Sloan jumps in. “We’ve asked Agent Anderson to consult on the case. She will draft what’s called an offender profile and help us interrogate suspects. We’ll also use her expertise for our media strategy.”

“Media strategy?” Mr. Taylor seems confused.

The services a profiler offers law enforcement cover four areas—media strategy, offender profile, interrogation strategy and prosecution strategy. We may be asked to consult on all or just one of these areas.

“The way the media portrays the case may affect the killer’s behavior, and thus how we track him or her down,” I explain. “I’ll liaise with the media to help contain their reports as much as possible. Try to control how Sherry and her murder are reported to the public.”

Mrs. Taylor lets out a large sigh. “Can we just get this over with?” Her speech is slurred.

“I’m sorry. My wife’s just taken a sleeping pill.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Taylor. We understand.”

He nods, seemingly relieved that we’re not judging his wife for popping a tablet at lunchtime.

I smile at them both and try to gauge how much time we’ll get with Mrs. Taylor veering toward the incoherent. We should get at least a few minutes out of her, maybe ten.

“Can you tell us a bit about Sherry?”

He looks at a photo of her on the mantelpiece. “What do you want to know?”

“Did Sherry work?” I ask. According to Sloan there was no employer noted on the missing persons report but I’d like to confirm it with the Taylors. We need to talk to as many people who knew Sherry as possible, and place of employment is usually a good start.

“No. She was at UCLA. Drama.”

“An actress.” Sloan doesn’t seem surprised. Then again, in L.A. lots of people are hoping to become actresses, especially pretty young women like Sherry Taylor.

“That’s correct, yes. She has some talent, too.” Mr. Taylor has none of the usual parental bragging in his voice. He seems detached, more like he’s making a professional observation.

“You’re in the industry?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m the lead writer and producer on Stars Like Us.”

Impressive…I don’t watch much TV, but I know the half-hour sitcom is doing very well in the ratings and I see billboards for it everywhere.

“So Sherry grew up with it. I presume she’s already appeared on TV?” Sloan still hasn’t taken out her notebook. I doubt she’s relying on my notes so she must have a superb memory.

“No.” Mrs. Taylor’s voice floats. “Brian won’t let either of the girls act until they’ve finished college.” It’s hard to tell from Mrs. Taylor’s tone if she has any strong feelings about her husband’s rule. Perhaps there’s a slight exasperation in her voice.

“I’ve seen what acting does to children…adolescents. Especially girls. And that’s not what I wanted for Sherry or Misha.”

College isn’t exactly the most wholesome environment, either, but I keep my mouth shut. Mr. Taylor doesn’t strike me as particularly strict, certainly not authoritarian, so I’m guessing this was one of his few rules—something he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, bend on.

“She was only a couple of months away…from finishing college and being able to fulfill her dream.” Silent tears fall down Mrs. Taylor’s cheeks. Before the sleeping tablet they probably would have been hysterical tears but now they’re masked by medication and numbness. She’s been beaten—by life, by God, by whatever you believe in. Although I try not to, I can’t help but think of my mother. Even though I was nine years old, I don’t remember the day they told us that my brother John’s body had been found. It was a year after his disappearance and I already knew he was dead anyway…I saw it in a nightmare. But I have managed to block the death knock from my memory.

“What about Misha? How old is she?”

Sloan’s question brings me back to the present.

“She’s eighteen.” Mr. Taylor rests his hand on his wife’s knee. “There’s only nineteen months between the girls.” He stands up and takes the photo he looked at earlier from the mantelpiece. “This was taken at Christmas.” He hands it to Sloan.

The family sits around a table, with a turkey in the center. I also notice a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal in an ice bucket, and that Sherry has on full makeup and nail polish.

“Just the four of you?” I ask.

“Yes.” Mr. Taylor nods. “I’m an only child and my parents are both dead, and Mandy’s parents spend Thanksgiving with us and Christmas with Mandy’s brother in New York.”

I take another look at the photo. “Sherry lived here with you, correct?”

“Yes. She would have loved to live on campus, but I didn’t see the point…not when UCLA is a five-minute drive.”

“And Misha?” Sloan passes the photo back to Mr. Taylor.

“Misha’s studying music…in New York.” He stares at the photo.

“I see.”

“Have you told her yet?” Sloan asks softly.

The question brings another onslaught of tears from Mrs. Taylor, and this time not even the medication can control them. “I can’t…I can’t do it.”

“We can’t wait any longer, Mandy.” Mr. Taylor turns to us. “I was just about to call Misha when you arrived.”

“Without me?” Mrs. Taylor stands up and pulls at her hair with one hand. “How could you?”

“We have to tell her.” Taylor’s voice is soft.

Mrs. Taylor hesitates for a moment before sinking back into the couch and holding her head in her hands. “Maybe you’re right. She has to know, and Lord knows I can’t bring myself to say those words.”

We’re all silent for a few beats.

“It’s not going to be on the news or anything, is it?” Mr. Taylor gently places the photo back on the mantelpiece. “Misha can’t find out like that.”

Sloan shakes her head. “Not Sherry’s name, no. We won’t release those details until you’ve made a formal identification at the coroner’s office.” She pauses. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

“No, I need to see her as soon as possible.” He’s still looking at the Christmas photo. “Need to see my baby to believe it’s really her.”

We nod, and Sloan says, “I understand.”

Silence again.

“Sherry…” I pause. “Was she outgoing? Shy?”

“More outgoing, I guess. She certainly had a lot of friends.”

“She was an extrovert.” Mrs. Taylor looks up. “She drew people to her and was loved by everyone. Sherry and her friends often spent time over here—I always opened our house to them.”

“Did she have a best friend? Someone she was particularly close to?”

“Desiree Jones. They’ve known each other since high school. Both charming, social girls.”

“We’d like her details. And the contact details of anyone else close to Sherry.”

Mrs. Taylor manages to stand up. “Of course. I’ll get my address book.” She strides out of the room, but I can tell the deliberate movement and poise take her full concentration.

When she returns, she reads out a few names and we take down the details.

“Anyone else? Perhaps that you don’t have contact details for?”

“I know all Sherry’s friends. Sherry and I are very close.”

I haven’t decided yet if Mandy Taylor is a more open, progressive mum, or if she’s one of those mums who live their lives through their children. Could be she had to be part of Sherry’s social life, almost think of Sherry’s friends as her friends.

“What about a boyfriend? Was she seeing anyone?” Sloan asks.

“No.” Mrs. Taylor fiddles with her address book, which now sits closed on her lap. “She dated Todd Fischer for three years, but they split up just before Christmas.”

Sloan leans on the couch’s arm. “She still in contact with him?”

“No. It was a clean break.”

“You know who broke it off?”

“She did. Told me it just didn’t feel right anymore.”

“Anyone new on the scene?” Sloan asks.

“No.”

“But she wouldn’t bring a new guy home to meet the folks. Not if she’d only been with him a few weeks,” Sloan says.

Mrs. Taylor’s eyes move slowly from Sloan to me. “Maybe not. But she would have told her mom.” She takes a few quick breaths, holding back tears. “I told the police officer when I reported her missing this morning that something was wrong, seriously wrong. My baby girl wouldn’t just not come home one night. But he didn’t take me seriously.” The tears come again.

“There was an APB put out for Sherry and her car. He certainly did take you seriously, Mrs. Taylor.” Sloan’s voice is soft.

Mr. Taylor looks at his wife, then back at Sloan. “Why weren’t you out there, looking for her?”

“We were, Mr. Taylor.” Sloan edges forward on the couch. “The APB meant that every LAPD officer on the street was on the lookout for Sherry and her car.”

While that’s true, in reality there would have been several APBs out during any one shift, and one for a missing twenty-year-old girl wouldn’t have taken priority. The LAPD would have been too busy with shootings, rapes, active arrest warrants, drugs and their normal urgent duties. In fact, the Taylors were lucky to get an APB at all. A twenty-year-old on a Friday or Saturday night with no evidence of foul play…no police department in the world was going to be genuinely concerned. And 99.9 times out of 100 they’d be right.

“It was the APB that allowed us to identify the victim as Sherry so quickly,” Sloan continues.

After a few minutes of silence I try to move us on. “Did Sherry have any new friends that you met or that she spoke about?”

Mrs. Taylor looks up and shakes her head. “No.”

“Any changes in her behavior?”

“Not that I noticed.” Mr. Taylor looks to his wife for confirmation. Maybe he’s an absent daddy—too busy at the office to get to know his kids. Not that unusual.

“She was her normal happy self. Looking forward to finishing college, spending the summer in Europe and then coming back to break into the acting business. She had it all ahead of her.” A few more sobs escape from Mrs. Taylor. “She was really happy.” The last sentence is particularly slurred, perhaps from the sedatives kicking in or perhaps from grief. Either way, our time with Mrs. Taylor is coming to an end.

“Just a few more questions now,” Sloan reassures.

“Was Sherry part of the Goth subculture?” I ask. “Interested in that scene at all?”

“No.” Mr. Taylor manages an amused snort. “She was into designer labels…and I’ve got the credit card bills to prove it.”

“What about her friends? Anyone she knows a Goth?”

“No.” Mrs. Taylor’s brow furrows. “What’s this got to do with Sherry or…what happened?”

“It’s just a line of inquiry we’re pursuing.” Sloan clasps her hands together.

Mr. Taylor sits next to his wife again. “Do you suspect someone? Someone from this group?” He says it with distaste.

“We’re not sure at this stage. As soon as we have more, I’ll let you know, I promise.” Sloan’s voice is casual, almost dismissive.

“What about makeup? Did Sherry usually wear much of it?”

Mrs. Taylor shrugs. “Just the normal amount for her age. Base and a bit of lipstick during the day, and if she was going out at night she’d wear eye makeup, too.”

I nod. “And what about her nails?” Judging from the photos I’ve seen at the house, I can easily envisage Sherry as a regular for manicures and pedicures.

Mrs. Taylor confirms my suspicions, telling me her daughter nearly always wore polish on both hands and feet.

“Do you happen to recall if she was wearing any last night?”

“Um…” Mrs. Taylor stares at her lap. “I’m not sure…I can’t remember.”

“That’s okay.” I put my hand out to her, even though I’m not within reach. “There is one other thing, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor.”

They both look at me.

“I’d like to see Sherry’s room. It’ll help me get a better understanding of your daughter.”

Mr. Taylor stands up. “Of course.” He looks at his wife. “You wait here, honey.”

Good call—I’m not sure Mrs. Taylor could cope with being in the girl’s room at the moment.

We follow Mr. Taylor back toward the front door and then up the stairs. The second story of the house is decorated in a similar fashion to downstairs, although carpets and a few paintings give it a homier feel. Taylor leads us into a bedroom toward the back of the house.

“This is Sherry’s room.” He looks into the room but then looks away. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait with my wife.”

Sloan gives him a small smile. “Sure. And don’t worry…we’ll be very careful in here.”

“Thank you.”

Once Taylor’s gone, Sloan and I start snooping.

Sherry’s bedroom is covered in posters, with one wall dedicated to photos of Sherry and her friends and family. The room looks busy and lived-in, but still tidy.

Sloan studies the posters and photos. “Nothing Goth-looking.”

“No.” I move over to Sherry’s desk. “We should get some computer techs onto this.” I glance at Sherry’s laptop, which is plugged in but switched off.

“I’ll log a request this afternoon.”

A glance at the bookshelf reveals that Sherry is into mostly fantasy and sci-fi, but there are also a couple of paranormal titles on the shelves. A closer look reveals two books set in the vampire world.

“Check this out.” I hand Sloan a copy of Kerri Arthur’s Full Moon Rising. “Maybe Sherry was secretly part of the Goth world.”

Sloan reads the back of the book. “Doesn’t mean a thing, Anderson. Vampire fiction is in. And Sesame Street, remember? You said it yourself.”

Sloan’s right, but it’s still interesting that we found something from the vampire world in Sherry’s room. I make a move for her wardrobe. If Sherry was involved in the scene, she’d have to keep her clothes somewhere. I flick through the hangers, but find nothing except top-line designer clothes of the commercial variety. “Nothing in here.”

Sloan pulls out the second-last drawer of Sherry’s chest of drawers. “I haven’t found anything yet, either.”

I look around the room, soaking it in, while Sloan finishes going through the drawers.

“Nope.” She closes the bottom drawer. “Nothing unusual, and no Goth, either.”

I sigh. “And nothing else that gives us an idea of how Sherry might have wound up at Temescal Gateway Park last night.”

“No.” Sloan leans on the chest of drawers for a moment, also looking around. After a few seconds she says, “Guess we’re done here, at least for the moment.”

“Yeah. Do you mind if I soak up the atmosphere for another couple of minutes? I’ll join you in a sec.”

“You gonna get into her head?” Sloan gives me a slightly teasing smile.

“Something like that.”

“Good luck.” She moves toward the door. “I’ll let the Taylors know not to touch Sherry’s laptop and that someone will come by in the next day or two to pick it up.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

Profilers always try to walk in the victim’s and killer’s shoes, but obviously for me I want time alone to try to induce a vision. I had my first experience of seeing something that was about to happen when I was eight, but then this ability of mine went underground…until I was working the D.C. Slasher case nearly two years ago. Since then it’s been a bumpy road, fueled first by my own denial and then my acceptance. I can nearly always induce something, but the usefulness of what I see is often questionable. Like Sherry sneaking home one night—every young woman’s done that. Still, I always use my gift on a case and sometimes it does help.

Sitting on Sherry’s bed and staring at the collage of photos on her wall, I’m conscious that I don’t want to be long, but I try to push that sense of hurriedness away. Instead I take long and deep breaths, close my eyes and concentrate on relaxing.

I’m tired and my vision is blurred. People gather around me, but I can’t make out any faces…everything is so hazy. There’s a voice, a deep voice, but I can no longer focus on the words.

The vision is brief, but the sense of wooziness makes me wonder if Sherry was drugged. The routine tox screen will answer that question. However, there was nothing in the vision that indicates time. While it may be related to her murder or the unaccounted hours prior, it could also be something entirely different. Maybe she took some recreational drugs at a party weeks, months or years ago and for some reason I tuned into that. Plus, there’s nothing that can definitively tell me this vision was necessarily about Sherry. Logic suggests that it was—I am in her room, after all—but I’ve learned over the past couple of years not to take anything for granted when it comes to my visions.

I head back downstairs, not entirely sure how long they may have been waiting for me. Usually the length of my vision is in line with how long I’m “out” for, but sometimes it can take me several minutes to experience a ten-second flash.

As I’m coming down the stairs I hear Mr. Taylor saying, “I’d like to go now.”

When he comes into view, I can tell by his slight rocking motion that he’s agitated; he shifts his weight from side to side. Sloan’s card is in his hand.

“Of course, Mr. Taylor. Whatever you’d like.”

He takes a deep breath. “But I need to ring Mish first.”

“The coroner’s office is on Mission Street and me or my partner will meet you there, but it may be best if you don’t drive.”

“I haven’t…I haven’t taken anything, Detective.”

“I know, sir.” Sloan puts a hand on his shoulder. “But you’re not yourself…no one can be under these circumstances. Most people get someone to drive them.” Again, Sloan pulls together just the right tone of voice—sympathetic yet somehow commanding. “How’s 3:00 p.m.? That’ll give you time to call Misha.”

He nods and takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”

On the way back to the car, Sloan says to me, “Mom’s real confident she knows her girl’s social life.”

“Yes. But it’ll be interesting to speak to Sherry’s friends, especially the best friend.”

Sloan nods. “And you think the makeup and nail polish thing is significant?”

“Maybe. It could tie in with the human sacrifice theory—perhaps our perps felt the need to cleanse her as part of the ritual.”

“And if it’s not a sacrificial death?”

I shrug. “If the killer removed the polish and make up, could be he wanted his victim to look more natural for some reason, or it could even be a sign of remorse.”

“Remorse?”

“It’s possible he felt guilty and needed to care for the body in some way.”

Sloan’s brow crinkles. “Guess I can see that.” She pauses. “You said if the killer did it…who else could have removed the polish and makeup?”

“Sherry. She may have been a willing participant…up to a point.”

Sloan nods and punches a number into her mobile phone. “How’s it going there? Uh-huh…yup. We’ve just finished with the Taylors. Can you meet Mr. Taylor at the coroner’s office to identify the body at 3:00 p.m.? Great. Thanks.”

“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.

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