The Perfect Show (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Thirty-Three)

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This wasn’t how Jessie had envisioned her evening going.

It was approaching 10 p.m. when she and Ryan pulled up outside Gregory Ashton’s house. Unlike with Raylene Florence, they didn’t let him know they were coming.

Ashton lived a little inland from the two victims, whose homes were both within shouting distance of the Pacific Ocean. His small but well-manicured Culver City cottage house was in a neighborhood just off the downtown business district.

As they approached his door, with only a nearby, flickering streetlight to illuminate the darkness, they reviewed what they’d learned about the guy on their way over.

“How do we want to pursue this?” Ryan asked. “Directly challenge him on what he was doing at Clarissa Langley’s place or ‘engage his assistance’ in trying to get to the bottom of what happened to these women?”

“We’re talking about a single, forty-five-year-old financial advisor who seems to be essentially cold-calling potential clients when he’s supposed to be an established wealth-builder,” Jessie replied. “Even before meeting him, this guy is giving off the whiff of desperation. I’m more inclined to go at him than try to win him over.”

“Have at it,” Ryan said with a smile.

Jessie knew why. Her husband always seemed to get a charge out of watching her knock arrogant jerks down a peg, especially when they were potential murderers. Of course, the question was: did this guy even fit that profile?

Ryan rang the man’s doorbell. After thirty seconds without a response, he tried again.

“Any chance he’s making a break for it out the back door?” he wondered.

“Let’s give him a few more seconds before barging in,” Jessie advised. “It is a tad late to be calling on people.”

“Who is it?” a male voice suddenly demanded from behind the door.

“LAPD,” Ryan said, holding up his ID and badge in front of the peephole. “We have a few questions for you, Mr. Ashton. Can you please open the door?”

There was a brief pause before the man responded.

“How do I know this isn’t some elaborate ruse to get access for a home invasion?” Ashton asked, sounding legitimately concerned.

Ryan looked at Jessie, and she could tell he was annoyed. Before he said something to exacerbate the situation, she intervened.

”Mr. Ashton, if you”re concerned, you can call the department directly,” she said. ”Give them Detective Hernandez”s badge number and ask them to verify that he”s out on this call. They”ll reach out to him with you still on the phone to confirm what we”re saying. We can have one big conference call.”

There was another brief pause, then the door opened to reveal a short, salt-and-pepper-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses. He had a beady intensity to him that Jessie suspected might help with his work but didn’t make him seem like a fun hang.

“I recognize you,” he said. “You’re Jessie Hunt, right? The profiler?”

While she generally disliked being recognized for her past exploits, she sensed that, in this case, it might actually help advance the investigation.

“That’s correct,” she told him.

“I know you’re legit, so I guess I can assume he is too,” he said, nodding at Ryan. “What’s going on?”

“Mr. Ashton, a client of yours died today,” Jessie said, taking the lead. “We’re following up with all her co-workers, close acquaintances, and business connections. And you’re next on our list. May we ask you a few questions?”

That description was an exaggeration, as she and Ryan had so far only spoken to Raylene Florence, but Ashton didn’t need to know that.

“Um, okay,” he said hesitantly. “Do I have to let you in, or can we do it out here?”

“Coming in is always nice, but it’s up to you,” she told him. How he chose to respond could prove useful information in its own right.

“I think I’d prefer to do it out here,” he said.

“All right,” Jessie replied, trying to hide her suspicion. “How well did you know Tabitha Reynolds?”

He looked at her, then at Ryan. He was clearly stunned, though she couldn’t tell if it was at learning about Reynolds’s death or because he was surprised that they’d found him the same night.

“Is she the one who died?” he asked, his voice quavering.

“She is,” Ryan told him. “How well did you know her?”

Ashton pressed his palm against the door frame for support as he answered. “I mean, like you said, she was a client. I started working with her last year when her fashion business took off. Because she’d never had her own business and she wasn’t used to having so much income, she wanted to determine how best to allocate it. We set up a plan and put it into action. That’s pretty much the gist of it. I meet with her twice a year to review everything and decide if we want to make any changes. I think we last met about six weeks ago, maybe early November. I can check my phone if you want.”

“Please do,” Ryan said.

Ashton pulled his phone out of his pocket and began tapping. As he did, Jessie looked over at her husband and partner. He was on edge, ready for anything that might happen. But based on how Ashton had reacted so far, there was no indication that he was on the verge of doing anything precipitous. Of course, Ryan had been a cop a lot longer than she’d been a profiler, so she wasn’t inclined to dismiss his concerns.

“Yeah,” Ashton said a moment later, we met on November 2nd. She came to my office, which is just a few blocks from here.”

“Did you notice anything unusual at that meeting?” Jessie wondered. “Did she mention any concerns that you found out of the ordinary?”

“I honestly can’t remember anything like that,” Ashton said. “I could check my notes but if nothing springs to mind right now, then it was probably a pretty standard meeting.”

“Where were you earlier today?” Ryan asked forcefully, clearly hoping to get the man out of his comfort zone.

It worked, as Ashton looked taken back.

“Um,” he mumbled, unsettled. “It was a normal day, I guess. I had meetings with clients pretty much non-stop, like most days. First one at 9 a.m. Last one at 4 p.m. Then I went to an appointment with my therapist. After that I stopped at the store to get groceries for dinner and made it. I’ve been watching the bowl game ever since.”

“Which one?” Ryan wanted to know

“The Armed Forces Bowl,” he said. “Air Force versus Baylor, which is my alma mater.”

“Isn’t that game over?” Ryan challenged.

“It is, but because of work, I recorded it and am watching it on delay.”

Jessie noted that the guy seemed to have an answer for everything.

“You seem to have a pretty packed schedule with all your client meetings,” Ryan continued, undaunted. “I’m wondering where you find the time to hand-deliver business cards to potential clients.”

“What?” Ashton asked, either truly confused or feigning it quite well.

“Your business card was found slid into the door of a woman in Marina del Rey,” Ryan informed him. “I’m trying to understand why a successful financial advisor like yourself would go so far afield to put cards in the front doors of random people’s homes.”

“I didn’t,” Ashton insisted, sounding offended.

“Then how do you explain this?” Ryan pushed, holding out the card.

Ashton stared at the card for a moment before a sense of recognition appeared to come over his face.

“I think I know what’s going on here,” he said. “I periodically do a refresh of potential, new clients. I have certain markers I use to determine who might be a fit. If I don’t know them, I try to use shared connections to make contact. If I don’t have one of those, I’ll try calling them. If that fails, I have a guy I send out to personally deliver cards to their homes. It’s a little old school and admittedly not the most upscale method of securing new clients. But these are tough times and I’ve had success with it in the past, so I’m not above it. But I never personally go to anyone’s home. If you tell me where you got this card, I can explain why I selected the person.”

“The name is Clarissa Langley,” Jessie said, sensing that this lead wasn’t as promising as it had seemed several minutes ago.

Ashton punched it into his phone.

”Oh yes,” he said. ”I remember now. I heard through a client of mine who works at Creative Concepts West Marketing that she wasn”t happy with her advisors. I tried to reach out to her using his name but never heard back. This was a last-ditch attempt before I crossed her off the list. Why are you asking about her? And what does this have to do with Tabitha? Did this Langley woman complain? Because I make sure my guy never violates any property or privacy laws.”

“She’s dead, Mr. Ashton,” Ryan told him.

The man began blinking uncontrollably and fumbled with his phone. It fell from his hand. Jessie reached out and snagged it just before it hit the ground.

”Thank you,” he said, taking it back from her. ”I”m sorry, but this is a little overwhelming. I see why you”re here now, but I can assure you, I”ve never met Ms. Langley. My notes say that I left her two voicemails, which she never returned. Other than that and sending my man to deliver the card, I”ve never had anything close to personal interaction with her.”

Ryan was about to respond when his phone rang. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. Jessie saw his face sink as he stepped away to answer it. Jessie returned her attention to Ashton.

“We’re going to need you to provide a detailed, verifiable accounting of your whereabouts from four to six this afternoon, as well as for Wednesday from three to seven. Send all of it to Jamil Winslow at this number,” she said, handing over a card of her own.

Ryan hung up and stared at her urgently.

“We need to go,” he said.

Jessie nodded before turning to Ashton. “Get all that information to Winslow in the next hour. Got it?”

Ashton nodded that he did. Without another word, she turned and headed back down the path to the car. Ryan fell into step beside her. She didn’t need to ask to know what had happened. Someone else was dead.