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“At least a minute,” he said.
“Ring the bell again,” she said.
He did. And then a third time, thirty seconds after that. When there was no response, he knocked loudly.
“She has to know we’re here,” he muttered, frustrated. “Between the Ring doorbell and the cameras all over the place, she can see everything that’s going on.”
He pointed to a camera above them on the porch and another mounted on a fancy lamp post behind them.
“You don’t think something happened to her too?” Jessie wondered, the idea coming to her for the first time.
Ryan paused for a moment to consider it.
“According to security footage, she walked out of the hotel at 10:07 last night,” he said, “which we know would have given her time to meet Gabby Silva at the parkette. But it didn’t occur to me to think of her as a possible victim instead of a suspect. Do you think I should try to get inside—exigent circumstances? I could scale that side fence pretty easily and be in the backyard.”
Jessie was debating the idea when they heard a bolt lock slide, followed by a second one. A moment later the door opened, and they were face to face with Janet Cressey, though she looked nothing like the photos they’d reviewed.
Unlike in the glamorous headshot on the fundraiser program that had been handed out last night, her brown hair was not in an extravagant updo. Instead, it was disheveled, covering half her face. It also looked clumpy, like something had gotten stuck in parts of it. She was dressed in sweatpants and a gray t-shirt that was three sizes too big for her. It appeared that she had either forgotten or been too tired to remove her makeup last night, which was smeared across her face, making her look a little like The Joker’s sister. Then Jessie was hit by the stench.
The smell of vomit wafted off Janet Cressey, slamming Jessie like a punch and making her gag. Suddenly she had an idea what was clumped in the woman’s hair. Cressey, bleary-eyed, seemed oblivious to her condition as she leaned against the doorframe for support. Jessie wondered if she’d just gotten toasted for fun or perhaps to drown out the memory of what she might have done to Gabby Silva.
“What?” she demanded sourly.
"Mrs. Cressey," Ryan began politely, "we're with the Los Angeles Police Department. I'm Detective Hernandez, and this is Ms. Hunt. We need to ask you a few questions."
“Later,” Cressey said, starting to close the door, “I’m not in the mood.”
“No, now,” Ryan said, blocking the door with his foot.
“What the hell?” Cressey spat. “Can’t you see I’m not in any condition to talk?”
"It's not really up to you," Ryan informed her. "Now you can answer our questions here at your home, or we can have you join us at our downtown police station, where things will get a lot more formal. Either way, we're going to have a chat. What's your preference?"
Cressey sighed heavily and pushed her hair out of her face.
“What is this all about?” she asked irritably.
“Where did you go after you left the fundraiser last night?” Jessie asked, speaking for the first time.
“I came back here. Why?
“No pit stops along the way?” Jessie checked, not answering the woman’s question.
“No,” Cressey answered. “I wasn’t feeling great.”
“Did you start feeling bad before or after you called Gabriella Silva a bitch and said you’d give her what she deserved?” Ryan asked simply.
Cressey’s brown, red-tinged eyes opened wide.
“I never said that!” she insisted.
“Are you sure about that?” Ryan pressed. “We have a witness who says different.”
Cressey paused, either trying to recall or debating how best to play this.
“I don’t remember,” she finally said. “I drank a lot last night, but if I did say that, it wasn’t to her face.”
“Why would you say something like that at all?” Jessie wanted to know.
