Page 23

They drove.

Ten minutes after they wrapped their call with the research team, Jessie was striding through the lobby of The Upper Deck, a boutique hotel located less than a mile from the South Bay Yacht Club. She was already at the front desk by the time Riddell caught up to her.

“We’re supposed to be partners, Hunt,” he muttered. “Maybe don’t leave me to park the car while you get a jump on the questioning.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just excited to have a new lead.”

"Well, don't get your panties in a bunch over it yet," he said. "We don't know that it will lead anywhere."

She stopped in her tracks and wheeled around to face him. Captain Parker had ordered her to work with the Sheriff’s Department at the behest of Chief Decker. Despite her discomfort with the idea, she’d done it because of her respect for Decker and because it was the job she’d been assigned. But she could only put up with so much.

“Detective Riddell,” she said slowly. “I don’t know if you were raised in a barn or an outhouse or what. But keep that retrograde talk to yourself. It’s not winning you any points with me. In fact, it makes you come across like these yacht club guys. That badge doesn’t give you permission to be a chauvinistic bastard.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” he chided. “I was only joking around.”

“Jokes are supposed to be funny, asshole,” she noted sharply, “and yours aren’t. Now I was brought in to your jurisdiction to help with what now looks to be serial killer case. I’m happy to beg off and let you explain to your sheriff and my chief why the top criminal profiler in L.A. dumped your sorry ass. Is that what you want to happen?”

The expression of astonishment on his face was priceless. If it wouldn’t have ruined the moment she would have taken a picture.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, sounding more wounded than apologetic.

"Just try to be a professional," she said. "That way, we can catch this killer and part ways forever. Can you do that for me?"

He opened his mouth, but she didn't wait for his reply, turning back to the front desk agent, a petite blonde whose jaw was hanging open. Apparently, she'd heard the whole thing. Jessie didn't care.

“I’m looking for Mark Dawson,” she said.

“Um, okay,” the young woman replied timidly. “Mark is working the restaurant today. I saw him on the terrace a few minutes ago.”

“Which way?” Jessie asked.

The desk agent pointed off to her left. Jessie looked through the floor-to-ceiling window and saw people seated outside.

“Thank you,” she said and headed in that direction. Riddell followed.

Jamil had sent them several photos of Dawson, including his driver’s license and a few social media screenshots, so they knew what to look for. They passed through the interior of the restaurant and stepped out onto the veranda.

Jessie spotted the guy immediately. He was taking the order of an older couple at a table overlooking the water. From the basic biographical info that Jamil had provided, they knew that he was 24 and was also an aspiring actor. Jessie wasn’t surprised.

Tall and good-looking, with dark hair and tanned skin, he had the vibe of a guy who enjoyed engaging with the public and putting on a show. She wanted to march right over but waited until he was done with the couple so as not to draw too much attention. When he left the table, she picked up the pace and caught him just as he was walking inside again.

“Mark Dawson?” she said, tapping him on the shoulder.

The young man turned around with a smile.

“That’s me,” he said.

“Hi, I’m Jessie Hunt with the LAPD. This is Detective Riddell with the Sheriff’s Department. Can we speak with you privately for a minute?”

The variety of expressions that crossed his face over the next three seconds was astounding. He went from enthusiastic to confused to scared almost too quickly to process. He finally settled on grim determination as he replied.

“I’m working my shift right now,” he whispered. “I have guests who are waiting for their food.”

"I'm sure they'll understand if there's a five-minute delay," Jessie told him.

“You’d be surprised,” Dawson countered, his eyes darting everywhere but at her. “They pay a lot to come here, and they expect a certain level of service. I could get fired if someone complains.”

“Listen, kid,” Riddell growled. “If you have law enforcement show up to talk with you at work, it’s obviously a big deal. Stop being such a pain and come out to the lobby with us for a few minutes. Then you can get back to serving the geriatric set.”

Dawson again looked around the restaurant as if his manager might be about to charge over and ream him out.

“What’s this about?” he asked quietly.

“We can talk about it in more detail elsewhere,” Jessie said, suspicious that Dawson might already have a clue why they were here. “But it involves the deaths of several members of the yacht club where you used to work.”

At those words, the young guy’s jawline clenched tightly. He looked down at his guest check and quickly scribbled something on it. Then he looked back up at them.

“I have no interest in speaking with you,” he said forcefully. When he spoke, his voice was loud and clear, like he was making an announcement to everyone in earshot. “Please stop harassing me and leave my place of business.”

Then he angrily ripped the piece of paper from the guest check, crumbled it up, and tossed it at Jessie. She was about to give him a piece of her mind when she noticed that his eyes were completely at odds with the rest of his demeanor. On the surface, he appeared aggrieved. But his eyes were pleading. She sensed that he was trying to tell her something without speaking.

Riddell stepped forward. He looked like he wanted to deck the kid. But before he said or did anything else, Jessie grabbed his forearm.

“That’s okay, Detective,” she said in an equally boisterous tone, “we don’t need this punk anyway. Let’s go.”

Riddell looked at her like she was crazy.

“Are you kidding me?” he demanded.

Fearing that he would say something to make things worse, she squeezed his arm as hard as she could.

“Trust me,” she muttered. “We should go.”

The detective still seemed befuddled, but after the dressing down she’d given him a few minutes ago, he apparently decided not to push back.

“Fine,” he said, and after giving Dawson an extra scowl, he stomped toward the front door.

Before following him, Jessie bent down and picked up the crumpled piece of paper that Dawson had tossed at her.

“You shouldn’t litter,” she told him before following Riddell out.

The detective was waiting for her in the lobby.

“Are you really going to let that little pissant tell us off like that?”

“Follow me,” she said walking past him.

She left the lobby and went outside, heading straight for the car.

“Any plan to explain what just happened back there?” he wanted to know.

“In the car,” she said.

Once they were both in the vehicle with the doors closed, she opened her fist to show him the crumpled guest check. She unfurled it and read out loud what Dawson had scribbled.

“It says: Burnout Beach, 8 p.m.” she told him, before asking, “Where’s Burnout Beach?”

“It’s a couple of miles south of here, at the southern tip of Redondo,” he answered, his whole body slackening as he realized that the guy wasn’t as objectionable as he thought.

“Well, it seems like Dawson wants to have a chat there,” Jessie noted. “You know this area much better than I do. Why would he pick that place at that time?”

Riddell thought about it for a second.

“You have to take a steep path down from Miramar Park to get to that part of the beach,” he said. “It’s not clearly visible from up above and at that hour. And the sun will have set so it will be almost impossible to see what’s happening on the beach. It seems like Dawson doesn’t want anyone to know he’s talking to us.”

Jessie smiled at that.

“That means he’s got something worth hearing.”