The Perfect Impression by Blake Pierce
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
No amount of coffee helped.
Jessie had gotten used to the more leisurely academic lifestyle over the last six months, and staying up for over twenty-four straight hours was taking its toll. She sat listlessly in the lobby, listening to Barksdale call all the guests from last night and asking them to assemble in the bar. As she waited with Peters and Deputy Heck for them all to arrive, she sipped at her third cup in the last hour.
Despite the caffeine hit, her eyes simultaneously stung and drooped. The inside of her mouth was coated in some kind of filmy substance that no amount of mouthwash from the hotel pantry could remove. And her ability to marvel at the beauty of her surroundings had clearly been compromised.
Now that the sun had risen, she could see the hotel and its surroundings. In her head, she knew that the elaborate rose garden out back was gorgeous, despite Theo Aldridge’s unwanted addition to it. The light streaming in through the shutter slits from the east made the lobby floor appear to glow. The perfectly manicured golf course, only steps away from the back of the hotel, stretched off into the distance toward a series of rolling hills. The ocean was now visible, with gentle waves dying softly as they collapsed where the bay met the seawall.
Intellectually she admired all of it. But she was too tired to really appreciate any of it. Peters and Heck didn’t look much better. Barksdale approached them, looking annoyingly fresh. Apparently the years of being a night manager were paying off now.
“I think everyone is here,” he said. “I’ve been checking them off as they entered the bar.”
“Thanks, Vin,” she replied, easing from her chair and shuffling to the center of the bar so she wouldn’t have to yell.
She was about to speak when her phone buzzed. She looked at the text and sighed involuntarily.
“What is it?” Peters asked.
She showed it to him. It was message from the desk sergeant at LAPD’s Central Station that read: West L.A had squad car pass by Aldridge home three times in last two hours. No indication of any unusual activity.
“I guess Ariana Aldridge isn’t planning to make a quick getaway to Brazil after all,” she muttered.
“You weren’t really pinning your hopes on that, were you?”
She shrugged. Of course she wasn’t. But if that lead had panned out, she could have avoided the unpleasant announcement facing her now. Shaking off the disappointment, she looked out at the irritated crowd before her. It was essentially the same twenty people from the ballroom last night. Some were actively scowling at her. Others were clearly trying to hide their frustration. A few had hopeful expressions. They all looked exhausted.
“Thanks for coming down here so early, folks,” she said, trying to get off on the right foot. “I know it wasn’t easy after such a late night. We wanted to give you an update on the status of our inquiry and what that means for you.”
“It means I’m going home,” said a rat-faced-looking guy in the back.
Jessie chose not to respond to him. Reacting to one comment would lead to a torrent more and she wasn’t up for that.
“We’re still investigating the death of a guest here last night. That means this hotel is still an active crime scene and we have more interviews to conduct,” she said, then moved on before anyone could balk. “However, some of you have been approved to leave the island on the first ferry, with the understanding that you may face additional questioning at a later time.”
“Who gets to leave?” an older woman near the front wanted to know.
“But others will need to stay a bit longer,” she continued, pretending not to have heard her. “Deputy Heck will be announcing the names of those who may go when I’m done. If you don’t hear your name, you’ll need to remain here until we’re comfortable discharging you.”
“How long are we talking about?” Richard Ferro asked, apparently making his peace with the reality that he was in the second group.
“Hard to say for sure,” Peters interjected, upending her “ignore the peanut gallery” philosophy, “but we hope that just about everyone will able to go by the end of the day.”
As Jessie feared, a few hands went up and she saw several fuming faces. Doing her best not to look annoyed by the detective, she kept her focus on the guests, deciding to short-circuit the protest now.
This was probably her last, best chance to lay down the law. It was one thing to hold people overnight on an island when they had no way to leave and no one to complain to. But in the daytime, with access to transportation and legal advice, her strict tone wasn’t likely to restrain people up for long.
“Lastly, some of you seem to have already forgotten what I said last night. Attempting to leave before you’ve been cleared to go may result in you spending some quiet time in the Avalon Sheriff’s Station lockup. If you think spending a few extra hours in a nice hotel on a Sunday morning is a hassle, imagine what an overnight stay behind bars will do for you. Don’t find out.”
She looked out at the group. Most faces seemed to have softened, though not all. Deciding she couldn’t push any harder than that, she nodded at Deputy Heck and left without another word.
As he began listing names behind her, she quickly exited the bar, hoping to avoid any personal entreaties. Peters kept pace, apparently thinking the same thing. She didn’t comment on his unhelpful interjection. It wasn’t worth the effort. When they got back to the lobby reception couches she began to take a seat, only to hear a gasp from the detective.
“What is it?” she asked, looking up.
She knew before he said a word. A fifty-something man with a potbelly and a shock of white hair was marching toward them. He was wearing a Sheriff’s Department captain’s uniform and a scowl.
“Let me do the talking,” Peters muttered under his breath.
Jessie wanted to mutter back that he should know better than to expect her to hold her tongue but the older man was on them before she could.
“Captain,” Peters said with forced enthusiasm, “it’s good to see you. I’d like to introduce you to Jessie Hunt. She’s the profiling consultant on loan from LAPD. Ms. Hunt, this is Captain Ted Hawley, Avalon Station.”
“Nice to meet you, Captain,” Jessie said, using her best professional voice.
She was taller than him so he had to look up at her, but not before letting his eyes do an extended examination of the rest of her. Her urge to be professional was suddenly gone.
“Honored to have you with us, Ms. Hunt,” he said with unvarnished insincerity before turning his attention to Peters. “My phone has been ringing off the hook with irate calls from mainland lawyers, demanding that their clients be allowed to leave the island. Others have said we’re not to question those clients without them present. Some of these lawyers have names you would know. This isn’t what I wanted today.”
“No sir,” Peters said amicably. “I can assure you that the vast majority of guests will be able to leave on the nine a.m. ferry. Deputy Heck is informing them now.”
“The vast majority?” Hawley balked.
“Captain,” Peters replied softly, trying to keep the temperature down. “A few guests were pretty toasted last night. We wanted to give them an opportunity to clean up their statements this morning, to avoid any messiness down the road. That might take us past the first ferry. But I’m confident that we can get them out before noon as well, barring something unforeseen.”
“What might be unforeseen?” the captain demanded.
Jessie bit her lip so as to not reply with “that’s why it’s called unforeseen.” Glancing over at Peters, she saw that he was struggling and didn’t want to make his job any harder. Now she understood why he was so malleable with island visitors. It came from the top.
“As you know,” Peters answered, “a woman was murdered last night, a guest at this hotel. As much as we want to avoid alienating our other guests, I know you don’t want Avalon to be seen as an unsafe place or one where a victim’s death is swept under the rug.”
“Is that what you’re suggesting I’m doing?” Hawley blustered.
“No sir,” Peters said hurriedly, “of course not. I just think that handling this diplomatically but with professionalism and empathy might allow us to come out of the situation all right. We don’t need the folks at headquarters coming out and bigfooting us. We don’t need oversight.”
That seemed to make Hawley reconsider. Peters saw it too and kept going.
“Employing a single profiler from a coordinating law enforcement agency leaves a light footprint and may help everyone get out unscathed. And truthfully, a few angry attorneys squawking from over twenty miles across the ocean isn’t the end of the world. By the time they decide to really do something, we’ll be letting everyone go anyway. Just give us a little more time, Captain.”
Hawley, who seemed to be softening slightly, turned to Jessie. “What about these interrogations without representation? I hear you’re big on them.”
“Absolutely not, Captain,” she assured him. “No one we’ve questioned has been treated as a suspect. We’re just interviewing witnesses, trying to create a timeline of events while they’re still fresh in people’s minds. Of course, I’m just a civilian consultant. As such, I’m not officially law enforcement, so I’m not formally bound by those rules. But I take your point. Should someone’s status change from witness to suspect, Detective Peters would of course follow proper procedure when it comes to Miranda and all other matters.”
Hawley stared at her hard. She couldn’t tell if he sensed that she was massaging the truth or if he was always this agitated-looking. Finally, he responded.
“It’s seven fourteen a.m. right now. I want to be able to tell these people’s attorneys that they’ll be leaving on the twelve twenty ferry. That gives you five hours. After that, I pull the plug. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Peters said.
“I hear you, Captain,” Jessie added, technically agreeing to nothing.
Hawley nodded brusquely, spun around, and dashed out before any hotel guests could accost him.
“That was pretty solid, Peters,” Jessie said admiringly. “I thought I could see your spine growing before my very eyes.”
“Shut up,” he replied, though not with any real pique. “So I guess now we have to decide who to go at first.”
She was wondering the same thing herself, though she had some prime candidates. Just then, her phone buzzed. It was her daily reminder to take her multivitamin. Considering that it was in the pillbox on her kitchen counter that would be hard. As she silenced it, she noticed that she’d missed a text from Ryan, sent at 6:45.
It read: Good morning, hope your case is going well. Leaving for the station to research mine. Hannah still asleep. I have the over/under for her waking up at noon. Keep me posted. I love you.
She was about to reply when a call came in. There was no name attached to the number but it looked vaguely familiar. She picked up.
“This is Jessie Hunt.”
“Hello, Ms. Hunt. I’m returning your call. It’s Ariana Aldridge.”
Jessie reminded herself not to let her excitement seep into her voice when she replied.
“Mrs. Aldridge,” she said as if discussing the weather, putting the call on speaker so Peters could hear too. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Thanks for getting back to me.”
“What can I do for you?” Aldridge replied, cutting to the chase.
“Right. Well, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
Aldridge cut her off.
“I know—Gabby Crewe is dead.”
Peters turned to her, his eyes wide, and mouthed the words Is she confessing?
She decided to find out.