The Perfect Smile

by Blake Pierce

  She nodded and waved down the bartender.

  “Glenlivet—neat, please,” she said then turned to Dolan. “What are you having, Pigeon?”

  “Thanks,” he said before turning to the bartender. “I’ll have a glass of your cheapest bourbon, barkeep—a double please.”

  While they waited, Jessie got a text message from Captain Decker. After looking at it, she showed it to Dolan. It read: Still no leads on BC or XT. Hospitals have nothing. CSI still checking Cortez’s body but so far nothing. Stay positive. We’ll get them.

  “Maybe you should make it a double too,” Dolan said after reading it.

  “Don’t tempt me,” she said as their drinks arrived.

  She took a long slow sip, letting the sweet, warm burn of the liquid coat her throat. After swallowing, she turned back to her temporary partner.

  “So now that it’s just you and me in a bar, how about telling me the real reason you changed your mind this morning and backed the idea of me following up on the Stanton case?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked before downing his shot and motioning for another.

  She gave him her best “you’ve got to be kidding me” look.

  “I mean, one minute you were ready to bail because the case had no connection to either Crutchfield or Thurman. It looked like I was headed back to that godforsaken safe house. And then you do a total one eighty and back me continuing to investigate, with your help. What gives?”

  “I thought you deserved a chance,” he said unconvincingly.

  She just stared at him.

  “Fine,” he said eventually. “I’ll give you the real reason. But it’s gonna piss you off.”

  “So what’s new? Spill.”

  “I figured the more you were out and about, pursuing the case, the more likely we were to stumble upon one of those guys. That couldn’t happen if you were in the safe house locked away.”

  “So basically, you wanted to use me as bait to draw out two serial killers,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” he said, before downing the second bourbon that had just been placed before him. “Okay, I guess I would put it that way.”

  “And that’s why you wanted to go to the film set tonight? You were hoping someone would shoot footage to tip off either Crutchfield or my father?”

  “That wasn’t my specific intent. But when I heard it could happen, I wasn’t devastated,” he admitted before turning and looking her straight in the eye. “Look, I don’t believe we’re going to catch these guys through standard shoe leather investigation. We have to draw them out, get them excited; hope they make a mistake. And the best way to do that is to make them come out of hiding and go after you. That’s when they’re most vulnerable.”

  His third drink arrived and he tossed it back while Jessie took another sip of hers.

  “I guess I appreciate your honesty,” she said. She had suspected this might be his reason but she hadn’t expected him to come clean about it. He deserved credit for that at least.

  “I’m a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them,” he said, before amending it a moment later. “Actually, that’s not true. I am a liar; just not a congenital one. It’s situation-specific.”

  “Man, you are one surly son of a bitch,” she marveled. “How did you get that way?”

  He looked over at her and raised his eyebrow. She thought she’d somehow offended him and decided to let the matter drop. But then he answered.

  “Four years ago, my wife and son were killed in a hit and run by a bank robber,” he said without emotion. “The guy was trying to escape and T-boned them. He walked away without a scratch. I’ve been in a bad mood ever since.”

  Jessie, in shock, coughed on her drink. It took her a good twenty seconds to recover.

  “Jeez,” she finally managed to croak, “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

  “Believe me, if there’s anyone who doesn’t have to show deference to me in the family tragedy department, it’s you. Mother murdered by your serial killer father at age six. Left for dead in a freezing cabin with her body. Your husband turns out to be a sociopath who frames you for murder and then tries to kill you when you figure it out. Your long-lost father finds and butchers your adoptive parents. I’m surprised you’re not more surly.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Jessie agreed quietly.

  Suddenly she didn’t feel like drinking the rest of her scotch. Images of her adoptive parents, Bruce and Janine Hunt, flashed through her head. She tried not to think of the last ones; of them both dead in their senior living apartment. She tried to picture them when they were younger, teaching her to bake chocolate chip cookies and to ski on the bunny slopes of New Mexico. But the other, harsher, images kept intruding.

  “I need to go to the restroom,” she muttered, getting up from the stool.

  Murph moved to follow her but she held up her hand.

  “Can I please just get a single, solitary moment of privacy?” she asked tersely. “I’m not going anywhere. Just chat up your buddy there. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Murph stopped, though he didn’t look happy about it. Jessie didn’t care. She needed a few minutes alone to collect herself and it looked like the ladies’ room of a cop bar was the only place she’d be able to get it.

  She walked to the very back of the bar and pushed open the door to the ladies’ room. Mercifully, it was empty. Even though she didn’t need to use the bathroom, she went to a stall and sat down, allowing herself a few seconds to let the ache of her most recent loss rise up in a few brief hiccupping sobs and then, ever so slightly, dissipate.

  She would have liked to have stayed in there longer, alone with her thoughts. But she heard someone else come in and get in the other stall. The last thing she needed was a stranger hearing her cry. So she got out and went to over to the sink to wash her hands and throw a little water on her face.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. The day had taken its toll. She was already sleep-deprived and stressed. But the mental exhaustion of the investigation seemed to make her skin sag more than usual. Only her green eyes, which had been so dull of late, actually looked better. Maybe it was the thrill of being on a case. Perhaps it was the dampness from her brief cry. But they sparkled with an energy that hadn’t been there in recent days.

  She heard the flush of the other stall and dabbed at the edges of her eyes quickly so whoever came out wouldn’t notice. It was an ungainly woman in an ugly pantsuit with an unflattering perm. She looked like she’d already downed a few too many. A bit wobbly as she made her way to the sinks, the woman reached out to the counter to steady herself.

  “You okay?” Jessie asked, glad the woman wasn’t in any condition to notice somebody else’s personal issues.

  “Yes, thanks,” the woman said wearily. “Long day. I may have overdone the whole ‘taking the edge off’ thing.”

  Jessie chuckled slightly.

  “Believe me, I understand,” she said as she leaned back in toward the mirror, making sure the tears from earlier hadn’t left any smears from her minimal makeup.

  “Thanks for not judging,” the other woman said, glancing over and giving a half-smile as she touched up her hair in the mirror. “We all have burdens to carry that others can’t comprehend, am I right?”

  Jessie nodded in agreement. She was just tossing her paper towel in the trash slot on the counter when a tingling sensation ran down her spine. Something about the woman’s half-smile caused a delayed flash of recognition, like an intense sense of déjà vu. It was familiar.

  It was only as the woman reached into her purse that Jessie was able to place where she knew the smile from. It was a smile she’d seen so many times through the glass of a cell at the NRD prison facility. It was Bolton Crutchfield’s smile.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jessie didn’t have time to react.

  Before she could move or even speak, Crutchfield had slammed her into the wall and whipped a small knife out of the purse. He held it
to her carotid artery, pressing the tip firmly against her skin. They were both facing forward, staring at each other in the bathroom mirror.

  “Am I your beast of burden, Miss Jessie?” he purred in her ear in his agonizingly familiar Louisiana drawl.

  In the middle of her heart-thumping panic, Jessie chastised herself for not realizing it was him earlier. The perm was clearly a bad wig. The pantsuit looked like something he’d found at a thrift shop specializing in 1980s women’s wear. And up close, the hair on his arms was obvious, even if he had shaved and put pancake makeup and mascara on his face.

  She’d been so polite, not wanting to judge this seemingly drunk, fashioned-challenged relic from another era that she’d missed the obvious warning signs. As she stared back silently at Crutchfield, she allowed her frustration with herself to rise up as her central emotion. It was preferable to fear.

  He stared at her impassively, watching her, waiting to see how she’d react. She knew that what she said and did next might determine if she lived or died.

  This was the first time she’d interacted with Crutchfield without him being locked up. Though the physical situation between them had changed, she decided their dynamic couldn’t. She tried to quiet her mind, control the terror creeping out of her insides and remind herself why Crutchfield had helped her with cases in the past, why he enjoyed her visits, why he’d even warned her that her father was after her: he liked her.

  And why does he like me?

  Because I don’t back down from him. Because I don’t act like the helpless victim. Because I give as good as I get. Because, despite everything I’ve suffered, I’m a badass.

  In that moment, she knew what to do. Despite the knife digging at her throat, Jessie felt her body relax. She stopped pressing against Crutchfield, stopped trying to break free, and allowed him to squeeze her tighter. She took a long, slow, languorous breath and exhaled deeply.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Mr. Crutchfield,” she said in a steadier voice than she imagined possible. “I wouldn’t call you a beast, though you’re hardly a prince either.”

  Crutchfield grinned despite himself, loosening his grip on her ever so slightly.

  “Still a firecracker, even under these circumstances,” he said appreciatively. “I’ve missed your company, Miss Jessie. You never cease to surprise.”

  Jessie took another breath, fairly certain now that he was unlikely to gut her like he had Ernie Cortez, at least not in the next few seconds.

  “Nor you, Mr. Crutchfield,” she replied smoothly. “I didn’t know your taste in fashion was so retro. Are you going to a ‘Working Girl’ costume party later?”

  Crutchfield broke out into a full smile at that reference.

  “Oh, do I give off a Melanie Griffith sensibility?”

  “More like Joan Cusack,” she observed.

  “Close enough,” he said, pretending to be miffed. “While chatting old movies with you is delightful, we’re low on time so I’ll have to cut it short. I’ll bet your marshal friend outside is getting a little nervous and debating how long is too long before busting into the ladies’ room.”

  “Impertinent, he is,” Jessie agreed, trying to keep the gabby vibe going so he didn’t suddenly decide to get stabby.

  “I hope we see each other again, Miss Jessie,” he said, his voice turning serious. “But for that to happen, you have to survive the night. And in order to wake up tomorrow, you’ll need to follow my advice. Don’t go home tonight. Sometimes a safe house isn’t as safe as it seems.”

  Jessie’s eyes widened despite herself.

  “Wait, are you saying my father is—”

  “I hate to do this, Miss Jessie,” he said, cutting her off. “But for us to reunite, I have to take my leave now. And to do that without interference, I need you…indisposed.”

  Before she could ask what that meant, Crutchfield’s palm was on the back of her skull, slamming her forehead toward the mirror. The last thing she saw was her own face coming at her way too fast. Then there was a flash of agony, followed by blackness.

  *

  When she came to, she found herself slumped on the bathroom floor. Murph was standing over her, his gun drawn. She could hear his voice but couldn’t quite make out the words. After a few seconds they unjumbled and she understood him.

  “…me, Hunt. Are you all right? Can you hear me?”

  “Uh-huh,” she managed to groan.

  A second later Dolan was in the bathroom too. He took one look at the situation and pulled out his sidearm as well. Murph glanced back at him briefly.

  “Check on her,” he ordered. “I need to secure the room.”

  If he hadn’t yet secured the room, then that meant that he’d only just come in. She wondered how long she’d been out. Dolan knelt down beside her and studied her head. She knew she was bleeding because she could feel the liquid dribbling down her check, narrowly missing her right eye.

  She kept her focus on Murph, who kicked in both stalls, then turned his attention to the small, open window along the far wall. He approached it from the side and carefully peeked out before quickly retreating and speaking into his comm.

  “Day team—be advised. An assailant is in the area and was inside the location. Likely escaped through a restroom window. Suspect might still be in the alley or adjacent street. Toomey and Collica, circle the location from opposite directions and meet in back. Emerson—continue to drive around the block and await further instructions. High alert.”

  “Woman…” Jessie muttered.

  “What?” Dolan asked, leaning in close.

  “Crutchfield…dressed as a woman.”

  Dolan looked up at Murph.

  “Hunt says it was Crutchfield and that he’s dressed as a woman, or at least he was.”

  Murph nodded and returned to his comm.

  “Be advised, suspect is B.C. He may be disguised as a woman. I need thirty-second check-ins from the ground team members,” he said, then turned back to Jessie and Dolan. “How’s she doing?”

  “Yeah, how is she doing?” Jessie repeated.

  “Little cut above the right temple,” Dolan said. “Probably doesn’t even need stitches. A small bandage should do it. He could have done far worse.”

  “He wasn’t really trying to hurt me. He wanted to warn me.”

  “About what?” Dolan asked.

  “The safe house. He said it wasn’t safe.”

  Murph looked crestfallen for a moment before his attention returned to the voice in his ear. After listening, he looked even more deflated.

  “All teams have checked in,” he told them. “They didn’t find anything. He’s gone.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  They decided Jessie should stay at the station for the night.

  She would have protested but under the circumstances, it was out of her hands. Besides, she didn’t have any better ideas. Of course, when they said “station,” she didn’t realize they meant a cot in an unoccupied cell.

  “Am I being punished?” she asked Captain Decker.

  “No,” he told her as they all walked down the deserted hall to the lockup area. “This is actually the safest possible place for you, at least in the short term. This holding cell is isolated from the others so we can keep your presence a secret from most folks. It’s secure and monitored 24/7. For tonight, the security team includes two of my most trusted officers. Dolan is going to sleep in the other cot in the room. And four fresh US marshals will be here in twenty minutes to relieve Murphy’s team for the night. You can’t do much better than this, unless you’re in a fallout bunker.”

  “So, not punishment then,” she said, more to lighten the mood than to be combative. Before he could come back at her she turned to Murph. “Is everyone at the safe house okay?”

  “All good so far,” he said. “We’ve increased the tactical team contingent in the hopes that your father shows up but they’re mostly off-site. We’re using additional surveillance, including drones. We want to draw h
im in, actually. We’ve even got a female marshal walking around in your clothes with her hair done up in a ponytail like yours. She’s armed to the teeth, so even if he gets in, he’s in for a surprise.”

  “Don’t get cocky, Murph,” Jessie advised. “Xander Thurman is devious, patient, and brilliant. Underestimating him usually gets people killed.”

  “We’ve got it covered, Ms. Hunt,” he assured her firmly.

  “Whatever you say,” she said, then turned her attention back to Decker. “By the way, am I allowed any more ibuprofen or is that against jail rules? My head is still killing me.”

  “The doctor said you could have two more at eleven p.m. but not before.”

  “And she really didn’t think I had a concussion?” Jessie recalled incredulously. “You buying that?”

  “You heard the same thing as me,” Decker replied. “She thinks the blow was hard enough to daze you but not enough to concuss you; almost like he’d perfected the technique.”

  “Crutchfield has perfected a lot of techniques,” Jessie agreed, “including apparently finding me in that bar somehow. Any theories on how that happened?”

  Murph stepped forward and spoke. He sounded almost mechanical.

  “We think he set up a stakeout location in the area around Central Station, knowing you’d show up at some point. Our guys did a search of buildings around the station and found a whole setup in an unoccupied apartment across from the station’s garage entrance. There was an empty pizza box and several empty soda bottles. His prints were on them. We think he waited and watched from there all day long. He likely noticed our vehicle coming and going throughout the day. It’s not the same make and model as typical unmarked LAPD vehicles, which was a sloppy mistake on our part. We suspect he saw us leave and followed us to the bar.”

  “Any plan to remedy that in the future?” she asked, trying not to sound too accusatory.