by Blake Pierce
Jessie turned on her engine and eased out onto the road, hoping not to draw the attention of the uniformed officers busy with the folks holding up their hands. One cop glanced in her direction but didn’t seem interested in the worried-looking white woman trying to leave the scary scene. Jessie kept the concerned look on her face until she turned right onto Tujung Avenue. She pulled over to the side, turned off her headlights, and waited.
Only twenty seconds later, Vasquez came into view, walking briskly but “casually” down the alley, desperately trying not to look over his shoulder. The guy, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, was clearly winded. He kept swiping his longish black hair out of his eyes and looked like he might trip over the cowboy boots he was wearing.
Jessie got out of her car and walked toward him, pretending to look at her phone but evaluating him as she moved. He was about five foot seven and a sloppy 180 pounds. She had him by three inches, and though he was a good forty pounds heavier than her, she doubted he knew how to effectively use it. She reminded herself not to underestimate him despite his unimposing appearance.
They were only about five feet apart when he finally seemed to notice her. She kept her head down, feigning obliviousness, and continued straight toward him. They were about to collide when he let out a “hey!” that she deliberately ignored, stumbling into him. She “accidentally” grabbed him for support, knocking him over as she “fell” to the ground.
“Sorry,” she said apologetically as she offered a sheepish smile and put her phone in her pocket. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”
She popped up quickly and offered her hand to him. He looked like he had been weighing whether or not to yell at her. He was obviously pissed but didn’t seem to want to attract attention.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he finally said, apparently choosing discretion as he extended his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks,” she said as she pulled him up. “Pete, is it?”
His eyes widened in surprise at the sound of his name and Jessie had her semi-official confirmation that she had the right guy. She wrenched her hand loose from his and he fell back, his butt landing hard on the concrete. Before he had time to do anything other than grunt, she’d pulled out her weapon and had it aimed directly at him.
“Hi, Pete,” she said calmly. “My name’s Jessie Hunt. I work for the LAPD. And I need you stick around. I have a few questions for you.”
In the distance, she saw several cops burst out of the back entrance of the Landing Strip. Her breathing suddenly quickened. She guessed she had less than a minute before they saw her with Vasquez and ran over.
“Whatever it is, I don’t know anything,” Vasquez spat belligerently.
“Pete, I don’t think you understand the serious situation you’re in. Time is short so I can only explain this once. I’m investigating the murder of a teenage girl. She was stabbed to death last night. You just pawned her laptop a few doors down. That makes you the most likely suspect. In about forty-five seconds, the cops who busted into the bar are going to arrest you for that murder. I can’t help you after that. But right now I can.”
“How?” he asked, all trace of obstinacy gone as he looked back down the alley and saw the same thing she’d already noticed: three men in uniform charging toward them.
“I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn’t kill her. But I need to know how you got that laptop.”
“What about my Miranda rights?” he demanded.
“I’m not a cop, Pete,” she said, holstering her gun. “I’m a profiler. I’m trying to find this girl’s killer. If you didn’t do that, you don’t have to worry about me testifying about some computer theft. Last chance, twenty seconds. How did you get the laptop?”
“Freeze up there,” she heard a voice in the distance yell at them.
Vasquez started to glance back down the alley again.
“Eyes on me,” she ordered. “Don’t move anything but your lips. Answer my question!”
“Okay. Okay. I saw a dude toss something in an alley dumpster over off Emelita Street in Van Nuys. I was curious. So I checked it out and found the laptop. It didn’t even have a hard drive. I just pawned it to make a few quick bucks.”
“Describe the dude,” she instructed, ignoring the heavy footsteps fast approaching.
“He had on a sweatshirt with a hoodie. But it was dark. I couldn’t see anything else.”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t remember for sure. It was after midnight,” he said hurriedly, closing his eyes tightly at the sound of thundering footsteps only feet from him.
A second later, the running stopped. Jessie looked up.
“Identify yourself!” shouted an officer with a buzz cut just five feet from her. His weapon was pointed at her. The other two officers had theirs aimed at Vasquez.
“My name is Jessie Hunt,” she said loud and clear. “I’m a criminal profiler based out of Downtown Central Station. My identification is in my front left pants pocket if someone wants to check it. I also have a department-issued sidearm under my jacket on my right hip. I’m going to raise my arms above my head slowly.”
“What are you doing here?” Buzzcut demanded.
“I’m investigating a murder in which Mr. Vasquez is a person of interest. I was hoping to have a word with him.”
“And did you get that chance?” a familiar voice asked.
Jessie looked behind the officers in front to see Sergeant Costabile’s hulking frame emerge from the darkness of the alley. Two other officers stood behind him.
“We were interrupted by your colleagues,” Jessie said, careful not to directly answer the question. “But I’d love the chance to have a chat with him under less extreme circumstances.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to get in line, Ms. Hunt,” Costabile said as he reached down and violently wrenched Vasquez up to a standing position. “Valley Division has a few questions of our own for this monster, er, excuse me, alleged monster.”
“I didn’t kill anyone!” Vasquez yelled out frantically as Costabile slapped a pair of cuffs on his wrists.
The sergeant gave Jessie a nasty smirk.
“Sounds like the two of you got to chat a little bit after all,” he said, as he kicked Vasquez in the back of the leg, sending him to the ground. The suspect’s knees rattled as they slammed on the sidewalk and he gasped in pain.
“That’s not necessary, Sergeant,” Jessie said quietly. “He’s not resisting.”
“Oh, I definitely felt some imminent resistance,” Costabile countered. “He looked like he was about to run. In fact, he just made a move for my weapon.”
Before Jessie knew what was happening, Costabile smacked Vasquez in the jaw with the back of his hand, sending the man careening to the ground. Vasquez moaned but didn’t try to move.
“Now he’s trying to evade arrest,” Costabile warned before kicking Vasquez in the gut.
The man lay on the ground, silently writhing in pain. The sergeant looked back up at Jessie sneeringly, daring her to challenge him again. She looked around at the now half dozen officers who’d assembled around them. It occurred to her that standing there, with a weapon in her possession, she wasn’t entirely safe herself, even with her hands up.
This wasn’t the moment to take Costabile on. He had every advantage. She needed to wait until the odds were more even.
Behind the officers, she saw the youngish man in plainclothes who had rushed into the bar earlier. He was hanging back, trying not to be noticed.
“Detective Strode, I assume?” she called out.
He took a few steps forward into the light and nodded.
“I’m Wiley Strode,” he acknowledged, his voice shaky. “You’re Hunt, correct?”
“I am,” she said, trying to inject him with confidence through the sheer power of her voice. “Since you’re in charge here, do you mind if I put my hands down now? We’ve got our suspect in custody. The s
cene is relatively secure. Maybe we lower the temperature a bit?”
Strode glanced over uncertainly at Costabile, whose eyes remained fixed on Jessie.
“Do you feel like you have the scene in hand, Sergeant?” Strode asked him deferentially.
Costabile stood silently for a moment, then grabbed Vasquez’s hair and yanked his head back hard.
“I’m not sure, Detective. I worry this guy might still be a threat to the safety of our men. He might need a little extra subduing.”
Strode swallowed hard but said nothing. Jessie realized he was going to be of no help. As Costabile continued to tug on Vasquez’s hair with his left hand, he put his right hand on his nightstick. As he unsnapped its holster, she decided that no matter the odds, she had to act. She was just about to step forward when she heard another voice she knew well.
“Seven on one—you don’t think you can handle those odds without your stick, Sergeant Costabile?”
Everyone looked over to see Ryan Hernandez walking jauntily in their direction. One of the officers started to point his gun at him when Costabile warned him off.
“It’s okay,” he growled reluctantly. “He’s a detective from Downtown. No need to shoot him.”
“I appreciate that, Sergeant,” Ryan said as he came to a stop next to Jessie. “I think the profiler assigned to this case can put her hands down now, don’t you?”
He reached up and physically lowered her arms without waiting for an answer. Though his tone was devil-may-care, she could see the concern in his eyes. This situation was still extremely volatile.
“There’s some dispute about whose case this is,” Costabile retorted. “I believe Detective Strode here might have something to say on the matter.”
Strode stepped forward, trying to look cool despite his deer-in-the-headlights vibe.
“I tried to reach you all day, Detective. But you never got back to me. I was hoping to pool resources.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Ryan said warmly. “I was in court all day and I know Jessie was chasing down leads nonstop. We’re happy to do all that now. But maybe we could formally arrest Mr. Vasquez rather than reenacting a scene from The Purge. What do you say?”
Strode started to look toward Costabile but Ryan short-circuited that.
“Detective Strode,” he said forcefully. “As the Valley Bureau detective assigned to this case in conjunction with HSS, what do you say? Shall we take this off the street and handle it professionally? Is that something you’d be on board with?”
Strode, sensing that any future credibility he might have was on the line, nodded.
“That sounds good,” he said quietly as he aggressively avoided making eye contact with Costabile, who was staring a hole through him.
“Great,” Ryan said, leaping on the nod and running with it. “I think I’ll ride with Mr. Vasquez on the way to the station.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Costabile said. “We don’t want to burden you with such a mundane task.”
“Oh, it’s no burden,” Ryan said with studied pleasantness. “I’d hate for him to try to hurt himself in some way and put the investigation at risk. In fact, I insist. Sergeant, I’d really appreciate if you could take the lead on heading back to the station right away and securing an interrogation room for Detective Strode and myself. I know you’ve got some pull. We’ll find a squad car for Mr. Vasquez.”
Costabile turned his dagger stare to Ryan. He seemed to be weighing whether to fight him on this. Now that the drama of the bar raid had passed, he clearly sensed that he couldn’t just throw his weight around without consequence. He opened his mouth but before he could speak, Ryan beat him to it.
“Sergeant,” he said, calmly but with finality, “I insist.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jessie had been shut out.
She sat in the Van Nuys Station bullpen waiting area, trying not to act annoyed that she had been prevented from participating in, or even observing, the interrogation of Pete Vasquez. After about an hour, Ryan emerged, looking troubled.
She stood up as he approached and was about to ask how it went when he shook his head almost imperceptibly. A few moments later Detective Strode followed him into the bullpen. Ryan turned back to the younger detective.
“I’ll check in with you first thing tomorrow, Wiley,” he said. “In the meantime, it’s on you to make sure that Vasquez doesn’t have any more unfortunate accidents. You get me?”
Strode hung his head.
“I’ll do the best I can,” he said unconvincingly.
“Listen,” Ryan warned, leaning in close and speaking quietly. “I can’t control what goes on in your house. But if anything happens to a guy who you’re asserting is a legit murder suspect while he’s in your care, it’s going to look bad for you. I get that you have to walk around on tiptoes around here. But you also have to look out for yourself. Don’t be the fall guy, you understand?”
Strode nodded, though he didn’t look like the speech had stiffened his spine that much. Ryan turned and indicated that he and Jessie should leave. As they headed for reception, Costabile walked out of the interrogation area. His eyes immediately fell on Jessie. As she walked out, she could have sworn she saw him blow her a kiss.
Once outside, they walked to Jessie’s car. Neither spoke until they were well away from the building.
“So where are we at?” she asked when they finally felt they were away from prying ears.
“Nowhere good,” Ryan said resignedly. “Despite my strenuous objections, they’re going to charge Vasquez.”
“Based on what?”
“Based on his fingerprints on Michaela’s laptop and surveillance footage of him pawning it at the shop. He also has no alibi witness for last night at the time of the murder. He claims he was drinking in a park.”
“That’s it? None of his prints at her apartment? No blood or DNA on his clothes? Nothing turned up where he lives? Just the laptop?”
“Yep,” Ryan confirmed. “To be honest, I didn’t have much of an argument to make against charging him. We don’t have any other suspects right now that are more promising than Vasquez.”
“Because no one’s looking for them,” Jessie pointed out.
“I don’t disagree. It’s clear that they want to put this thing to bed. No one was interested in hearing about the porn connection or any other possible leads. It was like a train without brakes in there.”
“Can you insist on taking over, using HSS authority?”
“I could try,” he said skeptically. “But I’m not sure I’d win that battle. The problem is that Vasquez is here now. It’s the custodial version of possession being nine-tenths of the law. Prying him loose from this place once they’ve got him will be a bureaucratic nightmare—one I’m not sure is worth fighting. We might be better off focusing our energy on other leads.”
“What other leads?” Jessie asked, frustrated.
“Look, we’ll start fresh in the morning. Maybe something will pop by then.”
Jessie nodded, trying to move past her dissatisfaction.
“I can give you a ride back to your car,” she offered, remembering that he was still parked at the Landing Strip.
“That’s okay. I’ll rideshare. You should go home and get some sleep. After all, you’re not just dealing with a murder case, you’re dealing with a teenager too.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
Ryan smiled.
“Maybe we could try for another evening together sometime soon?” he suggested. “One that won’t be interrupted by an anonymous call about a murder?”
“I’d like that,” she said. “Can you guarantee such an evening is possible?”
“In my experience, guaranteeing it jinxes it.”
“I didn’t know you were superstitious,” she teased.
“Neither did I.”
*
Jessie tried not to make a sound.
At just past 1 a.m., she put her stuff down on the kitchen co
unter and sneaked over to Hannah’s room to peek in. The girl seemed to be fast asleep. But just to be safe, she carefully pulled her bedroom door closed. Then she plopped down on the couch, too exhausted to move, much less change out of her clothes.
She knew she should go lie down and get a few hours of rest. But her mind was racing. All kinds of ideas and leads bounced around in her head, none of which she could pursue right now.
Michaela was only seventeen, but with two jobs, she surely had a bank account. Jessie made a note to try to access it tomorrow. She also needed to see if the girl’s phone records were ready for review yet. She worried that if Captain Decker bought the Valley Bureau claim that they had their man, he’d refuse to let her follow up on any of this.
She heard a rustling behind her and spun around on the couch to find Hannah coming out of her room.
“What are you doing up?” she whispered unnecessarily.
“I was worried about you,” Hannah said with such sincerity that it took her by surprise.
“Oh. Thanks. I’m okay; just frustrated.”
“Why?” Hannah asked, sitting down beside her on the couch. “Did the guy get away?”
“Just the opposite, actually. We caught someone. But I don’t think he’s the killer. Unfortunately, the people holding him disagree. So unless I find a new suspect, the guy may go down for this and there won’t be anything I can do about it.”
They sat there silently for a while. Eventually Hannah readjusted her legs and Jessie thought she was going to get up. Instead the girl leaned back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling.
“I was thinking about something after you left,” she said with less certitude than Jessie was used to.
“What was that?”
“You said Mick came from an abusive background, right?”
“Yeah,” Jessie confirmed, noting silently that Hannah had adopted use of the girl’s nickname when discussing her. “Her dad was a drinker. It was so bad that she got emancipated at sixteen.”
