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Authors: A. K. Alexander
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slipped two vials of blood into her coat pocket. “Please help me find the answers, little one,” she whispered. “I think I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was one of the most heinous and grisly murders in San Diego history. Known for its pristine beaches and moderate climate, the city was totally unprepared for a crime of this magnitude.
San Diego was only two hours south of Los Angeles and the Petersen murders had been a huge story well beyond the city’s borders. Gem covered it for The Times. It was a seemingly senseless crime and people wanted answers. They needed someone to blame. The only thing the police could dig up was Petersen’s tenuous link to the Mexican drug cartel. No arrests were ever made, but they connected his wife, Selena, to the cartel via a cousin involved in drug running. He’d been found dead only a week after Eric and his family were murdered. Some figured it might have had something to do with Petersen’s job as a chemist for a San Diego bio-tech firm. It was believed Petersen had been developing a new kind of drug for the cartel, or possibly supplying them with Percocet, Vicodin, or some other pharma narcotic they could resell for top dollar on the street. The police assumed something had gone sour and pissed off cartel leaders, and the family had been brutally murdered as a warning to any other “risk takers.” But even now, it was hard to know the truth. When it came to the Mexican cartel, there were few informants, and many suspected drug money padded police pockets on the U.S. side of the border.
The story had been awful and Gem was happy to put it behind her. But now…this e-mail. It got her thinking again. She reread it at home. Went back over all her files on the Petersen family.
Gem got up from her desk and went to the fridge to pour herself a glass of Pinot Grigio. She took the glass of wine outside and sat on the patio. The sky had transformed into a myriad of different hues—purple, red, yellow. It was a gorgeous sunset. But its beauty didn’t take away the feeling she was missing something. Something big. She could not get the images of the Petersen family out of her mind. The photos sat on her desk. They showed a happy family. They were well-off and lived in the well-to-do Scripps Ranch suburb. How no one in their neighborhood saw or heard anything the night of the crime still baffled Gem, but she’d let it all go once the cops said the cartel was responsible.
Gem stood and moved an overgrown hanging fern out of her way. There didn’t seem to be anyone home at her neighbor’s house tonight.
Three years ago she’d noticed her very handsome, younger neighbor in the townhouse across from her place in Studio City. She wasn’t sure if he owned or rented. What she did know was how much she enjoyed watching him sun himself on the patio when the weather was warm. Yum. But no women ever seemed to visit. At least not any Gem had seen. No men either.
She’d only actually exchanged words with him a few times. But although the guy was handsome, something in the way he spoke to her gave Gem the creeps. However, creepy or not, she could not see Mr. Clean-Cut, all-American involved with the Mexican cartel. Then again, stranger things had happened.
Gem went back inside and poured herself another glass of wine, her nerves on edge. She sat down again and read over the story she’d written about the Petersens. She looked at the photos again. She tried to send Chemmadderhorn@gmail a reply, but it bounced back. Of course it did. Maybe this was all a hoax. But why?
Gem went up to her bedroom and into her master bath, hoping a bath would relax her. She turned on the tub, poured in some lavender salts, and then walked toward her balcony to open the door and let in some fresh air. She couldn’t help looking over at Chad’s place. As the tub filled, her mind wandered. An idea grabbed her. It was crazy and might not result in anything, but
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was one of the most heinous and grisly murders in San Diego history. Known for its pristine beaches and moderate climate, the city was totally unprepared for a crime of this magnitude.
San Diego was only two hours south of Los Angeles and the Petersen murders had been a huge story well beyond the city’s borders. Gem covered it for The Times. It was a seemingly senseless crime and people wanted answers. They needed someone to blame. The only thing the police could dig up was Petersen’s tenuous link to the Mexican drug cartel. No arrests were ever made, but they connected his wife, Selena, to the cartel via a cousin involved in drug running. He’d been found dead only a week after Eric and his family were murdered. Some figured it might have had something to do with Petersen’s job as a chemist for a San Diego bio-tech firm. It was believed Petersen had been developing a new kind of drug for the cartel, or possibly supplying them with Percocet, Vicodin, or some other pharma narcotic they could resell for top dollar on the street. The police assumed something had gone sour and pissed off cartel leaders, and the family had been brutally murdered as a warning to any other “risk takers.” But even now, it was hard to know the truth. When it came to the Mexican cartel, there were few informants, and many suspected drug money padded police pockets on the U.S. side of the border.
The story had been awful and Gem was happy to put it behind her. But now…this e-mail. It got her thinking again. She reread it at home. Went back over all her files on the Petersen family.
Gem got up from her desk and went to the fridge to pour herself a glass of Pinot Grigio. She took the glass of wine outside and sat on the patio. The sky had transformed into a myriad of different hues—purple, red, yellow. It was a gorgeous sunset. But its beauty didn’t take away the feeling she was missing something. Something big. She could not get the images of the Petersen family out of her mind. The photos sat on her desk. They showed a happy family. They were well-off and lived in the well-to-do Scripps Ranch suburb. How no one in their neighborhood saw or heard anything the night of the crime still baffled Gem, but she’d let it all go once the cops said the cartel was responsible.
Gem stood and moved an overgrown hanging fern out of her way. There didn’t seem to be anyone home at her neighbor’s house tonight.
Three years ago she’d noticed her very handsome, younger neighbor in the townhouse across from her place in Studio City. She wasn’t sure if he owned or rented. What she did know was how much she enjoyed watching him sun himself on the patio when the weather was warm. Yum. But no women ever seemed to visit. At least not any Gem had seen. No men either.
She’d only actually exchanged words with him a few times. But although the guy was handsome, something in the way he spoke to her gave Gem the creeps. However, creepy or not, she could not see Mr. Clean-Cut, all-American involved with the Mexican cartel. Then again, stranger things had happened.
Gem went back inside and poured herself another glass of wine, her nerves on edge. She sat down again and read over the story she’d written about the Petersens. She looked at the photos again. She tried to send Chemmadderhorn@gmail a reply, but it bounced back. Of course it did. Maybe this was all a hoax. But why?
Gem went up to her bedroom and into her master bath, hoping a bath would relax her. She turned on the tub, poured in some lavender salts, and then walked toward her balcony to open the door and let in some fresh air. She couldn’t help looking over at Chad’s place. As the tub filled, her mind wandered. An idea grabbed her. It was crazy and might not result in anything, but
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