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 wig and 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.
She entered the large living room, complete with furniture that looked a century old and extremely expensive.
The couches, chairs, and tables were at odds with the massive TV monitor affixed to the far wall.
Looking around, she saw Goodwin in a corner talking to a burly, uniformed guy with a thick mustache that she assumed was Sergeant Brasov. She headed that way.
Goodwin caught sight of her and waved. Sam Goodwin was the newest edition to the HSS team, having transferred in just last year.
At 33, the man was lean and tall, easily six foot two, with irrepressible brown hair.
He made a habit of wearing corduroy sport coats over checkered shirts and black ties, which Jessie told him made him look like either a young, absent-minded professor or the past-his-prime bassist in a band that played Americana music. But his looks belied his reputation.
He had served eight years as a uniformed officer, followed by three as a detective in Vice Division’s Exploitation and Investigative Section, which focused on human trafficking, exploitation of minors, and prostitution connected to organized crime.
He may not have formally handled homicide cases prior to joining HSS, but he’d seen ugly things.
Since coming aboard, he’d proven to be a valuable asset.
“Thanks for coming, Jessie,” he said. “Sorry you had to come down here when you’re still technically on leave.”
“No worries,” she told him. “I didn’t want you to get lonely.”
“I appreciate that,” he said with a smile before nodding at the officer next to him. “This is Sergeant Brasov. He was running the scene prior to our arrival. I asked him to hold off on a status update until you got here.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Hunt,” Brasov said, extending his hands. “I hear good things.”
“Thanks Sergeant, and sorry to keep you waiting. I was driving in from Irvine. What have we got?”
Brasov sighed heavily before launching in.
“Our victim’s name is Maria Cain,” he said. “Preliminary indications are that she was killed in the kitchen before being moved to the dining room.”
“The medical examiner was already able to determine that?” she asked, surprised.
“When you see the scene, it will be pretty obvious. There’s a ton of blood in the kitchen, and bloody drag marks on the floor and carpet leading to the dining room, where she was placed.”
“Placed?” Sam repeated.
“That’s the word I’d use for it, but you can judge for yourself,” Brasov said. “Would you like to go in there?”
“In just a minute,” Jessie said. She always preferred to look at the victim last so that didn’t color her perceptions as she reviewed the rest of the crime scene. “Maybe we start in the kitchen?”
“Sure,” Brasov said, leading the way.
“What can you tell us about the victim?” Sam asked as they followed the sergeant.
“As I mentioned, her name is Maria Cain, originally Maria Delgado. She was 28, a native of Colombia. Married to Edward Cain. I’m assuming that you’re here because of his connection to her?”
“You assume correctly,” Jessie told him. ‘Where is he now?”
“There’s a pool house out back,” Brasov said. “He seemed pretty upset so we moved him out of the main house. There are two officers waiting with him there.”
“Did he find her?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Brasov said, pausing at the entrance to the kitchen.
“He said he got up around 6:30 for an early tee time at his club. Apparently Maria wasn’t in bed and he assumed she’d gone for her morning walk already.
He claims that he headed straight out because he was running a little late.
He found her when he returned around 10:30 A.M. You might want to prepare yourselves,” he said, looking into the kitchen.
Jessie wasn’t sure how she was supposed to do that as she stepped in the room.
Immediately, she understood the reason for his warning.
There was blood spray all over the walls and appliances.
The front of the stainless steel double refrigerator looked like some kind of horrifying abstract art piece.
The giant kitchen island was covered in the stuff.
As she moved around to the far side of it, she saw where the blood had pooled on the floor.
There was a lot of it. Mixed in were what looked like shards of glass.
“We think she was holding a wine glass when she was attacked from behind,” Brasov said, answering her unasked question.
She saw the tracks of blood on the floor near where it had pooled.
It looked like she had been dragged out of the kitchen and her heels, covered in blood, left two thick lines along the path.
Jessie and Sam followed it out of the kitchen and into the carpeted dining room.
She wasn’t prepared for what she saw there.