“Yep. I was a junior grade detective without much to lose so I followed it up. The case was about to be closed. But I started asking questions and pretty quickly, the whole thing unraveled. It turned out that the businessman was a major supporter and fundraiser for a local city councilman. Once he died, the councilman’s funding dried up. His challenger was able to overwhelm him financially and won the seat. In the end, we realized the challenger for the seat had hired someone to take out the businessman for exactly that reason, to kneecap the incumbent’s primary source of financial support. He also had the original suspect framed so it would look like a random robbery gone wrong.”

“How did your contact know all that?”

“I have no idea. I’m not even sure the source knew the extent of the thing. I got the sense that the person, who I started calling Chatty Cathy, knew something was off, even if the details were hazy.”

“Is the source a woman?”

“No way to tell,” Ryan admitted. “But for the purpose of giving them a name, let’s say yes. Anyway, I started to get additional calls after that. Not often, maybe twice a year. They were always from burners using digital voice masking. And they almost always involved cases that seemed open and shut, but upon further investigation, were more complicated.”

“So Chatty Cathy is some sort of guardian against injustice?”

“Maybe,” Ryan said, not sounding as confident. “Or it could be something else. I’ve noticed that in most of these cases, the real story is messy and makes people in positions of power look bad. A lot of times, I think our higher-ups would rather go for the easy answer than get into the muck of uncovering crimes that might implicate folks with influence. By calling me, Chatty Cathy gets to raise the alarm about questionable cases without getting herself dirty or putting her career at risk. The goal may be noble but I think there’s some self-interest involved too.”

“So what about this case made her reach out?”

“I don’t know,” Ryan said as he turned right off Ventura Boulevard onto Coldwater Canyon Avenue. “She never tells me why a case is sketchy, just that it is. All I know is that a woman was murdered in the thirteen thousand block of Bessemer Street in Van Nuys. She was stabbed multiple times in the torso. The preliminary theory is that it was a robbery gone wrong; that the burglar didn’t think anyone was home and attacked the resident upon finding her.”

“Do they have a suspect?”

“They don’t,” Ryan said. “But according to Chatty Cathy, things are moving fast. The nine-one-one call only came in about a half hour ago and the coroner is already on scene, preparing to remove the body.”

“The detectives are okay with that?” Jessie asked, incredulous.

“My understanding is that they aren’t even there yet. The senior uniformed officer gave the order.”

“What?” Jessie said, dumbfounded. “That’ll compromise the crime scene. Can we stop that?”

“That’s why I said we had to leave right away,” Ryan replied. “Chatty Cathy said the coroner was trying to slow down the process but that we have about ten minutes before they have no choice but to bag the body.”

“How far away are we?” Jessie asked.

“Not far,” Ryan said as he turned onto a residential street doused in flashing lights. “It’s that building halfway up the block.”

They parked a few doors down and got out. Hurrying over, Jessie couldn’t help but notice that despite the lights, there weren’t as many vehicles as she would have expected. There was the coroner’s van, an ambulance, and two squad cars. Usually a murder scene would have at least double that many black-and-whites.

As they approached the building, the lone uniformed officer outside gave them a wary look. Ryan flashed his badge.

“What’s the story, Officer?” he asked.

Considering the time constraints, Jessie was surprised that Ryan was stopping at all. The young African-American officer, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, had a nervous expression and the name tag Burnside.

“Sir,” he answered, his voice cracking slightly, “we’ve got a Caucasian female, seventeen, multiple stab wounds to her chest and abdomen. She was found in her bed by her roommate.”

“Are the Valley Bureau detectives on scene yet?” Ryan asked.

“No sir.”

“Who’s in charge then?”

“That would be my boss, Sergeant Costabile from Van Nuys Station,” the officer answered as he pointed back to the right. “He’s inside. It’s apartment 116.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said briskly, grimacing slightly as he walked by with Jessie right behind.

“Do you know Costabile?” Jessie asked as she hurried to match his pace.

“Only by reputation,” Ryan said. “Hank Costabile’s not just old school, he’s ancient. And from what I hear, he’s a pit bull.”

“Pit bulls are actually agreeable by nature,” Jessie said a little indignantly.

“Point taken,” Ryan said. “But you know what I’m saying. He’s known to be…difficult. This could get ugly so be prepared.”

“What does that mean?” Jessie demanded.

But before he could answer they had reached the door. A burly officer named Lester stood just outside the taped off unit. He looked as wary as the cop outside but less nervous. Jessie observed that Ryan didn’t show his badge to this guy.

“This area is off limits,” Officer Lester said brusquely. “Police business. The officer outside should have told you.”

“Oh yeah?” Ryan whispered in a curious, very un-detectivelike tone. “What happened? You can tell me.”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Lester snapped. “Are you a resident of this building, sir? Because we can’t have civilians just wandering through a crime scene.”

“Oh no, we wouldn’t want that,” Ryan agreed smarmily. “That’d be almost as bad as removing a dead body before the assigned detectives got a chance to evaluate the scene. Am I right?”

The officer narrowed his eyes at the question, now fully aware that something unusual was going on.

“Who are you, sir?” he asked, his brusqueness now laced with a hint of apprehension.

“I’m sure as hell not a Valley Bureau detective,” Ryan said, his voice booming.

“Sir…” the officer began, clearly flummoxed.

“It’s okay, Lester,” said a bald, barrel-chested officer who walked up behind him. “Don’t you know who that is? It’s the famed detective Ryan Hernandez from Central Station. You can let him in. But be sure to get his autograph before he leaves.”

“Sergeant Costabile, I assume?” Ryan asked, his eyebrows raised.

“That’s right,” Costabile said with a sneering grin. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence, Detective? Showing your long-legged, pretty lady friend how the other half lives out here in the Valley?”

“My ‘long-legged, pretty lady friend’ is actually criminal profiler Jessie Hunt. You know, she’s the one who catches serial killers almost as often as you catch venereal diseases.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence in which Jessie thought Costabile might simply pull out his gun and shoot Ryan. The man’s nasty grin faded so that it was now a nasty scowl. After what felt like an eternity, the sergeant gave a loud, forced guffaw.

“I guess I deserved that,” he said, glancing over at Jessie, not sounding even mildly chastened. “It was rude of me to be so dismissive of you, Ms. Hunt. Your reputation precedes you. I can only imagine what law enforcement lottery allowed us to be graced with your singular genius this evening. Pray tell, what brings you here?”

Jessie wanted desperately to respond to the mockery with some of her own but didn’t want to upset whatever plan Ryan clearly had in mind. So she choked down her disdain.

“I’m afraid I can’t be completely forthcoming,” she said apologetically. “But I’ll let Detective Hernandez share what he’s able to.”

“Thanks, Ms. Hunt,” Ryan said, smoothly taking the baton. “We just happened to be in the area wrapping up an interview when we got the alert about this case. It sounded like it might be part of a pattern we’re investigating and we thought we’d check it out firsthand.”

“You think this is related to a case you’re working?” Costabile asked disbelievingly.

“It’s possible,” Ryan said. “We’d have to look at the body to draw any firm conclusions. Of course, we don’t want to step on the toes of the detectives already assigned. Who might that be?”

Costabile stared at Ryan, taking note of his challenging tone. It was clear that Ryan knew there were no detectives on the scene yet. Costabile appeared to be debating whether to answer the spoken question seriously or address the one below the surface about what exactly was going on here.

“Detective Strode should be here momentarily,” he finally said in a disturbingly polite tone. “But we were prepping the body to be viewed down at the coroner’s. Everything looks pretty open and shut. We didn’t want to waste department resources unnecessarily.”

“Sure, sure. I get it,” Ryan replied, using the same official but not genuine politeness as Costabile. “All the same, maybe we take a look here so as to not compromise the scene. We are talking about a teenage girl stabbed in her own bed…how many times?”

Costabile’s face turned red and it looked like it was taking an enormous effort for him to keep his composure.

“Nine…that we’re aware of.”

“Nine times?” Ryan repeated. “That seems like a lot. Doesn’t that seem like a lot to you, Ms. Hunt?”

“It seems like a lot,” Jessie agreed.

“Yeah, a lot,” Ryan added for emphasis. “So maybe we dot the ‘i’s’ and cross the ‘t’s’ on this one before tossing the girl into a plastic bag and driving her over a bunch of pothole-strewn Valley streets? You know, just to be thorough.”

He smiled sweetly as if he’d merely been discussing the weather. Costabile did not smile back.

“Are you taking over this investigation, Detective?” the sergeant asked flatly, not commenting on the pothole dig.

“Not at this point, Sergeant. Like I said, we just want to see if the killing fits our pattern. You’re not denying us access to the body, are you?”

That question led to another uncomfortable silence. Jessie watched another officer named Webb wander over from inside the apartment and take up a position right behind Costabile. His right hand was resting uncomfortably close to his gun holster. She glanced back and saw that Officer Lester had now stepped inside the police tape and was standing behind them, assuming the same posture with his hand in the same position.

Costabile looked down at his shoes and kept his gaze there for several seconds. Ryan stared at the top of the man’s head, his eyes unblinking. Jessie was afraid to breathe. Finally, Costabile looked up. A vein on his forehead bulged. His eyes were angry slits. Slowly, he opened them and his body seemed to relax slightly.

“Come on in,” he said, waving his hand in an exaggerated welcome.

Ryan stepped forward and Jessie followed. As she moved into the apartment, she reminded herself it was okay to breathe again.