The Perfect Block

Jessie nodded appreciatively.

“I’m a Trojan girl myself,” she said.

“Oh, jeez. You went to USC? Did you hear about that Lionel Little guy—former ball player there? He got killed today.”

“I heard,” Jessie said. “Sad story.”

“I heard he was killed for his shoes,” Doyle said, shaking his head. “Can you believe that?”

“You should take care of yours, Doyle. They don’t look cheap either.”

Doyle glanced down, then leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Eight hundred bucks.”

Jessie whistled in fake awe. She was fast losing interest in Doyle, whose youthful exuberance was starting to be overwhelmed by his youthful self-satisfaction.

“So what’s your story?” he asked.

“You don’t want to try to guess?”

“Oh man, I’m not so good at that.”

“Give it a try, Doyle,” she coaxed. “You might surprise yourself. Besides, a lawyer needs to be perceptive, right?”

“That’s true. Okay, I’ll give it a shot. I’d say you’re an actress. You’re pretty enough to be one. But DTLA isn’t really actress territory. That’s more like Hollywood and points west. Model maybe? You could be. But you seem too smart to have that be your main thing as like, a career. Maybe you did some modeling as a teenager but now you’re into something more professional. Oh, I’ve got it, you’re in public relations. That’s why you’re so good at reading people. Am I right? I know I am.”

“Really close, Doyle. But not quite.”

“So what do you do then?” he demanded.

“I’m a criminal profiler with the LAPD.”

It felt good to say it out loud, especially as she watched his eyes widen in shock.

“Like that show Mindhunter?”

“Yeah, kind of. I help the police get inside the heads of criminals so they have a better chance of catching them.”

“Whoa. So do you hunt serial killers and stuff?”

“For a while now,” she said, neglecting to mention that her search was for one particular serial killer and that it had nothing to do with work.

“That’s awesome. What a cool job.”

“Thanks,” Jessie said, sensing that he’d finally built up the courage to ask what had been on his mind for a while now.

“So what’s your deal? Are you single?”

“Divorced actually.”

“Really?” he said. “You seem too young to be divorced.”

“I know, right? Unusual circumstances. It didn’t pan out.”

“I don’t want to be rude but can I ask—what was so unusual? I mean, you seem like a catch. Are you a psycho or something?”

Jessie knew he didn’t mean any harm with the question. He was genuinely interested in both the answer and in her and he’d just fumbled it horribly. Still, she could feel all her remaining interest in Doyle drain from her at that moment. In the same instant, the weight of the day and the discomfort of her high heels reared their heads. She decided to close out the evening with a bang.

“I wouldn’t call myself a psycho, Doyle. I’m definitely damaged, to the point of waking up screaming most nights. But psycho? I wouldn’t say that. Mostly we got divorced because my husband was a sociopath who murdered a woman he was sleeping with, attempted to frame me for it, and ultimately tried to kill me and two of our neighbors. He really embraced the ‘death do us part’ thing.”

Doyle stared at her, his mouth so wide it could have caught flies. She waited for him to recover, curious to see how smoothly he’d extricate himself. Not very, as it turned out.

“Oh, that really sucks. I would ask more about it but I just remembered I have an early deposition tomorrow. I should probably get home. Hope to see you around some time.”

He was off the stool and halfway to the door before she could get out a “Bye, Doyle.”

*

Jessica Thurman pulled the blanket up to cover her half-freezing little body. She’d been alone in the cabin with her dead mother for three days now. She was so delirious from lack of water, warmth, and human interaction that sometimes she thought her mother was talking to her, even as her corpse slumped, unmoving, her arms held in the air by manacles attached to the wooden roof beams.

Suddenly there was banging on the door. Someone was just outside the cabin. It couldn’t be her father. He had no reason to knock. He entered whatever place he wanted whenever he wanted.

The banging came again, only this time it sounded different. There was a ringing sound mixed in. But that made no sense. The cabin didn’t have a doorbell. The ringing came again, this time without any knocking at all.

Suddenly Jessie’s eyes popped open. She lay there in bed, allowing her brain a second to process that the ringing she’d heard had come from her cell phone. She leaned over to grab it, noting that while her heart was pumping fast and her breathing was shallow, she wasn’t as sweaty as usual in the aftermath of a nightmare.

It was Detective Ryan Hernandez. As she answered the call, she glanced at the time: 2:13 a.m.

“Hello,” she said, with almost no grogginess in her voice.

“Jessie. It’s Ryan Hernandez. Sorry to call at this hour but I got a call to investigate a suspicious death in Hancock Park. Garland Moses doesn’t do middle of the night calls anymore and everyone else is already spoken for. You up for it?”

“Sure,” Jessie replied.

“If I text you the address, can you be here in thirty minutes?” he asked.

“I can be there in fifteen.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

When Jessie pulled up in front of the mansion on Lucerne Blvd. at 2:29 a.m., there were already multiple police cars, an ambulance, and a medical examiner’s vehicle out front. She got out and walked toward the front door, trying to look as professional as possible under the circumstances.

Neighbors stood on the sidewalk, many wrapped up in robes to protect against the chill of the night. This sort of thing wasn’t typical for a wealthy neighborhood like Hancock Park. Nestled between Hollywood to the north and the Mid-Wilshire district to the south, it was an enclave of old money Los Angeles; or at least as “old money” as anything in a city so unconcerned with historical tradition could be.

The people who lived here weren’t so much the movie stars or Hollywood moguls one might find in Beverly Hills or Malibu. These were the homes of the generationally wealthy, who might or might not actually work. If they did, it was often merely to avoid boredom. But they didn’t have to worry about being bored tonight. After all, one of their own was dead and everyone was curious as to who.

Jessie felt a bit of thrill as she walked up the stairs to the front door, which was marked off with yellow police tape. This was the first time she’d arrived at a crime scene unaccompanied by a detective. And that meant it was the first time she’d have to show her credentials to access a restricted area.

She remembered being so excited when she’d first gotten them. She even practiced flashing them to Lacy a few times back at the apartment. But now, as she fumbled through her coat pocket, trying to find them, she felt surprisingly nervous.