“A woman was found dead in her West Adams home about an hour ago,” Parker explained. “It was originally assigned to Southwest Station, until I got a call.”
Jessie suspected who the call was from even before Parker said it. There was only one person with the authority to summarily transfer a case from one station to another: the chief of police. And since the current chief, Roy Decker, used to be the captain of Central Station, it was almost certainly him.
“Decker?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Parker told her. “He learned that the victim’s husband is a major benefactor to the LAPD and has apparently raised close to $20 million for various police causes in recent years. He said he wants people he trusts implicitly on this one, and there’s no unit he trusts more than HSS.”
“Makes sense,” Jessie said, “considering that he originally set up the unit. But why me?”
“Officially, because almost everyone else in the unit is occupied with a case. We’ve been pretty short-handed with both you and Hernandez out. The only detective I have available to send is Sam Goodwin. Unofficially, Chief Decker specifically asked for you. He said there’s a complicating component to the case beyond the prominence of the husband, and he needs someone who can navigate things delicately.”
“What does that mean?” Jessie asked.
“I actually have no idea,” Parker conceded. “That’s all he told me. So are you willing to come back early, Hunt?”
Jessie sighed. She was definitely intrigued, although she had apprehension about leaving Ryan at home. Then again, The way this had been framed, she didn’t really have much choice.
“I just need to make a few calls to square things away at home. But I think I’m good.”
“Thank you,” Parker said. “I’ll send you the address. Goodwin will meet you there. And Hunt?”
“Yes?”
“Remember, tread carefully on this one.”
CHAPTER TWO
If Jessie hadn’t known this case was a big deal before, she would have figured it out when she drove past the front of the West Adams address that Parker texted her.
In addition to an ambulance, a medical examiner’s van, a crime scene unit truck, and four squad cars, there were two local TV news vans parked just down the street. Both had crews outside the house, with reporters doing stand-up reports.
Jessie continued halfway down the block, where she parked and popped the trunk. That’s where she kept her disguises. Over her two-plus years working with the LAPD, Jessie had learned several lessons the hard way. One of the biggest was that, since she had been involved in the capture of so many high-profile killers, the media was drawn to her like moths to a flame. Any time they saw her at a crime scene, they assumed the case was huge and swarmed.
That was why she kept several props that often came in handy. She had wigs, hats, sunglasses and several uniforms, including one for a patrol officer and another for a CSU technician. She found that if she walked up in those outfits, it was often as if she was invisible.
In this instance, she decided to go the CSU route. She threw on the windbreaker with “LAPD Crime Scene Unit” emblazoned on the back. Then she grabbed a cap with the same thing on it. After a moment, she reconsidered and took off the cap.
She fished around until she found a black wig that was slightly longer than her own shoulder-length brown hair. Once that was in place, she put the cap back on and added some sunglasses. It wasn’t especially sunny out, but they wouldn’t seem as out of place as when she’d arrived to crimes scenes at night.
Satisfied that she looked appropriately nondescript, she walked up the sidewalk, her head down as if she was reading a message on her phone. The news crews never gave her a first look, much less a second one.
Once she got to the police tape at the cobblestoned path leading up to the house, she held out her ID for the officer standing guard out front. He looked at it, then at her, perplexed.
“I’m trying to keep a low profile,” she said under her breath as she slid the sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and revealed a bit of her own hair under the wig, “If those reporters see me, this place will become even more of a madhouse.”
“Oh,” the officer said, still trying to process the odd situation. “I was definitely confused there for a second.”
“Don’t feel bad. It happens all the time,” she assured him. “I’m supposed to meet Detective Goodwin here. Do you know if he’s arrived yet?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the officer said, lifting up the police tape for her to duck under. “He got here a few minutes ago. He’s inside with Sergeant Brasov, the officer in charge.”
“Thanks,” she said, pushing the sunglasses back up as she started up the path, making sure her back was to the reporters just in case. As she approached the mansion, she couldn’t help but marvel at it.
Like many houses in the historic West Adams District, just west of downtown L.A., it was impressive. Rising three stories and easily ten times the size of Jessie’s more than respectable Mid-Wilshire place, it was in the Craftsman Bungalow style, complete with a large front porch and thick tapered columns out front. It looked like something out of a movie. In fact, multiple nearby homes had been used in films and TV shows.
When she got to the front door another officer checked her ID, then directed her to take the long central hallway to the living room. As she walked down the hall, she removed the wigand wrapped it in the jacket, which she had also peeled off. She slid the sunglasses on top of her head. As she passed a hallway mirror, she glanced at herself.
This wasn’t what she’d wear on a normal work day. But she hadn’t been expecting to work at all today. Instead, she was dressed for carrying a bunch of bags and boxes into Hannah’s apartment. As a result, she’d be reviewing the crime scene in yoga pants and a t-shirt that read “USC,” her alma mater. The others at the scene would just have to deal with her casual attire.
