Special Agent Ashton Summers of the FBI sighed deeply as she dropped six quarters into the coffee machine that stood outside the closed hospital café. The bangs of her honey blonde hair dangled loosely across her ocean blue eyes. As she ran her fingers through her hair, which was parted to one side and touched just past the shoulders of her slim but firm five foot six inch frame, it wasn't hard to tell that she was exhausted after driving straight from Los Angeles to San Francisco without making one stop. She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 1:13 a.m. Yawning, she removed her wire-framed glasses and leaned her head against the side of the machine as it started making spitting noises and it wasn't long before the stream of golden liquid had quickly filled the styrene cup. Stepping back, Summers put her glasses back on so she could watch this marvel of automation do its job. Although somewhat in awe, she couldn't help but feel like she was purchasing a cup of electric piss.
"Thank God I didn't press the button for hot chocolate," she mumbled to herself.
"You're not really going to drink that crap are you?" asked a voice behind her. Summers jumped with a start, as she believed she was alone. Turning around she saw the face that belonged to the voice. Jessalee smiled and pointed off to a door that was in the direction she was walking.
"If you want some real coffee, and not those watered down cremated turd flakes, then follow me." Summers looked back at the coffee machine and saw her recently purchased drink had leaked all over the side of the unit that housed the cup storage.
"Don't mind if I do," said Summers, quickly following Jessalee behind a door clearly meant for staff or officials of law enforcement only.
The room was an inviting lounge. A sea of blue carpet ran from wall to wall and two darkened rooms with beds were off to the left side for doctors who couldn't make it home after their shift. There were a dozen oversized armchairs placed sporadically throughout the space and a 60-inch plasma television was affixed to the main wall. The sound was low and the channel was set to one of the major cable news networks. Ashton was relieved it wasn't on ESPN.
"No donuts, hope you don't mind roughing it," stated Jessalee.
"No just the coffee please," pleaded Summers.
Jessalee reached over and picked up a large ceramic cup and filled it with the steaming aroma of cinnamon and hazelnut. Gently handing the mug to Summers, Jessalee gestured to the table full of creamers, sugars and stick stirrers. Summers felt a brief moment of levity as she smirked at the cartoon drawing on the side of the cup—a patient was running madly away from a nurse with a boiling pot of water. Standing in the doorway looking shocked was the doctor who was shouting to the nurse, "No I told you to prick his boil!"
Jessalee glanced over and saw which cup she had given Summers, "Oh yeah sorry, hospital humor," she remarked as she took her own mug and offered Summers a seat. Summers forced a tired smile.
"Thank you for the coffee."
"You're welcome. I'm Jessalee," she said as she took a seat opposite of Summers.
"Ashton Summers," she said taking a drink. The coffee was bold and yet had just the perfect amount of comfort in its taste. This was exactly what Summers needed in that moment. Jessalee watched Summers hold the cup as if her life depended on it.
"So what brings the F.B.I here tonight?" asked Jessalee. Summers looked at her with surprise.
"I saw your gun, and leather interview folder. It has the F.B.I. logo embossed into it."
"You're either a quick study or I'm really obvious," stated Summers.
"No you're new. When you have lived and worked in this city as long as I have, you get a memory for faces. Plus no one drinks coffee from the machine in the hall, unless they're strangers here. Those six quarters you dropped into it, are probably the only ones in that old thing."
"Think I could get a refund?" joked Summers.
"I doubt it, but if you want to break into it, I have no problem looking the other way," joked Jessalee in return. "Seriously though, what brings you here in the middle of the night? Is it the explosion and fire at The Aleris?"
"Is that what the bright light in the sky was? I saw that. I thought it was a firework at first. I saw it for miles before I got into the city. No actually I'm here to talk with Inspector Thomas James."
Jessalee shifted in her chair and wondered why the F.B.I. was here looking for Tom. Just thinking his name gave her shivers again. She still couldn't shake the image of him coming down the stairs into the lobby, covered in blood, looking like an axe murderer. The blank stare in his eyes and Kirkland's badge still clutched in his hand so tightly that it left a cut that required seven stitches. Raising her hand to her mouth she quickly caught herself, forcing the tears back as she tried to fight thoughts of Kirkland.
Summers could see Jessalee's emotional reaction to the subject of Thomas James. "Oh my God, I'm sorry, did I say something upsetting or offensive to you?"
"No, no it's just our department has had a really bad night, we lost some good people tonight in that fire," said Jessalee wiping a tear from her cheek.
"Inspector James wasn't one of them was he?"
"No, but he's being kept here overnight for observation."
"Observation?" quizzed Summers. "I thought he was here at the hospital working a 187. You mean he's a patient?"
"Yeah?" said Jessalee in a confused tone. "You thought he was here working a homicide? Which one?"
Summers returned Jessalee's look of confusion. "I don't know. I phoned this evening around six to arrange to drive up and do an interview with him and was told he was working a homicide at the hotel. When I got into the city I called back and your dispatch said he was here, so I just assumed," she trailed off.
"Interview?" asked Jessalee.
"Yes, his name has come up in a case I'm working on in Hollywood," said Summers, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to ascertain the motivation behind Jessalee's insistence for information. Was there a private relationship she was trying to hide between the inspector and herself, Summers wondered? Or was she nosey?
"Forgive me for being so blunt, but why does this seem to be so personal with you?"
"The murder he was working on, was..." Jessalee hesitated. "The victim was my sister."
"What is your sisters name?"
"Valerie Rivera."
Summers suddenly felt cold. She stood and placed her coffee cup on the table when she began to feel that feeling that came from years of experience. That overwhelming sense you get when you realize you're in danger.
"The hotel Inspector James was at when I called earlier, was that The Aleris?" asked Summers in a hollow tone. Jessalee sensed the agent's change in body language. She turned and looked at Summers, who still was facing away from her.
"Yes."
"And your sister was the victim. Was your sister in room 1219?"
"Yes, who told you that?" asked Jessalee defensively. But Jessalee knew in her heart that no one had, suddenly she was overcome with the same feeling that had hit Summers only moments before.
"The case you're working on. The one in Hollywood, it's connected to my sister's murder somehow, isn't it?"
Summers placed both hands on the edge of the table and gripped it tightly. She hung her head down and swallowed hard. She then nodded yes.
"Your sister's murder, it's Virginia Rappe isn't it?"
"Yes," said Jessalee fearing the worst. "And the case you're working on, which murder is it?"
Summers slowly turned back to face Jessalee. Her body shivered involuntary as she spoke the two words that confirmed the fears of both women.
"Black Dahlia."