use every day was so unsettling, I had to do something. So I asked Carlotta and the housekeeping staff to move her to the sitting room. They used gloves and everything so their fingerprints wouldn’t get on her.”
Jessie said nothing, though her internal alert system was going off. The idea that this guy didn’t know any better when it came to preserving a crime scene was laughable. She found herself instantly suspicious of him.
“Mr. Otis,” Karen said, now recovered. “You own a movie studio that has made multiple police thrillers. Have you never watched one of them? Are you seriously telling us that you didn’t realize that disturbing a crime scene was a problem?”
“No, detective,” he replied, his voice warm as honey. “I’m telling you that I freaked out. I’m embarrassed about it. I regret it. Unfortunately, it seems that it’s too late to do anything about it. I’ve created many things in my career but a time machine is not yet among them.”
“We have photos,” Purcell volunteered, suddenly much less combative now that he was in the presence of Otis. “The coroner will have a preliminary report later today. CSU checked for prints and DNA. We’re talking to Mr. Otis’s security team about pulling camera footage. Despite the regrettable way this started, I think we’ve got a lot to work with.”
“There you go,” Otis said enthusiastically. “Making the most of a situation I screwed up. I wish I could say it was the first time. Anyway, as you might imagine, I’ve got a full day, so I’m going to leave you in Matilda’s capable hands.”
“Mr. Otis,” Jessie said as he headed toward the mahogany bedroom doors, “we’ll need to interview you.”
“Of course,” he said, not stopping or turning around. “I don’t know much but talk to Nancy and she’ll put you on my schedule. Until then, the best of luck to you.”
He was gone before Jessie could say anything else. She was tempted to chase after him and force him to answer her questions right now. But getting as much detail as possible about the particulars of the crime seemed like a higher priority. She sighed.
“Who’s Nancy?” Karen asked.
“Nancy Salter, she’s the estate manager,” Matilda said. “She runs the day-to-day operations here. She also coordinates Jasper’s schedule, in conjunction with Rune, of course, when he’s working from home.”
“Who’s Rune?” Jessie asked.
“Rune Barbato is Jasper’s executive assistant. He’s in charge of Jasper’s day-to-day when he’s off estate. But on estate days like today, he defers to Nancy.”
“Sounds complicated,” Jessie noted.
“Not once you get used to it,” Matilda insisted. “I’ll make sure to reach out to Nancy to have her pencil you in for some talk time with Jasper.”
Jessie was tempted to ask if “talk time” was a Jasper Otis invention but felt herself slipping down the rabbit hole and changed tacks.
“Who examined the body?” she asked Purcell.
“Len Fustos,” he said. “He was escorting her out to the van. I think they were getting ready to head out to the morgue.”
“Detective Purcell,” Jessie began, hoping to appeal to his professionalism by using his title. “Can you please reach out and ask him to come back? We’d like to talk to him before he leaves.”
Unable to think of a reason not to, he nodded and pulled out his radio. While they waited, Jessie again caught sight of the woman in the CSU jacket.
“What’s your name?” she asked the woman, who looked to be in her late twenties.
“Jan Thomas,” she said.
“Did you pull prints and swab?”
Jan nodded.
“What can you tell us?”
“My supervisor is headed back to the lab to test. But preliminary signs weren’t promising. No obvious fingerprints. DNA might be another story. But it looked like the perpetrator turned on the shower. Her clothes were soaking wet, at least the ones she had on. Hard to know if that was planned but we’re worried the water will make getting DNA tough.”
“The clothes she had on?” Karen repeated.
“She was topless except for a bra.”
“Did it look like she was sexually assaulted?” Karen asked.
“If you don’t mind, Detective,” Thomas said, “I’d rather leave that determination to the M.E.”
Just then, an older man, likely in his sixties, walked in. He was wearing corduroy slacks, a denim shirt, and sneakers. His glasses were thick and he had thinning, brown hair. He didn’t look happy to be there.
“What’s the problem?” he demanded.
“Len,” Purcell said, “you might remember Detective Karen Bray. She’s at Hollywood station now. And this is Jessie Hunt, profiler extraordinaire. They’re taking over primary on