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Kat smiled but didn’t respond. As the two women walked out, Gila moved close and spoke for the first time since they’d entered the bar.
“Just to be clear,” she said, her thick accent unable to mask her annoyance, “we are now going to an illegal, underground clinic with bouncers and unstable homeless people? That is the choice you are making when your life may be in danger?”
“Considering that I’ve got you by my side, I’m not overly concerned,” Kat teased. “That is, unless you don’t think you can handle it.”
“Not the point,” Gila shot back. “Appealing to my ego does not change the fact that you are putting yourself at risk without need.”
They stepped out of the bar into the mid-morning sunlight.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Kat told her forcefully. “I’m hunting for a man who murdered five people, recently attacked my friend’s sister, and wants to kill both of them. I need to do this. And I’m going to. So you can complain, quit, or get on board. Regardless of which path you choose, I’m finding this guy, with or without you.”
Then she turned and headed for the car, leaving Gila hurrying to catch up.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“You’re sure?” Jessie asked for the eighth time today.
She was talking to Margaret Grimes, the last of the friends and family that Gemma Britton's assistant listed as someone she kept in regular contact with. None of the other seven people that Jessie had spoken to had provided anything close to a lead, and it looked like Grimes was going to be more of the same.
“I wish I could be more help,” Grimes said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I told the detectives the same thing. I don’t remember Gemma ever mentioning feeling unsafe or scared. I definitely would have remembered her saying something like that. She just wasn’t the type to get easily bothered. I remember way back—I’m talking before she got famous, Gemma was doing some research study at a prison with hardened criminals. It didn’t faze her at all.”
“But couldn’t that have been an issue?” Jessie pressed. “Is it possible that she didn’t take threats against her as seriously as she should have?”
“I guess,” Grimes conceded reluctantly, “but I think she would have given a direct threat against her a lot more weight than some inmates whistling and catcalling as she walked past their cells.”
Jessie stayed on the line, struggling to come up with another question. Grover, seated across the breakfast room table from her, offered a sympathetic shrug. Just then, her phone buzzed. Ryan was calling. Considering that they’d just checked in an hour ago to catch up, she sensed that he must have something noteworthy to share.
“Thanks for your help, Ms. Grimes,” Jessie said. “I’ll reach out if I have any further questions.”
She hung up and answered the other line.
“You have something new?” she asked without even offering a greeting. She knew he wouldn’t mind.
“Another psychiatrist has been murdered,” he said immediately.
Jessie felt the air escape her lungs for a second. After regrouping, she managed to cough out a “who?”
“Her name is Isabel Shea,” Ryan said. “She’s thirty-seven. Single. Practiced out of her guest house in Faircrest Heights. No receptionist. She was found by her 10 a.m. patient, who called it in right away. Apparently, she was stabbed multiple times using her own ornamental letter opener."
Jessie looked at the time. It was only 10:28. The likelihood of being able to access any crime scene data less than a half hour after the body was found was remote but she had to ask.
“Do you have anything you can send me yet?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Ryan replied, “The detectives aren’t even there yet. Since the house is in the Wilshire Station area, Wagner and Ortega are handling it. They’re en route now from another case they’re working. But I’ll have Jamil and Beth keep an eye out and send you whatever becomes available.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate the heads up.”
"Sure," he replied. "Hopefully, Janice Lemmon doesn't know this doctor personally, too."
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jessie said. “She knows pretty much everyone.”
After they hung up, Jessie grabbed her shoes and put them on.
“What are you doing?” Grover asked.
“What do you think I’m doing?” she shot back. “We’ve got a crime scene to go to.”
“Absolutely not,” he insisted.
