by Blake Pierce
“We’ve got your officers canvassing the area in shifts. And, on the off chance that he’s set up another stakeout that we don’t find, we plan to use unmarked police vehicles for any future trips so he can’t distinguish among them.”
“That might solve one problem,” Dolan noted. “But it doesn’t explain how he disappeared from a bar on a busy city block without a trace.”
“That alley didn’t have any cameras,” Decker noted. “But both the adjoining streets did. Our team didn’t see anyone leave the area in the outfit you described or who looked like Crutchfield usually does.”
“It’s possible he had other clothes waiting in the alley,” Jessie said, “or something else under that pantsuit. Or he could have…”
She trailed off, hesitant to suggest her other theory.
“What?” Decker asked.
“Knowing him, he may have gotten creative—maybe pulled up a manhole cover and escaped through the sewer. I doubt that kind of thing would bother him.”
“We didn’t check the sewers,” Decker admitted.
“He would have had to be pretty fast before my guys got there,” Murph said. “Even if he planned that ahead of time, it would be tight.”
“We don’t know how long he had,” Jessie reminded him. “I could have been out for seconds or minutes.”
“It was seconds,” Murph said confidently.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because the fog from your breath where he held you against the mirror hadn’t faded when I came in. By the time Dolan arrived, less than fifteen seconds later, it was gone. So from the time he hit your head against the mirror until I burst in was less than that. I probably missed him by the blink of an eye. He would have had less than thirty seconds to get from the window to the closest manhole cover, open it, get in, and close it before Toomey or Collica got there. That’s tight.”
“But probably exactly what happened,” Dolan said as kicked off his shoes, lay down on a cot, and stretched out. “Someone should check down there to see if he ditched his clothes. Maybe there’s evidence on them that can help pinpoint where he’s been hiding.”
“Are you really going to just crash right now?” Jessie asked, amazed.
“Nope,” he replied. “First I’m going to wrap this scratchy blanket around myself. Then I’m going to crash.”
Jessie turned back to the others, who were equally stunned. Murph recovered first.
“It’s not a bad idea,” he said. “You should get settled in. Someone will bring you that ibuprofen. But the sooner you can get to sleep, the more effective you’ll be tomorrow. Assuming you still want to go out tomorrow.”
Jessie gave him a dirty look. She was about to add a snarky reply when the sound of loud snoring from Dolan’s cot echoed through the cell.
“Can someone get me earplugs too?” Jessie asked.
*
Jessie didn’t get much sleep.
Part of it might have been Dolan’s snoring. But she suspected she would have had problems even if he was silent. Her racing thoughts were more of an issue. Truthfully, having him in the cell, even with the noise, was more comforting than frustrating. Not that she would ever tell him.
Around 5 a.m. she gave up on sleep and got up to take a shower, change into the extra clothes the overnight marshals had brought from the safe house, and get some coffee. When she returned with a cup for him an hour later, he was curled up on the cot in the fetal position. His snoring had been replaced by a soft whistling wheeze.
She was tempted to let him sleep longer. But they needed to check the status of the Crutchfield and Thurman searches and see if the medical examiner had anything new on Claire Stanton. And all that was before making the trek to Malibu to meet with Jett Collison.
So, with more satisfaction than she was proud of, she gave Dolan’s cot a hard kick. He snorted loudly and rolled over, barely catching himself before toppling over onto the floor.
“What the..?” he muttered.
“Rise and shine, Double Bourbon,” Jessie said in her most intentionally annoying chipper tone.
Dolan’s only response was to pull the blanket over his face and shoot her the middle finger.
“Oh, obscene finger gestures from such a demure FBI agent,” she teased.
“I’m not that demure,” he muttered from under the blanket.
“I got some coffee for you, Sunshine,” she chirped happily. “Then we’ve got to get to work.”
“Are you kidding?” he moaned. “Maybe in a couple of hours.”
“In a couple of hours, we need to be halfway to Malibu to interview a movie star,” she reminded him. “Before that, we’ve got overnight reports on Claire and our dual killers to review. Time is going to fly by.”
“You don’t want to sit this one out after what happened last night?” he asked.
“I realize we haven’t known each other very long, Dolan. But I’m kind of shocked that you’re even asking me that question. Are you still drunk?”
“Hey, I’m just looking out for you. You don’t have to be so mean about it,” he said, his head still hidden under the blanket. “Can I at least hit the head first?”
“You bet, Double Bourbon,” she said. “I’ll be waiting for you in the conference room.”
By the time he joined her a half hour later with a muffin on one hand and a massive coffee in the other, she’d already read the ME report on Claire, which didn’t have anything new. They also thought keys were the likely murder weapon. But her throat was so mangled that they couldn’t make any determination about their style, make, or age. In addition, all the blood had flushed out the area around the skin, so there wasn’t enough leftover bacteria to test for clues. They were back at square one on forensic evidence.
She tossed Dolan the file as he sat down and was about to open the overnight search reports on Crutchfield and Thurman when Decker walked in.
“I’ve got some updates,” he said, his voice suggesting they ought not to get too excited.
“Good news, I gather,” Dolan said sarcastically.
Decker launched in, ignoring the comment.
“Our CSU went back and checked the manhole and sewers near the bar. Sure enough, Crutchfield’s prints were on the cover. We found the clothes Hunt referenced about ten yards down the tunnel, partially submerged in the sewer water. There was no way to get useful samples from them. We checked subsequent prints on every manhole cover for the next quarter mile and found one that led to an alley near a metro station. Camera footage shows him entering the station and then a bathroom. There was no footage of him leaving, but we sent a team there and found a maintenance worker unconscious in the bathroom storage closet. He was naked.”
“Kinky,” Dolan said, his mouth full.
“At least he wasn’t killed,” Jessie noted, relieved.
“That is good news,” Decker agreed. “But that’s about the only good news we have. When we checked the footage for a maintenance worker leaving the bathroom, we found one we think was Crutchfield. But he joined a group of others in an employee lounge. When our people arrived, they found the lounge had a back exit without working surveillance cameras. He got away.”
“You think he deactivated the camera beforehand?” Jessie asked.
“No. It had been inoperable for a week before he escaped from NRD. He just got lucky.”
There was a brief silence that was interrupted by Murph stepping into the room and tapping the lead overnight marshal on the shoulder. The other man left and Murph took his place without a word. His eyes were a bit puffy but otherwise, he looked fine.
Jessie was about to make a crack at his expense but Dolan spoke first.
“Any hits on Thurman?”
“Nothing,” Decker answered. “He’s been completely radio silent. I think his injuries may be keeping him out of commission more than we anticipated.”
He was about to continue when the conference room phone rang. He picked up and listened, his face getting more ashen with
each passing second. When he hung up, he looked straight at Jessie.
“I maybe have spoken too soon,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“A man matching Thurman’s description attacked a detective earlier this morning, stabbing him multiple times.”
“Who?” Dolan asked.
Jessie already knew the answer before Decker replied.
“Ryan Hernandez.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jessie felt her heart drop into her stomach.
“He’s alive,” Decker continued before she could speak. “He’s in surgery now. They’re confident he’s going to pull through.”
“Did they catch Thurman?” Dolan asked immediately.
“No. The team was searching for evidence in a wooded area in Topanga Canyon. It was dark. Hernandez managed to fend him off after the first few cuts. He even fired off a shot. Good thing too because that’s what alerted the rest of the team. By the time they arrived, he was barely conscious.”
“Where was he stabbed?” Jessie asked with an even voice, betraying no hint that her concern was more than just professional.
“Once in the stomach just below the left ribs and several times in the left forearm. It sounds like he tried to block the blows with his arm.”
“Did he think he hit Thurman when he fired?” Dolan wanted to know, seemingly oblivious to Hernandez’s medical situation.
“Don’t know at this point,” Decker said. “If he did, it obviously wasn’t a kill shot because they didn’t find the guy. All Hernandez said before he passed out was that it looked like Thurman.”
“How bad are the wounds?” Jessie asked, again noting that she sounded shockingly even-keeled.
“One forearm cut went down to the bone but they feel good about it in general. No major arteries were severed and they wrapped it tight. The abdomen wound is what concerns them. They’re worried it might have gone deep enough to puncture a kidney. He apparently lost a fair bit of blood before they could get him to the hospital. The canyon was isolated and access was challenging. They used a helicopter.”
The magnitude of the situation settled in among them and no one said anything for several seconds.
“Where is he?” Jessie finally asked. “I’m going to see him.”
“No,” Murph said firmly from the corner of the room.
“It’s not a request,” Jessie replied. “I’ve worked with Ryan Hernandez. He’s not just a colleague. He’s a friend. And he was attacked by my father because of me. I’m going to the hospital.”
“No,” Murph repeated, unmoved.
Jessie started for the door when Dolan put a hand gently on her arm.
“Hold up just a second before you go,” he said in an unexpectedly soft voice. “Just think this through for a moment.”
“Think what through?”
“Do you really believe that Hernandez managed to fend off your father? I know he’s a good detective. But he was taken by surprise in the dark by an experienced killer. Does it sound like Hernandez is alive because of his skills or for some other reason?”
“What are you talking about?” Captain Decker asked, not following.
But Jessie did. Despite her anger and anxiety, the gears in her head began turning. Dolan was right. If Thurman had gotten close enough to stab Ryan in the abdomen, then he was close enough to have stabbed him in the chest or head or to have slit his throat. Ryan was alive because her father didn’t intend to kill him.
But why would he let him live?
The second she asked herself the question, the answer was obvious. Dolan clearly knew it too as he was looking at her expectantly. She said out loud what they both realized.
“Thurman didn’t kill Ryan because he wanted him to be taken to the hospital. He would have followed the helicopter from the ground to see where they took him. He knows I’d feel responsible for Detective Hernandez’s injuries and want to see him. He couldn’t find me any other way so he created a way. He’s waiting for me at the hospital.”
Dolan nodded in agreement.
“And that’s why you absolutely can’t go,” he said.
“But we can,” Decker noted emphatically. “We can flood the hospital with officers to look for him. This might actually be our chance to turn the tables on him.”
“Or,” Murph suggested from the corner, “you could go a less overt route and do what we did last night. Have someone who looks like Hunt go to Hernandez’s room. Give him a wide berth. Then, if he shows up, pounce.”
“That didn’t work too well for you last night,” Decker countered.
“Do you stop fishing and go home because your first piece of bait didn’t work?” Murph asked. “Or do you put another piece of bait on the line, drop it in the water, and settle in for the long haul?”
Decker was apparently a fisherman because he nodded at the analogy.
“We’ll set it up,” he said before turning to Jessie. “You stay far away from that hospital. You’re lucky I don’t keep you locked in that cell until this is all over with.”
“Captain, do you really think anywhere is secure for me until this is all over with? The best way to keep me safe is to catch the people who want to do me harm.”
“Easy for you to say,” Decker retorted gruffly. “If you die, the commissioner will execute me herself.”
“How does Malibu sound for far away?” Dolan suggested, clearly sensing this dispute couldn’t end well and quickly moving on. “I can’t think of any better way to get your mind off this than to interrogate a real-life movie star. You in?”
“I’m in,” Jessie said, following his lead.
Besides, as far as mental distractions went, this was a pretty good one.
*
As Toomey drove along Pacific Coast Highway and Santa Monica gave way to Malibu, they passed one beautiful home after another. But after forty-five minutes of oceanfront driving, they came to one that was different.
Jessie tried to hide her awe.
Despite her concern about Ryan, she couldn’t help but be amazed at what she saw.
She’d been to some pretty stunning houses. She’d even lived in one for a while before learning her husband was sociopathic killer. But she’d never encountered anything like this.
Set apart from the other houses, which often only had just a few feet of space between them, this one was on an enclosed estate, resting on a cliff that dangled arrogantly over the water. It was the home of Jett Collison.
The three-story-tall Spanish-style mansion was surrounded by an elaborately designed twelve-foot stone wall that looked like it had been shipped in from Spain itself. The gate appeared to be made of thick wood but was actually metal delicately painted multiple hues of brown. In the distance, the Pacific Ocean stretched as far as the eye could see.
They parked in front of the gate. Even as Murph got out of the car, the perkily familiar voice of Jett Collison’s assistant, Matilda, came over the intercom.
“Hi, are you with Hunt?” she asked. Jessie realized she’d never given the girl her first name. Apparently Matilda thought it was “Hunt.” That was fine, as it made it less likely she’d be identified.
“Yes,” Murph said, seemingly feeling the same way. “We’re all part of her team.”
“Could you please hold up your identification to the camera?” she asked politely.
Murph pulled it out and was about to unfold it to the photo page inside when the gate opened. Apparently Matilda was satisfied with seeing the exterior of a leather wallet.
Murph shrugged at Toomey as he returned to the passenger seat and got in.
“She’s a sharp one,” Toomey muttered under his breath.
They drove up the stone path to the main entrance of the house. As they arrived, Matilda came out to meet them. She didn’t look like Jessie expected based on her voice. Short and heavyset, with glasses and a thick mop of curly dark hair, the only hint that this was the same person from the phone
was the way she bounced on her toes, as if she couldn’t control her own energy. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three years old.
“She looks more like an excitable librarian than an entertainment professional,” Dolan said.
“How is an entertainment professional supposed to look, Agent Dolan?” Jessie asked sharply, taking her annoyance at her own assumptions out on him.
He looked at her, slightly taken aback, but said nothing. Jessie got out, trying to set aside her frustration with herself. Despite her training and experience, she still repeatedly made the cardinal sin of drawing conclusions before the evidence supported them. Just because Dolan had done the same thing didn’t excuse her. She was supposed to be a criminal profiler, using facts to make assessments, not prejudging people based on how they looked or sounded.
I have to get better at this.
She plastered on a smile as she exited the car and walked over to shake hands.
“Hi, Matilda,” she said in her warmest voice, “I’m Hunt.”
“So nice to meet you,” Matilda said, shaking her hand vigorously. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it work last night. But these darn studios, not wanting to waste millions of dollars an hour, right?”
“Sure,” Jessie replied because she couldn’t think of a snappier response.
“Hi, guys,” Matilda said, waving as she took in the sight of the three other men as they got out of the car. “I didn’t realize there would be so many of you. I only chilled one Perrier.”
“That’s okay,” Dolan said drily. “I prefer tap water anyway.”
“Still it is,” Matilda said enthusiastically before turning to Murph and Toomey. “And for you gentlemen?”
Murph shook his head. Toomey didn’t respond at all.
“They’re good,” Jessie said quickly. “Why don’t we go inside? I think Mr. Toomey here is going to remain outside. He’s a tad claustrophobic.”
“It’s a really big house, Mr. Toomey,” Matilda promised. “Are you sure?”
Toomey gave a half nod. Matilda shrugged and beckoned for the others to follow her in the house as Toomey took up a position by the front door, facing back down the driveway.
