CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Jessie couldn't believe her luck.

It was at 5:15, barely a half hour into their interviews, when a passing comment from the gardener caught her attention. She was with the sun-weathered man, named Miguel Carlos, in the library, while Ryan and various other officers were speaking to other staffers. A burly, armed, uniformed officer stood off to the side, just in case Carlos was their killer and decided to do something rash.

"Mrs. Greene was very hard in her judgments," he said, when asked how he felt towards the woman, "so I stayed away from her as much as could. She was a little better today."

"Better compared to when?" Jessie asked, her interest piqued.

"She was in a bad mood all day yesterday from the morning on," he said, "ever since the meeting with the man."

"Which man?" Jessie pressed, leaning in.

"I don't know his name," Carlos admitted. "Just that he was in a suit. He comes by every few months to talk to the Greenes. It is something to do with business."

"Tell me about the meeting," Jessie said. "Why did it put her in a bad mood?"

"I don't know what they said," Carlos told her. "They were in the driveway near the front door, and I was by the rose bushes, which isn't close enough to hear. But I saw the man and the Greenes at the door talking. They shook hands. Then he went to his car, and they returned to the house. But a few seconds later, Mrs. Greene came back out alone and called to the man. They were standing by his car. She was waving her hands and talking loud and angry. He wasn't as loud, but also sounded mad. After a minute, he got in his car and left, driving very fast. She went back to the house and slammed the front door. The rest of the day, she yelled, even more than usual."

"What time was this, Mr. Carlos?" Jessie asked.

"Maybe around ten?" he guessed.

"Who would know his name?"

"The house manager, Missy," he said. "She handles everything—all workers and all appointments. "

Jessie turned to the burly officer standing nearby.

"Can you please get on the radio and ask Detective Hernandez and Missy, the house manager, to come to the library right away?"

***

Jessie had the call on speaker as they tore down the street.

Before quickly leaving the Greene mansion, they had asked Sergeant Cole to continue the questioning of the other staffers, as they had another suspect to pursue.

"Tell us more," Jessie asked of Jamil, who was feeding them information as fast as he and Beth could gather it.

"So as we already established, the man that Fiona Greene met with yesterday was their tax attorney, Douglas Kingman," he said, "and as we discovered pretty easily, he also represented both the Baptistes and Isabella Moreno. Now we're trying to determine if he had any conflicts with those clients."

"Keep us apprised of anything you find," Ryan said as they arrived in front of the Beverly Hills building on North Robertson where Kingman's office was. "Did any of these clients part ways with him recently? Were there any complaints filed against him by other UHNW clients? Speaking of that, do we know how much the Greenes are worth?"

"I can take that one," Beth volunteered. "in the last year before their marriage, Fiona Greene made about $6.7 million. This last year, their net worth is estimated at about $1.1 billion."

"Okay, listen," Ryan said, "we're heading up there now. Text us what you find."

The building was only three stories tall, but they had to get through security in the lobby and on the third floor, before they finally got access to Kingman's office. The security guard accompanied them and, over the intercom outside the front door, instructed the receptionist to buzz them in. She did but shook her head as they approached her.

"I'm sorry, folks," said the forty-something woman with gray hair and glasses sitting behind the desk. "We're closed for the evening."

"But your website says your office hours are until 5:30 and it's only 5:28," Jessie noted, hoping that by implying that they wanted to make an appointment, they could access Kingman without having to pull out identification right away .

"I'm happy to discuss a potential appointment for you if you call tomorrow," she said with a kind smile.

Next to her, Ryan shifted impatiently. She could sense that he wasn't willing to play this game much longer.

"But we're already here," Jessie pleaded. "Please don't make it a wasted trip."

"I'm so sorry," the woman said, "but frankly, Mr. Kingman deals in tax guidance for an extremely exclusive clientele, and he simply doesn't take walk-in appointments. There's an extensive pre-meeting review that is required. Now I'm sure that Lloyd will be happy to escort you back downstairs."

The security guard, who was apparently named Lloyd, looked over at Ryan uncomfortably, uncertain how to proceed. He knew that they were law enforcement, but they hadn't said that to the receptionist yet, which put him in an awkward position. At that point, Ryan decided to end the discomfort.

"Ma'am," he said, holding out his badge and ID, "I'm afraid we're going to have to insist on speaking with Mr. Kingman right now."

The woman leaned across her desk, squinting behind her glasses. After a moment, she settled back in her chair.

"In that case," she replied, as if this was the most normal thing in the world, "let me buzz him."

"Thank you," Ryan said, putting his ID back in his pocket.

The receptionist picked up the phone and pushed a button, "Mr. Kingman, there are people here from the Los Angeles Police Department. They'd like to speak with you."

After a moment of listening to what he said, she replied, "they weren't specific about the nature of their enquiry."

After another moment, she hung up and smiled at them.

"He's waiting for you," she said, "last door on the right."

She buzzed them in, and they walked past four other offices, all of which were empty, before reaching the last one. The door was open, and they stepped inside.

Kingman was already standing behind his desk, awaiting their arrival. He was a tall, lean man in his early forties, with thinning blond hair that he made no attempt conceal. He was dressed impeccably, even at this late hour, in a navy Brioni suit, complete with vest.

He had narrow, brown eyes and a scowl that looked like it might be permanently affixed to his face. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly and clipped .

"So what's this all about?" he demanded.

Jessie glanced over at Ryan to see if he was as taken aback as she was. Apparently, they were skipping the pleasantries. Ryan looked like he was fine with that.

"Do you represent Chloe Baptiste, Isabella Moreno, and Fiona Greene," he asked flatly.

"In tax-related matters, yes I do," Kingman replied directly, without any attempt to be evasive.

"When was the last time you saw any of them?"

Kingman sat back down at his desk and punched the keyboard in front of his desktop.

"I met with the Greenes just yesterday morning," he said. "For the other two, I'll need to look it up."

As he typed, he gave no indication that he found their presence or questions even vaguely troubling. He scribbled a few things on a notepad, then looked up.

"I last met with the Baptistes two months ago, just before Thanksgiving. For Ms. Moreno, it was longer. We met last April, just before she submitted her taxes. But I do have records of short phone conversations with her in the months since. The last call was in October."

"Are you at all curious about why we're here, Mr. Kingman?" Jessie asked, hoping to shake him out of his officious, robotic persona.

"In light of the news about both Chloe and Isabella's murders," he said evenly, "I can only assume that Fiona has been killed too, and that, as the tax attorney for all three, you felt an obligation to talk with me to see if I have any information that might be of value."

"I have to say that you seem surprisingly unperturbed by the brutal murders of multiple clients," she noted.

"Would you like me to be disingenuous?" he asked. "I was their lawyer, not their bestie."

"In that case, do you?" she pressed.

"Do I what?"

"You said we were likely here to see if you have any information of value," she reminded him. "Do you?"

He shrugged noncommittally. "I'm not at liberty to discuss anything related to their tax situations."

"What about their personal situations?" Ryan wondered.

"I didn't know them personally. "

"Apparently you knew Fiona Greene well enough to get into a heated argument with her yesterday morning," Jessie said. "What was that about?"

Kingman paused briefly. For the first time since their arrival, he seemed slightly thrown.

"All I can tell you is that it was in regard to a professional matter," he finally said. "Beyond that, I can't disclose the particulars."

Jessie sensed agitation rising in her chest and didn't feel like making much of an effort to control it.

"You understand that we're investigating three murders," she said sharply, "and you have a connection to each victim. Maybe you should be a little more forthcoming."

"And yet," he replied slowly. "I choose not to be."

"That strikes me as very suspicious, Mr. Kingman," Ryan pointed out.

"You're free to draw your own conclusions."

"In light of your lack of cooperation," Ryan said, "we may need to ask you to come back to the station for a chat."

Kingman sighed and leaned back in his chair. "In that case, you should know that I won't go with you voluntarily. But if you feel that you need to arrest me, that is at your discretion, of course. I would just ask to call my attorney first."

"You have a criminal attorney?" Jessie asked.

"Doesn't everyone?"

Jessie glanced at Ryan, who looked ready to pull out the cuffs.

"Give us a moment," she said to Kingman before motioning for Ryan to join her just outside the office. Once there, she spoke in a whisper.

"We can't afford to waste time going through all the back and forth with criminal lawyers, especially considering how obstinate he is," she said. "If he's like this now, it's only going to get worse once his attorney arrives. Meanwhile, if he's not our guy, the real killer could be out there doing damage while we're stuck in an interrogation room."

"What are you suggesting we do?" Ryan asked irritably. "Give the guy a free pass because he's difficult to deal with?"

"Of course not," she replied, fighting off her own irritation. "But maybe we try a different tack. If he didn't do this, he won't want to be arrested. No matter how things ultimately play out, it's a bad look for him with current and potential future clients. So let's find a way to get what we need without offending his delicate sensibilities. "

"I'm open to anything that gets us answers," he told her. "Go for it."

They returned to the office, where Kingman didn't look like he'd moved a muscle in their absence.

"Mr. Kingman, as I said, we're trying to solve three murders," she told him, keeping her tone as conversational as possible under the circumstances. "If you weren't involved, we'd like to make that determination as quickly as possible so that we can move on to other suspects. I assume that if you're innocent, you'd also prefer that this not become an ugly, protracted process."

"That would be my preference, yes," he said, softening ever so slightly, "as long as I'm not asked to violate any professional standards."

"Okay," she replied, feeling like they might finally be getting somewhere. "Would it violate your professional standards to share your whereabouts at the times of the three murders, and provide relevant phone and vehicle GPS data for those periods, as well as contact information for people you interacted with?'

Kingman thought about it for a moment. "Assuming that none of those requests conflict with attorney-client privilege, I don't think that would be a problem."

"All right then," she said. "Detective Hernandez is going to give you the windows of death for all three victims, and you can check your records for where you were, sound good?"

Kingman nodded, and Ryan stepped forward. As the men began bouncing times back and forth, Jessie stopped listening. However the particulars worked out, she already suspected that she knew the ultimate outcome of this interview.

Something about Douglas Kingman's cool confidence and his quiet stoicism in the face of the allegations he was facing told her all she needed to know. Either this man, in the middle of his busy workday, had twice stripped out of his fancy suit and into all-black clothing to murder two women just today, or he wasn't their killer. The latter seemed infinitely more likely.

That meant that someone else had slaughtered three women in less than a day. And she had a bad feeling that they weren't done yet.