“I only knew her as Cindy, not by her real name, but I knew she was a student at Cal State. She’d told me she was studying criminal justice.” He shrugged. “I think she’d been trying to impress me. I told Catherine what I knew and showed her Cindy’s photo on the website listing.” He held Pryce’s gaze. “You have to believe me, Detective, when I tell you I had no idea what my wife had planned for that poor girl.”

Pryce said, “The knife Catherine Tavernier used to attack the private investigator in Eagle Rock a couple of days ago is a match for the wounds that were inflicted upon Amy Ong. We also have Mr. Daniels’s statement confessing to following both women on Catherine Tavernier’s orders. What I need from you, Mr. Fenton, is as much information as you can recall about other prostitutes you have used in the past. Names, websites, hotels where you met. Anything at all.”

Fenton looked shocked. “What? You don’t seriously believe . . . ?”

In the statement she’d provided from her hospital bed that morning, Jessica had told how Catherine Tavernier had boasted about “the others” before attempting what would be her final attack. That she appeared to have a pathological hatred of women she believed seduced so-called family men to make easy money. And Pryce didn’t believe for one second that after claiming Eleanor Lavelle as her first victim, Catherine Tavernier had waited twenty-five years to carry out another kill.

“We have reason to believe your wife may have killed other young women. Women you inadvertently led her to. Did you tell her about the other prostitutes you used?”

Fenton nodded. “Some of them. The ones I’d been seeing when she first found out about the call girls.”

Pryce stood. “I’ll be in touch for that list.”

Then he walked out of the hotel, leaving David Fenton the way he had found him, staring into a glass filled with expensive whiskey that he hoped would do little to provide the man with any solace.

39 JESSICA

39

JESSICA

As she cruised down Los Feliz Boulevard toward Hollywood, Jessica realized she was excited at the thought of being back on the road again soon. She buzzed down the truck’s window, leaned her elbow on the sill, and enjoyed the feel of the wind ruffling her hair. “L.A. Woman,” by the Doors, blasted from the radio.

Jessica turned onto a narrow residential street and pulled up in front of a two-story redbrick building that took up the entire block. It stood proudly in well-kept grounds dotted with other smaller buildings. An American flag hung limply from a white flagpole stuck in the front lawn. As she walked up the path toward the front entrance, Jessica could hear the tinkly sound of kids’ laughter from the backyard.