Chapter 5
1013 Words
Chapter Five
Ramirez felt uneasy as he approached the house. He had initially liked the spunky gal. Maybe a bit too much. True, she had been annoyingly abrupt at their first meeting, but he’d also found her direct and brutally honest—traits he admired. Absently, he shook his head. Even though experience and an ever-increasing mound of concrete evidence told him what he was about to do was just, the task gave him no pleasure. He exhaled deeply as he knocked on the front door.
Nicoh and I had returned from our nightly jaunt around the neighborhood when there was a knock on the door. Strange that the person wouldn’t ring the doorbell, I thought. Nicoh simply huffed at the interruption. It was dinnertime, after all. Some guard dog, I grumbled. So glad someone had his priorities straight. My thoughts on Nicoh’s questionable qualities ceased as I opened the door to a grim-faced detective.
“Oh, good evening, Detective Ramirez.” I surprised myself by managing to sound halfway put-together, though inside I felt anything but.
“Good evening, Ms. Jackson,” the Homicide detective replied evenly, though I noticed he was shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Uh-oh, I thought. This can’t be good.
“Please, call me AJ,” I reminded him. “I assume you are here about the case? Do you have more questions for me? Have there been any new developments? Has the poor girl been identified? Has her family been notified? Are there any leads?” Ok, I’ll admit it, perhaps babbling nonstop and getting to the point should be mutually exclusive.
Ramirez suppressed a smile when AJ fired-off a series of questions the moment he’d said hello. She had been much the same way the morning she’d found the girl in the dumpster. A casual observer would have thought her a calm, cool and collected customer, undaunted by the tragic circumstances that surrounded her. He had the benefit of training and experience, however, and knew the type well. It was a front, a shell she created to keep everything and everyone at an arm’s length when the world around her was out of control. By presenting the tough exterior, she was able to retain some semblance of that control, even if it was only of herself and her emotions.
She had proven his point when she declined his offer to call a friend or family member to join her that morning. Even before he’d asked, he’d known she would turn him down. In fact, she seemed to have anticipated the offer when she quickly but graciously declined, as though purposely willing him to move on, to focus his attention elsewhere. Anywhere, but on her.
He forced his thoughts back to the present and the matter at hand. Given her nature, she would expect directness, he decided.
“Actually, yes, there have been developments, AJ,” he began. “We have identified the victim but not notified the next-of-kin because there are none. We have no suspects—a few persons-of-interest, at most and at this point, only theories on the motive,” he paused, but she looked at him expectantly, so he pressed on. “The victim has been identified as Victoria Winestone, a commercial real estate agent from Los Angeles. Does the name sound familiar to you?”
“No, I don’t believe so,” she responded firmly, though he could feel a cloud of unease surround her. “Should it?”
He ignored her question and continued, “I’d like to show you a couple of pictures. One is a copy of Ms. Winestone’s California driver’s license, taken a few years ago, and the other is from her LinkedIn profile, which is more recent.”
Ramirez removed the pictures from the worn file folder he’d been holding. He placed each photo in front of her, studying her as she peered with interest, first at one, then the other. After a few moments, her expression transformed from one of curiosity to another of surprise and confusion, her mouth forming a tiny “o.”
“As you can see, AJ, the resemblance is quite remarkable.” Though she didn’t reply, he moved on. “We compared Ms. Winestone’s fingerprints to the ones you had on file from your freelance work with the County. Again, the similarities were remarkable. Finally, we compared Ms. Winestone’s DNA to the sample you graciously provided at the crime scene,” Ramirez paused to catch his breath, collect his thoughts and make sure AJ was still with him. She was, though her expression hadn’t changed.
He delivered the rest, the part he had been dreading since his arrival, “The thing is, AJ, the DNA samples matched. In fact, they were exact matches.” Ramirez placed a hand firmly on her arm. “Having said that, I have to ask you again. Are you sure you have never met this woman—murdered feet away from your home—who, by all accounts, was your identical twin sister?”
I gasped at his words, my mind reeling as I attempted to register their meaning. Though her hair was several shades lighter—a honey blonde compared to my reddish-brown—the girl in the pictures did bear a striking resemblance. Her eyes were the same crystal blue, speckled with a hint of violet. A quirk of a smile played on the left-hand side of her mouth, turning it up ever so slightly, as though amused by something only she was aware of. Perhaps an inside joke meant solely for her? I, too, had that quirk.
I scoffed. What Detective Ramirez was suggesting was beyond ridiculous. A twin? An identical twin, at that? It wasn’t even possible. I was an only child. If my parents had still been alive, they would have found the conversation laughable.
Still, the fact remained. A girl had been murdered. Brutally. Her face bashed in, her body broken and disposed of like trash in my alley. How could this have happened? And why?
Suddenly, the ground felt as though it was shifting as nausea set in and bile threatened the base of my throat. Oh, no—I was not going to faint. Or hurl. Or cry. Or burst into some other crazy display of emotions. I squeezed my hands into fists and clutched them at my side, waiting for the feelings to subside. I knew I was being silly. Reactions like this were normal and probably expected, especially given the circumstances. They just weren’t my normal.
Yet somehow, I knew from that moment on, normal was going to be a thing of the past.
Nicoh grumbled quietly, as if in agreement.
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