CHAPTER THREE

Jessie was glad they waited.

Before calling Laurent Baptiste, she suggested they check in with their research team to get some more background information on the man. Better to know who they were dealing with before dealing with him. As they made the short trip to the Baptiste's home address, Jamil and Beth filled them in.

"We've been doing a crash course on the couple since you gave us their names," Jamil said over speaker. "Laurent Baptiste runs Groupe Passage, a French film conglomerate. It operates as both a mini-studio and an international distributor of both high-end awards fare and action blockbuster type stuff. The company also recently got into the streaming world. Their platform includes their entire back catalogue of films, as well as original TV programming. They also just got into sports, including some race car series, a bit of soccer, and tennis. All told, the company is valued at over $6 billion, and his personal wealth is estimated to be between $100-150 million. Articles describe him as being a UHNWI."

"I'm sorry, what?" Jessie asked.

"It means ‘ultra-high-net-worth individual,'" Jamil explained. "It's a term that has come into vogue of late. It's a way of referring to the super-rich. The people who make these designations informally use a net worth of thirty million dollars as the cutoff to be considered a UHNWI."

"Okay," Jessie said, amazed. She was familiar with dealing with the rich. Many of their cases involved wealthy celebrities or business people. But this was a whole different level.

"It sounds like the Baptistes embraced that lifestyle too," Beth added. "Looking at their holdings, they have multiple homes all over the world, a couple of jets, and at least one yacht. He's currently at a film festival in Paris."

"Are they both ultra-high-net people or is it just him?" Ryan wanted to know.

"It looks like he brought the bulk of the wealth to the marriage," Beth said. "When they got married four years ago, Laurent was recently divorced. Chloe was an up-and-coming art buyer. In fact, that's how they met. He hired her to represent him at a big auction in Milan. Since they hooked up, she can be seen on the pages of glamour magazines everywhere."

"Any children?" Jessie asked.

"No," Beth answered. "Laurent is more than double her age. He's 66 and she was 32. He has three kids from his first marriage and two from his second."

"Maybe he was all tapped out," Ryan suggested jokingly as they pulled up in front of the Baptiste's mansion. The squad car sent to accompany them parked right behind them.

"Very funny," Jessie muttered. "You know that you're about to call this guy and that he's now a widower, right?"

"Just some gallows humor," he replied, undaunted. "Now that we're here, I guess I can't stall any longer."

"Just a heads up," Jamil added. "I just spoke to the security company for the house. They're ready to send a representative to give you access as soon as Baptiste authorizes it. If he balks, we're ready to put the paperwork in requesting a search warrant."

"Hopefully that won't be necessary," Jessie said.

"One last thing before you go," Beth told them. "I've been trying to get in contact with the gallery owner, Lena Ortega, but all her calls go straight to voicemail."

"According to the gallery manager, Ortega was suffering from a migraine," Jessie recalled. "She may have shut everything off for the night. If we don't hear back from her tonight, we'll pay her a visit first thing in the morning. Thanks guys."

After they hung up, Ryan motioned for the officers in the squad car behind them to pull up alongside.

"We're going to call the husband to give him the death notification," he explained. "Hopefully he gives us permission to access the house. If he gives us any trouble, we may need you guys to sit on the place until we get a warrant. For now, you can just park here. We'll let you know what happens."

The officers pulled in front of them. Ryan dialed the number that Jamil had given him for Laurent Baptiste. The first two times he called, he was sent straight to voicemail. The second time, he left a message.

"Mr. Baptiste, this is Detective Ryan Hernandez with the Los Angeles Police Department. It's imperative that you return this call immediately. We have an urgent matter to discuss. "

As he continued speaking, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation while still using vague generalities, Jessie glanced over at the mansion where the man spent at least some of his time.

The home, a giant, nearly-block-long Spanish Colonial style villa, fit what Jessie would have expected from a couple focused on film and art. She guessed that it was about a hundred years old and had that distinctive old Hollywood flavor.

Despite the glamour of the place, Jessie wasn't starry-eyed. She'd had bad experiences with this neighborhood. Andy Robinson, a woman who would later go on to stalk and kidnap her, once lived just a block over. In fact, she's tried to kill Jessie in that very home.

"You think he'll call back?" Ryan asked after hanging up, pulling her back into the present. "He's in Paris, right? What time is it there?"

Jessie did some quick mental calculations. "It's almost 10 p.m. here, so that would make 7 a.m. there."

"Maybe he's still asleep," Ryan posited.

As if in response to his comment, the phone suddenly rang.

"This is Detective Hernandez," Ryan said the second he hit "answer."

"Detective," replied a youngish-sounding man with a light accent who definitely wasn't Baptiste. "This is Mr. Baptiste's personal assistant, Gerard. Mr. Baptiste is preparing for a speech. How may I help you?"

"I'm sorry, Gerard," Ryan said, "but for what we need to discuss, I need to speak with Mr. Baptiste directly. I understand that's probably unusual for him, but it's essential."

There was a long pause before Gerard spoke again.

"You are on speaker with Mr. Baptiste," he said, "go ahead."

Jessie could tell from his expression that Ryan didn't want to relay bad news with someone else on the line, but he didn't have much choice.

"Mr. Baptiste?" he said.

"Yes," replied a man with a thick but still mostly understandable accent. "This is he. What is this regarding, Detective?"

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, sir," Ryan replied in a firm quiet voice, "but your wife, Chloe, has died."

They heard a stifled gag on the other end of the line and something in French that neither understood. A moment later, Gerard, sounding rattled, came back on the line .

"Are you sure this isn't a mistake?" he demanded, his tone quavery. "Mr. Baptiste wants to know."

"I'm afraid not," Ryan said. "She was found less than an hour ago in her car behind the Larchmont Gallery near Hancock Park. I'm sorry to inform him that she was murdered."

They heard something else in French. It sounded like Gerard might be translating Ryan's words for the older man. Baptiste spoke again. Even with his accent, his voice was obviously heavy with emotion.

"This cannot be," he insisted. "I refuse to accept it. You must present me with evidence that verifies what you say. Photos. How can I be certain that this is not some cruel joke?"

Ryan sighed.

"I'm able to give you the number for Central Police Station or you can look it up on your own. Our captain's name is Gaylene Parker. You can confirm all this with her. I encourage you to do so if you have doubts. As to providing photos, I'm not able to do that, sir. They're part of the investigation. And trust me, you don't want to see them. They are…difficult to look at."

"Why?" Baptiste demanded. "How was she killed?"

"I can't share any details of the investigation at this time, sir," Ryan told him, wincing at how he had to toe the official line. "Suffice to say, it was extremely violent. That's part of why I wanted to speak to you. Obviously, it's my responsibility to share this terrible news. But I'm also investigating the case, and I'm hoping that you can help. If—once you verify my identity with my superiors—you could tell me if there was anyone who might want to hurt your wife, anyone who had threatened her or expressed animosity, it could go a long way to advancing our investigation."

There was more back and forth in French, Gerard speaking in comforting, hushed tones while Baptiste alternated between anguished responses and angry howls. When someone finally spoke to them again, it was Gerard.

"We do not need to call your captain to confirm what you say," he said. "I'm looking online, and the story is already there. The gossip websites have photos from far away, and they name Chloe as the victim. One site says she was stabbed many times."

"I'm sorry that you have to see that, Mr. Baptiste," Ryan replied. "We try to keep the tabloids away, but who knows who might sneak around to get access to an unsecured crime scene. Unfortunately, those reports are accurate. Chloe was stabbed repeatedly and with a ferocity that suggests there may have been a personal vendetta at work. That's why I asked about anyone with a grievance against her."

"In this moment, I can think of no one," Baptiste said, choking back tears. "I'm sure some people do not love her. She has strong opinions and shares them with passion. But to anger someone to the point of violence? I cannot imagine such a thing."

"Alibi," Jessie mouthed to Ryan, hoping to get a sense of Baptiste's credibility when he was asked an unexpected question.

Ryan nodded. "Mr. Baptiste, I was surprised to learn that your wife didn't accompany you on this trip."

"She was to come on Wednesday," the man said. "I was needed here on Saturday for the festival's opening gala, but she strongly said she must stay in Los Angeles for the gallery auction. Her friend is the owner. Now I am wondering if I should have demanded harder for her to come."

"You can't think that way, Mr. Baptiste," Ryan told him. "That will take you down a dark path. I speak from experience. You had no control over what happened. But you can make a difference in terms of what happens next."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"The goal for me and my team is to find out who did this and bring them to justice," Ryan explained. "It won't bring Chloe back, but it will allow her some peace."

"How can I help with that?" Baptiste asked.

Jessie smiled. When he wanted to be, Ryan was masterful at handling people.

"We are sitting outside your Hancock Park home right now. We'd like to search it immediately. It's possible that there's some clue inside, maybe a letter threatening her or fingerprints from someone who was stalking her and snuck in at some point. We won't necessarily know what we're looking for until we're inside. We'd like your permission to enter the house and begin that search."

Jessie held her breath as she waited for the man's response.

"Of course," he said with barely a moment's hesitation. "Gerard will call my butler, Phillipe, right now and instruct him to admit you. Take the time you need. But please keep me informed of what is happening. I will leave Paris when we hang up. As soon as the jet is ready, we will fly. I should be back there in less than twelve hours."

"I wish you safe travels, sir," Ryan said. "And again, my condolences. "

After they hung up, he turned to Jessie.

"What did you think?" he asked.

Jessie shrugged.

"I mean, he sounded credible over the phone," she acknowledged, "but you know I always prefer to be in the room when we question someone—look in their eyes, study their body language."

"I get that," Ryan agreed. "And I'm not holding you to this, but I'd love your initial profile of the guy."

"Based on what he said and his vocal patterns," she replied, "which can be hard to discern considering his strong accent, I'm inclined to think we shouldn't put all our resources into targeting him. He sounded sincere and he has an alibi. Of course, we both know all too well that people hire professional killers all the time. He could have had a hit put on her when he knew he'd be out of the country and told the assassin to make it look personal. We'll need to check his financials, which I imagine will be a challenge with a guy like that."

"If there's anyone who can untangle the financial data of an ultra-high-net whatchamacallit, it's Jamil," Ryan noted.

He was right. Jamil Winslow, the head of the HSS Research department was a genius, capable of filtering through massive databases, sorting surveillance video into manageable buckets, or making complex financial records understandable, all seemingly in the blink of an eye. His small stature, physical fragility, and thick glasses gave the impression that he could be overlooked, but when he wielded his computer like a knight would a sword, he was formidable.

The other member of the team, Beth Ryerson, was no slouch either. While not a human supercomputer like Jamil, she had an incredibly sharp mind, which people tended to underestimate because she was an attractive, six foot plus former college volleyball star.

"Let's ask them to get started now," Jessie said. "Maybe by the time we've finished searching the Baptiste mansion, they'll have uncovered something."

"Let's hope so," Ryan said, "because right now, we're grasping at straws."