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  Slowly, and with a scowl, the marshal raised his hand and spoke into the communication device connected to his wrist.

  “Jabberjay requests an authorized sit-down. Please advise.”

  As Jessie waited for the response, she stayed quiet, choosing not to comment on the less-than-endearing code name she’d apparently been assigned.

  *

  Ninety minutes later she sat in a small conference room in a quiet corner of Central Community Police Station in downtown Los Angeles, waiting for Captain Decker to join her. The marshal named Murph, who had accompanied her here from the house, stood in the back of the room, clearly still annoyed at having to be there.

  The process to get to the place, known generally as Central Station, had been cumbersome. After getting formal authorization for the trip from Corcoran, a team had to be assembled and a route chosen. Much of that had been pre-planned but final choices had to be selected.

  Jessie was instructed to wear a wig, along with a cap pulled down low over her eyes. Then the vehicle, driven by a marshal named Toomey, with Murph in the passenger seat, set out. A second car followed at a distance with two more agents inside. Two additional agents remained at the house to keep it secure.

  Even though it was mid-morning and traffic was comparatively light, with all the last-second turns and doubling back, the drive took over forty-five minutes. Once at the station, the car pulled into the garage and they had to stay in it until it was formally cleared by two uniformed officers who didn’t know why they were doing it other than “orders from on high.”

  Only then was Jessie whisked through a side entrance, still wearing the wig, a cap, and a bulky jacket with the collar zipped up all the way to disguise her general size and her neck, which might have revealed her gender. She was held back at various points, until hallways were clear enough for her to pass.

  When she finally made it to the conference room, Murph joined her inside while Toomey stood guard at the door. Since Toomey was six foot four and easily 220 pounds, with a completely shaved head and a permanent scowl, Jessie doubted anyone would try to enter without permission. One of the remaining marshals waited outside at the entrance from the garage to the building and the fourth circled the block slowly in his car, keeping an eye out for anything unusual.

  Jessie forced down the guilt she felt at being the cause of all this action. She knew she’d probably just spent thousands of dollars of taxpayer money for what seemed like a petulant demand. But there was more to it than that. If she could get Captain Decker on board with her plan, the cost of this short drive might be repaid hundreds of times over. But she had to convince him first.

  “You know,” Murph said quietly from the corner, speaking for the first time since they’d entered the room. “We’re actually trying to help keep you safe. You aren’t required to fight us every step of the way.”

  “I’m not trying to fight you,” she insisted. “I’m trying to help. And despite what your boss might think, I’m actually in a pretty good position to do it.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked as the door to the room opened and Captain Decker walked in.

  “You’re about to find out,” Jessie promised.

  Captain Roy Decker, appearing winded and irked, glared at her. Not yet sixty but looking well past it, the captain of Central Station was tall and thin, with only a few small patches of hair preventing total baldness. His face was lined with creases developed through years of stressful work. His sharp nose and beady eyes reminded her of a bird on the lookout for prey.

  “You okay, Captain?” Jessie asked. “You look like you ran here.”

  “When you hear that your forensic profiler, who is supposed to be hidden away in witness protection, is down the hall, you get a little giddy-up in your step. Care to tell me what’s so important that I had to come to this godforsaken corner of the station, where there’s more asbestos than oxygen in the air?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jessie saw Murph shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other and smiled to herself. He didn’t yet know of Decker’s gift for overstatement.

  “Absolutely sir. But before I do, can I ask how things are going with the hunt for…everyone?”

  Decker sighed heavily. For a second it looked like he might not respond. But finally he settled into the chair across from her and spoke.

  “Not great, actually,” he admitted. “You know we caught one NRD escapee, Jackson, the first day. We caught another one, Gimbel, a couple of days after that. But since then, despite dozens of credible leads, we’ve had no luck finding the other two guys, nor Crutchfield and Cortez.”

  “Do you think they’re all together?” Jessie asked, already aware that the Marshals Service didn’t.

  “No. We’ve seen surveillance footage of Stokes and De La Rosa near the hospital when they first broke out and they were each on their own. We haven’t found any footage of Crutchfield and Cortez but the working theory is that they’re still together.”

  “Hmm,” Jessie said. “If only you had some kind of human resource who was familiar with both men and could offer insight into their likely behavioral patterns.”

  The sarcasm, fully intended, dripped from her lips. Decker barely blinked.

  “And if only that resource wasn’t the target of the very men she was familiar with, we might take advantage of that knowledge,” he replied.

  They stared at each other silently for a moment, neither inclined to concede their point. Jessie finally relented, deciding that alienating the man whose authorization she needed wasn’t advisable.

  “What about Xander Thurman? Any more luck with him?”

  “None. He’s kept off the radar completely.”

  “Even with all his injuries?”

  “We’ve been monitoring every hospital, urgent care center, and free clinic. We even sent alerts to veterinarians. There’s been nothing.”

  “Then that means one of two things,” Jessie concluded. “Either he has access to someone else with medical training, or someone at one of these places is lying, maybe under threat. There is no way he could have recovered from those injuries without help. It’s not possible.”

  “I’m aware of that, Ms. Hunt. But this is the information we have right now.”

  “What if you had more?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” Decker asked.

  “I know how he operates, just like I know how Crutchfield does. Crimes that might look unremarkable to most detectives could have markers I could identify with one of them. If I could check out recent case files and investigate the more promising leads, maybe we could catch a break.”

  From the back of the room, Murph spoke up.

  “That seems unwise.”

  Jessie was happy to hear that. Nothing rankled Decker more than department outsiders offering their unsolicited two cents. Having him view the marshal as an interloper could only help her case. As she watched her boss frown, she stayed quiet, letting the dynamic percolate.

  “What exactly did you have in mind?” Decker asked her through gritted teeth.

  Jessie didn’t wait for him to change his mind.

  “I could look at violent attacks and murders in the last few weeks to see if any of them have the hallmarks of either killer. If any of them are a match, I can pursue the most promising leads.”

  Decker sat silently, apparently contemplating the idea. Murph, however, did not stay quiet.

  “You can’t seriously be entertaining this after all the effort the Marshals Service went to in order to secure a safe house for her.”

  Please keep arguing. You’re only digging your own grave.

  Decker seemed to be fighting an internal war with himself. It was clear that, despite his annoyance with Murph, he felt the man made a good point. But she could also tell that something else was at play in his head, something Jessie apparently wasn’t aware of.

  “Here’s the thing,” he eventually said. “As I mentioned, we have lots of leads—maybe too many of them. J
ust trying to cull through them has been challenging. We’ve enlisted the sheriff’s department and other neighboring police departments. Even the local FBI has pitched in, offering a few agents on cases they deem relevant. We’re just spread so damn thin right now. It’s not like all the other criminals have taken a vacation just because we’ve got five additional psychos on the loose. There was a gang hit two days ago. Someone is leaving hypodermic needles on local playgrounds. Your old pal Detective Hernandez is tied up with a triple homicide that has him in Topanga Canyon today. And, oh by the way, we’re in the second week of a massive measles outbreak.”

  “What are you saying, Captain?” Murph asked. For the first time, Jessie thought she sensed a hint of resignation in his voice.

  Decker finally spilled the secret he’d been keeping up to this point.

  “There is actually a case that came in overnight that I think you could be helpful on, Hunt. It happened in Studio City so North Hollywood Station is handling it. But the FBI has taken an interest and assigned an agent to look into it. I was thinking of pairing you with him.”

  “What’s the case?” Jessie asked, keeping her voice even despite the excitement rising in her belly.

  “A stabbing—pretty gruesome. No motive or suspects yet. But both your boys are big knife fans, right?”

  “That’s true,” she agreed.

  “It could be totally unrelated,” he conceded. “But it’s the first attack I’ve come across that seems to fit the profile.”

  “So you plan to let her go into the field?” Murph asked, though he knew the answer.

  “Well, I figure that with an FBI agent as a partner and multiple US marshals keeping tabs on her, she should be safe. Is that an unfair assumption?”

  “Captain Decker,” Murph replied neutrally, “it is the general view of the Service that no protectee is ever truly safe. And it is my personal opinion that putting this protectee in the field, investigating a murder potentially committed by one of the very people we’re trying to protect her from, is singularly unsafe.”

  “But,” Jessie interjected, finally ready to make the point she’d been holding in reserve, “it’s not really any worse than the status quo. For almost two weeks now, I’ve been under protection. But no one has uncovered anything about the men pursuing me that might change the status quo. It’s costing the city, the LAPD, and the Marshals Service a small fortune, with no end in sight. The way things are going, I might truly have to get a new identity…for the second time in my life!”

  “That not how we view it…” Murph started to say.

  “Please let me finish, Marshal,” she said, all trace of snark or cockiness gone from her voice now. “This has to end. I’m having nightmares every night about my protective detail being slaughtered. I jump at every unexpected sound and cringe at every sudden movement. I am a prisoner in that house even though I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s not how I want to live. I’d rather try to catch these guys and end up dead than spend the rest of my days living in fear. I have the skills and the inside knowledge to find both the men who mean me harm. Allow me to use them. It’s not an unreasonable request.”

  Decker and Murph exchanged looks. After what felt like an eternity, the marshal spoke.

  “I’ll square it with Corcoran,” he relented before adding, “if you agree to certain terms.”

  “What terms?” Jessie asked, though she was willing to agree to almost anything at this point.”

  “Your protective detail remains with you at all times—no attempts to lose us. You continue to spend nights at the safe house. You agree to all security precautions in the field, even evasive maneuvers you might consider excessive. You defer to the marshals’ judgment in any field scenario, no matter how overcautious you deem it to be. If we say leave, you agree to leave, no questions asked. Can you agree to these terms, Ms. Hunt?”

  “I can,” she said without hesitation, whether she planned to adhere to them or not.

  “Then, pending authorization from my superior, you can proceed.”

  Jessie looked at Decker, who appeared to be fighting off a grin.

  “Care to meet your temporary partner?” he asked.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jessie wasn’t impressed.

  The FBI agent on loan to the department for the stabbing case looked like an old baseball player called into the game because all the starters were injured. As she walked over to meet him, Jessie noted that the guy, who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties, had a surprising paunch for an FBI agent.

  In addition, his hair, unexpectedly longish and disheveled, was almost completely silver. His weathered face and salty scent suggested he spent more time surfing that doing case work. His blazer was frayed at the collar and his tie was only loosely knotted. And even though it was still morning, he’d already accumulated an impressive array of food stains on his rumpled slacks.

  “Jack Dolan,” he said, extending his hand as she approached but not offering any greeting beyond that.

  “Jessie Hunt,” she said, trying not to wince at his tight grip.

  “Ah, yes. The infamous forensic profiler slash serial killer’s daughter slash psycho whisperer in hiding from men who go bump in the night.”

  “That’s what it says on my business card,” Jessie replied acidly, not enamored by all the assumptions this guy was making right off the bat.

  “Agent Dolan,” Decker interjected, cutting off the icy exchange, “as the Studio City stabbing has several potential characteristics of both Xander Thurman and Bolton Crutchfield, we’ve decided that Ms. Hunt should join you to assess how likely it is that one of them is responsible.”

  Dolan looked at Decker, then at Jessie, and finally, at Murph.

  “So,” he asked, apparently confused. “Am I babysitting her now? Or are we tag-teaming it?”

  Jessie opened her mouth, uncertain what she would say other than that it would include expletives. But before she could get a word out, Decker jumped in.

  “Consider her your partner for the duration of the case. I assume you’d have your partner’s back, Agent Dolan? This is no different.”

  Dolan held his tongue. Out of the corner of her eye, Jessie saw Murph fight off a grin. She turned to Decker.

  “Can I speak to you privately for a moment?” she asked.

  He nodded and they started to step out into the hall.

  “Hold on,” Murph said. “The agent and I will step outside. You two talk in here; the fewer people who see you, the better.”

  After they left, Jessie turned, blazing-eyed, to Decker.

  “Is this some kind of punishment? Is that why you’re putting me with this guy? Can’t you just pull Hernandez off the case he’s working and have me team up with him?”

  “Detective Hernandez is unavailable,” he relied tersely. “We don’t just ‘pull’ detectives off triple homicides to accommodate the whims of other staffers. You shouldn’t expect to hear from him any time soon. If you do, it means he’s not doing his job. Besides, Dolan is more than qualified for this case. And he’s who the Bureau made available. So find a way to work with him. Otherwise you can go back to the safe house. It’s your call, Hunt.”

  *

  The drive to Studio City was especially uncomfortable.

  Dolan clearly wasn’t happy that he had to be transported in the back seat of a sedan driven a US marshal. Murph and Toomey weren’t enthused about chauffeuring around two surly investigators. And Jessie was annoyed by pretty much everything.

  Despite what Decker had said, she felt like she had three babysitters in the car, with two more in a vehicle behind them. Her “partner” apparently considered her involvement in the case tokenism. And the marshals obviously resented being highly trained valets. By the time they got to the crime scene, everyone was on edge.

  Toomey found the house easily. It was the charming, Spanish-style one-story home with a half dozen police cars and reams of yellow police tape in front of it. There were also two te
levision trucks. He drove past all of them and parked halfway down the block, where they wouldn’t be seen.

  “How are we handling this?” he asked the rest of them. “We can’t have Hunt be seen walking into that house. If this is the handiwork of either Thurman or Crutchfield, they’ll be watching closely to see if she shows up. And even if it’s not theirs, we don’t want her face splashed all over the news.”

  Jessie waited to see if any of them would suggest the obvious solution. When no one did, she spoke up.

  “Pull around back,” she instructed. “There was no driveway. That means there’s garage access from the alley. It’ll be closed off to TV crews and they can’t get those wide vans back there anyway. We should be able to get in without any cameras getting close.”

  No one seemed to have any objections so Toomey started the car up again and did as she recommended. He radioed the other marshals to let them know the plan and advised them to remain on the main street.

  Sure enough, the narrow alley was blocked off by patrol cars at either end. They pulled over and got out. Murph and Dolan flashed their badges to the nearest officer, who let them pass without asking for ID from either Toomey or Jessie, who was reluctant to reveal her identity to anyone, even a cop.

  They walked through the back gate and up the porch steps to the entrance, where another officer asked for identification. He was less reluctant to let them pass without seeing everyone’s. But Dolan leaned in and whispered something Jessie couldn’t hear to the officer, who nodded and stepped back to let them through.

  As they stepped through the door, Jessie tried to block out all the hassles of the morning and focus on her surroundings. She was on a case now and the victim, whoever it was, deserved her full attention.

  The back door opened into the kitchen, which was contemporary and well-appointed with all the latest appliances. In fact, everything looked so pristine that she suspected it had all been redone in the last six months. Something about the place reminded her of the brand new McMansions of all those newly wealthy couples in Orange County, where she’d lived briefly before learning her now ex-husband, Kyle Voss, was a violent sociopath.