The Perfect Affair (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Seven)

by Blake Pierce

  He was almost growling but Jessie didn’t care.

  “If the shoe fits,” she whispered. “Also, if you think you can intimidate me with your man boobs and garlic breath, you’re mistaken. I’ve gone toe to toe with guys who kept human body parts as souvenirs, so your cheap bullying tactics don’t impress me. Now get the hell out of my face.”

  Costabile’s nostrils flared. The blood vessel on his forehead looked like it might pop at any second. Jessie watched him closely. Part of her wanted to knee him in the crotch. But her analytical side was still testing him, trying to determine exactly what was going on here and why procedure wasn’t being followed. Something was very off. If he got angry enough, maybe the guy would inadvertently reveal something.

  The two of them glared at each other. Costabile was hunkered and wheezy; Jessie silent and taut. She was happy to stay like that all evening if it broke him. After a good five seconds, he exhaled, intentionally breathing on her. He plastered a forced smile onto his face and took a step back.

  “I have to say, Ms. Hunt, you are an even bigger bitch than I’d heard you were.”

  “What’s her name?” Jessie demanded almost before he could finish his insult.

  “What?” he said, startled by her sudden response.

  “The girl,” she pressed, nodding at the bed. “Do you even know her name?”

  “Her name is Michaela Penn,” Officer Lester said, rescuing his superior from potential embarrassment. “We’re still digging up info but it looks like she went to a local Catholic girls high school. She became an emancipated minor almost two years ago and graduated early. She was waitressing part-time at Jerry’s Deli in Studio City.”

  “Thanks, Officer,” Jessie said, before adding one more line for Sergeant Costabile’s benefit. “Sounds real trashy.”

  She turned and really looked at Michaela closely for the first time since entering the room. The first thing that jumped out at her was just how young the girl looked. She may have been seventeen, but with her short, dark hair and pale, now-bluish skin, she looked closer to fifteen.

  She glanced up at a photo of the girl on the dresser and tried to reconcile it with the lifeless form on the bed. The Michaela in the picture was beautiful in a delicately pixie-ish way. She reminded Jessie of a girl from those Japanese anime cartoons.

  Her deep blue eyes were huge but unemotional, as if she’d learned to hide her emotions long ago. Only the slight half-smirk at the edges of her lips hinted at what might be hidden beneath. She gave off the vibe of an unlit firework, like she was just biding her time, ready to explode at any moment.

  “Can you unzip the bag?” Ryan asked as she moved over next to Jessie. As they waited he muttered under his breath. “I hope permanently alienating the most connected uniformed officer in the Valley was worth whatever you were trying to uncover by insulting him. Because he’s never going to let this go.”

  “Jury’s still out,” she murmured back.

  The cops had moved away but Maggie Caldwell, the deputy medical examiner, remained close by after she unzipped the bag.

  “Sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t want to touch the body but Costabile was adamant that we move quickly. If you’d arrived five minutes later, she’d have been packed up in the van.”

  “Any idea what the rush was?” Ryan asked her.

  “No,” Caldwell said nervously. “But I don’t think it was all his idea. He was on the phone with someone who seemed to be giving him instructions. It was after he hung up that he really tried to push things along.”

  Jessie moved closer to the girl. Her cheerleading uniform, red, with white script and black trim, was nondescript. The writing said only “Central H.S.” The skirt was pulled down to her thighs.

  “Lester said she already graduated, right?” Ryan recalled. “So why the uniform?”

  “I’ve lived in this area for twenty years and I don’t recognize that school or those colors,” Caldwell said. “I don’t think it’s real.”

  “Maybe it was a costume,” Jessie suggested. “Waitressing and acting are hardly mutually exclusive.”

  “Possible,” Ryan agreed. “I hate to say it, but Costabile could be right too. It could be an outfit she wore for…a client. That wouldn’t be unheard of around here.”

  Jessie nodded, voicing her own theory.

  “Whatever she was doing, unless she had a trust fund, it was more than just waitressing. This place is nice. The art isn’t cheap and it’s clear that she had a comprehensive skin and hair regimen that involved professional assistance. She wasn’t struggling. Do we know if she was sexually assaulted?” she asked Caldwell.

  “Too early to tell. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “We should definitely talk to the roommate soon,” Ryan said. “Maybe she can let us know if Michaela had received any threats recently.”

  Jessie nodded in agreement as she looked more closely at the knife puncture wounds. There were five in the chest and another four in the abdomen.

  “Did anyone find the murder weapon?” she asked.

  “There’s a butcher knife missing from the kitchen set,” Officer Lester, who had overheard the question, volunteered. “But we haven’t been able to locate it.”

  “That’s weird,” Ryan noted.

  “What?” Lester asked.

  “Well, if this was a robbery gone wrong, you’d expect the perpetrator to be surprised to find Michaela in her room. The general disarray in this room suggests a struggle. But if the perp didn’t know she was here, how did he get the knife? It’s hard to believe he ran back to the kitchen to get it and then came back to the bedroom again.”

  “Maybe he knocked her out and then got the knife?” Lester offered.

  “But if he knocked her out and this was a robbery, why not just take the stuff and go?” Jessie wondered. “There wouldn’t be any resistance at that point. To go grab a knife, return to the bedroom, and stab an unconscious girl nine times. That doesn’t sound like typical robber behavior. That’s cold-blooded. And yet…”

  “What?” Lester prodded.

  “A laptop was taken,” she said, nodding at the empty desk. “And we don’t have her phone here. So she was robbed. The question is: was that an afterthought? Was it staged or were those things taken for a specific reason? Whatever the case, it’s hardly open and shut.”

  That last comment made Costabile, who’d been standing quietly in the corner for the last few minutes, perk up.

  “I thought you were done casting aspersions for a few minutes,” he said acidly. “But I guess it was too much to hope for.”

  Jessie was about to retort when Ryan stepped in.

  “We’ll let it lie for now,” he said. “After all, we still need to talk to the roommate. Come on, Jessie.”

  They started for the door. But Ryan stopped just as they were leaving. Leaning in so that only she and Costabile could hear him, he muttered one last thing to the man.

  “But I have to tell you, Sergeant, if you think we’re done asking why you’re handling this case in such rushed, slipshod fashion, you are sadly mistaken. I don’t know what you’re hiding, but this case stinks. If you think you can keep a lid on it, you’re kidding yourself.”

  Costabile didn’t reply. But he did give Ryan a big, toothy, malevolent grin that suggested he felt otherwise.

  CHAPTER SIX

  For a second, Jessie thought Michaela’s roommate was dead too.

  Despite the EMTs’ assurances to the contrary, she was unresponsive when they opened the ambulance door and tried to get her attention. Even after they called her by what the EMT said was her preferred name, Lizzie, she didn’t stir. It was only when Ryan pulled off the thermal blanket she was wrapped in that she gave them the time of day.

  “What?” she demanded in a tired, surly voice.

  The girl looked to be in her late teens. Even if she hadn’t seen Lizzie’s room, Jessie would have guessed she was a more restrained personality than her roommate. Her brown hair was tied bac
k tight and her makeup was subdued to the point of unnoticeable. She was dressed conservatively in a zippered CSUN sweatshirt and pants. She wore a crucifix necklace.

  Jessie frowned at Ryan, not pleased with his tactics. But he shrugged as if to say he was done being patient.

  “Lizzie,” Jessie began, using her most sympathetic voice, “we’re investigating what happened and we need to ask you a few questions.”

  “They gave me something,” Lizzie said. “I’m feeling a little loopy.”

  “We understand,” Jessie assured as she helped the girl up to a seated position. “And we’re going to have you go to the hospital to get checked out momentarily. But we need to get some basics from you first, okay?”

  “I guess.”

  “How did you know Michaela?” Jessie asked.

  “We went to high school together,” Lizzie said, speaking slowly as she focused on each word. “She left early but we stayed in touch. When I graduated we decided to become roomies. She was a good roomie.”

  Jessie glanced over at Ryan. The girl was really zonked out. Getting much out of her would be hard. He raised his eyebrows in frustration. Jessie tried again.

  “Lizzie, did Michaela have family in the area?”

  With much effort, Lizzie shook her head.

  “What about a boyfriend or someone she recently broke up with?”

  “No boyfriend,” Lizzie answered lazily.

  “Maybe a co-worker she had problems with?”

  Lizzie’s eyes, which had been glazed 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 and still driving home was rewarded when he picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello?” he said tentatively.

  “Officer Burnside? This is Jessie Hunt. We met last night at the Penn murder scene.”

  “I know who you are,” he said, caution in his voice.

  Sensing his intense wariness, she debated whether to try to set him at ease or just accept that this was going to be an uncomfortable situation. She decided that being forthright was the smarter move.

  “Look, Officer, I know you’re not psyched to be getting this call. And I don’t want to put you in a difficult situation, so I’ll keep it brief.”

  She paused, but when she got no response, she continued.

  “I’m wondering if you’ve gotten any updates on the status of Michaela’s phone or laptop. Any pings on the phone? Any attempts to pawn it or the computer that you’re aware of?”

  After a period of silence, Burnside finally responded.

  “I think you’d be better off going through official channels, Ms. Hunt.”

  He sounded embarrassed to say it and she decided to use that to her advantage.

  “I think we both know how well that would go, Officer. I’d be running in circles for hours. Look, I’m not asking you to tell me why that crime scene was handled so unprofessionally. I’m not asking you to explain why almost every cop there was acting like they were guilty of something. All I’m asking is if either the phone or laptop has turned up.”