by Blake Pierce
“What are you talking about, Captain?” Ryan asked, perplexed.
“You haven’t seen the news this morning?”
“We’ve been on an intentional all-media blackout,” Jessie said. “I think we’ve earned it.”
“You have,” Decker agreed. “But that means you missed news about the murder of a woman named Jacqueline Cooper, better known as Jax Coopersmith.”
“Are we supposed to know who that is?” Ryan asked. Clearly, he didn’t.
“I’d never heard of her until this morning either,” Decker confessed. “Apparently she’s—“
“I know who she is,” Jessie interrupted. “Living with an eighteen-year-old, I have no choice. I guess all that rehab you’ve been doing with your ear buds in saved you from the constant mentions.”
“This is a famous person?” Ryan asked, truly befuddled.
“She’s a social media influencer,” Jessie explained. “According to Hannah, she’s an up and comer, big in the fashion world. She’s going to be devastated when she finds out about this. What happened, Captain?”
“Apparently she had recently returned from some ritzy gala where she won an award. Someone got into her house and injected her with what the coroner believes was drain cleaner. She also had acid thrown in her face. By the time her fiancé arrived home, she was dead. The body’s been taken to the medical examiner’s office already but that hasn’t stopped fans and paparazzi from surrounding the house. There are even news helicopters circling overhead.”
“Where did she live?” Jessie asked.
“In Los Feliz, just at the base of the Griffith Park Hills in Vermont Canyon. Detective Reid is already en route. I was hoping you could meet him there.”
Jessie sighed deeply.
“Captain,” she said, unable to keep the reluctance out of her voice, “I know I agreed to consult for you from time to time but this is becoming…a lot. I’m still recovering from the case you asked me to handle less than 36 hours ago, one that sent me to an isolated island and nearly got me choked to death. Plus, I was hoping to focus my attention on, you know, the elderly, prolific serial killer who seems to have fixated on me. Isn’t there someone else who can handle this one?”
“That’s the thing, Hunt: the well is pretty dry right now. Your beau there is still confined to desk duty. Hell, right now, he’s officially still a consultant himself. Besides, he’s working the Night Hunter case. And with Trembley’s death, the team has been hollowed out. We have Detective Reid, as I mentioned. There’s also Nettles. He’s experienced, with over fifteen years on the street, but he’s only had his detective’s shield for a few months. Gaylene Parker from Vice has agreed to help in a pinch. But she’s not going to give up running her own unit to help us out except on occasion. She can tell we’re a sinking ship. And I can only rearrange so many deck chairs. We need a break, a big one. And this might be it. So I’m asking for your help.”
Decker left something else unsaid, though it was foremost in Jessie’s mind. If HSS collapsed, then there was no longer any single unit dedicated to investigating the Night Hunter. That put her and Hannah at greater risk. She needed their resources and their support. She realized that she had to save Homicide Special Section so it could help save her.
Jessie looked over at Ryan, who shrugged. She knew that HSS was just as important to him as it was to Decker. But he clearly didn’t want to put any pressure on her. She wasn’t even sure that, despite his affection for the unit, he thought this was a good idea. She sighed again, equally frustrated and exhausted.
“I start teaching again on Wednesday,” she finally said to Decker. “That’s my out date, no matter what. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, as you well know. If doing this helps keep HSS intact, as in the unit that’s searching for the serial killer who’s toying with me, I’m in for now. But there’s a limit.”
“Thank you, Hunt,” Decker said, sounding genuinely relieved. “I’m texting you the address. Detective Reid will meet you there.”
He hung up quickly, as if worried that she’d change her mind if he stayed on the line. She turned back to Ryan, who hadn’t touched his pancakes. He was staring off into the distance. She could guess what he was thinking about.
“What do we do about Hannah?” she asked, trying to snap him out of it. “I’ll be out in Los Feliz. You’ll be downtown at the station. I don’t want to leave her unsupervised after last night.”
Ryan swallowed his food and offered a suggestion that nearly made her leap out of her seat in anger.
“What about Kat?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Are you kidding me?” she demanded, in a whispered yell, trying not to wake Hannah. She was stunned that he’d even broach the idea.
Kat was part of the reason they were in this predicament. Katherine “Kat” Gentry was Jessie’s best friend, or at least had been until the revelations of yesterday. The woman was a badass— a former Army Ranger injured in Afghanistan who had gone on to run security at a lockdown facility for the criminally insane. When an unstable co-worker helped break the prisoners out, including a notorious serial killer, she’d lost her job, but managed to rebound by taking up work as a private investigator. She’d been a loyal, devoted friend to Jessie.
Unfortunately, Kat had also learned that Hannah was putting herself in increasingly dangerous situations and, rather than ratting her out, kept it a secret. She obviously felt guilty that some of Hannah’s behavior had occurred on her watch. Maybe staying quiet was part of some ill-fated effort to turn Hannah around without worrying her big sister. Whatever the reason, the situation had escalated and for over six months, Jessie had no idea that Hannah had been playing with metaphorical fire. She felt wounded and betrayed.
“What other choice do we have?” Ryan asked, pulling her back into the moment. “I know she let you down. But who else do you trust to keep an eye on her? Kat’s incredibly capable, and these days she’s extremely motivated to do right by you. Seems like a good combination of qualities under the current circumstances.”
Jessie shook her head vigorously.
“I’m not about to call her up and ask her to do me a solid just because we’re under the gun. That would give her impression that we’re all good now. And we most definitely are not.”
“Jessie,” Ryan pleaded, “she wouldn’t look at it that way. She’s probably desperate to hear from you, to make this better somehow. She’s not going to think that just because she spends the day with Hannah, that everything has gone back to normal.”
Jessie could feel the aggravation rising in her chest.
“That’s not the point,” she told him. “I don’t want the woman who enabled Hannah’s behavior for months to be the same person she hangs out with the day after we learned the depth of the dissembling. It’s a hard pass. Any other ideas?”
Ryan stopped talking. Jessie could see that he was toggling between frustration and an honest desire to find a solution. After about ten seconds, his face broke into a grin.
“What about Brady?” he asked.
“Brady Bowen?” Jessie asked, perplexed. “Your old partner from when you were stationed on the Westside? Isn’t he kind of busy detecting stuff?”
“Actually, no,” Ryan replied. “He’s on paid leave while they investigate a shooting he was involved in.”
“What? I didn’t hear anything about that.”
“It was related to that armed robbery in Pacific Palisades last week. He and his partner tracked down a suspect and went to question him. But while they were in the apartment, the guy pulled out a shotgun from under a couch cushion. Brady’s partner shot him before he got a round off. Brady never even fired, although he did trip over a shoe and tweak his ankle. But until the investigation is complete, he’s not even on desk duty. He’s basically got vacation all week.”
Jessie was dubious about involving him and couldn’t hide her skepticism.
“From the case we worked with him in Pacific Palisades, my recollection of Br
ady is that he was lazy, slovenly and prone to inappropriate comments.”
Ryan smiled at the thought of all that.
“Very true—he’s inappropriate in general. But he’s a solid cop. Plus, he owes me. And he’s bored out of his mind. I could ask him to shadow Hannah, not even engage with her. She’ll never know he’s there. And if he understands that her safety is in jeopardy, he’ll take it seriously.”
“You’re willing to entrust her welfare to him?” Jessie asked, unconvinced.
“Listen, he’s not my first choice,” Ryan admitted. “But you won’t call Kat. And I can’t think of anyone else who’s qualified and has the day free to babysit a teenager from afar. What other option do we have?”
Jessie looked at him. There was something endearing about the enthusiastic puppy dog eyes he was giving her. He had that familiar impish, almost shy grin that had won her over, the one that seemed so at odds with the manly, muscled exterior the rest of the world saw before his injury. It was also a nice change of pace from the downtrodden demeanor that had defined him since Trembley’s death and the Night Hunter’s escape last night. Ever a flash of the old Ryan filled her with hope, and she wasn’t about to dash this one.
“Give him a call,” she relented.
*
Forty-five minutes later, Jessie drove north up Vermont Avenue, past The Dresden Room, made famous by the movie Swingers, past Skylight Books and House of Pies, and crossed over Los Feliz Boulevard into Vermont Canyon, just south of massive Griffith Park.
Even without Decker’s directions, she would have been able to find Jax Coopersmith’s house. It was the one with the nearly three dozen devastated fans out front, placing flowers and sitting vigil. Tabloid photographers walked up and down the narrow sidewalks just outside the property, like hungry vultures looking for anything they could pick at. One lone news helicopter continued to circle the area, hoping to zoom in on something new they could tease for the noon broadcast.
Jessie pulled into the driveway, flashed her LAPD consultant placard, and was waved through by a uniformed officer. As she drove up to the house, she wondered how hard it would be for the Night Hunter to find a spot on the sidewalk among the mourners. Could he be out there now, pretending to be just another senior citizen on his morning power walk?
Deciding these thoughts weren’t constructive, she forced them from her head. There was a job to do, and she couldn’t do it if she was distracted. She parked in the circular driveway next to the car she recognized as belonging to Detective Callum Reid and walked up the path to the house.
While it was clearly expensive, the mansion had a gaudy, Old South, plantation vibe that Jessie found off-putting. She was surprised that a supposedly edgy influencer would associate herself with such an anachronistic residence.
“I’m looking for Detective Reid,” Jessie said to the officer guarding the front door.
“Yes ma’am, he’s upstairs,” the young man told her, pointing at the curved, flying staircase that wound its way elaborately to the second floor.
She nodded and headed that way, walking very deliberately in order to take in her surroundings. She noted that unlike the exterior of the house, the inside was much more befitting a modern young couple. There were abstract paintings and edgy photos on the walls, along with what looked like African and Native American art displayed in cases on several lighted pillars. As she passed through the foyer, she noticed a pair of high heels in the corner by the front door. Apparently the long, glitzy night had been taxing enough that Jax couldn’t be bothered to take them upstairs.
Jessie knew that Coopersmith had been found in her bedroom. That meant that one of her last living actions was likely walking up the same stairs Jessie was now ascending. She looked for any sign that something was amiss as she made her way up but found nothing out of the ordinary.
Once she arrived on the second floor, she saw another officer guarding a room at the end of the hall and headed that way. As she approached the room, she felt the familiar mix of anxiety and anticipation that typically greeted her as she approached a crime scene.
She always felt a little guilty about the excitement but knew that it was that very eagerness that was a big part of what made her good at this job. Ultimately however, her fear that she liked it too much was what led her to step back and focus on teaching.
Admittedly, lecturing college students about the methods she’d used to solve cases wasn’t as invigorating as actually solving those cases. But it was a steadier job, with normal hours, and it was a hell of a lot safer. No one had tried to choke or stab her because of the grade she’d given them last semester, at least not yet.
At the bedroom door, she again flashed her credentials and was let in. As she stepped into the room, she closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to prepare to absorb what was coming. She always liked to take a brief pause before assimilating a crime scene, finding that she saw things with a fresher eye if she came to them with an open, unassuming mindset.
When she opened them again, she found that there wasn’t much to work with. The crime scene team was gone, along with Coopersmith’s body, so the room was surprisingly devoid of people. There were two uniformed officers milling about. Callum Reid stood near the entrance to the bathroom with his back to her, talking to what appeared to be the assistant medical examiner.
The crime scene tape on the carpeted floor just outside the walk-in closet indicated where the body had been found. Without the tape, it would have been hard to discern where the dead woman had been discovered. There was minimal blood on the carpet and it looked to be muddied by some other substance. It was only as she got closer that Jessie realized that it was probably a combination of eye fluid and melted skin residue, almost certainly a result of the acid.
On the bed were Jax’s handbag and a plaque of some kind, likely tossed there by Coopersmith as she entered the room. Jessie walked over to them. The purse looked undisturbed, reinforcing her doubt that that this killing was a robbery gone wrong. People didn’t generally bring acid and syringes filled with drain cleaner for a typical smash and grab. This murder felt personal, vengeful, like the murderer didn’t just want to kill the victim, but to punish her too.
The plaque lay face up on the bed and Jessie read it: Annual Influencers Awards, Jax Coopersmith, Rising Star: Fashion. It was so new that there were hardly any fingerprint smudges on it. Jessie felt a pang of sadness for this girl, so young, just on the cusp of achieving the success she so clearly sought. That was all over now, in one ugly, poisoned blink.
“Hunt,” came a voice from behind her, snapping her out her reverie.
She turned around to find Detective Callum Reid staring at her. She smiled and walked over. Reid gave her a thin smile of his own.
He was an old school detective. Although Ryan had run HSS, Reid was the veteran of the group. In his mid-forties, with the hint of a belly, the start of a receding, brown hairline, and a pair of black-framed glasses, he looked just slightly past his expiration date. Jessie hadn’t worked with him much, and never without Ryan along for the ride, but she’d always found him to be a competent, professional detective. He was little brusque and calloused, but with everything he’d seen, it was hard to blame him.
“Hi Reid,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“To be honest, I’ve been better,” he said quietly. “I’m still trying to process what happened to Trembley. It’s hard to believe that goofball is gone. How are you and Hernandez doing?”
“Same,” she said. “It’s tough. Ryan’s trying to push through by catching the bastard. And taking this case will at least give me something else to think about.” She made no mention of just how poorly Ryan was doing.
“Well, I’m glad to have you here,” he said. “It’ll be nice to have someone younger on this that gets this whole social media universe. From what I understand, this gal had over two million fans. That’s a lot of potential stalkers.”
“You mean followers?” Jessie asked. “Just
because someone follows an influencer doesn’t mean that they’re a committed fan, much less a stalker. All it requires to be a follower is clicking a button.”
“See, Hunt, you’re already earning your keep around here. Other than reading the occasional Facebook post, I try to steer clear of this stuff, so it’s nice to have a youngster around.”
“Reid,” Jessie said, trying not to laugh as she shook her head in amazement. “It’s not like I’m an expert on this. And it’s not like you grew up with the telegraph. What are you—forty-five? Don’t you have kids who are into this stuff?”
“I’m divorced. No kids. Thanks for rubbing salt in the wound,” he said, though it was clear that he wasn’t actually offended.
“Glad to be of service,” she said, giving as good as she got before returning to the situation at hand. “Speaking of wounds, what have we got?”
Reid nodded at the assistant M.E, a young woman named Gallagher with a tight blonde ponytail and an even tighter expression, who pulled up the photos on her phone. The images showed Jax Coopersmith dead, lying on her stomach, her body contorted painfully into a twisted variation of the fetal position.
“She was doused with the acid first,” Gallagher said, “although it looks like it may have come from a spray bottle rather than just being tossed from an open container. The direction and force were pretty expertly concentrated right at the middle of the face. The injection probably came soon thereafter. She would have likely been blinded and in too much pain to even register the injection before it was too late.”
“How long after she was injected with the drain cleaner before she died?” Jessie asked, half-afraid to hear the answer.
“No way to know for sure,” Gallagher responded with impressive offhandedness. “Could have been seconds, maybe minutes, or even hours. I know of one case in Alabama where a woman injected a teenage girl with the stuff, but she didn’t die at all, so the woman ended up shooting her. We know it didn’t come to that here. But however long it took, it would have been excruciating.”
