Kiss of Death. P.D. Martin
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makeup and nail polish.
“Just the four of you?” I ask.
“Yes.” Mr. Taylor nods. “I’m an only child and my parents are both dead, and Mandy’s parents spend Thanksgiving with us and Christmas with Mandy’s brother in New York.”
I take another look at the photo. “Sherry lived here with you, correct?”
“Yes. She would have loved to live on campus, but I didn’t see the point…not when UCLA is a five-minute drive.”
“And Misha?” Sloan passes the photo back to Mr. Taylor.
“Misha’s studying music…in New York.” He stares at the photo.
“I see.”
“Have you told her yet?” Sloan asks softly.
The question brings another onslaught of tears from Mrs. Taylor, and this time not even the medication can control them. “I can’t…I can’t do it.”
“We can’t wait any longer, Mandy.” Mr. Taylor turns to us. “I was just about to call Misha when you arrived.”
“Without me?” Mrs. Taylor stands up and pulls at her hair with one hand. “How could you?”
“We have to tell her.” Taylor’s voice is soft.
Mrs. Taylor hesitates for a moment before sinking back into the couch and holding her head in her hands. “Maybe you’re right. She has to know, and Lord knows I can’t bring myself to say those words.”
We’re all silent for a few beats.
“It’s not going to be on the news or anything, is it?” Mr. Taylor gently places the photo back on the mantelpiece. “Misha can’t find out like that.”
Sloan shakes her head. “Not Sherry’s name, no. We won’t release those details until you’ve made a formal identification at the coroner’s office.” She pauses. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
“No, I need to see her as soon as possible.” He’s still looking at the Christmas photo. “Need to see my baby to believe it’s really her.”
We nod, and Sloan says, “I understand.”
Silence again.
“Sherry…” I pause. “Was she outgoing? Shy?”
“More outgoing, I guess. She certainly had a lot of friends.”
“She was an extrovert.” Mrs. Taylor looks up. “She drew people to her and was loved by everyone. Sherry and her friends often spent time over here—I always opened our house to them.”
“Did she have a best friend? Someone she was particularly close to?”
“Desiree Jones. They’ve known each other since high school. Both charming, social girls.”
“We’d like her details. And the contact details of anyone else close to Sherry.”
Mrs. Taylor manages to stand up. “Of course. I’ll get my address book.” She strides out of the room, but I can tell the deliberate movement and poise take her full concentration.
When she returns, she reads out a few names and we take down the details.
“Anyone else? Perhaps that you don’t have contact details for?”
“I know all Sherry’s friends. Sherry and I are very close.”
I haven’t decided yet if Mandy Taylor is a more open, progressive mum, or if she’s one of those mums who live their lives through their children. Could be she had to be part of Sherry’s social life, almost think of Sherry’s friends as her friends.
“What about a boyfriend? Was she seeing anyone?” Sloan asks.
“No.” Mrs. Taylor fiddles with her address book, which now sits closed on her lap. “She dated Todd Fischer for three years, but they split up just before Christmas.”
Sloan leans on the couch’s arm. “She still in contact with him?”
“No. It was a clean break.”
“You know who broke it off?”
“She did. Told me it just didn’t feel right anymore.”
“Anyone new on the scene?” Sloan asks.
“No.”
“But she wouldn’t bring a new guy home to meet the folks. Not if she’d only been with him a few weeks,” Sloan says.
Mrs. Taylor’s eyes move slowly from Sloan to me. “Maybe not. But she would have told her mom.” She takes a few quick breaths, holding back tears. “I told the police officer when I reported her missing this morning that something was wrong, seriously wrong. My baby girl wouldn’t just not come home one night. But he didn’t take me seriously.” The tears come again.
“There was an APB put out for Sherry and her car. He certainly did take you seriously, Mrs. Taylor.” Sloan’s voice is soft.
Mr. Taylor looks at his wife, then back at Sloan. “Why weren’t you out there, looking for her?”
“We were, Mr. Taylor.” Sloan edges forward on the couch. “The APB meant that every LAPD officer on the street was on the lookout for Sherry and her car.”
While that’s true, in reality there would have been several APBs out during any one shift, and one for a missing twenty-year-old girl wouldn’t have taken priority. The LAPD would have been too busy with shootings, rapes, active arrest warrants, drugs and their normal urgent duties. In fact, the Taylors were lucky to get an APB at all. A twenty-year-old on a Friday or Saturday night with no evidence of foul play…no police department in the world was going to be genuinely concerned. And 99.9 times out of 100 they’d be right.
“It was the APB that allowed us to identify the victim as Sherry so quickly,” Sloan continues.
After a few minutes of silence I try to move us on. “Did Sherry have any new friends that you met or that she spoke about?”
Mrs. Taylor looks up and shakes her head. “No.”
“Any changes in her behavior?”
“Not that I noticed.” Mr. Taylor looks to his wife for confirmation. Maybe he’s an absent daddy—too busy at the office to get to know his kids. Not that unusual.
“She was her normal happy self. Looking forward to finishing college, spending the summer in Europe and then coming back to break into the acting business. She had it all ahead of her.” A few more sobs escape from Mrs. Taylor. “She was really happy.” The last sentence is particularly slurred, perhaps from the sedatives kicking in or perhaps from grief. Either way, our time with Mrs. Taylor is coming to an end.
“Just a few more questions now,” Sloan reassures.
“Was Sherry part of the Goth subculture?” I ask. “Interested in that scene at all?”
“No.” Mr. Taylor manages an amused snort. “She was into designer labels…and I’ve got the credit card bills to prove it.”
“What about her friends? Anyone she knows a Goth?”
“No.” Mrs. Taylor’s brow furrows. “What’s this got to do with Sherry or…what happened?”
“It’s just a line of inquiry we’re pursuing.” Sloan clasps her hands together.
Mr. Taylor sits next to his wife again. “Do you suspect someone? Someone from this group?” He says it with distaste.
“We’re not sure at this stage. As soon as we have more, I’ll let you know, I promise.” Sloan’s voice is casual, almost dismissive.
“What about makeup? Did Sherry usually wear much of it?”
Mrs. Taylor