over, briefly focused.
“Mick was a waitress,” she said adamantly.
“Okay,” Jessie replied, surprised by the intensity of the response. “Did she have any issues with anyone at work?”
“She was a waitress,” Lizzie repeated vehemently.
Jessie gave up and turned back to Ryan.
“I think we’re going to have to wait to talk to her. This is pointless.”
“That would be my preference anyway,” said the EMT, who had been standing nearby. “After what she’s been through, and with the medication she’s on, I’d really like to get her looked at.”
“Go ahead,” Ryan told him. “We’ll come by to talk to her tomorrow.”
They watched as Lizzie was strapped into a stretcher and the ambulance doors closed. As the vehicle pulled away into the dark night, something occurred to Jessie.
“The Valley detective still hasn’t showed up.”
“I’m actually not sure we want to be here when he does,” Ryan noted. “I don’t want him peppering us with questions about the ‘investigation pattern’ we’re pursuing.”
“You don’t want to ask him why he showed up so late?” Jessie asked, surprised.
“I do. But I have a feeling we’d hit the same brick wall that we got with Costabile. We need to know more before we start coming at these guys.”
“I get that,” she said. “But just to be clear, we’re in agreement that something seriously shady is going on here, right? I mean, that Costabile guy seems more like a mob capo than a police sergeant. Or maybe he’s the Don Corleone of Valley Bureau.”
Ryan looked over at her, clearly uncomfortable with her words, though he didn’t try to argue. She decided to let him off the hook and continued speaking before he could answer.
“I don’t think we’re likely to get anything useful tonight.” She sighed.
“No. We may have to pick this up tomorrow morning. By then, Lizzie will be coherent. Caldwell might have something definitive on a potential sexual assault and we can see if someone tried to pawn Michaela’s laptop or phone.”
“Okay,” Jessie said reluctantly. “One thing we know for sure. Your Chatty Cathy was right. Something definitely isn’t right with this case.”
Hannah was awake when Jessie got home.
The girl barely looked up from the movie she was watching when she walked in. It was almost 1 a.m. and tomorrow was a school day but Jessie didn’t have the energy to fight.
“It’s been a long night,” she said. “I’m going to bed. Can you please turn the volume down and try to get some sleep soon so you can function tomorrow?”
Hannah turned the volume down a few notches but otherwise didn’t acknowledge her half-sister’s words. Jessie stood in her bedroom doorway for a moment, debating whether to try again. But ultimately she decided it wasn’t worth it and simply closed the door.
She slept restlessly that night. That wasn’t unusual. For the last few years, she could count on near-nightly nightmares centered on one of the men who had posed a threat to her very life. They were usually a mix of her ex-husband, her father, and Bolton Crutchfield.
But tonight, like so many recent nights, her dreams centered on Hannah. Her mind was filled with a swirl of disconnected images, some of the girl in peril at the hands of a masked assailant, others in which she walked nonchalantly into danger.
But the dream that troubled her the most was the last one, in which Hannah sat at a table, smiling casually as an unidentifiable waiter served her a plate filled with dismembered body parts. She was just lifting a forkful of human flesh to her mouth when Jessie startled awake, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily.
The first rays of morning sun streamed in through a crack in the curtains. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and rested her head in her hands. Her skull was pounding and she felt vaguely nauseated. As she reached for ibuprofen and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, she tried not to read too much into the dreams.
She knew from experience that they weren’t so much a predictor as a manifestation of her fears. She was having these dreams because she feared for Hannah’s future, not because of anything she was destined to become.
At least that’s what she told herself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Despite her exhaustion, Jessie was excited to get to the station.
She managed to get Hannah out the door only ten minutes late this morning and figured that if she hit only light traffic, she could still arrive at work before it got too busy. She wanted some quiet time to focus on the Michaela Penn case, which felt more wrong every time she thought about it.
Why did the officers on scene want to wrap things up so fast? Why hadn’t the detective arrived more quickly—if he arrived at all? What made Chatty Cathy call Ryan in the first place? Jessie’s gut screamed that this was more than just a standard robbery gone wrong. Nine stab wounds felt very personal.
And yet, as she’d been reminded repeatedly at the ten-week FBI Academy training session she’d attended, her gut was no substitute for evidence. Just because a person or scenario seemed suspicious, that wasn’t proof of anything on its own. For Jessie, who had excelled at almost every test they threw at her at Quantico, taking that lesson to heart had been the most challenging.
When she arrived at her desk at 7:33 a.m., the station bullpen was still sparsely populated. She knew she had about a half hour until that changed so she dived right in. First she called the Valley Bureau Coroner’s Office to get any results they might have. Maggie Caldwell wasn’t in. But according to Jimmy, the guy on call, she’d instructed him to pass along any updates if someone from Central Station called. At least Caldwell didn’t seem to be part of whatever slow walk operation Sergeant Costabile was running.
According to Jimmy, Michaela had been sexually assaulted before she died. But apparently the assailant had used a condom and then doused her in some sort of disinfectant that prevented the collection of any usable DNA. They were waiting to see if more detailed testing might offer something but he wasn’t optimistic.
Her next call was to the hospital to check on Lizzie. As she waited on hold for an update, her thoughts drifted to back to Hannah. The similarities between her and Michaela Penn weren’t lost on her. Both girls were seventeen. Both had gone to private schools in the San Fernando Valley. It looked like both of them had to grow up faster than they should have. Jessie couldn’t help but wonder what other parallels they shared.
A nurse came on the line, snapping her out of her thoughts. Apparently Lizzie was still sedated. The nurse said she should be awake by mid-morning and suggested holding off on visiting until then.
After that she called Van Nuys Station and asked for Officer Burnside, who had been standing guard outside the apartment building. Out of all the cops she encountered last night, he was the one who seemed the least comfortable with the situation. She hoped she might be able to pry some details out of him. She was told his shift had just ended—it ran from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. With a little cajoling, she was able to convince the desk sergeant to give her his cell number. Her hope that he might be awake
