The Perfect Lie. Блейк Пирс

gone,” a perplexed officer said.

      “We’re just following up for Homicide Special Section,” Ryan lied. “It’s mostly a favor for our captain. We’d appreciate if you’d have someone walk us through the scene, even if they have to repeat stuff.”

      “No problem,” he replied. “Officer Wayne is primary on the scene. I’ll get him.”

      As he radioed to the other officer, Jessie took in her surroundings. The front door was open now, as was a window adjacent to it. She wondered if it had been that way before. It was hard to imagine a single woman in the heart of Hollywood would leave a window open when it was accessible by an exterior hallway. It was almost an invitation to trouble.

      The victim’s unit was at the far end of the floor from the elevators, which was shaped like a blocky letter “C.” That meant her apartment was visible to people across the open expanse between the halls. She was curious as to whether anyone had canvassed those units yet.

      Just then, an older uniformed officer stepped out of the apartment to greet them. He was heavyset and balding, with stray hairs that had adhered to his sweaty scalp. He looked to be in his early forties and had that “seen it all” vibe that could be a help or a hindrance depending on his attitude.

      “Officer John Wayne,” he said extending his hand to Ryan. “I’ve already heard every joke you want to say, so you can skip it. What can I do for you?”

      “You’re the spitting image,” Ryan couldn’t help but say.

      Jessie punched him in the arm before returning her attention to the cop, who looked unfazed.

      “Sorry, Officer Wayne,” she said. “Thanks for taking the time. We know the Hollywood detectives have already worked the scene. But we were hoping you could show us around anyway. This case has hallmarks that match something we’re working on and we want to rule it out as connected.”

      “Of course, come on in,” he said, stepping back inside and handing them plastic shoe covers as they prepared to enter.

      They put them on, along with gloves, and walked in.

      “Some of her possessions have already been booked as evidence,” Wayne said. “But we can give you an itemized list.”

      “Anything jump out at you?” Ryan asked.

      “A few things,” the officer replied. “No sign of forced entry. There was money in her purse. Her phone was on the bedside table.”

      “If you don’t mind,” Jessie asked, “before you give us the rest of the rundown, I’d like to take a moment to evaluate the site without any preconceptions.”

      Officer Wayne nodded. Jessie took a long deep breath, allowed her body to relax and began to profile the victim. The living room was sparsely decorated with furniture that looked to have been purchased from IKEA. There was limited artwork and no visible photos. The only personal touch was a framed NASM personal training certification on the wall.

      She walked into the almost untouched kitchen. There were no dirty dishes in the sink nor clean ones on the drying rack. One clean, folded dish towel rested on the counter. Next to it were several pill containers, each marked with days of the week, each painstakingly laid out in order. Jessie didn’t touch them but from what she could tell, the pills inside looked like supplements and multivitamins. She noticed that neither the pills for Monday nor Tuesday had been taken. This was Wednesday morning.

      She looked around the rest of the kitchen. The paper towel roll was almost full. Opening the cabinets revealed dozens of cans of beans and ground turkey, lots of protein bars and multiple vats of whey protein powder.

      The refrigerator was half empty but the contents included two gallon-sized jugs of milk, several containers of Greek yogurt and a massive plastic bag of spinach. The freezer was a mix of frozen blueberries, strawberries and acai and a Tupperware container of what looked like chicken noodle soup. Taped to the outside of it was a Post-it that read “from Mom, 11/2018.” That was well over a year ago.

      The three of them wandered down the hall toward the bedroom where the body was waiting. The smell of rotting flesh enveloped Jessie’s nostrils. She allowed herself a moment to accept it, then made a pit stop in the bathroom, which wasn’t as tidy as the rest of the house. It was clear the resident spent much more time in here.

      “What was the victim’s name?” she asked. It had been on the document Ryan had given her at the station but she had purposely avoided noting it until now.

      “Taylor Jansen,” Officer Wayne said. “She was…”

      “Sorry, Officer,” she interrupted. “I don’t want to be rude but please hold off on any other details just a bit longer.”

      She looked closely at Taylor’s dresser. For as much as she didn’t seem to care about keeping her kitchen stocked, the opposite was true of the bathroom. The counter was littered with makeup including an open eye shadow case and multiple lipsticks. Two hairbrushes and one comb were shoved in a corner next to a small vial of perfume.

      The medicine cabinet was full of over the counter medication like Advil, Benadryl, and Pepto-Bismol, but there were no bottles of prescription drugs. The shower had several quarter-filled bottles of shampoo and conditioner, some facial cleanser, a leg razor, shaving cream, and a bar of conditioning soap.

      Jessie stepped out of the bathroom and the strong smell, which had been temporarily masked by the scents in the bathroom, hit her again. She glanced back down the hallway, noting again the complete lack of anything personal on the walls.

      “Before we go into the bedroom,” she said, turning to Wayne, “let me know how much of this I have right. Taylor Jansen is single, white, attractive and in her late twenties to early thirties. She works close by and travels often. She has few friends. She’s extremely detail-oriented. And she has enough money to be living somewhere much nicer than this.”

      Wayne’s eyes went wide briefly before he responded.

      “She was thirty exactly,” he said. “Birthday was last month. She is white and looks to have been very pretty. She does work close by, at a gym less than a full block from here. We’re reconfirming her relationship status. But her co-worker, the one who found her, says she wasn’t currently involved. He’s downstairs in a black and white giving his statement again if you want to talk to him. I can’t speak to the travel and financials but maybe he can.”

      “We’d love to talk to him as soon as we’re done here,” Ryan said before turning to Jessie. “You ready to go in?”

      She nodded. It wasn’t lost on her that with a few exceptions, her description of Taylor Jansen could have been of herself too. She would turn thirty in a few weeks. Her downtown apartment was as Spartan as this one and not because she hadn’t had time to decorate it. She could count her good friends on a couple of fingers. And setting aside her recent marriage to a man who had tried to kill her, she was not, despite her conversation with Ryan, currently involved. If she died tomorrow, would another profiler’s thumbnail analysis of her be any different than the woman behind that bedroom door?

      “You want any?” Wayne asked as he applied some eucalyptus-scented cream just below his nostrils. It helped fight the nasty smells that were about to grow stronger.

      “No thanks,” Jessie said. “As bad as it is, I need all my senses at full strength when I go to a scene. Blocking out one smell might mask another important one.”

      “It’s your stomach,” Wayne said, shrugging as he opened the door.

      Almost immediately, Jessie regretted her decision.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      The stench was overwhelming. The woman must have been dead for last two, maybe three days. She was lying on the bed with the covers off, wearing workout pants and a sports bra. There were no obvious signs of a struggle in how she was positioned or in the room generally. Nothing looked to have been knocked to the floor. Nothing was broken. Her clothing didn’t appear to have been disturbed. She had no obvious cuts or marks.

      Of course, that didn’t prove