Both men watched again, but the grain was too heavy to determine if there was any interaction with Amy Ong before the figure in black disappeared into the motel room. Delaney hit fast-forward. Twenty-seven minutes later, the door opened, and the unknown person was back out in the lot. He pulled the door shut behind him and jogged toward the office. Again, the hood was up, head bowed toward his chest, face hidden. Still carrying the bag, he ran past the office in the direction of La Brea. Just before he moved out of the shot, Pryce noticed the white logo of a well-known sports brand emblazoned across the front of the hoodie.

“Can you back up all the way to when this guy first makes an appearance?”

“No problem.”

They watched as the dark-clad figure first walked into shot, confirming what Pryce had suspected. The sweater was plain black or navy. No sports logo. Pryce now knew the purpose of the duffel bag. A change of clothes. The guy had switched his clothing while in the motel room. Swapped blood-soaked items for fresh ones. Pryce remembered the empty bathroom. The figure in black had probably cleaned up and taken the motel’s towels with him, before later discarding all of the bloodied items.

The murder had been planned.

The killer had come prepared.

“I’m going to need a copy of this recording,” Pryce said.

“Sure thing,” Delaney said. “I’ll do it right now.”

As the security manager went to work, Pryce leaned back in the seat and thought about Medina’s description of Frank Sherman’s arrest as a slam dunk. Pryce had been in the job long enough to know when to trust his gut, and his gut had been telling him something was off. Now he knew they had dropped the ball into the wrong net.

Truth and lies.

Frank Sherman had been telling the truth when he’d said he hadn’t killed Amy Ong.

16 JESSICA

16

JESSICA

Jessica and Holliday met for lunch at a place called Pat and Lorraine’s on Eagle Rock Boulevard.

The restaurant had been Holliday’s suggestion after she had texted the invitation. Jessica parked in the lot out back next to Holliday’s Ford pickup and found him at a table for two, wearing his reading glasses, and already studying the menu. He looked up and grinned as she sat down on the seat facing him.

“Cool place, huh?”

Jessica took in the plain Formica tabletops and tomato-red leatherette seats. The exposed white brick walls were adorned with mismatched framed pictures, and high wooden shelves were stuffed full of kitschy ornaments. She shrugged. The place was nothing special as far as she could see.

“It’s okay,” she said.

“You don’t recognize it?”