She even deigned to put on a pair of three-inch black pumps that officially put her over six feet and in the Amazon woman club alongside Lacy. Originally she wore her brown hair up but her fashion impresario roommate convinced her to let it down, so that it cascaded past her shoulders to her upper back. Looking in the mirror, she didnt think it was totally ridiculous when Lacy said they looked like a couple of models slumming for the evening.
But an hour later her mood had soured. Lacy was having a great time, playfully flirting with guys she wasnt interested in and seriously flirting with girls that she was. Jessie found herself at the bar talking to the bartender, who was obviously well practiced in entertaining girls not used to the scene.
She wasnt sure when shed gotten so lame. It was true that she hadnt really been single in nearly a decade. But she and Kyle had gone out to exactly these kinds of clubs back when they lived here, before the move to Westport Beach. She had never felt out of place.
In fact, she used to love to check out new downtown L.A.DTLA to localsclubs, bars, and restaurants, a few of which seemed to open every week. The two of them would swoop in and take over the place, trying the most unconventional menu item or drink, dancing goofily in the center of the club, oblivious to the dubious glances they got. She didnt miss Kyle but she had to admit she longed for the life theyd shared together before everything went sideways.
A young guy, likely not older than twenty-five, sidled up next to her and eased onto the empty bar stool to her left. She gave him the once-over in the bar mirror, quietly sizing him up.
It was part of a private game she liked to play with herself. She informally called it People Prediction. In it, she would try to guess as much about a persons life as possible, based only on how they looked, acted, and spoke. As she surreptitiously gave the guy a sideways glance, she was delighted to realize that the game now had professional benefits. After all, she was a junior, interim criminal profiler. This was fieldwork.
The guy was moderately attractive, with shaggy, dirty-blond hair that swept down over the right side of his forehead. He was tan, but not in a beachy kind of way. It was too even and perfect. She suspected he visited a tanning salon periodically. He was in good shape but looked almost unnaturally lean, like a wolf that hadnt eaten in a while.
Hed clearly come from work, as he was still in the uniformsuit, shiny shoes, slightly loosened tie to show he was in relaxed mode. It was approaching 10 p.m. and if he was only just getting off work, it suggested he worked a job that required long office hours. Maybe finance, though that usually meant early starts more than late nights.
He was more likely a lawyer. Not for the government though; maybe an associate in his first year at some fancy firm in a nearby high rise where they were working him to death. He was well-paid, as the tailored suit proved. But he didnt have much time to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
He seemed to be deciding what line to use on her. He couldnt offer her a drink as she already had one that was still half full. Jessie decided to give him a hand.
What firm? she asked, turning to face him.
What?
What legal firm are you with? she repeated, nearly shouting to be heard over the pulsating music.
Benson & Aguirre, he answered in an East Coast accent she couldnt quite identify. How did you know I was a lawyer?
Lucky guess; looks like theyre really working you to the bone. You just get off?
About a half hour ago, he said, his voice betraying a tone more Mid-Atlantic than New York. Ive been looking forward to a drink for about three hours now. I could really go for a water ice but thisll have to do.
He took a swig from his bottle of beer.
How does L.A. compare to Philadelphia? Jessie asked. I know its been less than six months but do you feel like youre adjusting okay?
Jeez, what the hell? Are you some kind of private detective? How do you know Im from Philly and that I only moved here in August?
Its kind of a talent I have. Im Jessie, by the way, she said, extending her hand.
Doyle, he said, shaking it. Are you gonna tell me how you do that parlor trick? Because Im kind of freaking out over here.
I wouldnt want to spoil the mystery. Mysterys very important. Let me ask one more question, just to complete the picture. Did you go to Temple or Villanova for law school?
He stared at her with his mouth agape. After blinking a few times, he regrouped.
How do you know I didnt go to Penn? he asked, feigning insult.
Nah, you didnt order any water ices at Penn. Which is it?
Nova all the way, baby! he shouted. Go Wildcats!
Jessie nodded appreciatively.
Im a Trojan girl myself, she said.
Oh, jeez. You went to USC? Did you hear about that Lionel Little guyformer ball player there? He got killed today.
I heard, Jessie said. Sad story.
I heard he was killed for his shoes, Doyle said, shaking his head. Can you believe that?
You should take care of yours, Doyle. They dont look cheap either.
Doyle glanced down, then leaned over and whispered in her ear, Eight hundred bucks.
Jessie whistled in fake awe. She was fast losing interest in Doyle, whose youthful exuberance was starting to be overwhelmed by his youthful self-satisfaction.
So whats your story? he asked.
You dont want to try to guess?
Oh man, Im not so good at that.
Give it a try, Doyle, she coaxed. You might surprise yourself. Besides, a lawyer needs to be perceptive, right?
Thats true. Okay, Ill give it a shot. Id say youre an actress. Youre pretty enough to be one. But DTLA isnt really actress territory. Thats more like Hollywood and points west. Model maybe? You could be. But you seem too smart to have that be your main thing as like, a career. Maybe you did some modeling as a teenager but now youre into something more professional. Oh, Ive got it, youre in public relations. Thats why youre so good at reading people. Am I right? I know I am.
Really close, Doyle. But not quite.
So what do you do then? he demanded.
Im a criminal profiler with the LAPD.
It felt good to say it out loud, especially as she watched his eyes widen in shock.
Like that show Mindhunter?
Yeah, kind of. I help the police get inside the heads of criminals so they have a better chance of catching them.
Whoa. So do you hunt serial killers and stuff?
For a while now, she said, neglecting to mention that her search was for one particular serial killer and that it had nothing to do with work.
Thats awesome. What a cool job.
Thanks, Jessie said, sensing that hed finally built up the courage to ask what had been on his mind for a while now.
So whats your deal? Are you single?
Divorced actually.
Really? he said. You seem too young to be divorced.
I know, right? Unusual circumstances. It didnt pan out.
I dont want to be rude but can I askwhat was so unusual? I mean, you seem like a catch. Are you a psycho or something?
Jessie knew he didnt mean any harm with the question. He was genuinely interested in both the answer and in her and hed just fumbled it horribly. Still, she could feel all her remaining interest in Doyle drain from her at that moment. In the same instant, the weight of the day and the discomfort of her high heels reared their heads. She decided to close out the evening with a bang.
Jessie knew he didnt mean any harm with the question. He was genuinely interested in both the answer and in her and hed just fumbled it horribly. Still, she could feel all her remaining interest in Doyle drain from her at that moment. In the same instant, the weight of the day and the discomfort of her high heels reared their heads. She decided to close out the evening with a bang.
I wouldnt call myself a psycho, Doyle. Im definitely damaged, to the point of waking up screaming most nights. But psycho? I wouldnt say that. Mostly we got divorced because my husband was a sociopath who murdered a woman he was sleeping with, attempted to frame me for it, and ultimately tried to kill me and two of our neighbors. He really embraced the death do us part thing.
Doyle stared at her, his mouth so wide it could have caught flies. She waited for him to recover, curious to see how smoothly hed extricate himself. Not very, as it turned out.
Oh, that really sucks. I would ask more about it but I just remembered I have an early deposition tomorrow. I should probably get home. Hope to see you around some time.
He was off the stool and halfway to the door before she could get out a Bye, Doyle.
*Jessica Thurman pulled the blanket up to cover her half-freezing little body. Shed been alone in the cabin with her dead mother for three days now. She was so delirious from lack of water, warmth, and human interaction that sometimes she thought her mother was talking to her, even as her corpse slumped, unmoving, her arms held in the air by manacles attached to the wooden roof beams.
Suddenly there was banging on the door. Someone was just outside the cabin. It couldnt be her father. He had no reason to knock. He entered whatever place he wanted whenever he wanted.
The banging came again, only this time it sounded different. There was a ringing sound mixed in. But that made no sense. The cabin didnt have a doorbell. The ringing came again, this time without any knocking at all.
Suddenly Jessies eyes popped open. She lay there in bed, allowing her brain a second to process that the ringing shed heard had come from her cell phone. She leaned over to grab it, noting that while her heart was pumping fast and her breathing was shallow, she wasnt as sweaty as usual in the aftermath of a nightmare.
It was Detective Ryan Hernandez. As she answered the call, she glanced at the time: 2:13 a.m.
Hello, she said, with almost no grogginess in her voice.
Jessie. Its Ryan Hernandez. Sorry to call at this hour but I got a call to investigate a suspicious death in Hancock Park. Garland Moses doesnt do middle of the night calls anymore and everyone else is already spoken for. You up for it?
Sure, Jessie replied.
If I text you the address, can you be here in thirty minutes? he asked.
I can be there in fifteen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When Jessie pulled up in front of the mansion on Lucerne Blvd. at 2:29 a.m., there were already multiple police cars, an ambulance, and a medical examiners vehicle out front. She got out and walked toward the front door, trying to look as professional as possible under the circumstances.
Neighbors stood on the sidewalk, many wrapped up in robes to protect against the chill of the night. This sort of thing wasnt typical for a wealthy neighborhood like Hancock Park. Nestled between Hollywood to the north and the Mid-Wilshire district to the south, it was an enclave of old money Los Angeles; or at least as old money as anything in a city so unconcerned with historical tradition could be.
The people who lived here werent so much the movie stars or Hollywood moguls one might find in Beverly Hills or Malibu. These were the homes of the generationally wealthy, who might or might not actually work. If they did, it was often merely to avoid boredom. But they didnt have to worry about being bored tonight. After all, one of their own was dead and everyone was curious as to who.
Jessie felt a bit of thrill as she walked up the stairs to the front door, which was marked off with yellow police tape. This was the first time shed arrived at a crime scene unaccompanied by a detective. And that meant it was the first time shed have to show her credentials to access a restricted area.
She remembered being so excited when shed first gotten them. She even practiced flashing them to Lacy a few times back at the apartment. But now, as she fumbled through her coat pocket, trying to find them, she felt surprisingly nervous.
She neednt have been. The officer at the top of the stairs barely glanced at them as he pulled back the police tape and let her pass.
Jessie found Hernandez and another detective standing just inside the foyer of the house. The younger man looked like hed drawn the short straw. Detective Reids seniority must have allowed him to beg off this call. Jessie wondered why Hernandez hadnt pulled rank too. He saw her and waved her in.
Jessie Hunt, I dont know if youve met Detective Alan Trembley. He was the detective on call tonight and hell be working the case with me.
As Jessie shook his hand, she couldnt help but notice that, with his unkempt curly blond hair and glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose, he looked as scattered as she felt.
Our victim is in the pool house, Hernandez said as he started walking, leading the way. Her name is Victoria Missinger. Thirty-four years old. Married. No children. Shes in a small, hidden nook off the main room, which may help explain why it took so long to find her. Her husband called in this afternoon, saying he hadnt been able to reach her for hours. There was some concern that it might have been a ransom situation so a full house search wasnt done until a few hours ago. Her body was found by a cadaver dog.
Jesus, Trembley muttered under his breath, making Jessie wonder just how experienced he was to be set off by the notion of a cadaver dog.
How did she die? she asked.
The M.E. is still on sight and no blood work has been done yet. But the initial theory is an insulin overdose. A needle was found near the body. She was a diabetic.
You can die from an insulin overdose? Trembley asked.
Sure, if left untreated, Hernandez said as they walked down a long hallway of the main house toward the back door. And it looks like she was alone in the room for hours.
We seem to be dealing with a lot of needle-related incidents lately, Detective Hernandez, Jessie noted. You know, I am willing to handle a shooting now and then.
Purely coincidence, I assure you, he replied, smiling.
They stepped outside and Jessie realized that the massive house in front hid an even larger backyard. An enormous pool took up half the space. Beyond that sat the pool house. Hernandez headed that way and the other two followed.
What makes you suspect it wasnt just an accident? Jessie asked him.
I havent drawn any conclusions yet, he answered. The M.E. will be able to tell us more in the morning. But Mrs. Missinger has had diabetes all her life and, according to her husband, shes never had an accident like this before. It sounds like she knew how to take care of herself.
Have you spoken to him yet? Jessie asked.
No, Hernandez replied. A uniformed officer took his initial statement. Hes currently being babysat in the breakfast room. Well talk to him after I show you the scene.
What do we know about him? Jessie asked.
Michael Missinger, thirty-seven years old. Scion of the Missinger oil fortune. He sold his interest seven years ago and started a hedge fund that invests exclusively in environmentally friendly technologies. He works downtown in the penthouse of one of those buildings you have to crane your neck to see the top of.