minutes,” Ryan said.
It actually took closer to six because Jessie was limping slowly on her swollen, hobbled feet. When they arrived at the Central Arms, a narrow, shabby building squished between a warehouse and an Army surplus store, Jessie felt a glimmer of hope. This was exactly the kind of easy-to-miss, hard-to-like place that someone looking for anonymity might embrace.
They walked in, where Officer Beatty was sitting exhaustedly on a wooden bench across from the bulletproof vestibule where the manager stood defiantly. He was a swarthy man of indeterminate ethnicity. In his late thirties, with a bushy shock of blackish-gray hair and an equally unkempt beard, he looked ready for a showdown.
“What’s the story, Beatty?” Ryan asked the officer.
“He was chatty at first, all ‘how can I help you, officer.’ Then I showed him the photo of the girl and he clammed up. He didn’t definitively deny seeing her but suddenly his memory is all hazy. Won’t let me look at his hotel register. Won’t show me receipts. Nothing. All the other managers were a challenge. But he’s the first one to act this way.”
“Okay, good work,” Ryan said. “Join us at the window in case what he tells us changes from his story to you.”
They all approached the manager’s window. Jessie noticed him put his hands on the counter and press down hard. His face was set in insolence.
“This is police harassment!” he shouted in a thick but understandable accent before anyone said a word to him. “I will sue!”
Ryan looked at Jessie.
“Preference?” he asked.
Jessie looked back at the man. Though she didn’t know his background, she sensed that the best approach was to get him out of his defensive, self-righteous crouch. That meant making him feel he’d violated even his own moral code.
“I go first,” she muttered under his breath. “When he’s dismissive and condescending, you take over and send him into a shame spiral.”
“Sounds fun,” Ryan said, genuinely enthused by the prospect.
“You have a weird way of having fun, Hernandez,” she said.
“And you’re definitely the first person who’s ever told me that,” he replied snarkily. “Why don’t you get started? The clock is ticking.”
He was right. If Jessie’s theory was correct, Alex might very well strike again tonight. And they were currently right in the window of time when she seemed to hook her targets. She turned to the manager and gave him her biggest smile.
“Good evening sir,” she said, pretending he hadn’t just made shouted threats to sue. “I’m Jessie Hunt with the Los Angeles Police Department. What’s your name?”
“Omar,” he said as if it was an epithet.
“Omar, it’s great to meet you. I hope you’re having a pleasant evening.”
“Not with him around,” he said, pointing at Officer Beatty.
“Right. Well, not everybody can be best friends, I guess. But maybe we can find our way there. I understand that Officer Beatty showed you a photo of a young woman a little earlier. Is that correct?”
“I already told him. I don’t remember if I saw her. I see many people every day.”
“And I get that. You must be very busy, Omar. But surely you’d remember if someone was staying at your hotel, especially if they’d been here for more than just a night or two. If you’re good at your job, you’d have to, right?”
“What can I say?” Omar replied, shrugging. “I’m getting older. Memory’s not so great anymore.”
“Sure,” Jessie said, leaning up close and resting her elbows on the counter. “I get it. The same thing happens to me. But you saw the photo of that girl. She’s not just some random tourist. She’s beautiful. No healthy, virile man would forget a woman who looked like that. And yet, you can’t recall her?”
“Are you insulting me?” he demanded, his voice not yet a shout but heading in that direction.
“I would never do that, Omar,” she said, sounding scandalized. “I just can’t believe a man of your age would forget about a woman who looked like that. Maybe you aren’t…interested in attractive women.”
She let the suggestion hang in there, certain he’d draw the conclusion she was hinting at.
“You are insulting me,” he accused, his voice echoing through the hallway. “You come in here and say that I don’t like women. You say I am a gay!”
“I would never, Omar…” she started before he cut her off.
“Don’t talk to me. You are a disgrace. You are like a mangy dog!”
Jessie didn’t reply. Instead she clutched her hand to her chest as if she’d been cut to the quick. Ryan stepped forward, dramatically pulling her aside.
“What did you say?” he growled.
“You heard her,” Omar yelled back, though not quite as loudly as before. “She says I am not a man. It’s a disgrace.”
“You just insulted a woman, Omar,” he said loudly, squaring up. “But not just any woman—she is the law. And she’s my fiancée too! She was only asking you questions and you called her a dog. I don’t care about the picture anymore. I’m going to handle this man to man. Officer Beatty, take Ms. Hunt outside. Don’t come back in, no matter what you hear. You got it?”
“Yes sir,” Beatty said crisply, picking up on his role in the plan.
Omar’s face had gone from to defiant to terrified in a matter of seconds.
“Wait,” he said. “I didn’t know she was yours. How could I?”
Ryan continued talking to Beatty, pretending not to hear Omar’s words.
“Call for an ambulance in five minutes, but not before. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!” Beatty said, looking like he might actually salute. “Please come with me, Ms. Hunt.”
Jessie stepped toward him, trying to appear as crestfallen as possible, even wiping away an invisible tear with her sleeve.
“Wait, this isn’t needed,” Omar pleaded from behind her. “I remember her. I do. I can show you her room.”
“I don’t give a damn about that now,” Ryan snarled. “You come out from behind that window or I’ll drag you out myself.”
“Wait,” Omar screeched, now in full-on beg mode. “Let me take you to her room. I’ll show you now.”
Jessie turned around to see Ryan staring Omar down.
“Now,” he said to the man quietly.
Omar fumbled for his keys and opened the door to the vestibule.
“This way,” he said, scurrying in front of them. “And I am sorry. I was just doing my job to protect the guests here, to protect their privacy. I meant no harm.”
“Omar,” Ryan said, winking at Jessie when he was sure the manager was looking the other way. “Just shut up.”
Omar didn’t say another word.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Alex could tell he was the guy the second he walked in the bar.
She watched him in the mirror. The short, squat balding man in the fancy suit started looking around as soon as he stepped through the door. When he saw her, his eyes got that shark-like look she was so used to and he immediately came over.
“Red hair, blue dress, silk scarf—nice ensemble,” he said, not even making a pretense of introducing himself.
“Thanks,” she said, efficiently hiding the distaste she almost immediately felt toward him.
He gave off a brusque, entitled vibe that she suspected he took with him everywhere. In real life, she would avoid a man like this like the plague. But tonight, he was exactly what she was after.
“I’m Barry,” he said, sitting down on the barstool beside her without extending his hand. “What do you call yourself?”
“Nice to meet you, Barry. I’m Lexi.”
“Lexi,” he repeated. “You look lonely here all by yourself.”
“Oh, I’m not lonely,” she assured him. “Just alone. But I’m happy to have company if he’s a good conversationalist.”
“Lexi. I’ve got to be honest. I’m not in a very chatty mood tonight. I’m interested in a more…physical interaction.”
He wasn’t even attempting to play the game. This job was never a self-esteem boost but Barry had a special gift for rubbing it in. Alex felt like a slab of meat the guy was pointing out to the butcher at the grocery store.
“Wow, you’re a real charmer, Barry,” she said, deciding to rein him in a little. “What do you do?”
She could feel her pulse quickening at the possibility of taking down another asshole. But she had to be cautious. She had to be sure he wasn’t a cop. More important, she had to be sure he would be a satisfying candidate.
“Oh, I get it. You need a little warming up. Okay, I’m an executive with a film studio. I make the crappy movies you overpay to see. How’s that for conversation?”
I’m going to love taking you down.
“It’s great, Barry. That sounds really fascinating. Thanks for humoring me.”
“You bet,” he said, shifting on his stool. “So what’s it going to take for you to humor me?”
Alex stared at him. She wasn’t going to take any chances.
“You know, Barry, I hear this hotel has eight floors. Is that true?”
For a second, he looked at her like she was crazy. The hotel had twelve floors. Then he seemed to get it.
“I don’t think that’s right,” he finally replied. “I heard it was more like four floors.”
She didn’t love his attempt to haggle. Despite how deserving of a takedown he appeared to be, Barry increasingly seemed like more trouble than he was worth.
“No, I’m pretty positive it’s eight floors. A gorgeous hotel like this, so wonderfully decorated and such a pedigree, four floors seems like, well, not nearly enough.”
Barry looked her over greedily and seemed to reconsider.
“Why don’t you get yourself a drink while you ponder?” she suggested.
“I don’t drink, actually,” he said. “I like to keep my edge when I’m dealing with all my soused and coked up industry counterparts. But I might be willing to concede that this place has six floors.”
Alex glanced over at him casually. But beneath her unhurried demeanor, she did a quick calculation.
Combative. Not so taken with me that he won’t wrangle over cost. Doesn’t drink.
Despite all her instincts screaming that this jerk deserved to be ended, she had to move on. It was simply too risky. If he didn’t drink, she doubted she could easily drug him. Lorazepam had a bitter taste that was detectable in water but far less so in alcohol. And even though he was an out of shape troll, she couldn’t risk trying to take him out if he was alert.
“You know, Barry?” she said, her voice icy as she turned away from him. “I just remembered, I’m meeting a gal pal and she should be here any minute. But it was nice talking to you.”
“That’s it?” he asked incredulously.
“That’s it,” she said, not even looking at him anymore.
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