Kiss of Death

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.”

“So you get on well with the Taylors?”

“Real well. Mrs. Taylor is, was, like a mom to me. It’s been hard not seeing them for the past few months.” He takes a chair, puts it beside the counter and stands on it. Reaching into the very top cupboard he withdraws a packet of Oreos and a small plate.

“Your hiding spot?” I give him a smile.

“Uh-huh. Mom would eat them in one sitting if she knew they were here.”

“Really?” Todd’s mum is less than ten pounds overweight.

“Don’t let her fool you. She binges for a few days, then hardly eats for days on end.” He shakes his head. “It’s crazy.”

Sloan moves around, unable to get comfy in the chair. “Was last night the first time you’ve seen Sherry since you broke up?”

He gives a little snort. “Hardly. Sherry and I split up four months ago, but we’ve still been seeing each other.”

“Sexually?” Sloan’s tone is harsh.

Todd winces. “I love Sherry, Detective. And I always will.”

“Was the feeling mutual?” Sloan’s voice is softer now.

He sighs. “Not exactly.” He rinses the cups and pulls a plunger down from a high cupboard before leaning on the sink. His shoulders rise and fall in a labored breath. “She was obsessed with that professor of hers.”

“Professor?” Sloan’s voice is casual, but I know her curiosity is truly piqued—as is mine.

“Yes. She had a crush on him. It’s why she broke it off with me.” He places three scoops of coffee into the plunger and fills it with boiling water. “She said if we were meant to be together she wouldn’t have feelings for any other guy.”

“Do you know his name?”

Todd turns around. “Carrington. He’s her acting professor.” He stares at his shoes. “I guess she could be with him.”

No, she’s not with Carrington…she’s in the morgue.

So far I’m only getting a good vibe off Todd and I’m finding it hard not to tell him that Sherry’s dead.

Sloan, on the other hand, doesn’t seem bothered. “Tell us about last night. What time did you see her?”

“Late. About midnight.”

“Did you have a fight?” I ask.

“No.” He slowly pushes the plunger down. “But she was…different.” He looks up again. “She called me around midnight and she was upset.”

“Go on.”

“We arranged to meet in Santa Monica.” He pours out three cups of coffee and places them on the kitchen table before opening the fridge and peering inside. “Dammit.” Closing the fridge he looks around, his eyes finally resting on a carton of milk on the counter. He shakes his head. “How many times do I have to tell her to put the milk away?” He picks it up from the counter and smells it before looking up at us. “I’m sorry, but it is fine.” He puts the milk on the table.

I get the distinct impression that this mother-son relationship doesn’t have a mother in it. I often wonder how women like Todd’s mum get their babies past the first two years of life. Then again, sometimes they don’t.

“Whereabouts did you meet in Santa Monica?” I ask, curious as to how close they were to Temescal Gateway Park.

“There’s a little spot we used to go, right where the oceanfront walk starts.”

I look at Sloan, hoping she’ll know the area.

She nods for both my benefit and Todd’s. “I know it. Not too far from Temescal Gateway Park.”

That places Todd and our victim right near the crime scene. Could I be wrong about him?

Todd doesn’t pick up on the reference. If he’s seen today’s news he’d know a woman’s body was found in the park this morning, but so far the reports haven’t carried her name.

“Go on.” I give him a generic prompt rather than asking a question that would lead us down a specific path.

“She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. I comforted her, held her and told her I loved her. And then about ten minutes later she was all hot and heavy.” He looks down and stares into his coffee cup. “I knew she wasn’t herself and I did try to stop things a few times to make sure she was okay. But she was insistent. Voracious even. I’d never seen her like that.”

“Do you know where she’d been earlier in the night?”

“At some Goth club. Researching an acting piece for class.”

“Really?” I keep my voice casual, even though the link between the victim and the Goth culture is big news. It could place her right in After Dark with vampires.

He smiles. “She was all decked out in the gear. I didn’t even recognize her at first…but she was in her car, so I knew it must have been Sherry. I wondered if that was why she was so…you know. The outfit sure was sexy.”

“What else did she say?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not much. We were busy.”

“Did she behave differently during sex? Besides being more assertive?”

“Not really—um, what do you mean?” His face reddens slightly.

I take us down the Goth and vampire path. “You know, anything kinky? Like a desire to drink blood?”

“No!” His coffee cup connects heavily with the table and he scrunches his face up. “It was just research. She wasn’t into that scene.”

“So,” Sloan says, “you had sex, then what?”

“She said she was tired and wanted to go home. I tried to find out what had upset her, but she said she was fine.”

“And do you think she was?” Todd and Sherry were together for a long time. Hopefully he knew his girlfriend well enough to know if she was hiding her true feelings.

“I’m not sure, to be honest. She seemed okay, but Sherry’s an exceptional actress.”

“So what time did she head off?”

“About one.”

We’ve filled in part of Sherry’s timeline for last night at least from midnight to 1:00 a.m.—assuming Todd is telling us the truth. And we’ve probably found the source of the semen from the postmortem rape kit.

“Did you use a condom, Todd?” I ask.

“No.” He looks down. “Stupid, I know. But neither of us had one and Sherry assured me the timing was safe…you know, in terms of her cycle.” He looks up again. “Hang on, what’s with the question about condoms?”

I take a deep breath. I give Sloan a quick glance and once I have a little nod from her I start. “I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news, Todd.”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

I lean toward him. “We found Sherry, but she’s dead. Murdered.”

“What?” He stands up, sending his chair flying backward. “No, you’ve got it wrong! She can’t be dead.”

I stand up, too, and rest my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it is Sherry.”

He’s silent for a bit. “Do her parents know?”

“Yes. We informed them a couple of hours ago.”

He blows out a breath and runs his hand through his hair. “I can’t…I can’t believe it. I was with her like twelve hours ago.” He paces.

Sloan and I are both silent and the silence gives Todd enough time to get up to speed. He stops pacing abruptly.

“Oh my God…you think—” he swallows hard “—you think I had something to do with this? That’s why you didn’t tell me straight away.”

Sloan looks up. “So far you were the last person to see her.”

“But I didn’t kill her! I loved Sherry.”

Unfortunately in our line of work, love is often the reason people kill, not the reason they don’t. As a behavioral analyst my cases tend to be more complex—serial killers, serial rapists, cold cases—but Sloan would be lapping up the circumstantial and physical evidence. After all, if Sherry’s got Todd’s DNA in her and he admits to seeing her at 1:00 a.m., right near Temescal Gateway Park…

Sloan stands up. “We’d like to take a DNA sample for comparison. It’s just a swab inside your cheek.”

“Just because I had sex with her doesn’t mean I killed her.”

“Of course not, Mr. Fischer. And your cooperation with the DNA certainly indicates you’ve got nothing to hide.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

Sloan turns to me. “I’ve got a kit in the car. I’ll be back in a sec.” She walks out, quickly, perhaps worried Todd will change his mind.

“You’ll do the DNA now?”

“Yes, Todd. Like Detective Sloan said, it’s just a little swab from the inside of your cheek. It’s quick and painless.”

He nods. After a minute or so he says, “What time was Sherry killed?”

“We’re not sure yet.”

Sloan enters, paper and evidence bag in one hand and a small plastic vial in the other. She puts the paper on the table in front of Todd. “Have a read through that, Mr. Fischer, and then sign at the bottom.”

Sloan and I both take a seat. I purposely avert my gaze from Todd, and Sloan follows suit. Keep it nice and relaxed in case he suddenly gets jumpy. But our fears are unfounded—he quickly reads the form and signs it.

Sloan unscrews the vial. “Open wide please, Mr. Fischer.”

Todd does as instructed and Sloan uses the cotton-bud end to scrape the inside of his cheek, before slipping it back inside the container, sealing it and placing it in the evidence bag.

“That’s it.” She gives him a quick smile.

He looks at Sloan, then me. “Now what?”

“We’ll take this to the lab for comparison with the evidence we found on Sherry’s body and we’ll be in touch.”

“I still can’t believe she’s…dead.” He takes a deep breath and his body tenses with grief. “You will find whoever did this, won’t you?”

“We hope so, yes.” Sloan knows better than to make guarantees or to tell him that he’s still one of our prime suspects. Agreeing to give his DNA and admitting he saw Sherry last night don’t make him innocent.

“So, as far as you knew, she was heading home at 1:00 a.m.?” I confirm.

“Yes. That’s what she said, and she drove off in that direction.”

“And she never mentioned what she was upset about?”

“No.”

We thank Todd Fischer for his time, give him our cards and leave, picking our way over the piles of old papers and magazines that cover the floor between kitchen and front door.

“Sorry about the mess,” Todd says at the door. “I’ve given up trying to keep it even half-decent looking.”

“That’s fine, Todd.” I hold my hand out. “Thanks for your help.”

He shakes my hand and Sloan’s before closing the door.

In the car, Sloan buckles up. “So we’ve got an ex-boyfriend who admits to having sex with her only a couple of miles from the crime scene. It’s not looking good for Todd Fischer.”

“I don’t know.” I start the car. “My gut instinct says he’s innocent.”

“Maybe. But it sounds like there was a new man on the scene and maybe Fischer was jealous…and angry.”

“What about the bite marks? They clearly point to someone from the vampire community. And now we’ve got confirmation that Sherry had some contact with that world. Even if it was just for research.”

Sloan raises her finger. “But Todd knew. He seems like a smart kid to me. Smart enough to make it look like a vampire attack.”

Four

Sunday, 4:30 p.m.

Once I’ve dropped Sloan, it’s on to the Federal Building and my desk. In the end we decided the professor had to wait. Sloan needs to start logging her requests and getting the DNA sample moving and I want to find out more about Anton Ward and vampires. Besides, I’d like to interview Carrington at UCLA. It’ll be interesting to see how he responds to a police and FBI visit in the middle of a class.