Sam’s face went immediately pink.
“Maybe after we’re done with the case,” he said. “I don’t want to try to engage in a social outing with this on my mind.”
Jessie shook her head in disapproval as she tskeds him dramatically.
“With what we do, there’s always something on our minds, some excuse not to live our lives. If you wait for the perfect time, it’ll never come. When’s the last time you went out on a proper date, Sam?”
“It’s been a while,” he said sheepishly.
“So remedy that!”
“I’ll think about it,” he said, though she was skeptical that he would. “In the meantime, I have to approve that officer list. You go on home so you can get a good night’s sleep and be ready to give me a hard time tomorrow.”
“Will do,” she said with a grin.
She headed back to the bullpen to get her jacket before heading out. When she got there, she saw an envelope resting on her keyboard. Her name and the station address were typed on the front. She grabbed it and was tempted to open it now, but changed her mind. She wasn’t in the mood to review more paperwork. Besides, if it was really that pressing, it would have come to her via other means.
She tossed it in her purse and headed out, anxious to check on Kat and especially Ryan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jessie waited impatiently at the crossing for the train to pass.
It had been slowly chugging along for the last five minutes, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was only a couple of miles from home. After another minute, and with no caboose in sight, she sighed and reached for her phone to let Ryan know that she’d be home a few minutes later than expected. That’s when she saw the envelope.
Against her better judgment and fully aware that whatever paperwork inside would probably cause her stress when she was trying to decompress, she grabbed it. It was only then that she noticed something she hadn’t picked up on before: the return address was the same as the mailing address. That meant that no matter what happened with the postal system, the letter was sure to reach her eventually.
She briefly considered waiting until she got home. After all, she’d gotten more than her fair share of hate mail. One never knew if an envelope might contain something more dangerous than nasty words. She shook the envelope but couldn’t hear or feel anything that seemed like powder.
Despite her apprehension, she took a pen and slit it open. There was nothing inside except for a small piece of paper, no larger than a fortune cookie message. She took it out. In typed letters, it read:It’s been too long. Looking forward to seeing you again.
As far as threats went, this one barely registered. No promises of violence. No retribution mentioned. Were it not for the anonymous nature of the thing, it might be considered innocuous. But Jessie knew too well that when it came to her work, no unsigned, typed cryptic message was ever trulyharmless. This was intended to be unsettling and normally it would be. But she was just too tired to get freaked out right now.
She put the slip of paper back in the envelope and set it on the passenger seat. When she got home, she’d put it in a plastic baggie. Tomorrow, she’d take it to the station and let the forensic folks check for fingerprints or DNA. She was dubious that they’d find anything. Whoever had sent it didn’t want to be identified, at least not yet. And she doubted they’d be so sloppy as to leave any traces of who they were.
The train finally passed. She tried to stay patient as the crossing gates went up and the brake lights of the car in front of her finally disappeared as it started moving. She passed over the tracks and made a left turn off Olympic and into her neighborhood.
As she did, her phone rang. She glanced down at it and her heart immediately sank. The call was from Captain Parker. At this hour that could only mean one thing.
*
Jessie couldn’t get close to the Williamson home.
It was in the Hollywood Hills, on a winding road so narrow that two cars couldn’t pass at the same time. With all the squad cars and emergency vehicles ahead of her, there was no way to get by. So she parked on the side of the road about a half dozen houses away, put on her hazard lights, and walked the rest of the way.
As she made her way to the crime scene, she took solace in one thing. Because of the difficulty in accessing the place, the police had set up a perimeter a quarter mile down the hill. They were only letting law enforcement and residents enter, which meant four television station vans were stuck down below. By the time one of the cameramen realized who she was, it was too late to get footage of her as she drove by.
When Captain Parker called earlier, Sam Goodwin was already on the line. Parker briefed both of them as Jessie made a U-turn and headed toward the address that she’d been texted. The latest victim was named Anastasia Williamson,néeVolkov, a Ukrainian model who married heart surgeon Marcus Williamson two years ago.
Just like Maria Cain and Yuki Tanaka, she’d been found stabbed multiple times. Her green card was apparently also found near the body. That was all Parker knew so far. Jessie saw that the medical examiner’s van was just up the way, so she hoped they would have more details to share.
Sam was already standing at the start of the cobblestoned path leading up to the house, waving at her. That made sense since he lived in West Hollywood, a good fifteen minutes closer to here than her own place was. She picked up the pace to join him.
As she got closer, she took note of the home. Like so many of the places up here, it was an architectural marvel, built into the hill and rising three stories into the trees. Glancing across the street, she couldn’t help but admire the view from up here. It was 6:42 and the sun was on the verge of setting in the west. The sparkling lights of the city were twinkling below.
It occurred to her that Anastasia Williamson would never see those lights again. The thought filled her first with pity, and then anger. If they were better at their jobs, she might still be alive.
“What do we know?” she asked once she reached Sam, dispensing with any pleasantries.
