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“That’s what we’rehoping to do right now,” Ryan told her, not fully masking his irritation. “Wehave a private tutor with connections to all three victims. Maybe she’ll be thebreak we were looking for.”
"Keep meapprised," Parker instructed. "In the meantime, I'll brief ChiefDecker on where we're at."
As was her custom,she hung up before either of them could respond. Jessie didn’t think Parkermeant it to be rude. She was probably just busy. But the abruptness alwaysrubbed her the wrong way, and she knew Ryan felt even more strongly.
“So she made ussit around for a half hour discussing leads and evidence when we could havebeen out there pursuing them,” he grumbled as they arrived on DanielleRobertson’s street. “We could have already questioned this tutor by now andmaybe even arrested her.”
I know Parker canbe challenging,” Jessie acknowledged before making an attempt at diplomacy,“but don’t forget the pressure you felt all the time when you were captain ofCentral Station. Sometimes it makes investigations secondary to publicperception.”
Ryan didn’t reply.She wasn’t sure if that meant he agreed or was too annoyed to get into it anydeeper. It was moot anyway, as they pulled up to the curb in front ofRobertson’s building right at 10:30.
Even though thecommunity of Westchester was adjacent to Playa del Rey to the west, Playa Vistajust to the north, and abutted Loyola Marymount University, it didn’t havequite the cache of those communities. It felt older and more suburban.
The apartmentcomplex, like many in the neighborhood, looked like something out of anotherera. It was in the Dingbat style, popular in in the 1950s and 60s, with retro,cursive lettering and an overhang to shield the cars parked at the front of thecomplex from the elements. There appeared to be about a dozen units over twofloors. Despite all that, Jessie doubted that it was cheap.
They approachedthe locked main door to the complex. Ryan was just pulling out a credit card tojimmy the lock when a young man dashed out, apparently late for something. Hewas holding a suit jacket on a hangar, and his shirttails were out of hisslacks. He never even looked at them. Ryan shoved the card back in his walletas he held the door open for Jessie.
“Let’s hope therest of this is that easy,” he said.
They walked aroundthe sad little pool in the central courtyard toward the back of the buildingwhere they found Danielle Robertson’s unit, #105. There was no doorbell toring, so Ryan knocked.
“Watch,” hemumbled, “we come all the way over here and she’s probably off tutoring somepreschooler in finger painting.”
“Hey buddy,”Jessie teased disapprovingly, “do you think you can set aside the grumbling forthe next little bit? This woman is a potential suspect. And even if she doesn’tpan out, she might have useful information about these women that could lead usin the right direction. But if she feels like you’re looking your nose down ather, she might just clam up.”
He was about toreply when someone called out from the other side of the door.
“Who is it?” thefemale-sounding voice asked.
Ryan held out hisbadge so it was visible in the peephole.
“LAPD,” heanswered. “We have a few questions for you about some of your tutoringclients.”
“Hold on,” thewoman said before opening a series of locks including what sounded like a chainlock and a deadbolt. “What’s this about?”
Jessie studied theyoung woman in front of them. From Jamil and Beth’s research, they already knewthat Danielle Robertson was twenty-six and that she had graduated from Cal PolySan Luis Obispo with a degree in Child Development.
Robertson stoodabout five foot five and weighed about 125 pounds, with wet, curly, sandyblonde hair and glasses that made her startled blue eyes look unusually big.She was barefoot and dressed in faded jeans and a gray sweatshirt with hercollege’s logo on the front. She wasn’t a physically imposing presence, but forthe crime they were investigating, that wasn’t important. She offered them anervous, thin-lipped smile as she held the door open for them.
"I'msorry," she said. "I only just got out of the shower a few minutesago, and I've never had the police knock on my door before, so I'm a littlethrown. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do here. Should I invite youin?"
“We certainlywouldn’t reject an invitation,” Ryan said, making sure that his words didn’tcome across as a demand.
“Then please,” shesaid, waving them in. “What can I do for you?”
Jessie steppedinside and looked around the living room. The place had a definite post-gradfeel, with framed Ansel Adams photos and prints of famous paintings. It was asif Robertson hadn’t yet determined what her personal adult style was and wasclinging to the one from college until she figured it out.
It reminded her ofthe apartment they’d visited yesterday, belonging to Raylene Florence, theyoung woman who worked for Clarissa Langley. Jessie wondered if all L.A. womenin their mid-twenties decorated their places the same way now. Did they havemeetings about it? She decided that was a topic she could broach another time.
“We understandthat you’re a private tutor, is that correct?” she asked even though she knewit was. She stopped by the breakfast bar connected to the small kitchen andturned around to face the woman.
“Yes,” Robertsonsaid. “I’m planning to get my teaching credential and eventually my master’s ineducation, but for now I was hoping to build up a little nest egg to pay forthat, plus pay off some student debt.”
“We saw a list ofsome of your clients,” Jessie told her. “How did you manage to get in with suchwealthy families?”
"Oh,"Robertson said, running her fingers through her hair. "I was working at anupscale tutoring center in Venice and one of the moms there said she'd hire meon the side to work with her son at her home. I took her up on it, and she was happywith me, so she told some of her friends. Within a year, I had a whole networkof Westside families that I worked with."
“Do you like thework?” Jessie asked, looking deeply into the young woman’s eyes.
