by Blake Pierce
It took physical effort to prevent her jaw from dropping at what she saw.
She looked over at Murph out of the corner of her eye. He was oblivious to her, scrolling through his phone as he stood in the corner of the room. She opened the next message in the exchange and nearly gasped. Each subsequent message gave her a little internal jolt that required concerted effort not to display.
When she reached the final message, Jessie leaned back in her chair. Her mind was racing. What she saw was provocative and potentially game-changing. But as she sat quietly, trying to look normal, she realized that if she told Dolan, he’d want to pursue it in the standard G-man fashion, coming in hard and fast.
But if Jessie’s instincts were right, that wouldn’t work. The way to get to the truth in this case required something more subtle—the kind of manipulation that Dolan wasn’t capable of. But she was.
The only problem was that if she showed up with him and her marshals in tow, there was no way she could get to the truth. She needed to be alone, to create a sense of security for her prey; to make the subject think that she was there to help rather than catch.
And that required her to get out of this station and away from the men who were assigned to protect her. She couldn’t show up with a coterie of feds. She needed to look trustworthy. And that meant looking vulnerable. And the only way to appear vulnerable was, on some level, to actually be vulnerable.
“Hey, Murph,” she said, making the marshal look up reluctantly from his phone. “I’ve got to shake the dew off the lily. Be back in a few.”
He didn’t even smile as she got up and walked out. She glanced back to make sure he wasn’t watching. He wasn’t. She also noticed her sidearm was resting on the table beside her laptop and briefly considered going back for it. But that would definitely draw Murph’s attention and suspicion. Instead, she hurried down the hall, not wanting to bump into Dolan along the way.
By the time the FBI agent and the US marshal began to get suspicious, she had already requisitioned a department vehicle. By the time they started looking for her, she was on the road and en route to the West Hollywood Hills home of Milton Jerebko.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Jessie knew she didn’t have long.
As she drove up the sharply winding hill streets, she did the math in her head. It would have taken about five minutes for Murph to start to get suspicious; maybe another two or three before he acted on it and checked on her. And then maybe two more before he concluded that she was genuinely gone. So call it ten minutes to be conservative before he began actively searching for her.
He’d check her phone signal. She’d turned off the location sharing feature and the phone itself. But that was only a stopgap measure. They’d be able to ping her GPS location as soon as they got the system active. That wouldn’t take more than five minutes, knowing him.
They’d be frustrated when they realized her phone’s signal was coming from inside the station conference room. But that would only be a temporary setback. They’d learn about her vehicle requisition pretty fast. When they did, they’d pinpoint where it was using the signal beacon all LAPD vehicles were equipped with. That whole process might take a total of five additional minutes.
And she was sure that as soon as Murph saw the direction she was going, he’d guess her destination and send West Hollywood PD to meet her. So best-case scenario: she had a twenty-minute head start, realistically closer to fifteen. That wasn’t a lot of time for what she had in mind.
When she arrived, the gate was open, which seemed to defeat the purpose of the high stone walls but made her life easier. She zipped up the Jerebko driveway, parked, and jogged the last few steps to their front door porch. She was about to ring the doorbell when she saw movement to her left in the shadows by a tree in their yard.
She pivoted in that direction and reached for her gun. It wasn’t there. She remembered she’d had to leave it on the table in the conference room. The figure near the tree stepped into the dull glow of the porch light.
It was Crutchfield.
“Greetings, Miss Jessie,” he said lazily, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Jessie didn’t know how to react. Mixed in with the fear at his presence was her surprise that he was able to know this was her destination and get here first.
None of that matters now.
Without her service weapon, Jessie recognized she had no clear advantage. She was actually taller than him and in better shape. But as she’d learned in the ladies’ room bar the previous night, he was shockingly strong. And she didn’t know if he was armed. His right hand rested at his side but his left was noticeably held behind his back.
She did still have the extra pistol she kept in her concealed ankle holster. But it wasn’t designed for quick, easy access. By the time she reached down, unholstered it, got it out, and pointed it in his direction, he’d likely have time to shoot her, physically attack her, or get away. She had to think of a different way out of this.
“Two visits in two nights,” she said, trying to match his unhurried manner. “If you’re not careful, people will think you’re courting me, Mr. Crutchfield.”
“I would never be so presumptuous, Miss Jessie,” he replied, smiling broadly, even as his fingers twitched slightly, like a gunfighter anticipating a duel.
“Are you here to finish what you started?” she asked, trying to seem engaged even as she desperately tried to think of how to get the upper hand. It wasn’t lost on her that despite his leisurely manner and southern drawl, Bolton Crutchfield was a brutal serial killer.
“You’re hurting my feelings, Miss Jessie,” he said, his lips pursing into a mock pout. “All I did last night was warn you of an imminent threat to your safety.”
“A threat which never materialized,” she shot back.
“Likely because of my warning,” he countered.
“And you didn’t only warn me,” she reminded him. “You also slammed my head against a mirror and knocked me out. Or did you forget that part?”
“I had to extricate myself from the situation quickly. Your Murphy marshal man was getting antsy.”
“Still, not very gentlemanly.”
“Touché,” he acknowledged.
Jessie tried to stay focused, calculating her options. She didn’t seem to have many. Once again she thought of the pistol at her ankle. And once again she determined that at his distance from her, he would either escape or be on her before she could access it.
Meanwhile, time was ticking away. Every second she bantered with him was one less to interrogate the murder suspect inside before the cops arrived. Crutchfield smiled again, as if he understood her dilemma.
“I can see you’re torn, Miss Jessie. This is a real pickle, isn’t it?”
Irked at his teasing, she decided to cut to the chase.
“What do you want, Crutchfield? If you’re not here to kill me, you must have another reason. Please just spit it out, because, in case you couldn’t tell, I’m a little busy right now.”
The smile remained plastered to his face but his eyes lost their gleam and went cold.
“You are such a party pooper, Miss Jessie. And so ungrateful, what with me here to help you again.”
“Then help, Bolton,” she said curtly, using his first name to emphasize her point. “I’m tired of these games.”
He looked down for a moment, as if he’d lost a bit of self-control and was trying to find it again. When he looked up again, the mask had returned.
“With your harsh tone, you are making it quite hard for me to continue in the role of your guardian angel. And your repeated half-glances at your ankle are quite unsettling. I have important information for you, Miss Jessie. But I can only share it if I have assurances that you’re not going to try to reach for that pistol by your shoe. Can you give me that assurance?”
“How about I assure you that once I pull out that pistol and arrest you, you’ll do your talking down at the station?”
; Crutchfield smiled at her as if she was a small child demanding to be taken for ice cream.
“I think we both know,” he said in his maddeningly soothing manner, “that that is the least likely outcome of our interaction. Trying would put you at physical risk. Even if you could pull it off, we both know that’s not really what you want. If I’m taken into custody, I won’t be sharing what I know. And what I know could be very useful to you the next time you run into your father, whose intentions toward you aren’t nearly as benevolent as mine. You have a decision to make, Miss Jessie.”
She did indeed. She could try to make a move for the gun. But every instinct she had told her that would end badly. She could continue to chat up the guy in the hopes that the cavalry would show up and get him. But he wasn’t dumb enough to stick around that long. And even if he did, that would sabotage all the work she’d done to get here and question the Jerebkos before the police interrupted. Finally, even if Crutchfield deigned to be arrested, she suspected he wasn’t bluffing. He wouldn’t say a word about her father, just to spite her.
So when it came down to it, there wasn’t really any choice at all.
“You have my word,” she said reluctantly. “I won’t go for the pistol unless you make an aggressive move. Now what do you know?”
He was just about to reply when Jessie heard a voice on the other side of the door and glanced in that direction.
“Who is it?” Gayle Jerebko called out. She must have heard them talking.
Jessie looked back at Crutchfield. Ever so slowly, with a huge grin on his face, he took his index finger and traced a small circle on the right side of his forehead.
“Who’s there?” Gayle repeated.
“It’s Jessie Hunt. I need to speak to your husband.”
As she waited for a response, she and the escaped serial killer stared silently at each other.
“Hold on,” Gayle said. Jessie heard her undoing the locks.
A second later, the door opened and Jessie turned to see Gayle Martindale Jerebko, dressed in what looked to be a silk kimono.
“Please come in,” she said in a surprisingly pleasant tone.
Jessie glanced back to her left. But all that stood there now was the tree. Crutchfield had vanished.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
“What is this all about?” Milton Jerebko demanded angrily.
Gayle had just led Jessie into the living room, where her mind was still reeling from what had just happened outside. She hadn’t had time to process what Crutchfield’s gesture meant when Jerebko stormed in, red-faced and fuming.
“At least let the woman sit down,” Gayle chastised, motioning for Jessie to take a seat on the couch.
The Crutchfield encounter had rattled her to the point that she wasn’t acting shaken. She was really feeling it.
Use that, Jessie. Get your game face on. You can deal with what just happened later. Right now, you have a job to do.
She wanted to appear harmless and nonthreatening and decided to channel her current uncertainty into the task at hand.
“I just have a few more questions,” she said meekly, following Gayle’s lead and sitting gingerly on the couch.
“Because of you and your LAPD buddies, my world is in shambles!” Jerebko shouted.
“What do you mean, sir?” Jessie asked, regrouping slightly. “I thought you’d already told your wife about the affair and that your constituents would be understanding.”
Jerebko stopped for a second, clearly not expecting that response.
“Yes, well, it turns out that repairing a marriage after admitting an infidelity is made doubly difficult when the media pores over every detail of that infidelity. And while my constituents are understanding of flawed politicians, they don’t love having their noses rubbed in it. And then there are the kids.”
“Yes,” Gayle agreed, “this has been very hard on the children.”
Jessie turned her attention to her, trying to look calm and not like she had between five and ten minutes to prove her theory.
“What about you, Mrs. Jerebko? This can’t be easy, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, dealing with the indignity caused by your husband’s inability to control his middle-aged infatuation.”
“Hey!” Jerebko protested.
“You’re handling it a lot better than I would have,” Jessie continued, ignoring Milton as she gave her full attention to Gayle. “You know, when I found out my husband was having an affair, it was all I could do not to bump off his mistress. Of course, he ended up doing that himself and trying to frame me for it. So…totally different situation. Still, I feel for you.”
“Thank you,” Gayle replied carefully.
“I mean, it’s hard to fathom the arrogance,” Jessie said, warming up. “I don’t want to project my situation onto your own. But in both cases, we’re talking about narcissistic men who think they’re entitled to everything. Your husband believes he’s entitled to have the voters’ forgiveness. He believes he should be able to maintain his marriage to you and have a relationship with some young sex toy. He thinks that you and your children should just accept his bad judgment and move on, without any consequences.”
“What the hell…?” Milton tried to interject but Jessie rolled right over him.
“I’ll bet it never even occurred to him how you might feel,” she continued. “That you might feel shame at being treated so poorly by your own husband. That you might feel anger at this young woman who blew up your seemingly happy life. And most of all, the constant frustration you must feel at knowing your life isn’t as happy as it seems from the outside.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Gayle said, though her eyes suggested otherwise.
“Oh, come on, Gayle. As long as we’re laying it all out on the table, let’s be honest about this as well. Milton’s not the only one who deserves some passion in his life, right? You’re entitled to feel those things again too. And if he can’t provide it, I bet part of you thought maybe you should divorce his sorry ass and find someone who can appreciate all the effort you’ve put into looking the way you look for him. You can’t tell me it never occurred to you.”
Gayle was silent, her jaw muscles tight.
“Gayle,” Milton said indignantly. “Tell this woman that her insinuations are insulting.”
Jessie ignored him and looked deep into Gayle’s eyes. She saw the pain and the resentment there and she knew it was time.
“You could have divorced this sorry excuse for a man, Gayle,” she said softly, almost in a whisper. “But you went a different way, didn’t you?”
“Excuse me?” Gayle said, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, making the kimono swish slightly.
“I mean, when you confronted Claire, you probably thought you might end up killing her. But you didn’t expect it to go the way it did, right?”
Gayle’s mouth dropped open. Milton looked totally confused.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Oh, didn’t Gayle tell you?” Jessie said, feigning surprise.
“Tell me what?”
“That she found out about your affair weeks before you admitted it.”
Milton stared at Gayle, who only gulped. Jessie pressed on.
“You really should do a better job of clearing your internet history, Milton. The site came right up when Gayle borrowed your laptop one day. You can imagine her shock when she saw how you were spending your spare time.”
“Is this true?” he demanded of his wife.
“Are you really the one who should be asking questions?” Jessie chastised him, then turned back to Gayle. “You were all ready to rip her to shreds, weren’t you, after you pretended to be your husband and sent that email asking her to meet you? But then, when you were with her in person, she wasn’t what you expected, was she?”
Gayle didn’t respond, didn’t even nod. But she didn’t stop Jessie either, which reassured her that the on-the-fly psychological profile she’d developed about the woman was
n’t far off. So she went on.
“Whatever you originally had in mind faded away when you talked to her, didn’t it, Gayle? You saw what it was in her that made Milton lose his head—because you did the same thing. You went to that meeting with bad intent and somewhere along the way, you fell for her. Am I right, Gayle?”
Gayle nodded ever so slightly.
“It’s okay,” Jessie assured her. “That’s not a crime. Who could have known that your husband’s mistress would fill such an emotional and physical hole in your life? Somehow, you ended up cheating on your husband with his own mistress. It’s almost poetic justice.”
Milton’s mouth was agape. Gayle glanced over at him with a mix of guilt and pride.
“You didn’t deserve her,” she muttered.
“No, he didn’t,” Jessie agreed, not wanting to lose control of the situation. “But you did. You were much smarter about your trysts than he was, weren’t you? No more online contact after you started seeing her. You called her from pay phones instead of your cell, using different ones every time. You were careful. This relationship was becoming important to you and you didn’t want it be discovered by the kind of sloppiness that undid Milton.”
“Only for a little while longer,” Gayle said through gritted teeth. “I was going to dump him—let him squirm.”
“And he would have too,” Jessie noted. “I checked. You have a pre-nup. Doesn’t it say something about him getting nothing if the marriage dissolves on account of infidelity? If Claire stayed quiet about the two of you, you could have left him in the cold and then turned around and been with her. Wouldn’t that have been sweet?”
“It would have,” Gayle agreed, her eyes going soft at the thought of it.
“But something went wrong, didn’t it?” Jessie said, bringing things back to the present. She was keenly aware that time was running short. Any moment, the sound of approaching sirens might shut things down just as they were getting interesting.
