by Ana Valen
NEVER GIRL
ANA VALEN
Copyright © 2020 by ANA VALEN
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2020
ISBN 9798704477792
Noetic Quest Publishing
www.noeticquest.com
Prologue
Jessie Jacobson drove northbound on the 405 freeway. He headed towards the San Fernando Valley, his BMW M8 entering the territory between Los Angeles and the iconic suburb. His vehicle vibrated over the pockmarked terrain, which was odd given the area’s wealth. The residents should’ve demanded smoother access ways. Maybe someday they would have the city repave this stretch of freeway.
He activated his turn signal and eased onto an off ramp. While coming to a stop, he leaned forward to read the street sign. Was he at the right place? He wasn’t sure. As a Santa Monica native, one who stayed on the west side, he wasn’t familiar with this location. He had only been here twice, both times during the day, when he and his girlfriend hiked through the surrounding mountains. She had arrived earlier this evening. Apparently, things hadn’t gone so well.
He made a left and kept driving along the darkened streets. The roadway seemed right. It cut across the freeway then rounded up the nearby hill. That’s what he remembered from his previous visits. A minute later, he reached the hiking trail’s parking lot. Good. He was at the right place.
The parking lot was nearly devoid of vehicles. That figured. It was past dark and the temperatures had dropped. That kept most people away. This would soon change as summer drew closer.
He parked his BMW, climbed out, and observed the few vehicles around him. None of them were Susan’s BMW—a white 440i he had recently purchased for her. Was she already gone? Unlikely. If she had left, she would have updated him.
He started towards the trail, stepping along on his black wingtips. His shoes made no sense here. Neither did his business suit. But at least he had ditched his tie.
Still walking, he pulled his cellphone and checked the screen. Susan hadn’t called or texted. He unlocked the device and started composing a message.
Jessie: Hey. I just got here. Where are you?
He held onto the phone while getting on the dirt path. The path led to the trail’s official start point. He just had to negotiate the rather steep incline. Halfway up the ascent, his phone buzzed.
Susan: I’m still here. I’m at the same spot as before. Should I work my way down?
He got his thumbs into action.
Jessie: Don’t even think about it! Stay where you are. I’ll meet you there and help you down. I’m one minute away.
Susan: Thanks, love. And I mean that. My ankle was hurting before, but now it’s starting to swell. I’m so sorry about this!
Jessie: Babe, you have nothing to be sorry for. Accidents happen. But when they happen to us, we got each other’s back.
She texted a smiley face.
He smiled for real. He was also about to send some heart emojis. Instead, he looked up towards a shadowy figure.
“Susan?” he called out.
He couldn’t tell if the person was coming or going. It was too dark. He couldn’t even tell if they were male or female. He got closer, and the stranger began to materialize. He still couldn’t make out their features—not with their hoodie pulled over—but they were definitely observing him. A second later, the stranger turned and walked off.
It probably wasn’t Susan. She should be further up the hill. Plus, this person wore dark clothing. Susan favored trendy workout clothes with eye-catching color combinations. Hopefully this stranger wasn’t a junkie. They tended to come here after dark and get high.
As he continued up the hill, the stranger shifted out of view. When he reached the trail’s start point, he stopped and looked around.
“Susan,” he called once more, scanning the benches and rest areas.
A rustle sounded behind him.
He turned and there stood the stranger, fifteen feet away. What the hell? How did they suddenly get behind him?
“Excuse me,” he told them. “I was looking for my girlfriend. She sprained her ankle and asked for my assistance. Have you by chance seeing her? She’s white, twenty-nine years old, five-foot five. Excuse me?”
The person stepped towards him, stopped, and lifted their head. Moonlight eased across their features. That still didn’t reveal much, but they were awfully familiar. Then he recognized them.
“Hey,” he said with a chuckle. “What are you doing here? Did Susan call you too? I thought I was supposed to be her knight in shining armor?” His cheer retreated. “Are you okay?”
The familiar figure reached into their sweatshirt pocket, pulled a gun, and took aim.
“What the fuck?” Jessie said, stepping back. “What are you—”
The weapon discharged, letting off a thunderous crack. In the same instance, he grimaced as the bullet slammed into him. Now doubled over, he looked up, face tight.
“What the fuck?” he groaned, his hands covering his midsection. “Why did you—”
The person fired once more and another bullet struck his midsection. He crashed onto the dirt and rolled to his side. Eyes shut, he grunted as his internal organs roiled. All the while, icy fear spread throughout. Was this the end?
Footsteps padded towards him. With fear surging, he rolled back over. The movement unleashed searing pain, but he had to face his attacker. When he did, his paranoia deepened. The attacker had stopped two feet away and was looking down towards him.
His body demanded that he flee, but he couldn’t. His legs had no power, and his midsection was beginning to convulse.
“Why?” he asked the person he loved, coughing out the word. “Why did you do this?”
The person kept looking down, not bothering to respond.
More apprehension washed over him. Holy shit, this was the end.
“Why?” he grunted once more. “What did I—”
His stomach flashed with searing pain. Digestive acids were leeching everywhere, burning as they went. But that didn’t matter, not when the person raised their weapon once more.
The firearm discharged repeatedly, letting off a torrent of awful bangs. Bullets tore into his midsection, and he contorted from the hammering projectiles. With his midsection perforated, and his lungs gasping for air, he looked up towards the stars.
Space and time warped. His mind travelled in every direction at a thousand miles per hour. His body quivered while on the verge of dispersing just the same. After a moment, his mind and his body began to relax. It was over. There was no recovering from his wounds, and every part of him knew this.
His wounds. Of course. They explained everything. In his hazy state, he realized why the person had fired into his stomach. He even knew why they were ending him. But again. What did it matter?
His hands fell to the dirt, both palms drenched in blood. His clothes were equally soaked with sticky fluids. As his breathing weakened, a cold chill radiated throughout, one he barely registered. He was going offline. Reluctantly, he accepted his fate.
I hope there’s an afterlife. I hope there’s an afterlife. I hope there’s an…
Chapter 1
Claire Jacobson closed the front door of her two-bedroom condo. With her pizza box in her left hand, she used her right to turn the door lock. She then walked into the living room.
She sat on the couch, placed the pizza box on the coffee table, and grabbed her remote. After pressing play on her TV program, she set the remote down. Chilly Wednesday nights were made for cheap ca
lories and Downton Abbey.
She had seen the series countless times, and this episode was one of her favorites—the one where Mary showed off her bob haircut, much to Edith’s dismay. She smirked. That’s what family was all about.
She opened the pizza box, grabbed a slice, and frowned. Her dinner had grown cold. What now? Suffer through cold pizza or zap a few slices in the microwave? With Downton Abbey still playing it heart-warming intro, she could microwave some pieces before the episode started. She returned the slice, closed the lid, and grabbed the box while rising.
She walked to her kitchen and placed the box on the counter. After grabbing a plate from the cupboard, she placed two slices on top. She opened the microwave, set the plate inside, and closed the door. While about to press the one-minute option, she stopped when someone knocked on her door.
She lowered her arm and looked towards the door. That was odd. She wasn’t expecting company, and nobody ever arrived unannounced.
She walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Two uniformed LAPD officers stood in the well-lit hallway. She moved her head back and furrowed her brow.
What was going on? Had the officers arrived for her? Why would they? She hadn’t done anything to draw their attention.
She jumped as they knocked once more.
“Ms. Jacobson,” one of the officers called out, “it’s the police. Can you please answer your door?”
She considered pretending she weren’t home. Then again, she needed to know why they had arrived. This was especially true if she was in trouble.
She smoothed her chestnut hair, along with her navy blouse. She then unlocked the door and went for the knob. After pulling open the door, she took better stock of the officers. Both were male and roughly six feet tall. One was Caucasian and the other was Latin. Each projected the typical police officer persona—clean-shaven, military style haircuts, a sense of serious professionalism.
“Ms. Jacobson?” the Latin officer asked, probably the ranking person.
“Yes?” she responded. “That’s me. Am I in trouble?”
“No, ma’am. We’re here because we have some troubling news. Can we come inside?”
“Of course.” She stepped back to give them some room.
“Thank you,” the Latin officer said, leading the way.
His partner followed right behind. The man smiled, but the gesture had an edge of remorse. She guessed why. In case her assumption was correct, she mentally prepared herself.
She closed the door and locked it. After turning back, she reentered the living room where the officers were waiting. While approaching, she eyed their heavy boots and equipment, along with their pistols. That elevated her tension.
“What’s going on?” she asked, picking up her remote and pausing her program.
“First off,” the Latin officer said, “my name is Sergeant Mike Garcia. This is Officer Daniel Roberts. We’re sorry to intrude like this. And like I said, we have some bad news. Would you like to sit down?”
She shook her head. “No thanks. I just want to know what this is all about.”
“Very well. Earlier this evening, our 911 dispatchers received calls for gunshots in the Santa Monica mountain area, specifically at a hiking trail. A patrol unit arrived, looked around, and they found the body of a man in his early thirties. The officers secured the area and an investigation began. According to the victim’s driver’s license, he’s Jessie Jacobson.”
She looked away and cupped her mouth.
“We’re fairly certain that the victim is Jessie Jacobson,” Sergeant Garcia continued. “But we need to run some identification procedures. This includes having someone visually identify the body.”
“Fuck,” she muttered into her hand.
“Ma’am?”
She lowered her hand and looked back. “Sorry. I just didn’t expect this.”
“It’s okay. I’m certain this news is shocking.”
“You’re Goddamn right it is.” She started wiping at her eyes. “And you need me to identify the body?”
“Yes. But not right now.”
“Why not now?”
“Two homicide detectives are on route to the crime scene. Before anything else happens, they’re going to process the area. When they finish, we’ll move the body to the coroner’s office. That’s where you’ll identify the remains.”
“When will that happen?”
“That depends on the detectives. But based on my experience, they’ll need a few hours.”
“That’s why we’re updating you,” the partner said. “We didn’t want to come knocking at two in the morning.”
She nodded. “Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome,” Garcia continued. “In fact, you probably won’t hear from the detectives until tomorrow. That’s when the investigation will start in earnest. Right now, the focus is on collecting and cataloguing the evidence.”
“Will I be involved in the investigation? I’m sure I could offer some assistance.”
“I’m sure you could. But that will depend on the detectives. Who knows? Maybe they’ll solve this case quickly and they won’t require any of your time.”
“Maybe. And thank you for the update.”
“You’re very welcome. Did you need anything from us?”
“No. I just need time to deal with this.”
“I understand. We’ll get out of your hair then.”
Sergeant Garcia gave his own smile, then he and his partner started for the door. She followed right behind. When the officers saw themselves out, she closed the door, locked it, and placed her palms on the smooth surface. With her head down, she tightened her mouth.
Fuck. Her suspicion was right all along.
***
Claire drove fast down Ohio Ave. She left behind her Westwood condo and piloted her Acura TLX towards Santa Monica.
Damn. She expected the cops to show up, but not this soon. Because they had, everything went off kilter. She needed to address this.
She entered Santa Monica and kept driving south. The streets were largely devoid of people, probably because of the evening chill. She appreciated this as it allowed for quicker travel.
After cutting through the shopping areas, she entered a residential stretch of homes. She pulled up to James’ place and parked along the street. This neighborhood wasn’t the most affluent in Santa Monica, but the residents nevertheless enjoyed modest homes, clean ocean air, and luxury sedans.
She shut off the engine, climbed out, and hustled up the home’s concrete walkway. Now at the front door, she rapidly knocked. Hopefully James was home. His black Mercedes was in the driveway, but he could’ve been out with friends. That wouldn’t surprise her. James was single, he made good money, and he was decent looking.
She was about to knock once more when the door finally opened. There stood her longtime friend and former lover.
“Hey,” James greeted, his face twisted with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.” She stepped inside without waiting for an invite.
“Of course.” He closed the door and locked it.
“Are you alone?” she asked while scanning the interior.
“Yeah. It’s just me. What’s going on?”
She turned back. “The cops stopped by my place.”
“The cops? What for?”
She let a moment pass. “Jessie’s dead.”
James parted his mouth and looked away. He stayed facing away.
“Are you going to say something?” she asked.
He looked back. “Jesus Christ, what do you want me to say?”
“That you knew this would happen.”
“Goddammit, Claire. I did not know this would happen.”
“Bullshit! We all knew something was up. You, me, Jessie—all of us. Holy fuck. What did you two get yourselves into?”
“I have no idea. I only knew that somebody was threatening Jessie.”
“I know. Both of you sa
id as much. Did you ever figure out who it was?”
“No. We never did.”
She opened her hands. “Come on, James. It’s those scumbags you protect.”
“Stop, alright? Unlike the movies, criminal defense attorneys aren’t shady members of the mob.”
“But you work for shady people.”
“Yeah. And do you know what our work consists of? Filing motions with the court, all to bog down the wheels of justice. We don’t make pacts with the devil. We don’t gather in smoke-filled rooms. We’re overpaid paper pushers.”
“I get that. But is it so hard to believe that one of your gangster clients held a grudge?”
“No. But Jessie and I went over our client list. We couldn’t identify anyone who would want to target him. Hell. All of our clients love us. Why do you think they pay us so well?”
“Alright. Maybe the killer wasn’t associated with your work. All the same, you should’ve went to the police. You should’ve told them that Jessie was in danger.”
“I already told you. We were taking precautions to ensure his safety.”
“You mean that untraceable gun he got from his clients? A lot of good that did.”
James looked up and rolled his jaw.
“What?” she asked.
He leveled his gaze. “Jessie didn’t have that gun.”
“He gave it back?”
“No. It was stolen.”
“What do you mean it was stolen?”
“Someone broke into his home and took it.”
“Holy shit. They got inside his home?” She moved her hands to her head and started pacing.
“Claire,” James called out.
She quickly looked back. “You should’ve went to the cops!”
“And say what? That some unknown person was talking shit on the Internet?”
“Talking shit? They were saying Jessie would pay. What do you think that meant?”