Page 13

Jessie didn’t blame the woman.

If someone had knocked on the door of her apartment, unannounced, at eight at night, she’d have been reluctant to answer too.

But they didn’t have any choice. After getting Valentina Russo’s contact information from Marcel DuBois, they’d called multiple times without a response. They’d had Jamil check for other ways to reach her. She didn’t have a landline, but she did have three e-mail addresses and multiple social media accounts to which they’d sent direct messages.

But they hadn’t heard back from any of them by the time they reached the West Hollywood residential tower where Russo lived, so they went up to say “hi.” Before that, they had to negotiate the wild lobby scene.

Apparently, this tower was home to primarily young residents who liked a party vibe. That explained the loud dance music playing the second they walked through the doors, as well as the crowd of about two dozen people hanging out loudly in a lounge. Jessie noted multiple empty beer bottles and some half full liquor ones too.

Seeing the scene made her feel old. She was only 31, but she felt completely out of place here. Part of that was all the aches and pains she’d accumulated that made her feel a decade older than her actual age. But it wasn’t just that. If she wasn’t working right now, she’d be on the couch next to Ryan, watching bad TV while noshing on popcorn. Or better yet, she’s be in jammies, getting ready for bed. Instead, she was at a homemade rave.

“These are your people,” she teased Susannah. “If you want to party with them after we talk to Russo, I’ll understand.”

“I know I give off that energy,” Susannah said, “but nothing looks less appealing to me right now than that.”

They approached the security guard, a forty-something, slightly paunchy guy who didn’t seem to be any more enthused to be there than they did. Susannah held out her badge for him.

“We need to see Valentina Russo,” she said. “Is she in?”

He glanced at the badge, then nodded.

“She got home about an hour ago.”

“You sure?” Jessie asked. “She came through the lobby?”

“No, she parked in the underground garage,” he said. “But you have to swipe your entry card to get access to it and to the elevator. I always check to make sure the card matches the person on the video camera. It was her.”

“We’ll need access to the elevator too,” Susannah told him.

Five minutes later they were standing at the woman’s door, ringing her bell for a second time after having knocked twice as well, each time identifying themselves as LAPD. They hadn’t gotten any response at all.

“Let’s try a different tack,” Jessie suggested.

“You want me to shoot the door handle?” Susannah asked with a smile, playfully putting her hand on her holster.

“That can be next on the list,” Jessie replied, “But late me take a different kind of shot first.”

Susannah removed her hand and shrugged. Jessie knocked a third time.

“Ms. Russo,” she called out loudly enough for everyone on the floor to hear her, “we’re getting concerned for your welfare. If you don’t open the door in the next ten seconds, we’re going to have to break it down.”

Jessie saw someone down the hall open his door, pop his head out, and then quickly close it again. She waited ten seconds, hoping they wouldn’t have to go through with the actual process of physically forcing their way in. Just as she was about to resign herself to that fate, they heard a lock click open.

The door opened slightly to reveal a young, dark-haired woman. They already knew that she was twenty-five and what she looked like generally from the driver’s license photo Jamil had sent them on the way over. But as was almost always the case, that image didn’t do the woman justice. Even at this late hour, without much makeup and with her hair tied back in a ponytail, she was attractive.

“Hi,” Jessie said casually, as if they hadn’t had such a difficult time getting that door open. “I’m Jessie Hunt, and this is LAPD Detective Susannah Valentine. We need your help with an ongoing investigation.”

“I don’t know anything about an investigation,” Russo said defiantly.

“There’s no reason you should,” Jessie told her, trying to keep the conversational vibe going. “That’s why we’re here—to fill you in and get your assistance. So if you could please let us in, we can chat and then be on our way.”

“I was about to go to sleep,” Russo objected.

Jessie doubted that but kept it to herself. She also did her best not to give off the impression that what Valentina Russo wanted to do was irrelevant. She could almost hear the desire to say exactly that radiating off Susannah beside her.

“We understand,” Jessie said calmly, choosing not to voice her skepticism that a 25-year-old like Russo went to bed at 8 p.m., “but this is a very important case. You’ll still be able to get to bed afterward, but we’re going to insist that you talk with us first. When it comes to investigating crimes, public safety takes priority over comfort. You understand, I’m sure.”

Russo did not, in fact, look like she understood or much cared, but she did seem to sense that refusing a request from the police might not be well received. So she reluctantly held the door open for them. Jessie was unsurprised to find that Russo—who claimed to be about to go to sleep—was wearing designer yoga tights and a form-fitting tank top. It didn’t seem like traditional sleepwear.

“What’s the deal, Val?” an irritated male voice asked from somewhere in the apartment.

A second later, a thickly built guy of about thirty with closely cropped black hair, stepped out of what Jessie assumed was the bedroom. He was shirtless and wore tight sweatpants. Jessie was pretty sure she recognized him. Then it hit her.

“Just give me a minute, Coy,” Russo said without looking back.

But that didn’t seem to appease Coy, who walked toward them with a certitude that bordered on arrogance. He stopped about ten feet from the doorway that Jessie and Susannah had just stepped through.

“Do we have some kind of problem?” he demanded.

“Who’s this fella?” Susannah asked Russo, not bothering to address the guy directly.

“Just a friend from work,” the woman said defensively. “I’m letting him crash here for a few days.”

“Hi, ‘friend from work,’” Susannah said, clearly amused. “Coy is it?”

“Your friend Coy looks a lot like a security guard for your employer, Arresting Affairs,” Jessie noted wryly, recalling the photos that Jamil had sent them of the guards who might have been with Russo when she collected the masks. She knew that calling that out would make Russo nervous and agitate Coy.

“How do you know about our work?” he barked. “And who do you think you are, barging in here at this hour?”

Jessie glanced over at Susannah and gave her best “please stay cool” expression. Her partner nodded in understanding before replying.

“First of all,” she said saccharinely, “we didn’t barge in. Val let us in. Secondly, we’re with the Los Angeles Police Department, so slow your roll, tough guy. We’re going to have a chat with your co-worker, so you can either return to the boudoir or take a hike. What you can’t do is stand there without a shirt, demanding answers. Which is going to be, big boy?”

The guy seemed torn. He clearly didn’t appreciate being knocked down to size by a woman who looked less like a cop than a lingerie model. But he also didn’t seem to want to push too hard and end up in a bad spot. Finally, he made his decision.

“I’ll be in the bedroom,” he pouted before trying to salvage some dignity. “Call me if you need me, Val.”

No one said anything as he retreated to the other room. Susannah followed him and made a point of closing the bedroom door. When she returned, they re-focused their attention on Russo.

“Have a seat,” Susannah said. The young woman did as instructed, sitting on a cushioned chair. Jessie sat on the loveseat opposite her. Susannah remained standing.

“We’re going to get straight to the point,” Jessie told her, leaning forward. “If you’re forthright with us, we can be out of here quickly. But if you hem and haw, this is going to take a while, and I have to tell you, we’ve both had a long, exhausting day and would love to avoid that. Are we all clear?”

Russo nodded sullenly.

“We know you purchased multiple bulk orders of masquerade ball masks from Marcel DuBois’s shop, Belle of the Ball. What were they for?”

Russo’s face grew hard, even as her skin turned pink.

“I can’t say,” she told them. “I have a confidentiality agreement.”

“We understand that,” Jessie said sympathetically. “I’m sure that sort of thing was a priority for a client who ordered potentially millions of dollars’ worth of these masks. But we’re investigating a serious crime, and that trumps your agreement. Eventually, you’re going to have to tell us. So you can do it now without having to incur any legal costs to fight the request. Or this can get very bureaucratic, which would look awful for you and your client, what with the whole crime investigation thing. They probably wouldn’t love the publicity either. So let’s keep this simple and quiet, and you just tell us, okay?”

Russo squirmed in her chair.

“Are you able to protect me so that my client doesn’t come after me, like legally and stuff?”

“Yes,” Susannah said, without any of her usual snark. “Confidentiality agreements and NDAs can’t be used to prevent reporting a crime. And this is a serious crime investigation. You’re covered.”

Jessie noted that Susannah didn’t add how talking to them might impact Russo’s future employment. Her client might not be able to sue her, but they could put pressure on her boss, who could probably find a pretext to fire her. If it came to that, Jessie would testify on her behalf. But that was an issue for another day.

“Okay,” Russo said, still sounding reluctant. “But can I ask what crime this involves?”

“We’ll see if we can share that afterward,” Jessie told her. “For now, we need to know what the masks are for.”

Russo glanced back at the closed bedroom door, as if worried that Coy might come out and tell her to keep quiet. But he remained out of sight.

“I work as a party planner,” she finally said. “And one of the events we organize is a party—actually a series of exclusive parties that can get…a little wild.”

“What does that mean exactly?” Susannah pressed.

Russo shrugged, not very convincingly to Jessie’s mind.

“I don’t attend the events,” she insisted. “I just know how they’re billed. They’re very secretive. I was asked to secure these masks via a memo. The specifications were detailed, but I never spoke to anyone in person about them. I did the research on finding a vendor, made sure that the completed masks met the requirements, and then made certain that they were delivered to the specified location.”

“What location?” Jessie asked.

“It changed regularly,” she answered. “Usually it was an abandoned warehouse, a large rented home, or some other off-the-beaten track location. We would learn the location the morning of the party, have the day to decorate it, and if new masks had been ordered, provide those to a representative of the event just before it started. But that last part only happened a few times. Once they had the masks in their possession, they just kept them for future events.”

“Okay,” Jessie said. “So you have to have paperwork on who ran the events, contact information—that sort of thing.”

“Not really,” Russo said. “Everything was done in cash, so there were no contracts with names. They insisted on it. I never knew the names of anyone I dealt with. And they never used the same location twice, so there was no possibility of following up that way.”

“You were willing to conduct business in that manner,” Susannah wondered. “Organizing these parties and getting these masks without any contracts?”

“Like I said, everything was done in cash,” Russo explained. “And they provided huge deposits each time. We were paid half of the cost of the masks in advance. Same for prepping the venues. Sometimes those payments were well into six figures. In one case, it was close to half a million dollars. So we didn’t ask many questions.”

“You had to have at least done some paperwork to secure those venues,” Susannah said.

“We didn’t secure them, only made them party-ready,” Russo told her. “I have no idea what the financial arrangement was for the venues. I can give you the specific locations, but like I said, often they were just warehouses or empty homes. I’m not sure there was anyone for the event hosts to have contracts with.”

“We’d still definitely like to get those locations—you never know what we’ll uncover,” Jessie said. “Back to the masks for a second. Did the memo explain their purpose? Do you still have it? Was it sent to you electronically?”

“I do have it at the office,” she said. “It was a hard copy. They only do things in person. But I don’t think it will help. It’s very detailed about the colors, the shapes, the number of jewels on each mask—there are even sketches. But the reason for those details is never given.”

“Still, we’ll need that memo too,” Susannah said.

“Now?” Russo asked.

The detective looked over at Jessie for guidance on that one. She was on the fence, while it was clear that Valentina Russo wasn’t being forthright about everything—there was a shiftiness to some of her answers that suggested deception—the answer to the mask questions didn’t seem to be a part of it.

“I think we can wait until morning on that,” Jessie allowed, “as long as you go in early and get it for us first thing.”

“Should I e-mail it to you?”

“No,” Susannah said. “If you got a hard copy, that’s what we want. We’ll also need you to come into the station to work with a sketch artist on everyone you interacted with in person. Was Coy with you for those meetings?”

“He and another guard accompanied me the first few time, but they stayed outside for the actual conversation, and the people I dealt with changed every time since then, so I doubt any guards would be able to give you very good descriptions. I’m not sure mine will be that great either.”

“Nonetheless, we need you to try,” Jessie said. “Did you notice any accents or unusual characteristics about the people you dealt with?”

“No,” Russo said, shaking her head. “I always met with boring white guys with American accents. They all looked similar. Dark hair. Medium height. Average looks. I think that was intentional.”

Jessie nodded, unsurprised. If she was running this enterprise, she’d do the same thing: make the interactions as forgettable as possible.

“Detective Valentine is going to give you her card so you can reach out first thing in the morning,” she said. “You’re to go straight to your office, collect the mask memo, and then come to the police station to meet with us. Understood?”

Russo nodded meekly.

“You’re also not to discuss those plans with Coy,” Susannah said sternly, “or anything else about this for that matter.”

“I don’t know what I would say to him anyway,” she said, frustrated. “You still haven’t told me what this is all about? What crime occurred?”

“For now, you’re better off if we don’t tell you,” Jessie said. “The less you know, the less you can be pressured to share. If Coy asks, tell him we asked about who hosted these events, and you told us you didn’t know. That’s true, right?”

“Yes,” Russo confirmed, her eyes darting away nervously.

Jessie let that go for now. The young woman was definitely hiding something, but this wasn’t time or place to push her on it, with Coy in the other room.

“Then just tell him that,” she instructed. “Say we kept pushing you, but you stuck to your story. Don’t mention your plan for tomorrow morning. You should be good.”

“Okay,” Russo said.

They got up to leave. Jessie could tell that Susannah would have preferred to bring the woman into the station right now. But Jessie feared that she would clam up even more if they tried to pry any more information out of her tonight. Coy might even call their boss to warn about this conversation.

Whatever Valentina Russo was hiding, Jessie was confident that she could discover it tomorrow. Once the woman brought that memo into the station, she was an accomplice to their investigation. She was committed.

That was when they’d really turn the screws