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CHAPTER THREE
Lizzie Polacnyk got home seriously late.
She’d expected to be back from her study group session at California State University—Northridge by 7 p.m. But they had a big Psychology 101 exam tomorrow and everyone was quizzing each other relentlessly. When they called it quits for the night, it was after nine.
By the time she opened the apartment front door, it was almost 9:45. She tried to keep quiet, remembering that Michaela had a 6 a.m. call time both earlier this morning and tomorrow and was probably fast asleep by now.
She tiptoed down the hallway to her bedroom and was surprised to see a dim light leaking out from under Michaela’s door. It wasn’t like her to stay up late when she had to be up by 5 a.m. She wondered if her longtime friend and more recent roommate had simply been so tired that she fell asleep with the light on. She decided to peek in and turn it off if need be.
When she cracked open the door slightly, she saw Michaela lying on her back without the covers on. Her pillow partially obscured her face. She only had the reading lamp on so it was hard to be sure but it looked like she hadn’t even changed out of her outfit from the day, a cheerleading uniform.
Lizzie was about to close the door when she noticed something odd. The skirt was riding down near Michaela’s thighs so that her crotch was exposed. That seemed inappropriate, no matter how exhausted she was.
Lizzie debated whether to throw a sheet over her friend. Considering what Michaela did for a living, it seemed like forced modesty. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone else was going to walk in on her. Still, Lizzie felt her Catholic girls school upbringing kicking in and knew it would gnaw at her all night if she did nothing.
So she gently pushed the door open and stepped inside, quietly walking over to the side of the bed. She got halfway there when she stopped cold. Now with an unobstructed view, she saw the gaping holes in Michaela’s chest and stomach.
A thick, wet pool of blood had oozed out of the sliced up uniform and surrounded her entire torso, slowly seeping into the bed sheets. Michaela’s eyes were clenched tight, as if keeping them closed could have protected her from whatever happened.
Lizzie stood there for several seconds, unsure how to react. She felt like she should scream but her throat had suddenly gone dry. Her stomach gurgled and she briefly feared she might throw up.
Feeling like she was in a strange dream, she turned and walked out of the bedroom and back into the kitchen, where she poured herself a glass of water. When she was confident that she would be able to speak, she called 911.
*
The date was going well.
In the back of her mind, Jessie started to wonder if tonight might be the night. She was almost reluctant to wish for it. Her relationship with Ryan was the most stable thing in her life right now and she was hesitant to do anything to complicate it.
She’d spent most of the evening at the charmingly cheesy Italian restaurant complaining about how things were going with Hannah. She recounted the basics of her conversation with Dr. Lemmon and lamented the lack of forward progress they were making in helping her half-sister adjust to her new normal. It was only when Ryan excused himself to go to the restroom and she looked around the restaurant that Jessie realized just how self-centered she’d been.
The place, a legendary if cheesy San Fernando Valley haunt called Miceli’s, was darkly lit and romantic. The vibe was heightened by the fact that Ryan had somehow secured the one table on the second floor, in what amounted to an indoor balcony overlooking the rest of the restaurant. But until now, she’d been mostly oblivious.
She’d also barely registered until he left that he’d hardly spoken all night. Instead he sat patiently as she prattled on about her domestic troubles, barely letting him get in a word. In fact, now that she thought about it, she didn’t recall asking him a single question all evening.
As the guilt washed over her, she saw him leave the restroom on the floor below and deftly navigate his way through the maze of tables to the stairs. As he did, she noticed something else—almost every woman who could get away with it cast a glance his way. Who could blame them?
The man was hard to ignore. Six feet tall and two hundred pounds of what looked like marble, with unassuming, short black hair and welcoming brown eyes, he walked with the quiet confidence of a man who didn’t need to impress anyone.
And if these women knew what he did for a living, they’d be even more intrigued. As the lead detective for a special unit of the LAPD called Homicide Special Section—HSS for short—his cases all had high profiles or intense media scrutiny, often involving multiple victims and serial killers.
And he was here with her. It had taken a while to get to this point. He was in the final stages of a divorce after six years of marriage. Jessie had been single a little longer. Her marriage had ended more dramatically, when her now ex-husband attempted to frame her for killing his mistress. When she’d uncovered his plan, he tried to kill her. He was currently incarcerated in a prison in Orange County.
Ryan sat down across from her and she reached for his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been totally dominating the conversation. How are you?”
“I’m okay,” he said. “That drug kingpin assassination wrapped up today.”
“You never called me in to help,” she noted, pretending to be hurt.
“It was pretty cut and dried. We didn’t really need the services of any fancy profiler for that one.”
“Who cares?” Jessie protested. “Call me in anyway. At least then we can spend a little time together, even if I might have to bail at some point.”
“How romantic,” he said. “Nothing like making googly eyes over a dead body.”
“We do what we’ve got to do,” she said, shrugging. “Besides, for my last case I was assigned to work with Trembley, who—no offense—isn’t exactly my dream partner.”
