jealously at the crowds of people wandering the streets in summer attire. Though it was approaching 8 p.m., he still wore his unofficial uniform, a worn-out gray sport coat and a dull, off-white dress shirt. Normally he also added a sweater vest, but on this hot day that was too much even for him. He did, however, wear his traditional, faded navy slacks and badly scuffed brown loafers. The whole get-up was like a costume, designed to make suspects and witnesses let down their guard around the elderly, seemingly absentminded gentleman asking them personal questions.
He turned right on Ocean Drive, just a block from the beach. It was more of an alley than a street and he had to weave in and out of sloppily parked cars to get to the address he’d been given. When he arrived, he parked in a loading zone, put his LAPD placard on the dashboard, and got out.
He was immediately overcome by the combination of the cooling breeze and salty scent in the air, quite a change from his usual downtown haunts, which smelled more of exhaust and asphalt. He walked briskly until he arrived at the walking path that locals called the Strand. A half block north, he saw police tape and multiple officers blocking off part of the Strand to pedestrians.
As he headed in that direction, his investigative senses nudged his appreciation of his surroundings to the side. He still took in the sight of post-work volleyball matches on the sand and moms pushing strollers as they got in an evening jog. But he also studied the homes close to the crime scene.
They all faced the beach with doors that were only feet away from passersby. Very few had yards and almost none had protective gates. It seemed that in this neighborhood, ease of beach access trumped security precautions.
He felt slightly out of his element in this environment. Though he lived in central Los Angeles, he was embarrassed to admit that he rarely got to the beach, spending most of his time in the area surrounding the downtown station where he worked.
In that part of town, every homeowner or renter had some measure of security, whether it was a gate, bars on the windows, a security system, or all of the above. His friend and fellow profiler, Jessie Hunt, had all of the above, along with cameras, on-site security guards, a patrolled parking garage, and more door locks than light switches. Of course she had good reason. Still, he wasn’t used to the laissez-faire attitude of this beach community. But he’d have to deal with it. He hadn’t been given much of a choice.
Normally Garland Moses got his pick of cases. After all, for decades he’d been a celebrated FBI profiler in the Behavioral Sciences unit. Widowed young and childless, he’d been relentless about his work. When he finally moved to Southern California to retire, he’d been persuaded to work for the LAPD as a consultant. But only on the condition that he could choose the cases he wanted to pursue.
But not today. In this instance, Central Station’s captain, Roy Decker, had pleaded with him to make an exception. The victim’s husband, a wealthy oil and gas executive named Garth Barton, had given over $400,000 to the police union in the last three years. Though the couple now lived in Manhattan Beach, which had its own police department, Barton worked downtown and was well aware of the reputation of legendary profiler Garland Moses.
“Barton insists on bringing you in,” Decker had told him over the phone. “He’s hinting that his union contributions might end if you don’t take the case. I’d consider it a personal favor, Garland.”
Considering it was the first favor the captain had ever asked of him, he was inclined to do it. Once he said yes Decker continued talking quickly, as if worried Garland might change his mind.
“I promise that the MBPD will defer to you and your preferred team,” the captain had assured him. “In fact, they seem enthusiastic about the prospect. Apparently Barton has a reputation as a real pain in the ass and they’re more than happy to hand off dealing with him to someone else, especially when he’s emotionally overwrought, as they say he seems to be now.”
As Garland got closer to the cordoned off area of the Strand, he pushed the politics out of his head and returned his focus to the crime itself. He knew little, other than that Priscilla Barton had been found