Page 22 of The Perfect Deception (Jessie Hunt #40)

Jessie shouldn’t have been surprised.

When she and Ryan pulled up in front of Walter Winston’s office, she’d been expecting it to be as upscale as those of his former neighbors. But she realized that she’d been working under at outdated assumption.

This guy wasn’t .

“master of the universe”

anymore. After his wife’s suicide, Winston had moved out of Lafayette Square into an unassuming one-bedroom apartment in Victoria Park, one neighborhood north. That’s where they’d stopped by first, but Winston wasn’t home yet. So they went to his office, but not the one he’d shared with Vanessa, who was not just his wife but his business partner.

According to the background info provided by the research team, the Winstons ran an identity theft consulting firm, which helped clients—almost always wealthy—if their personal data was compromised. Once Vanessa died, Walter re-named the company and moved the business from their downtown skyscraper office to the one Jessie was currently looking at. It was on the second floor of a shabby two-story strip mall on the edge of downtown.

Jessie could guess why he would have moved out of both his old home and office. It was likely just too painful to be reminded on a daily basis of the person who used to share those spaces with him. What she found more surprising was that his new home and office were both far less impressive-looking than the old ones, even though he still had the money to maintain appearances. She wondered if that money was going to something else expensive—maybe drugs or women. Or was he somehow punishing himself by living a grimier existence?

As Jessie got out of the car and she and Ryan headed for the strip mall, one thing seemed clear to her. Whatever his motives for the moves, it seemed obvious that the loss of Vanessa had changed him in a deep way. The question was whether those changes had turned him into a murderer.

They headed up the steps next to the pawn shop on the first floor, and moved along the exterior hall, past the bail bondsman’s office to the door that read: IPS: Identity Protection Services. Jessie could hear someone talking in an animated voice on the other side of it.

She couldn’t catch everything but distinctly heard a male voice saying the word.

“credit report,”

“Experian, “Equifax,”

an.

“police report”

She glanced at the time. It was 5:48 in the evening and the man still seemed to be grinding.

She looked over at Ryan.

“Should we knock politely or kick in the door? It sounds like he’s on a business call.”

“We’re dealing with a potential murder suspect here so let’s split the difference. Knock, announce ourselves, then immediately try to open the door. If it’s locked and he’s not cooperative right away, my foot gets involved.”

Jessie didn’t have any problem with the plan. She stepped to the right of the door while Ryan took up a position to the left. Both of them had their hands on their still-holstered guns. They shared a knowing glance, then followed the routine they’d used so many times before.

Jessie rapped on the door loudly. The voice inside stopped talking. Ryan barked "LAPD." Jessie waited two seconds for a response. When none was forthcoming, she turned the door handle. It didn't move. Ryan stepped backward, unholstered his weapon, and silently counted down from three using his fingers. Jessie unholstered her gun too.

Ryan was just starting to move forward while lifting his right leg, when they heard the distinct sound of the door being unlocked. He put his foot down, re-holstered his gun, and stepped back to the left just as the door opened. Jessie managed to put her weapon back right before a man’s head popped out.

It was Walter Winston. He looked older and more weathered than the man in the pictures that research had sent them, but he still had the same light brown hair and hazel eyes. The hair was longer than in the photos and the eyes were bloodshot. He had a couple of days' worth of stubble. Jessie knew the man was only 31, younger than her, but he seemed have aged half a decade from the time of Vanessa's death, just 18 months ago.

“What the hell is this about?”

he demanded. Jessie could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Why are the police slamming on the door at my place of business?”

“Hello, Mr. Winston,”

Ryan said, holding out his badge. His tone was as calm now as it had been forceful moments ago.

“I’m Detective Hernandez and this is Ms. Hunt. We’re investigating a recent crime and we believe you may have valuable information that could assist us.”

Winston looked back and forth between them. After a couple of seconds he opened the door a little wider so they could see more than just his head. The man was slight, about five foot six and at most, 150 pounds. He was wearing black sneakers, slacks, and a dress shirt that was unbuttoned at the top. He had on a tie, which he’d loosened at some point during the day. He was presentable, if not a wholly professional-looking. More importantly, they could see that both his hands were empty. At the sight of that, Jessie removed her hand from her gun. Ryan kept his in place but his grip relaxed.

“Assist you how?”

Winston demanded.

“May we come in?”

Jessie tried to sound conversational.

“We don’t want to impact your business by having folks see law enforcement asking you questions in your doorway.”

He laughed bitterly at that.

“Ms. Hunt is it? Does this really look like the kind of neighborhood where my professional reputation will be squandered by having cops here?”

Despite the question, he opened the door all the way and waved them in. Jessie stepped inside. The office was comprised of just two rooms: a tiny office in front with a paper-strewn desk, and a slightly larger room behind it, with multiple filing cabinets against the walls. There was only one chair for clients. Ryan motioned that Jessie should take it. She did and he stood beside her. Winston walked around behind his desk and plopped down.

“So what’s this investigation?”

“Have you heard anything about the recent incidents in your old neighborhood, Lafayette Square?”

Ryan asked carefully.

“Incidents?”

“A couple of people died there in the last day.”

Ryan didn’t expound beyond that.

Winston’s red eyes opened wider. Jessie couldn’t tell whether it was genuine or a prepared reaction. She felt out of practice at this profiler thing.

“Wow,”

he said.

“No. I haven’t really kept in touch with anyone from there since I moved and I don’t watch the news a lot. Who died?”

“We’ll get to that,”

Ryan assured him.

“But first, we’re trying to establish some context. We understand that your own wife passed away not too long ago.”

Winston’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s right.”

He didn’t add to it.

Jessie decided to try a more direct tack.

“Mr. Winston, I’m going to be honest with you. This may be a painful conversation for you. Our questions are related to the life swaps that you and your wife engaged in with other couples, and the aftermath of those activities.”

Winston’s expression hardened.

“I don’t have anything to say about that.”

“You may not have much choice,”

Ryan warned.

"Look around you." Winston waved his arm at the careworn office. "My experience with those swaps is what has me here instead of the office tower on Figueroa. It's why I live in an apartment in Victoria Park instead of a mansion in Lafayette Square. It's why my business had largely dried up, along with my liver, which has probably shriveled down to a scarred raisin by now. So you're coming around and telling me I don't have a choice about discussing the most painful time in my life, doesn't really have me shaking in my boots. I'm just trying to live a quiet existence now, and if you blow that up, you should expect a lawsuit. Don't let these surroundings fool you into thinking I don't have the resources to come after you."

Jessie ignored the threat and focused on another part of his comment.

“I find that odd, Mr. Winston. According to the data we’ve compiled, you’re still worth in the neighborhood of $17 million. You could have kept your mansion and your old office. It seems that you chose this lifestyle rather than having it thrust upon you. Why?”

He scoffed at the question.

“If you have that level of insight into my finances and you know about the swaps, then you obviously also know that my wife killed herself out of shame over how I conducted myself. Do you really think I’d want to work in the same office where our desks were face to face? That I’d want to make breakfast in the same kitchen where we burned a turkey so bad that the smoke detector went off? Or sleep in the same bed where we made love? Too many memories.”

“I get that,”

she said. He was confirming her suspicions.

“Living so close to where you created those memories reminds you that you’ll never have those experiences again. And you’re punishing yourself because you believe you’re the reason she’s gone.”

“I don’t believe it. I know it. I mourn Vanessa every day, when I’m not trying to drown out her memory with booze. The last thing I need is some cops coming here and peppering me with questions about it. So either cut to the chase or leave. What does my pain have to do with two people dying?”

Jessie looked over at Ryan. He seemed reluctant to be too forthcoming but she thought that at this point, they didn’t have other options. Winston was either a suspect or a valuable resource. Either way, being frank with him would elicit some kind of response. That alone could be worthwhile. She decided to go for it.

“The two people who died were Cassandra Dominik and Olivia Maplewood. Did you know them?”

He paused for a moment as he either truly or “faux”

processed the information.

“Only casually. I may have followed them on social media at some point as part of a Lafayette Square Facebook group. And I think we went to parties at both of their houses. I can picture them both but couldn’t tell you a ton about them.”

“Well, they didn’t just die, Mr. Winston.”

She watched him closely as she continued.

“They were both murdered—in each other’s beds.”

The wide eyes returned, whether real or fake. She pressed on.

“Did you know that both of them were also involved in life swaps?”

He shook his head. When he answered his voice had lost some of its edge.

“No. When Vanessa and I were a part of them, we only knew the couples we were switching places with. Elise Prager—I assume you know she runs the whole thing—made a big deal about confidentiality.”

Ryan took over. His tone was gentle but his question was sharp-edged.

“Mr. Winston, I’m wondering if it was difficult for you to know that other people were having positive experiences with these life swaps when yours went so awry. Is it possible that you might have felt some animosity towards those folks?”

Winston’s mouth dropped open. For a moment, he looked like he was about to shout. But then he leaned back in his chair and offered a rueful half-smile.

“I see what this is about now. I’m a suspect.”

The smile disappeared.

“I suppose this is the time where I should be asking for a lawyer. But I’m not going to do that. I’m going to be real with you. Yes, this life swap network ruined my marriage. I’m sure you already know this but I became obsessed with the other wife in our swap. I really lost myself. And Vanessa was a witness to it. She suffered the shame that I should have carried alone. But I was too fixated on my own needs that I didn’t see hers at all.”

He stopped to gather himself.

“I’m sorry,”

Jessie said quietly.

“You know she was an Ironman triathlete? Because she was so physically tough and strong—able to push through physical discomfort—I didn’t see that she was in emotional pain. I missed the signs that she was struggling until it was far too late. She fought depression and other issues before the swap. They were always there but I exacerbated them with my actions and then with my selfish cluelessness. It’s my fault that she killed herself. And I’ll have to live with that knowledge for as long as my liver holds out. But did I kill two women because of it? No, I didn’t.”

He sounded sincere to Jessie, but she’d encountered many killers who were equally convincing. And only being back on the job for a day, she wasn’t inclined to trust her instincts about his credibility. Ryan asked the question that was on her mind as well.

“Where were you last night, Mr. Winston?”

The man chuckled acidly.

“I would say that I have to consult my appointment calendar but that would be a joke. I was at the same place I am most nights—in my apartment with a bottle of Vodka, streaming some stupid action movie that I first saw when I was a teenager, back before my life turned to crap.”

“Was there anyone else with you?”

Jessie pressed.

He gave her a wry look that seemed to say.

“do you really think anyone would want to hang out with me?”

But all he actually said was “no.”

“You don’t mind if we confirm that using the GPS data from your phone and car, as well as the streaming service information?”

Ryan asked.

“Go right ahead.”

He sounded blasé about it but the truth was that the data they wanted might not exclude or implicate Winston. He could have left his phone and car at his apartment with a movie playing on the TV and paid cash for a cab to Lafayette Square. In fact, his place was within walking distance of the neighborhood, though it would take about half an hour.

They’d have Jamil and the research team use every tool at their disposal to verify or invalidate Winston’s alibi. But in the interim, they didn’t have enough to bring him in. That realization was unsettling.

Walter Winston might simply be a widower, pathetically drowning his guilt over his wife’s suicide in vodka and self-loathing. But if that guilt had curdled into something darker, could it have pushed him over the edge into violence?

Jessie knew all too well that it didn’t take that much to take that final leap from feeling fury to acting on it. She had taken that leap, and she’d had a whole support system that should have helped her avoid that outcome. Winston had none of that.

When they left his office, she wasn’t sure if she’d just questioned a sad sack loser or a killer. The one reassuring thing was that they had time to figure it out