CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Jessie winced as she stood in the corridor outside the Santa Cruz Justice Department’s press room, listening to Carl Webb stumble through his public briefing on the case.
He’d done all right when reading from the press release that she and the comms team had helped prepare for him.
He’d explained the nature of the case. Then he’d shown Jason Mannix’s photo, while explaining that the man wasn’t their prime suspect; that his image was being shared to alert any women who had been romantically involved with him that they might be in danger and should call the hotline that had been set up.
It was once the questions began that Webb started drowning.
“Are you sure that Mannix isn’t a suspect?” a female reporter asked.
“He’s a person of interest, not a suspect.”
“Is he currently in custody?” the same reporter asked.
“Yes, but that’s not an indication of guilt or innocence.”
“Do you normally hold innocent people in custody?” the reporter asked, but didn’t wait for an answer to that question before asking another one. “Why not release him?”
“Um, he’s being held out of an abundance of caution.”
A cacophony of voices all asked questions at the same time before one male voice became more prominent.
“There’s word going around that the LAPD profiler Jessie Hunt is working with the Bureau of Investigation on this case,” he said. “Can you confirm that?”
Jessie groaned silently. She’d partly avoided going out there with Webb because she’d had enough media attention to last a lifetime.
She found that it was rarely useful to show her face in these environments.
But she also knew that her work hunting serial killers tended to escalate the interest level of the press.
They knew a case might be juicy if she was involved.
That often turned things into a circus, which she had hoped to avoid.
“We are availing ourselves of a variety of resources,” Webb said, not throwing anyone off the scent with that answer.
“Why isn’t she out here with you for this briefing?” the male reporter pressed.
“Much of our team is working behind the scenes,” Webb said.
Jessie scrunched her eyes closed in pained anticipation of the next question.
“So, you’re confirming that she is part of the team working this case?” the male reporter said, self-satisfied.
Jessie decided to tune out the rest of the press conference.
If she wasn’t going to be up there helping answer the questions, then what was the point of staying here and torturing herself?
She walked down the corridor and stepped into a tiny office that barely had room for a desk.
It wasn’t much but it was quiet and it was empty. That’s all she really needed right now.
She sat down and thought about the status of the case.
In Fresno at this very moment, there was a woman in Allyson Rhodes’s house.
But it wasn’t Allyson. A female police officer who looked like her was wearing one of her outfits and walking around the home with the lights on low and the blinds open.
At least three undercover vehicles were parked nearby, with a half dozen cops watching the house.
Two more were inside the home, out of sight.
The hope was that the killer, unaware that Rhodes had been relocated to a safe house, would arrive after driving there from Santa Cruz, and make their move. If things broke the right way, Jessie wondered if they might have their killer in custody before dinnertime. She wasn’t holding her breath.
Deep down, she doubted that their killer would make that mistake.
And something didn’t sit right with her anyway.
She felt like they were missing an important detail and revisited the idea that Mannix might be behind this, having hired someone.
It seemed unlikely, especially since Jamil and Beth had found nothing in the man’s financials that suggested he’d made any suspicious payments that couldn’t be explained by spending on his “wives.” There were no strange lump sum withdrawals or payouts that might typically be associated with hiring a contract killer.
But that didn’t mean he hadn’t found a way.
She tried to set all the theorizing aside and focus on what might happen next. Assuming their killer knew that Allyson Rhodes was off the board, unreachable, where would they go next? Who would they target?
As if in answer to her question, her phone rang. It was Jamil.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I’m embarrassed that we’re only telling you this now, Ms. Hunt,” the young researcher said, sounding ashamed.
She had no idea what he was talking about. “Telling me what?”
“Focus on the facts, Jamil,” Beth said. “Save the self-flagellation for later.”
“Yes, facts please,” Jessie requested anxiously.
“We got a call from a woman on the hotline number,” Jamil explained.
“Okay. From who?”
“From a friend of Jason Mannix’s ex-wife. His real one.”