Читать книгу The perfect look - Блейк Пирс - Страница 4

Jessie Hunt sat nervously in the booth at Nickel Diner on South Main Street, only two blocks from LAPD Central Community Station.

Though the person she was meeting would not care at all about her appearance, she wanted to make a good impression. In general, she deemed herself fit to be seen. Her green eyes were clear and her shoulder-length brown hair looked shinier than usual. She’d made sure to put on her most professional blouse and slacks before work today, along with flats that didn’t accentuate her already regal five-foot-ten frame. She doubted anyone looking at her today would mistake her for a model, as sometimes happened. But just weeks from her thirtieth birthday, she knew she could still turn heads when it served her purposes.

All things considered, she thought she was doing pretty well. After all, it was just seven days ago that she’d been drugged by a murder suspect and had her stomach pumped. In the time since, after she was released from the hospital, she’d been mostly holed up at her apartment, under the care and protection of Detective Ryan Hernandez.

Ryan had insisted on staying with her until she’d regained her strength. So, for the last week, he’d been sleeping on the pull-out sofa in the living room and making most of her meals. Jessie had deliberately chosen to simply accept the help and not read too much into the actions of the man who was her sometime case partner and sometimes more.

Typically after extended medical time off, Jessie would have gone into work along with Ryan first thing to have her sign-off meeting with LAPD Captain Roy Decker. But today was unusual. She had decided to have a little meeting of her own, before the captain started placing rules and limits on her once she started work again.

While Jessie Hunt was a criminal profiling consultant for the Los Angeles Police Department and not an actual police officer, Captain Decker was still her immediate supervisor, and violating his orders could have serious repercussions. But if she just happened to meet with someone and have an informal discussion about an ongoing investigation before getting Decker’s orders, well, that could hardly be held against her.

It was for that reason that she sat in the crowded diner at 7:30 a.m. waiting for the arrival of a man she’d only spoken to occasionally and almost always while battling nerves. She nibbled on her toast and sipped her second cup of coffee, well aware that she probably should have stopped after one. He walked in just as she put the mug down on the table.

Garland Moses glanced around the diner, spotted Jessie, and headed toward her. At seventy-one years old, with leathery skin, unkempt white hair, and bifocals that looked about to topple off the front of his nose, he didn’t draw the attention of any of the customers he passed. None of them had any idea that they were in the presence of perhaps the most celebrated criminal profiler of the last quarter century.

Jessie couldn’t blame them. The man seemed to cultivate an air of slovenliness. He shuffled toward her, seemingly oblivious to the shirttails sticking out above his rumpled corduroys and the stains on his oversized maroon sweater vest. His gray sports jacket, which hung off him like he was a coat rack, looked like it might swallow him whole.

But if one paid closer attention, other things became clear. Behind the thick glasses, his sharp eyes darted around quickly, taking in his surroundings in an instant. Though his hair was disheveled, he was crisply shaved without a stray piece of stubble. His teeth were still sparkling white and in perfect condition. His fingernails were neatly trimmed and the shoelaces on his well-worn loafers were tied in tight double bows. Garland Moses projected the slapdash look of a Columbo-style senior citizen. But as Jessie knew well, it was all an act.

Moses had been solving some of the hardest murder cases in the country for over forty years. He did it first as part of the FBI’s celebrated Behavioral Sciences Division based out of Quantico, Virginia. Then, in the late 1990s, after twenty years of seeing the worst humanity had to offer, he retired to sunny Southern California.

But within months of his arrival, he was courted by the LAPD to serve as a profiling consultant. He agreed, with several conditions. First, he wouldn’t be a formal employee so he wasn’t subject to the rules and regulations of the department and could come and go as he pleased. Second, he got to pick his own cases. And most importantly to him, he didn’t have to adhere to any dress code.

The department eagerly agreed. And despite his outwardly gruff demeanor or, as one officer called him, “a taciturn, short-tempered asshole,” they never regretted it. Ensconced in his isolated, broom-closet-sized office on the station’s second floor, Moses went about his work, where he could be counted on to solve at least three or four high-profile cases a year, typically ones that stumped everyone else.

For reasons Jessie had never understood, Garland Moses seemed to like her, or at least not outwardly object to her existence, which was pretty much the same thing for him. He’d even given her occasional advice on a few of her cases from time to time.

And though he’d never acknowledged it, she had learned that his recommendation had been instrumental in getting her admission into the vaunted, ten-week FBI Academy, which she’d completed just last year.

The highly selective program brought in the cream of the crop from local police departments to train them in the latest FBI investigative techniques. It was usually only available to seasoned detectives with decorated records. But Jessie, a relative rookie, had somehow been admitted. While there, she not only got to learn from instructors at the world-famous Behavioral Sciences unit, she also underwent intense physical training that included weapons instruction and self-defense classes.

Without question, her success at solving multiple high-profile murder cases, not to mention foiling an attempt on her own life by her ex-husband, had played a role in her admission. But of greater significance was almost certainly the good word put in on her behalf by multiple high-level L.A. law enforcement officials, Moses among them.

As he sat down across from her, Jessie felt certain that he could already sense the purpose for her appeal to meet with him early in the morning outside of work. Despite her nervousness, it was almost a relief. If he could already guess what she wanted, she could dispense with all the niceties, persuasion, and flattery her imminent request would typically require. He was here after all. That meant he was at least mildly interested.

“Good morning, Mr. Moses,” she said as he settled in across from her.

“Garland,” he replied in his signature raspy growl as he waved at the waitress for a coffee. “This better be good, Hunt. You were very cryptic on the phone. I don’t like upsetting my morning routine. And you’ve definitely upset it.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ll find the shakeup worthwhile,” she assured him before deciding to simply launch in. “I need your help.”

“I figured. No one asks to meet with me to discuss china patterns, much to my chagrin,” he said, straight-faced.

Jessie decided to take his crack as a good sign and played along.

“I’m happy to do that later, Garland, if you’ve got a hankering. But for now, my interest is less in tableware and more focused on serial-killing child abductors.”

The server, who had just walked over with her coffee pot, gave Jessie a stunned stare. A cherubic forty-something blonde with “Pam” on her name tag, she quickly recovered, glancing away and filling up Garland’s mug.

“I’m listening,” Garland said after the server left, “as apparently was Pam.”

Jessie decided not to ask how he knew the woman’s name when he’d never looked up at her. Instead she launched into her pitch.

“I’m sure you’re aware that Bolton Crutchfield is still on the loose and that just last week, he kidnapped a seventeen-year-old girl named Hannah Dorsey.”

“I am,” he said, offering nothing further.

He didn’t need to. One didn’t have to be a celebrated criminal profiler to know about the monstrous history of Bolton Crutchfield, who had murdered dozens of people in brutally elaborate ways and who had recently escaped from a psychiatric prison.

“Okay,” she continued. “You may also know that I have a bit of history with Crutchfield—that I interviewed him over a dozen times when he was held at the NRD psych prison, where he told me that my good ol’ pops, the serial killer, Xander Thurman, was his mentor and that they’d been in communication.”

“I knew that too. I also know that, despite his admiration for your father, when it came time to choose between you, he warned you about the threat from your father, potentially saving your life. That must complicate your feelings toward him.”

Jessie took a long sip of her coffee as she pondered how to respond.

“It did,” she finally conceded, “especially since he made it clear that he intended to leave me alone from now on and pursue other interests.”

“A détente of sorts.”

Pam tentatively returned to take Garland’s order.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he said, nodding at Jessie’s toast. Pam looked disappointed but said nothing and retreated to the kitchen.

“Right,” Jessie said. “Of course, I was reluctant to take the word of a vicious killer that he was going to live and let live. And then he took the girl.”

“That bothered you,” Garland noted, stating what he knew to be obvious.

“It did,” Jessie said. “This was a girl I found being held by my father in a home with her adoptive parents. He was torturing her. She barely survived, as did I. The people who raised her didn’t. So when, only weeks later, Crutchfield kidnapped her and killed her foster parents, it felt…”

“Personal,” Garland completed her thought.

“Exactly,” Jessie said. “And now, after a week of forced leave, a week in which Hannah has been in Crutchfield’s clutches, I’m returning to work today.”

“But there’s a problem,” Garland said leadingly, hinting that Jessie should cut to the chase. So she did.

“There is. The FBI has been assigned the case. I know that when I walk through the police station doors, I will be expressly prohibited from participating because of…my personal connection. But, knowing my own nature after nearly thirty years on this planet, there is no way I’m going to be able to just put it out of my head and go about my normal business. So I thought I’d enlist the assistance of someone who isn’t beholden to the regulations that are about to be handed down to me.”

“And yet,” Garland said as his toast arrived. “I get the distinct feeling that I’m not your first choice for this task.”

Jessie had no idea how he could have known that but didn’t try to deny it.

“That’s true. I wouldn’t normally ask a celebrated profiler emeritus to do me a solid if I could avoid it. I particularly don’t like asking them to do the dirty work of trying to discreetly suss out what’s going on in someone else’s investigation. But unfortunately, my first choice is unavailable.”

“Who is that?” Garland asked.

“Katherine Gentry. She used to head up security at the NRD prison. We became friends during my many visits. But once Crutchfield escaped and multiple guards were murdered, she was fired. Since then, she’s become a private investigator. Kat’s new to the gig but she’s good at it. I used her for something recently.”

“But…” Garland pressed.

“But she’s in the middle of another case that involves a lot of out-of-town surveillance so she doesn’t really have the time. Besides, I thought this might be a little too raw for her, considering her connection to Crutchfield. I think she might be too close to it.”

I see,” he said, with a mischievous tone. “So you’re concerned that a person might not be able to objectively assess the situation because of her personal connection to it. Does that description apply to anyone else you know?”

Jessie looked at him, well aware of the point he was making. Of course, if he knew just how personal this case was for her, he would likely be even more concerned. Then a thought occurred to her, one that might make him reevaluate how he looked at the circumstances.

“You’re right,” she said. “I’m not objective, more than you know. You see, Garland, what only a half dozen people in the world know is that Hannah Dorsey’s father was Xander Thurman. She’s my half-sister, something I discovered less than a month ago. So I’m definitely not objective about this.”

Garland, who was about to take a sip of coffee, paused briefly. Apparently he still had the capacity to be surprised.

“That is a complication,” he acknowledged.

“Yes,” she said, leaning forward intently. “And I’m pretty confident that Crutchfield took her in order to mold her into a serial killer like my father and himself. That was what my dad was after with me. When I rejected him, he tried to kill me. I think Crutchfield is trying to pick up where Thurman left off.”

“What makes you think this?” Garland asked.

“He wrote me a postcard that basically laid it out. And then he left a message in blood on the foster family’s wall that reiterated the point. He’s not being subtle about it.”

“He does seem to be rubbing it in,” Garland conceded.

“Right,” Jessie said, sensing that he was warming to her plea. “So I willingly admit that I’m not exactly level-headed about this. And I get why Captain Decker would refuse to allow me near the case. But like I said, I know myself. And there’s no way I can just pretend a serial killer’s not out there trying to turn my half-sister into his own personal Mini-Me. So I figured I’d turn to someone who could be more rational to keep tabs on the case and give me updates. Otherwise I’m going to go crazy. And it needs to be someone who can access the info but isn’t bound by all the LAPD prohibitions.”

Garland leaned back in the booth and pushed his glasses up away from his nose. He seemed lost in thought.

“Garland,” she said, her voice a hushed whisper. “Bolton Crutchfield is trying create a monster just like him and he’s doing it to a traumatized girl. That’s bad enough, even if she wasn’t my only living relative, a sister I’ve barely gotten to know. But he’s doing it intentionally to toy with me, another in his endless sadistic games. I understand what’s going on. I’m clear-headed about this. But if you think that understanding the situation means I’m going be able to steer clear because of a directive from my supervisor, you’re sorely mistaken. If you say no, I’m going to pursue this myself, regardless of the consequences. I’m asking for your help, partly because you’re better at this than me. But partly to save me from myself. I don’t want to be dramatic and say my future is in your hands… But my future is in your hands. What do you say?”

Garland sat silently for a moment. Then he leaned in, about to answer. Suddenly Jessie’s cell phone rang. She glanced down. It was Ryan. She sent it to voicemail and looked back up at the old man in front of her. Then she felt a buzz. Looking down, she saw a text from Ryan that said simply “911—pick up.” A second later the phone rang again. She picked up.

“I’m in the middle of something,” she said.

“There’s been a homicide at the Bonaventure Hotel,” Ryan said, “Decker assigned us. He said he’s postponing our meeting with him and he wants us there ASAP. I’m driving over now to pick you up. I’ll be out front in two minutes.”

He hung up before she could reply. She looked over at Garland.

“I just got called to a murder scene. Detective Hernandez is on his way here to get me. I need a decision. What do you say, Garland?”