by Blake Pierce
Abandoning the coat, she turned and ran toward her car, pulling out her remote and punching the “unlock” button repeatedly. She swung open the door, got in, slammed it shut, and locked the doors just as the man got there. He threw his body at her window as if he was trying to tackle the car.
The glass seemed to ripple a bit but it held. The man stumbled backward, stunned by the collision. Jessie pushed the ignition button. The noise roused the man back into angry consciousness and he charged the car a second time. Jessie switched from “park” to “drive” and pulled out into the street just as the man dived onto her hood.
She had only gone a few yards when he started to grasp at her windshield wipers. She slammed on the brakes before he could grab anything and he went flying forward, tumbling off the hood and onto the street in front of her.
Jessie switched into reverse and screeched backward down the street, trying to avoid hitting the cars parked on either side of her. When she reached the intersection, she hit the brakes and switched back into “drive.”
As she turned to go down the new street, she saw the man had just gotten to his feet. He gave himself a shake like a wet dog and started after her again. By the time she saw him reach the intersection in her rearview mirror, she was several hundred yards away and felt safe enough to breathe.
It was only then that she noticed the sharp throbbing sensation in her left shoulder.
*
Jessie had only been in the ER hospital bed for about twenty minutes when Ryan arrived.
She could hear him asking a nurse where she was and called out from behind the curtain separating her bed from the next one five feet away.
“In here.”
He poked his head in and she waved him over.
“What the hell?” he asked, apparently not sure where specifically to start.
“It’s a long story,” Jessie said. “The short version is that a really aggressive vagrant sliced up my shoulder with an old steak knife while I was exploring an abandoned apartment building and I had to get fourteen stitches.”
“I have so many questions about that one sentence that I don’t even know where to begin,” Ryan said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I’m happy to give you the longer version. But before I do, why don’t you update me on the Missinger investigation?”
“That’s your priority right now?”
“It’s just that the nice nurse gave me some pain medication a few minutes ago and I want to hear where we’re at while my head is still clear. If I’m going to get fuzzy, I’d rather it be when I’m talking than when I’m listening.”
Ryan looked like he was about to argue but then thought better of it.
“Where’s your phone?” he asked. “I need to see it for a second.”
She unlocked it and handed it to him.
“I’m adding a quick-touch dialing function,” he said as he punched something into the dial pad. “From now on, if you’re ever in an emergency situation like that, dial nine-nine-nine and hit ‘send.’ It will send a text to my phone that says “ASAP” and I’ll know you’re in trouble. It’s a lot quicker than calling nine-one-one or texting or calling me. Okay?”
“Okay, thank you,” Jessie said, trying not to sound defensive as she took back her phone. “Now can you please update me on the case details before my brain turns to mush?”
“We still don’t have anything firm to go on,” he admitted, launching in without another word about the apartment incident. “As you know, the maid interview was rescheduled for tomorrow. Captain Decker was worried she was stalling so she could skip town or something. But we sent an officer to her place to check it out and she’s not going anywhere. He checked on her and she was completely knocked out. Her mom said she was so messed up that she gave her a double dose of valium.”
“You believe her?”
“I believe she’s highly medicated right now,” he clarified. “As to the reason, I’ll withhold judgment until I talk to her. Besides, I’m happy to have the delay.”
“Why?’ Jessie asked.
“You remember Victoria’s personal trainer? The one who supposedly moved to Florida?”
“I remember you mentioning that.”
“Well, his name is Dan Romano and it turns out he never really left town. He only told everyone that because he’d been sleeping with a client and he wanted to throw her husband off the scent.”
“How do you know that?” Jessie asked.
“Because the husband found out he was still here and came after him. Romano wants police protection.”
“And you gave it to him—a suspect?” Jessie asked, surprised.
“He doesn’t know he’s a suspect. He doesn’t even realize we’re investigating Victoria Missinger’s murder. He thinks we’re just looking out for him. When his name popped in the system, we had Olympic Division transfer him to us. They told him they didn’t have anywhere to put him and we offered him a cell for the night. He actually thanked us. We’re having one of our confidential informants bunk with him to see what he might say. We’re hoping to learn more by the morning.”
“Sounds promising,” Jessie said, noticing her tongue felt slightly heavy. “Did the M.E. have any updates?”
“Nothing official yet,” Ryan answered. “But she did confirm that the levels of insulin in Victoria Missinger’s bloodstream are consistent with poisoning. The chances she inadvertently gave herself that high a dose are pretty remote.”
“So what does that tell us?” Jessie asked. “Nothing new, it seems.”
“It tells us something weird,” Ryan countered. “It suggests that whoever did this was savvy enough to know Victoria was diabetic and wanted it to look like she OD’d herself. But at the same time, the killer didn’t know enough to realize a dose this high would look suspicious? That is an odd confluence of awareness and cluelessness that doesn’t make sense to me.”
“You’re right,” Jessie agreed. “It’s doubtful that someone could be simultaneously that clever and that dumb. Something about it doesn’t sit, er…fit.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Ryan agreed, raising his eyebrow slightly at her slurred speech but saying nothing. “I think we’re going to have more success nailing this down through motive than through method.”
“Yes,” Jessie mumbled, “why did they do it? Maybe they were unhappy with their lot in life.”
“What?” Ryan asked, looking confused.
Jessie looked up at him and found it hard to focus.
“It’s just something someone said to me today. Forget about it. I think these meds are starting to kick in a bit.”
“I think you may be right,” Ryan said, pointing at her leg. “You seem to be caressing your own thigh.”
“The material is really soft,” Jessie said, looking down at her slacks.
Just then Lacy poked her head in.
“Looks like I found the right place,” she said.
“My ride is here!” Jessie said louder than she intended.
Lacy glanced over at Ryan, who smiled politely.
“Lacy Cartwright,” Jessie announced loudly, “meet Detective Ryan Hernandez, super-sleuth. Ryan Hernandez, meet Lacy Cartwright, future famous fashion designer.”
“Are you high?” Lacy asked.
“She’s medicated,” said the nurse, who had followed Lacy in. “Now that your friend is here, we’re going to discharge you, all right, Ms. Hunt?”
“Okay,” Jessie said, trying and failing not to sound loopy.
“We’ve given you a tetanus shot,” the nurse continued. “And the pain medication has clearly started to kick in. In an hour or so, you should go from totally out of it to pleasantly numb. That should get you through the night.”
“I know the drill,” Jessie assured her happily. “I was stabbed in the gut with a fireplace poker in November… by my husband.”
“Good to know,” the nurse replied, not following up. “You’ll feel pain tomorrow as well. Just follow the dosage instruct
ions and you should be able to maintain your normal routine. You can see your primary care physician in a week to check on the stitches. Any questions?”
“Yeah, do those scrubs you’re wearing feel scratchy? Whenever I wear scrubs, they’re scratchy. Also, cold.”
“You know,” Ryan said as he moved over to help her out of bed, “I’m going to take a rain check on you telling me how this happened to you. Maybe tomorrow, when you’re a little more refreshed.”
“Sounds good,” she said, taking his arm as she stood up. “But maybe you should talk to the officer outside who took my statement.”
“I’ll do that,” he said, handing her off to Lacy.
“Yeah,” Jessie said, too sore and sleepy to raise her head fully. “He can tell you about the skeleton in the bathtub.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jessie was pretty sure she was going to throw up. By the time they reached Lacy’s apartment, she had catnapped in the car and felt no more coherent than when they’d left the hospital. She also felt nauseated.
They were just pulling into a parking space when she opened the passenger door and leaned out. But nothing happened.
“False alarm,” she said, unbuckling herself and gingerly stepping out of the vehicle.
Lacy came around and offered a supportive arm as they made their way to the elevator.
“Do you still feel out of it?” she asked.
“Yes,” Jessie said. “I’m still waiting for that part the nurse mentioned where I’ll go from loopy to numb. Plus, I think I feel sick because I took that medication without having eaten in hours. I need to get something in my stomach.”
“I have leftover salad from lunch?” Lacy offered as they stepped into the elevator.
“I’m thinking a slice of bread might be more my speed.”
“We have that too,” Lacy assured her as they rode up the eleven floors to her place.
When they got out, Jessie continued to use her friend for support as they made their way down the hall to the apartment. She kept her eyes on the floor, focusing on where her feet would go and trying not to lose her balance. At some point, she noticed that Lacy had stopped walking.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Why aren’t we moving?”
“Because my door is open,” Lacy whispered. “I think someone broke in.”
Jessie looked up. Sure enough, the door to the apartment was half open. Even in her diminished state, she could see the splintered wood on the frame where the door had been pried open.
“Call nine-one-one,” she said in what she hoped was a quiet voice.
While Lacy did that, Jessie noticed a fire extinguisher on a case attached to the wall. She walked over, removed it, and, clutching it firmly like a baseball bat, headed for the door.
Stay alert.
She thought she heard Lacy say something behind her but it was too late to turn around. She was entering the apartment and needed to stay focused. Glancing around the living room, she saw that several chairs were overturned and a vase lay shattered on the floor. Other than that, the damage seemed minimal.
She thought she saw movement in the corner of the room but realized it was just a light from outside flashing through the balcony window. She stepped farther into the room, clutching the extinguisher, which felt slick and wet in her sweaty hands.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she heard a voice hiss from behind her.
She swiveled around, nearly toppling over before regaining her balance at the last second. It was Lacy, who was standing in the front doorway, waving for her to come back.
“They might still be in here,” Jessie protested.
“Exactly,” Lacy countered. “That why I called the cops. Now get out of there. Let’s wait downstairs, you drugged up crazy woman!”
It was only then that Jessie remembered that she was still heavily medicated and that barreling into an apartment that could be hiding robbers while only holding a fire extinguisher might be a poor move.
“Right,” she said and stumbled back to the door.
Lacy grabbed the extinguisher, wrapped her arm around her, and led her back to the elevators. As they waited for one to arrive, Jessie looked over at her friend.
“I might be a little more messed up than I realized,” she said.
“You think?” Lacy asked incredulously.
When the elevator arrived, Lacy eased Jessie down to the floor, where she sat in a crouch. She watched the floors change on the digital panel until she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Somewhere between the sixth and fifth floors, she passed out.
*
“Just to be clear,” Detective Ryan Hernandez said the next morning in the station bullpen, “your plan was to take down potential home invaders with a fire extinguisher while you were under the influence of a mind-altering drug?”
“That is an accurate assessment of how the evening played out,” Jessie said, trying to be a good sport about the whole thing. There was no point in denying it, as the officers called to the scene the night before had already spread the word.
“Well, I’m glad no one got hurt,” he said, surprising her by not teasing out her shame any longer. “And I heard nothing of value was stolen?”
“That’s what they told us at the hotel this morning,” Jessie said.
“The hotel?”
“Yes,” she said sheepishly. “I woke up this morning in a hotel bed. Apparently one of the officers had to carry me from the elevator to the squad car, after which he gave us a ride to a local hotel. Then some other officers came by this morning to say that other than some minimal damage to the door and vase, no harm had been done.”
“I actually knew all that,” Ryan conceded. “I just wanted to make you admit you had to be carried to a car. The shame is strong with you.”
Jessie gave him her best “screw you” smirk and put her head in her hands. The loopiness and nausea of last night had faded. But because she refused to take any more pain meds, they had been replaced by a bad headache and a throbbing shoulder.
“Don’t you think that’s strange?” she asked without looking up.
“Not really. Cops have to carry people to their cars all the time. It’s just not usually junior profilers.”
“No, I mean isn’t it strange that some thieves would go all the way to the eleventh floor of a secure building, bust in, and then not take anything of value?”
“It is a little odd,” he admitted. “I know one of our Robbery guys is looking at the security footage from the building. There’s a chance that’ll give us something to go on. In the meantime, maybe today you don’t charge into any potentially dangerous situations on your own, especially without any training in self-defense.”
Jessie raised her head and nodded. She’d been thinking the same thing all morning.
“I was thinking it might be good for me to look into that. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Actually, I know a guy,” Ryan said. “He specializes in Krav Maga; used to be in Israeli Special Forces. Now he rakes it in teaching self-defense to rich Westside wives.”
“Sounds pricey.”
“He is,” Ryan said, smiling. “But I think I can get you the friends and family rate.”
“Thanks, Ryan,” she said, surprised at the lack of snark in her voice. She decided not to linger on that and pressed on. “How are we doing on the Missinger case?”
“A few developments worth mentioning,” he said, also pointedly ignoring her sincerity. “Detective Trembley honchoed the interview with the maid, Marisol Mendez, a little while ago. I watched from the observation room. You can review the video later if you like. But we didn’t glean a lot of new information from her. I think she was either still a bit sedated or super scared.”
“Maybe both,” Jessie suggested, rubbing her temples to try to make the dull ache between them subside.
“Entirely possible,” Ryan agreed. “She mostly had praise for Victoria Missinger; said she wasn’t bitchy like a lot of her fo
rmer bosses.”
“Mostly praise?” Jessie repeated, noting the hedge.
“Marisol essentially conveyed that she was a bit chilly, remote. Not that she was unpleasant but that sometimes she got so focused in on her causes that the niceties of human interaction became secondary. She said Mrs. Missinger was passionate about her philanthropy and it didn’t leave much passion for anything outside of that.”
“Did she say that was a source of tension in the marriage?” Jessie asked.
“No. Trembley asked about that. Apparently Mr. Missinger had made his peace with it. And we already know he was looking elsewhere for his passion.”
That made sense, though it was hard for Jessie to imagine Michael Missinger had poured all his marital frustration into an extramarital affair. It had to have leaked out at home occasionally. But there was no evidence of that.
“Did her alibi hold up?” Jessie wondered, turning her attention back to Marisol and jealously imagining a resort in the California desert. “The Palm Springs trip?”
“We’re still following up. But so far, yes. We tracked her cell phone and it shows her bopping around town during the time she says she was there. Her ID was copied when she paid at the hotel. We have Palm Springs PD tracking down security footage. But so far, nothing unusual has popped. And she answered all our questions with asking for a lawyer. It didn’t seem to even occur to her that she might need one. It’s looking like we’re going to have to cross another potential suspect off our list.”
“And the trainer—Dan Romano?”
“He’s finishing off breakfast in the cell he used as a hotel room last night,” Ryan said. “Our informant said he didn’t reveal anything shocking. He also said the guy is dumber than mud. But setting that aside, apparently Romano did more than just train a lot of the local ladies. But he never mentioned Victoria Missinger and our informant worried that if he asked specifically about her, it would seem suspicious.”