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CHAPTER THREE
Lizzie Polacnyk got home seriously late.
She’d expected to be back from her study group session at California State University—Northridge by 7 p.m. But they had a big Psychology 101 exam tomorrow and everyone was quizzing each other relentlessly. When they called it quits for the night, it was after nine.
By the time she opened the apartment front door, it was almost 9:45. She tried to keep quiet, remembering that Michaela had a 6 a.m. call time both earlier this morning and tomorrow and was probably fast asleep by now.
She tiptoed down the hallway to her bedroom and was surprised to see a dim light leaking out from under Michaela’s door. It wasn’t like her to stay up late when she had to be up by 5 a.m. She wondered if her longtime friend and more recent roommate had simply been so tired that she fell asleep with the light on. She decided to peek in and turn it off if need be.
When she cracked open the door slightly, she saw Michaela lying on her back without the covers on. Her pillow partially obscured her face. She only had the reading lamp on so it was hard to be sure but it looked like she hadn’t even changed out of her outfit from the day, a cheerleading uniform.
Lizzie was about to close the door when she noticed something odd. The skirt was riding down near Michaela’s thighs so that her crotch was exposed. That seemed inappropriate, no matter how exhausted she was.
Lizzie debated whether to throw a sheet over her friend. Considering what Michaela did for a living, it seemed like forced modesty. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone else was going to walk in on her. Still, Lizzie felt her Catholic girls school upbringing kicking in and knew it would gnaw at her all night if she did nothing.
So she gently pushed the door open and stepped inside, quietly walking over to the side of the bed. She got halfway there when she stopped cold. Now with an unobstructed view, she saw the gaping holes in Michaela’s chest and stomach.
A thick, wet pool of blood had oozed out of the sliced up uniform and surrounded her entire torso, slowly seeping into the bed sheets. Michaela’s eyes were clenched tight, as if keeping them closed could have protected her from whatever happened.
Lizzie stood there for several seconds, unsure how to react. She felt like she should scream but her throat had suddenly gone dry. Her stomach gurgled and she briefly feared she might throw up.
Feeling like she was in a strange dream, she turned and walked out of the bedroom and back into the kitchen, where she poured herself a glass of water. When she was confident that she would be able to speak, she called 911.
*
The date was going well.
In the back of her mind, Jessie started to wonder if tonight might be the night. She was almost reluctant to wish for it. Her relationship with Ryan was the most stable thing in her life right now and she was hesitant to do anything to complicate it.
She’d spent most of the evening at the charmingly cheesy Italian restaurant complaining about how things were going with Hannah. She recounted the basics of her conversation with Dr. Lemmon and lamented the lack of forward progress they were making in helping her half-sister adjust to her new normal. It was only when Ryan excused himself to go to the restroom and she looked around the restaurant that Jessie realized just how self-centered she’d been.
The place, a legendary if cheesy San Fernando Valley haunt called Miceli’s, was darkly lit and romantic. The vibe was heightened by the fact that Ryan had somehow secured the one table on the second floor, in what amounted to an indoor balcony overlooking the rest of the restaurant. But until now, she’d been mostly oblivious.
She’d also barely registered until he left that he’d hardly spoken all night. Instead he sat patiently as she prattled on about her domestic troubles, barely letting him get in a word. In fact, now that she thought about it, she didn’t recall asking him a single question all evening.
As the guilt washed over her, she saw him leave the restroom on the floor below and deftly navigate his way through the maze of tables to the stairs. As he did, she noticed something else—almost every woman who could get away with it cast a glance his way. Who could blame them?
The man was hard to ignore. Six feet tall and two hundred pounds of what looked like marble, with unassuming, short black hair and welcoming brown eyes, he walked with the quiet confidence of a man who didn’t need to impress anyone.
And if these women knew what he did for a living, they’d be even more intrigued. As the lead detective for a special unit of the LAPD called Homicide Special Section—HSS for short—his cases all had high profiles or intense media scrutiny, often involving multiple victims and serial killers.
And he was here with her. It had taken a while to get to this point. He was in the final stages of a divorce after six years of marriage. Jessie had been single a little longer. Her marriage had ended more dramatically, when her now ex-husband attempted to frame her for killing his mistress. When she’d uncovered his plan, he tried to kill her. He was currently incarcerated in a prison in Orange County.
Ryan sat down across from her and she reached for his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been totally dominating the conversation. How are you?”
“I’m okay,” he said. “That drug kingpin assassination wrapped up today.”
“You never called me in to help,” she noted, pretending to be hurt.
“It was pretty cut and dried. We didn’t really need the services of any fancy profiler for that one.”
“Who cares?” Jessie protested. “Call me in anyway. At least then we can spend a little time together, even if I might have to bail at some point.”
“How romantic,” he said. “Nothing like making googly eyes over a dead body.”
“We do what we’ve got to do,” she said, shrugging. “Besides, for my last case I was assigned to work with Trembley, who—no offense—isn’t exactly my dream partner.”
“Hey,” Ryan mock-protested. “Detective Alan Trembley is a solid professional and you should be honored to work with him on any case you’re assigned.”
“He’s quite boring.”
“I resent that on his behalf,” he said, trying to scowl. “Besides, not having you with me allows me to plan your birthday without you hovering.”
“You’re planning something for me?” Jessie asked, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t even know you knew when it was.”
“I’m a detective, Jessie. That’s kind of in my wheelhouse. I wouldn’t even mention it except that I need you to make sure your schedule is clear on Thursday evening. Cool?”
“Cool,” she agreed, blushing slightly.
He smiled back and she felt a rush of warmth come over her. Someone going to the trouble to learn her birthday and organize something for it would normally have made Jessie illogically anxious. But somehow, because it was Ryan, she felt comfortable with the idea, even excited.
She wondered if he might be planning an early gift of an intimate nature for her tonight. She was about to hint at the idea when his phone rang. She didn’t recognize the ringtone. Whoever it was caused Ryan to frown. He mouthed sorry as he picked up.
“Detective Hernandez,” he said.
Jessie watched as Ryan listened to the voice on the other end of the line. The frown on his face became more pronounced with each passing moment. After waiting silently for about thirty seconds, he finally responded.
“But Valley Division’s already there. Won’t it be too late?”
He was quiet as the other person responded. After another twenty seconds, he spoke again.
“I understand. I’m on it.”
Then he hung up. He stared at the phone for a moment as if it might speak directly to him. When he looked up, his eyes were steely.
“I hate to do this but we have to skip dessert. I have to check out a crime scene and if we don’t leave now, it might be too late.”
Jessie had rarely seen Ryan look so uneasy. He waved at the server to get her attention, handing her a pile of bills from his wallet when she hurried over.
“Too late?” Jessie asked. “What does that mean?”
Ryan stood up and indicated that she should do the same. He was already headed for the stairs when he replied.
“I’ll explain on the way.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Jessie forced herself to wait.
Whatever this was about, it had Ryan on edge and she didn’t want to make it worse. She sat quietly in the passenger seat, allowing him to reveal what was going on when he felt comfortable.
“Are you sure you’re okay coming?” he asked again.
“Yes,” she assured him. “I texted Hannah that a case came up and that she shouldn’t expect me back before she goes to bed. We’re good.”
“You could have rideshared from the restaurant,” he reminded her.
“I wanted to come, Ryan,” she insisted, again biting her tongue despite the desire to ask additional questions.
He continued west on Ventura Boulevard deeper into the Valley. After another ten seconds of silence, he finally began to speak.
“So here’s the deal. I have a contact in the department who will occasionally alert me to cases I should be aware of.”
“Could you be a little more cryptic?” Jessie asked, unable to contain herself.
“I actually don’t have much more than that to share,” he said, ignoring her snark. “About four years ago, I got a call from a burner phone. The voice was digitally manipulated. The caller suggested that the prime suspect in the murder of a wealthy businessman was being set up and that I should look at political motivations for the killing.”
“This call just came out of the blue?” she asked.
“Yep. I was a junior grade detective without much to lose so I followed it up. The case was about to be closed. But I started asking questions and pretty quickly, the whole thing unraveled. It turned out that the businessman was a major supporter and fundraiser for a local city councilman. Once he died, the councilman’s funding dried up. His challenger was able to overwhelm him financially and won the seat. In the end, we realized the challenger for the seat had hired someone to take out the businessman for exactly that reason, to kneecap the incumbent’s primary source of financial support. He also had the original suspect framed so it would look like a random robbery gone wrong.”
“How did your contact know all that?”
“I have no idea. I’m not even sure the source knew the extent of the thing. I got the sense that the person, who I started calling Chatty Cathy, knew something was off, even if the details were hazy.”
“Is the source a woman?”
“No way to tell,” Ryan admitted. “But for the purpose of giving them a name, let’s say yes. Anyway, I started to get additional calls after that. Not often, maybe twice a year. They were always from burners using digital voice masking. And they almost always involved cases that seemed open and shut, but upon further investigation, were more complicated.”
“So Chatty Cathy is some sort of guardian against injustice?”
“Maybe,” Ryan said, not sounding as confident. “Or it could be something else. I’ve noticed that in most of these cases, the real story is messy and makes people in positions of power look bad. A lot of times, I think our higher-ups would rather go for the easy answer than get into the muck of uncovering crimes that might implicate folks with influence. By calling me, Chatty Cathy gets to raise the alarm about questionable cases without getting herself dirty or putting her career at risk. The goal may be noble but I think there’s some self-interest involved too.”
“So what about this case made her reach out?”
“I don’t know,” Ryan said as he turned right off Ventura Boulevard onto Coldwater Canyon Avenue. “She never tells me why a case is sketchy, just that it is. All I know is that a woman was murdered in the thirteen thousand block of Bessemer Street in Van Nuys. She was stabbed multiple times in the torso. The preliminary theory is that it was a robbery gone wrong; that the burglar didn’t think anyone was home and attacked the resident upon finding her.”
“Do they have a suspect?”
“They don’t,” Ryan said. “But according to Chatty Cathy, things are moving fast. The nine-one-one call only came in about a half hour ago and the coroner is already on scene, preparing to remove the body.”
“The detectives are okay with that?” Jessie asked, incredulous.
“My understanding is that they aren’t even there yet. The senior uniformed officer gave the order.”
“What?” Jessie said, dumbfounded. “That’ll compromise the crime scene. Can we stop that?”
“That’s why I said we had to leave right away,” Ryan replied. “Chatty Cathy said the coroner was trying to slow down the process but that we have about ten minutes before they have no choice but to bag the body.”
“How far away are we?” Jessie asked.
“Not far,” Ryan said as he turned onto a residential street doused in flashing lights. “It’s that building halfway up the block.”
They parked a few doors down and got out. Hurrying over, Jessie couldn’t help but notice that despite the lights, there weren’t as many vehicles as she would have expected. There was the coroner’s van, an ambulance, and two squad cars. Usually a murder scene would have at least double that many black-and-whites.
As they approached the building, the lone uniformed officer outside gave them a wary look. Ryan flashed his badge.
“What’s the story, Officer?” he asked.
Considering the time constraints, Jessie was surprised that Ryan was stopping at all. The young African-American officer, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, had a nervous expression and the name tag Burnside.
“Sir,” he answered, his voice cracking slightly, “we’ve got a Caucasian female, seventeen, multiple stab wounds to her chest and abdomen. She was found in her bed by her roommate.”
“Are the Valley Bureau detectives on scene yet?” Ryan asked.
“No sir.”
“Who’s in charge then?”
“That would be my boss, Sergeant Costabile from Van Nuys Station,” the officer answered as he pointed back to the right. “He’s inside. It’s apartment 116.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said briskly, grimacing slightly as he walked by with Jessie right behind.
“Do you know Costabile?” Jessie asked as she hurried to match his pace.
“Only by reputation,” Ryan said. “Hank Costabile’s not just old school, he’s ancient. And from what I hear, he’s a pit bull.”
“Pit bulls are actually agreeable by nature,” Jessie said a little indignantly.
“Point taken,” Ryan said. “But you know what I’m saying. He’s known to be…difficult. This could get ugly so be prepared.”
“What does that mean?” Jessie demanded.
But before he could answer they had reached the door. A burly officer named Lester stood just outside the taped off unit. He looked as wary as the cop outside but less nervous. Jessie observed that Ryan didn’t show his badge to this guy.
“This area is off limits,” Officer Lester said brusquely. “Police business. The officer outside should have told you.”
“Oh yeah?” Ryan whispered in a curious, very un-detectivelike tone. “What happened? You can tell me.”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Lester snapped. “Are you a resident of this building, sir? Because we can’t have civilians just wandering through a crime scene.”
“Oh no, we wouldn’t want that,” Ryan agreed smarmily. “That’d be almost as bad as removing a dead body before the assigned detectives got a chance to evaluate the scene. Am I right?”
The officer narrowed his eyes at the question, now fully aware that something unusual was going on.
“Who are you, sir?” he asked, his brusqueness now laced with a hint of apprehension.
“I’m sure as hell not a Valley Bureau detective,” Ryan said, his voice booming.
“Sir…” the officer began, clearly flummoxed.
“It’s okay, Lester,” said a bald, barrel-chested officer who walked up behind him. “Don’t you know who that is? It’s the famed detective Ryan Hernandez from Central Station. You can let him in. But be sure to get his autograph before he leaves.”
“Sergeant Costabile, I assume?” Ryan asked, his eyebrows raised.
“That’s right,” Costabile said with a sneering grin. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence, Detective? Showing your long-legged, pretty lady friend how the other half lives out here in the Valley?”
“My ‘long-legged, pretty lady friend’ is actually criminal profiler Jessie Hunt. You know, she’s the one who catches serial killers almost as often as you catch venereal diseases.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence in which Jessie thought Costabile might simply pull out his gun and shoot Ryan. The man’s nasty grin faded so that it was now a nasty scowl. After what felt like an eternity, the sergeant gave a loud, forced guffaw.
“I guess I deserved that,” he said, glancing over at Jessie, not sounding even mildly chastened. “It was rude of me to be so dismissive of you, Ms. Hunt. Your reputation precedes you. I can only imagine what law enforcement lottery allowed us to be graced with your singular genius this evening. Pray tell, what brings you here?”
Jessie wanted desperately to respond to the mockery with some of her own but didn’t want to upset whatever plan Ryan clearly had in mind. So she choked down her disdain.
“I’m afraid I can’t be completely forthcoming,” she said apologetically. “But I’ll let Detective Hernandez share what he’s able to.”
“Thanks, Ms. Hunt,” Ryan said, smoothly taking the baton. “We just happened to be in the area wrapping up an interview when we got the alert about this case. It sounded like it might be part of a pattern we’re investigating and we thought we’d check it out firsthand.”
“You think this is related to a case you’re working?” Costabile asked disbelievingly.
“It’s possible,” Ryan said. “We’d have to look at the body to draw any firm conclusions. Of course, we don’t want to step on the toes of the detectives already assigned. Who might that be?”
Costabile stared at Ryan, taking note of his challenging tone. It was clear that Ryan knew there were no detectives on the scene yet. Costabile appeared to be debating whether to answer the spoken question seriously or address the one below the surface about what exactly was going on here.
“Detective Strode should be here momentarily,” he finally said in a disturbingly polite tone. “But we were prepping the body to be viewed down at the coroner’s. Everything looks pretty open and shut. We didn’t want to waste department resources unnecessarily.”
“Sure, sure. I get it,” Ryan replied, using the same official but not genuine politeness as Costabile. “All the same, maybe we take a look here so as to not compromise the scene. We are talking about a teenage girl stabbed in her own bed…how many times?”
Costabile’s face turned red and it looked like it was taking an enormous effort for him to keep his composure.
“Nine…that we’re aware of.”
“Nine times?” Ryan repeated. “That seems like a lot. Doesn’t that seem like a lot to you, Ms. Hunt?”
“It seems like a lot,” Jessie agreed.
“Yeah, a lot,” Ryan added for emphasis. “So maybe we dot the ‘i’s’ and cross the ‘t’s’ on this one before tossing the girl into a plastic bag and driving her over a bunch of pothole-strewn Valley streets? You know, just to be thorough.”
He smiled sweetly as if he’d merely been discussing the weather. Costabile did not smile back.
“Are you taking over this investigation, Detective?” the sergeant asked flatly, not commenting on the pothole dig.
“Not at this point, Sergeant. Like I said, we just want to see if the killing fits our pattern. You’re not denying us access to the body, are you?”
That question led to another uncomfortable silence. Jessie watched another officer named Webb wander over from inside the apartment and take up a position right behind Costabile. His right hand was resting uncomfortably close to his gun holster. She glanced back and saw that Officer Lester had now stepped inside the police tape and was standing behind them, assuming the same posture with his hand in the same position.
Costabile looked down at his shoes and kept his gaze there for several seconds. Ryan stared at the top of the man’s head, his eyes unblinking. Jessie was afraid to breathe. Finally, Costabile looked up. A vein on his forehead bulged. His eyes were angry slits. Slowly, he opened them and his body seemed to relax slightly.
“Come on in,” he said, waving his hand in an exaggerated welcome.
Ryan stepped forward and Jessie followed. As she moved into the apartment, she reminded herself it was okay to breathe again.