Page 8 of The Perfect Betrayal

She gave him a less saccharine smile than the one she’d just offered Riddell, then returned her attention to the research crew.

“Go ahead, guys,” she said, pushing the speakerphone button. “Detective Riddell is anxious to hear what you’ve discovered.”

“All right,” Jamil began, “Daran Peterson, age 29, was an executive vice-president of a menswear brand called Peterson Limited. It was started by his father thirty years ago.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Riddell said. “Some of the preeners in the department are big fans.”

“Preeners?” Jessie repeated.

“You know, the kinds of guys who are more interested in looking good than getting the job done.”

“Unlike the regular guys, who wear jeans to work?” she asked, unable to help but poke at him just a little bit.

“Exactly,” he said, unfazed. “I see you’re wearing jeans too.”

“Well, I’m no preener,” she told him before turning her attention back to the researcher. “Go on, Jamil.”

“From what we can tell, Peterson never had a job that wasn’t at his dad’s company,” Jamil continued. “It’s afforded him a pretty nice lifestyle. The sailboat. A condo on the sand in Manhattan Beach. A fancy-looking green Lotus. We’re estimating his net worth at around $34 million.”

“That’s not all,” Beth added. “It looks like he wasn’t exactly a ‘nose to the grindstone’ type of dude. Lots of travel that doesn’t seem connected to the job, tons of partying. He’s a bachelor and seems to be making the most of it. It looks like womanizing is actually his primary gig.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Riddell challenged.

There was a long pause on the line. Jessie could picture Beth, an attractive six-foot-tall former volleyball player who had probably dealt with her fair share of Daran Petersons in her life, trying to keep cool.

“It could be a problem if that womanizing wasn’t consensual, which is what Detective Hernandez was looking into,” Beth finally said. “Speaking of, he just hung up the other line. Wait one second.”

In the brief moment before Ryan came on the line, Riddell noted, “sounds like your research gal is a bit hypersensitive.”

“That ‘research gal’ could knock your head right off your shoulders with a well-placed volleyball spike. I wouldn’t piss her off.”

“Hey,” Ryan said, coming on the line, “Sorry to keep you waiting but I was just talking to the manager of a nightclub that Peterson liked to frequent called Glass Hut. Apparently, they got a restraining order against the guy.”

“Why?” Jessie asked.

“That’s the reason for the delay,” Ryan said. “The guy was real squirrelly until I put the screws to him. But once he caved, he was pretty forthcoming. Apparently Peterson hit on multiple female patrons with what the manager called ‘relentless fervor and intensity.’ They warned him repeatedly that they were getting complaints about his aggressiveness, especially when he’d had a lot to drink. They let it slide for a while because of his family business. But when one woman threatened to sue the club for creating an unsafe environment, they decided to take action. They told him he wasn’t welcome anymore. When he said he’d be coming anyway, they got the restraining order. According to the club manager, their place wasn’t the only one where this was an issue. I’m trying to get more on that.”

“Great, thanks,” Jessie said. “Please keep me posted. We’re approaching the body, so I have to run.”

“Okay, by the way, how bad is Riddell?”

“The jury’s still out,” Jessie said quickly, before Ryan could add anything else. “But he’s on this call so I’ll save my take until later. Gotta go.”

She hung up and turned to the detective, who looked like he wanted to say something obnoxious. But she short-circuited that.

“I assume the body’s over there?” she asked Stanton quickly, nodding toward the edge of the dock, where the crowd of crime scene techs stood.

He nodded back without speaking. The techs, who had turned around now, stepped back to make a path for her. She walked over and paused, closing her eyes and allowing herself amoment to clear her head before looking at the man. When she opened them, she found Daran Peterson lying on his back. There was a plastic tarp under him so that he wasn’t lying directly on the wooden dock.

He was wearing a black, short-sleeved Polo-style shirt and casual pants. His doughy face was completely white, and his dark, depleted hair was damp. His eyes were closed. There were no obvious signs of violence, though she knew he'd been stabbed.

“Did you already take photos, or do we need to roll him over?” she asked no one in particular.

“We have photos,” said one of the techs, a youngish guy holding an equipment box. “But we can roll him if you like. It won’t disturb any evidence at this point.”

“Go ahead then,” she said.

Two of the techs did as she requested, slowly rolling Peterson onto his side so that she could see his back. One of them slowly lifted the shirt so she could get a better view. Jessie counted at least a half dozen entry wounds, maybe double that, though it was hard to be sure because the skin was so mangled.

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