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“Why?”
“Just a hunch,” she admitted. “Maybe he felt like that would be an ethical violation of some sort. I’m getting the sense that he wanted something from these women that they couldn’t provide.”
They were all silent, pondering what that might be.
“Let’s look at the body now,” Jessie requested quietly.
They all walked over together, though Grover hung back respectfully. Jessie let her eyes slowly track the length of the woman’s body. Isabel Shea, lying on her back with her hazel eyes open wide in pain and fear, was a short-haired brunette.
She wore slacks and a casual sky blue blouse, which was almost entirely covered with blood. Despite the dark stains marring her face and body, she was attractive and looked to be in good shape. Jessie noted that her shoes had come off and her bare feet had bruises and blisters at the tips of several toes, a sign that she, like Jessie, was a serious runner.
Based on the multiple punctures on her body, she guessed that the woman had been stabbed at least a dozen times. There were also defensive wounds on her hands. She had fought for her life.
“Where’s the murder weapon?” she asked in a near whisper.
“One of our officers found the gold letter opener under the coffee table,” Delco replied. “It’s still there until CSU gets here. They should arrive in the next ten minutes.”
“Okay,” Jessie said, her brain kicking into high gear. “In the Britton case, no usable fingerprints were found, but that doesn’t mean we won’t have more luck here. The opener should be checked, along with the cash he used to pay, and every door or potential surface he might have touched.”
“Don’t you think that’s the sort of thing the detectives handling the case should be requesting?” someone said from behind her.
She turned around to find two faces she recognized from photos staring back at her. They belonged to Detectives Wagner and Ortega. Both men looked pissed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jessie did her best to act like she had been waiting for them.
“Nice to see you, detectives,” she said.
“Not sure I can say the same thing,” Wagner replied gruffly.
Based on her research on the man, Jessie wasn’t surprised by the reaction.
Brett Wagner, thirty-nine, was a seventeen-year vet of the LAPD who’d been a detective for six of those years. Short and thick, he had the look of a guy who spent much of his free time in the weights section of his gym. His dirty blond hair was shorn tight against his scalp and his face was red, though she didn't know if that was his natural state or just because he was mad.
“I get that,” she told him, deciding that she needed to do some serious fence-mending if she didn’t want to be immediately ejected from the guest house and the case. “If I was one of the detectives assigned to this thing and some nosy profiler from another unit just showed up uninvited, I’d have my back up for sure.”
“Damn straight!” he seethed.
Next to him, Detective Ramon Ortega remained silent. That jibed too. Jessie’s research—courtesy of Jamil and Beth, just like the details on Wagner—indicated that Ortega was less volatile than his partner, but no less serious-minded.
Forty-six now, he’d spent twenty-two years on patrol before finally making detective. He had a reputation as being methodical, not making any mistakes that could undermine the promotion he’d gotten only three years ago. Unlike the divorced Wagner, he’d been married to his high school sweetheart for almost thirty years and had three kids. He was currently twisting his wedding band around his finger. Jessie wasn’t sure if the habit was due to nerves or anger. She figured it was better to err on assuming the latter as she responded.
“And if I was the case detective, I’d think that this profiler had better have an amazing reason for inserting herself into my business, way better than just the fact that the first victim was famous. And I’d want her to explain herself right now if she had any expectation of not getting drop-kicked out of the crime scene first thing.”
“Wait, you’re not assigned to this case?” Delco demanded, looking personally hurt.
“You ought to get drop-kicked just for looking at our evidence without our consent,” Wagner spat, not giving Jessie a chance to reply to the sergeant. “Or didn’t you think we’d find out about that? Not that it took any brilliant detective work. Almost from the second you left Wilshire Station, Dale Peterson was bragging about how the great Jessie Hunt came to his evidence room and he helped her out.”
“I kind of figured that might happen,” Jessie conceded.
“So this is your chance, Ms. Hunt,” Detective Ortega said, his tone hushed. “Convince us why we shouldn’t be cuffing you for interfering in an ongoing investigation?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Jessie noted Grover stiffen. He’d stayed quiet until now, but he clearly didn’t take kindly to the idea of anyone putting their hands on his protectee, no matter the reason. Before he said anything that might exacerbate the situation, she answered.
“This is personal for me,” she told them bluntly. “Do you know who Dr. Janice Lemmon is?”
“Sure,” Ortega replied. “She used to do profiling for the department back in the day. Worked with the FBI too if I recall.”
