P.D. Martin - Kiss of Death

“Really?” Sloan gives me a sideways glance. “You’re thorough.”

“If After Dark is involved, I need to get an insight into the culture.”

She shrugs. “I’ll definitely pass on that one. Besides, I’m guessing the Goth scene doesn’t have too many men or women in their fifties.”

I laugh. “How old are Riley and Davidson?”

“Riley’s twenty-two and Davidson’s twenty.”

I wince. “Maybe I’m too old.”

“Ward’s in his thirties.” Sloan takes out her mobile phone. “I’m just going to check in with the officer who took the missing persons call this morning.” She dials a number and after a few minutes on hold she’s redirected to his mobile—he’s off duty. She places her phone on the center console between us.

“Is this Detective Saporo?” Sloan asks.

“Yup.”

“It’s Detective Sloan calling from Homicide. I believe you took a missing persons report on Sherry Taylor this morning.”

“That’s right.” A heartbeat of silence while recognition hits…he’s getting a call from a homicide detective. “Oh, shit. You’re friggin’ joking.”

“Sherry Taylor’s body was found in Temescal Gateway Park this morning.”

“Dammit.” Saporo draws the word out forcefully. “I thought…I mean she’s twenty and lived with her parents. Shit! She told me her daughter wouldn’t just stay out all night.”

“No one would have handled the call any differently given the circumstances. In fact, you read the situation well to even issue the APB.” Sloan moves on quickly. “Where’s the missing persons report at now?”

“I presume it’s in the Missing Persons Unit’s queue.” He swallows loudly.

“Okay, thanks. I’ll let them know. You followed procedure, it’s just this was the one in a thousand.”

Sunday, 2:00 p.m.

Like Sherry Taylor, Desiree Jones lives with affluent parents in Brentwood. The house is significantly smaller, but in a much more ornate, almost Tuscan-villa style with wrought-iron window fittings and bright ceramic patterned tiles running beneath each window. While set back from the road and with a tall fence, the property doesn’t have a security gate.

An older Mexican woman answers the door.

“Hola.” Sloan smiles.

“Hola.”

In my eight months in California, I’ve noticed the influence of the Latino culture on the city. With over twenty-eight percent of the population Latino, guess I’d better learn a few words in Spanish.

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?”