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The Perfect House
CHAPTER SIX
It took Jessie a second to rip her eyes away from his crooked teeth and evaluate the situation.
On the surface, he didn’t look that different than she remembered. He still had the blond hair, shorn close to his head. He still wore the same mandatory aqua-blue scrubs. He still had the slightly pudgier face than one would expect of a man who was about five foot eight and 150 pounds. It made him look closer to twenty-five than the thirty-five years old he was.
And he still had the probing, almost stalking brown eyes. They were the only hint that the man across from her had killed at nineteen least people and perhaps twice that many.
The cell hadn’t changed either. It was small, with a narrow sheetless bed bolted to the far wall. A small desk with an attached chair sat in the back right corner beside a small metal wash basin. Behind that was a toilet, set off in the back, with a sliding plastic door for a modicum of privacy.
“Miss Jessie,” he purred softly. “What an unexpected surprise running into you here.”
“And yet, you’re standing there as if you expected my imminent arrival,” Jessie countered, not wanting to give Crutchfield even a moment’s advantage. She walked over and sat down in the chair behind a small desk on the other side of the glass. Kat took up her usual position, standing alertly in the corner of the room.
“I sensed a change in the energy of this facility,” he replied, his Louisiana accent as pronounced as ever. “The air seemed sweeter and I thought I could hear a bird chirping outside.”
“You’re not usually this full of flattery,” Jessie noted. “Care to share what has you in such a complimentary mood?”
“Nothing in particular, Miss Jessie. Can’t a man just appreciate the small joy that comes from having an unexpected visitor?”
Something in the way he said that last line made Jessie’s scalp tingle, as if there was more to the comment. She sat quietly for a moment, allowing her mind to work, unconcerned about any time constraints. She knew Kat would let her handle the interview however she chose.
Turning over Crutchfield’s words in her head, she realized they might have more than one meaning.
“When you talk about unexpected visitors, are you referring to me, Mr. Crutchfield?”
He stared at her for several seconds without speaking. Finally, slowly, the wide, forced smile on his face twisted into a more malevolent—and more believable—smirk.
“We haven’t established the ground rules for this visit,” he said, suddenly turning his back on her.
“I think the days of ground rules have long since passed, don’t you, Mr. Crutchfield?” she asked. “We’ve known each other long enough that we can just talk, can’t we?”
He walked back to the bed attached to the back wall of the cell and sat down, his expression slightly hidden in shadow now.
“But how can I be certain that you’ll be as forthcoming as you’d like me to be with you?” he asked.
“After ordering one of your flunkies to break into my friend’s apartment and scaring her to the point that she still can’t sleep, I’m not sure you’ve fully earned my trust or my willingness to be accommodating.”
“You bring up that incident,” he said, “but you neglect to mention the multiple times I’ve assisted you in cases both professional and personal. For every so-called indiscretion on my part, I’ve compensated with information that has proved invaluable to you. All I’m asking for are assurances that this won’t be a one-way street.”
Jessie looked at him hard, trying to determine how accommodating she could be while still keeping a professional distance.
“What is it exactly that you’re looking for?”
“Right now? Just your time, Miss Jessie. I’d prefer you not be such a stranger. It’s been seventy-six days since you last graced me with your presence. A less confident man than myself might take offense at the long absence.”
“Okay,” Jessie said. “I promise to visit you on a more regular basis. In fact, I’ll make sure to stop by at least once more this week. How does that sound?”
“It’s a start,” he replied noncommittally.
“Great. Then let’s get back to my question. You said before that you appreciated the joy that comes from having an unexpected visitor. Were you referring to me?”
“Miss Jessie, while it is always a delight to revel in your company, I must confess that my comment was indeed in reference to another visitor.”
Jessie could sense Kat stiffen in the corner behind her.
“And who are you referring to?” she asked, keeping her voice level.
“I think you know.”
I’d like you to tell me,” Jessie insisted.
Bolton Crutchfield stood up again, now more visible in the full light, and Jessie could see that he was rolling his tongue around in his mouth, like it was a fish on a line that he was toying with.
“As I assured you the last time that we spoke, I would be having a chat with your daddy.”
“And have you?”
“I have indeed,” he answered as casually as if he were telling her the time. “He asked me to pass along his regards, after I offered yours.”
Jessie stared at him closely, looking for any hint of deception in his face.
“You spoke to Xander Thurman,” she reconfirmed, “in this room, sometime in the last eleven weeks?”
“I did.”
Jessie knew that Kat was bursting to ask her own questions in order to try to confirm the veracity of his claim and how it might have happened. But in her mind, that was secondary and could be addressed later. She didn’t want the conversation to get sidetracked so she followed up before her friend could say anything.
“What did you discuss?’ she asked, trying to keep the judgment out of her voice.
“Well, we had to be rather cryptic, so as not to reveal his true identity to those listening in. But the gist of our chat was about you, Miss Jessie.”
“Me?”
“Yes. If you’ll recall, he and I chatted a couple of years ago and he warned me that you might one day visit. But that you would have a different name than the one he’d given you, Jessica Thurman.”
Jessie flinched involuntarily at the name she hadn’t heard spoken aloud by anyone but herself in two decades. She knew he saw her reaction but there was nothing she could do about it. Crutchfield smiled knowingly and continued.
“He wanted to know how his long-lost daughter was doing. He was interested in all kinds of details—what you do for a living, where you live, what you look like now, what your new name is. He’s very anxious to reconnect, Miss Jessie.”
As he spoke, Jessie told herself to breathe slowly in and out. She reminded herself to unclench her body and do her best to look calm, even if it was a facade. She had to appear unperturbed as she asked her next question.
“Did you share any of those details with him?”
“Just one,” he said impishly.
“And what was that?”
“Home is where the heart is,” he said.
“What the hell does that mean?” she demanded, her heart suddenly beating rapidly.
“I told him the location of the place you call home,” he said matter-of-factly.
“You gave him my address?”
“I wasn’t that specific. To be honest, I don’t know your exact address, despite my best efforts to uncover it. But I know enough for him find his way to you if he’s smart. And as we both know, Miss Jessie, your daddy is very smart.”
Jessie gulped hard and fought the urge to scream at him. He was still answering her questions and she needed as much information as she could get before he stopped.
“So how long do I have before he knocks on my door?”
“That depends on how long it takes for him to put the pieces together,” Crutchfield said with an exaggerated shrug. “As I said, I had to be a bit cryptic. If I had been too specific, it would have sent off warning signs with the folks who monitor my every conversation. That wouldn’t have been productive.”
“Why don’t you tell me exactly what you told him? That way, I can figure out the likely timetable for myself.”
“Now where’s the fun in that, Miss Jessie? I’m quite taken with you. But that strikes me as an unreasonable advantage. We have to give the man a chance.”
“A chance?” Jessie repeated, disbelieving. “To what? Get a head start on gutting me like he did my mother?”
“Now that hardly seems fair,” he replied, seeming to get calmer the more agitated Jessie became. “He could have done that back in that snowy cabin all those years ago. But he didn’t. So why assume he means you harm now? Maybe he just wants to take his little lady to Disneyland for the day.”
“You’ll forgive me if I’m not as inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt,” she spat. “This isn’t a game, Bolton. You want me to visit you again? I need to be alive to do that. I won’t be very chatty if your mentor chops up your favorite gal pal.”
“Two things, Miss Jessie: first of all, I understand that this is disruptive news, but I’d prefer you not take such a familiar tone with me. Calling me by my first name? That’s not only unprofessional, it’s unbecoming of you.”
Jessie seethed silently. Even before he told her the second thing, she knew he wasn’t going to tell her what she wanted. Still, she remained silent, literally biting her tongue in case he had a change of heart.
“And second,” he continued, clearly enjoying watching her squirm, “while I do enjoy your company, don’t presume that you’re my favorite gal pal. Let’s not forget about the ever-vigilant Officer Gentry there behind you. She’s a real peach—a rotting, rancid peach. As I’ve told her on more than one occasion, when I depart this place, I intend to give her a special send-off, if you take my meaning. So please don’t try to jump the gal pal line.”
“I…” Jessie began, hoping to change his mind.
“Our time is up, I’m afraid,” he said curtly. With that, he turned and walked over to the tiny niche of the cell with the toilet in it and pulled the plastic divider across, ending the conversation.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jessie kept her head on a swivel, on the lookout for anyone or anything out of the ordinary.
As she returned to her place, following the same circuitous route as earlier in the day, all the security precautions she’d been so proud of only hours earlier now seemed woefully inadequate.
This time around, she tied her hair into a bun and hid it under a baseball cap and the hood of a sweatshirt she bought on the way back from Norwalk. Her small backpack purse was attached in the front so that it hugged her chest. Despite the added anonymity they might have provided, she didn’t wear sunglasses out of concern they would limit her line of sight.
Kat had promised to review the tape of all Crutchfield’s recent visits to see if they’d missed something. She also said that if Jessie could wait until work ended, she’d make the drive to DTLA, even though she lived in far-off City of Industry, and help ensure that she got back safe. Jessie politely declined the offer.
“I can’t count on having an armed escort everywhere I go from now on,” she’d insisted.
“Why not?” Kat had asked only half-jokingly.
Now, as she walked down the corridor to her apartment, she wondered if she should have taken her friend up on the offer. She felt especially vulnerable with the bag of groceries in her arms. The hall was deathly quiet and she hadn’t seen anyone at all since entering the building. Before she could dismiss it out of hand, a crazy notion popped into her head—that her father had killed everyone on her floor so that he wouldn’t have to deal with complications when he approached her.
Her peephole light was green, which gave her some assurance as she opened the door, looking down both ends of the hall for anyone who might jump out at her. No one did. Once inside, she flicked on the lights and then turned all the locks back before disarming both alarms. Immediately after, she rearmed the main one in “home” mode so that she could move about the apartment without setting off the motions sensors.
She put the grocery bag on the kitchen counter and searched the place, nightstick in hand. She had successfully applied for a firearms permit before she left for Quantico and was supposed to get her weapon when she went to the station for work tomorrow. Part of her wished she had just picked it up when she stopped by to get her mail earlier today. When she was finally confident that the apartment was secure, she began to put the groceries away, leaving out the sashimi she’d picked up for dinner instead of pizza.
Nothing like supermarket sushi on Monday night to make a single gal feel special in the big city.
The thought made her chuckle to herself briefly before she remembered that her serial killer father had been given a guide to her place of residence. Maybe it wasn’t a complete roadmap. But from what Crutchfield had said, it was enough for him to eventually find her. The big question was: when was “eventually”?
*
Ninety minutes later, Jessie was punching a heavy bag, sweat pouring off her body. After finishing her sushi, she had felt restless and cooped up and decided to work out her frustrations in a constructive way at the gym.
She’d never been much of a workout fiend. But while at the National Academy she’d come to an unexpected discovery. When she worked out to exhaustion, there was no space left inside her for the anxiety and fear that consumed her so much of the rest of the time. If only she’d known this a decade ago, she could have saved herself thousands of sleepless nights, even the nights filled with endless nightmares.
It might also have saved her a few trips to see her therapist, Dr. Janice Lemmon, a renowned forensic psychologist in her own right. Dr. Lemmon was one of the few people who knew every detail about Jessie’s past. She’d been an invaluable resource in recent years.
But she was currently in recovery from a kidney transplant and wasn’t available for sessions for a few more weeks. Jessie was tempted to think she could dispense with the visits altogether. But while it might be cheaper to go with workout therapy alone, she knew there would surely be times she’d need to see the doctor in the future.
As she went in for a series of jabs, she recalled how, prior to her trip to Quantico, she’d often wake up covered in perspiration, breathing heavily, trying to remind herself that she was safe in Los Angeles and not back in a small cabin in the Missouri Ozarks, tied to a chair, watching blood drip from the slowly freezing body of her dead mother.
If only that had just been a dream too. But it was all real. When she was six years old and her parents’ marriage was on the rocks, her father had taken her and her mother to his remote cabin. While there, he revealed that he’d been abducting, torturing, and killing people for years. And then he did the same to his own wife, Carrie Thurman.
As he manacled her hands to the ceiling beams of the cabin and intermittently stabbed her with a knife, he made Jessie—then Jessica Thurman—watch. He tied her arms to a chair and taped her eyelids open as he finally cut her mother open for good.
Then he used the same knife to slice a large gash across his own daughter’s collarbone from her left shoulder to the base of her neck. After that, he simply left the cabin. It was three days later when, hypothermic and in shock, she was discovered by two hunters who had just happened by.
After she recovered, she told the police and FBI the story. But by then, her dad was long gone and any hope of catching him was gone with it. Jessica was put into Witness Protection in Las Cruces with the Hunts. Jessica Thurman became Jessie Hunt and a new life began.
Jessie shook the memories out of her head, switching from jabs to knee kicks intended for an attacker’s groin. She embraced the ache in her quad as she slammed it upward. With each blow, the image of her mother’s pale, lifeless skin faded.
Then another memory popped into her head, that of her former husband, Kyle, attacking her in their own home, trying to kill her and frame her for the murder of his mistress. She could almost feel the sting of the fireplace poker he jammed into the left side of her abdomen.
The physical pain of that moment was only matched by the humiliation she still felt at having spent a decade involved with a sociopath and never realizing it. She was, after all, supposed to be an expert at identifying these kinds of people.
Jessie switched it up again, hoping to push the shame out of her mind with a series of elbow shots to the bag near where an assailant’s jaw would be. Her shoulders were starting to shout at her in displeasure but she continued pummeling the bag, knowing that her mind would soon be too tired to be distressed.
This was the part of herself she hadn’t expected to discover at the FBI—the physical badass. Despite the standard apprehension she felt when she arrived, she had suspected she’d do well on the academic side of things. She had just spent the previous three years in that environment, immersed in criminal psychology.
And she’d been right. The classes in law, forensic science, and terrorism had come easy. Even the behavior science seminar, where the instructors were heroes of hers and she thought she’d be nervous, came naturally. But it had been the physical fitness classes, and the self-defense training in particular, where she’d surprised herself the most.
Her instructors had shown her that at five-foot-ten and 145 pounds, she had the physical size to contend with most perpetrators if she was properly prepared. She would likely never have the hand-to-hand combat skills of a former Special Forces veteran like Kat Gentry. But she left the program confident that she could defend herself in most situations.
Jessie yanked off the gloves and moved to the treadmill. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was approaching 8 p.m. She decided that a solid five-mile run should wipe her out enough to let her sleep dream-free tonight. That was a priority as she started back at work tomorrow where she knew all her colleagues would give her crap, expecting her to be some kind of FBI superhero now.
She set the time for forty minutes, putting pressure on herself to complete the five miles at an eight-minute-per-mile pace. Then she turned up the volume on her ear buds. As the first few seconds of Seal’s “Killer” started to play, her mind went blank, focusing only on the task in front of her. She was completely oblivious to the song’s title or any personal memories it might conjure up. There was only the beat and her legs pounding in harmony with it. It was as close to peace as Jessie Hunt could get.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eliza Longworth hurried to Penny’s front door as quickly as she could. It was almost 8 a.m., which was when their yoga instructor usually showed up.
It had been a largely sleepless night. Only in the first light of morning did she feel like she knew the path she had to take. Once the decision was made, Eliza felt a weight lift off her.
She texted Penny to tell her that the long night had given her time to think, and to reconsider if she’d been too hasty in ending their friendship. They should do the yoga lesson. And then afterward, once their instructor, Beth, had gone, they could try to find a way to hash things out.
Penny hadn’t replied but that didn’t stop Eliza from going over anyway. Just as she reached the front door, she saw Beth driving up the winding residential road and waved to her.
“Penny!” she yelled as she knocked on the door. “Beth’s here. Are we still on for yoga?”
There was no answer so she pushed the Ring doorbell and waved her arms in front of the camera.
“Penny, can I come in? We should talk for a sec before Beth arrives.”
There was still no answer and Beth was only about a hundred yards down the road so she decided to go in. She knew where the secret key was kept but tried the door anyway. It was unlocked. She stepped inside, leaving the door open for Beth.
“Penny,” she called out. “You left the door unlocked. Beth’s pulling up. Did you get my text? Can we talk privately for a minute before we start?”
She walked into the foyer and waited. There was still no response. She moved into the living room where they usually had the yoga sessions. It was empty too. She was about to go to the kitchen when Beth walked in.
“Ladies, I’m here!” she called out from the front door.
“Hey, Beth,” Eliza said, turning to greet her. “The door was unlocked but Penny’s not answering. I’m not sure what’s up. Maybe she overslept or is in the bathroom or something. I can check upstairs if you want to get yourself something to drink. I’m sure it’ll just be a minute.”
“No problem,” Beth said. “My nine thirty client cancelled so I’m not in a hurry. Tell her to take her time.”
“Okay,” Eliza said as she started up the stairs. “Just give us a minute.”
She was about halfway up the first flight of stairs when she wondered if perhaps she should have taken the elevator. The master bedroom was on the third floor and she wasn’t enthused about the hike. Before she could seriously reconsider, she heard a scream from down below.
“What is it?” she yelled as she turned and rushed back down.
“Hurry!” Beth shouted. “Dear god, hurry!”
Her voice was coming from the kitchen. Eliza broke into a run once she got to the bottom of the stairs, tearing through the living room and rounding the corner.
On the Spanish tile kitchen floor, lying in a massive pool of blood, was Penny. Her eyes were frozen open in terror, her body contorted into some horrifying death spasm.
Eliza hurried over to her oldest, dearest friend, slipping on the thick liquid as she approached. Her foot slid out from under her and she landed hard on the ground, her whole body splashing in the blood.
Trying not to gag, she crawled over and put her hands on Penny’s chest. Even with clothes on, she was cold. Despite that, Eliza shook her, as if that might wake her up.
“Penny,” she begged, “wake up.”
Her friend didn’t respond. Eliza looked up at Beth.
“Do you know CPR?’ she asked.
“No,” the younger woman said in a quavering voice, shaking her head. “But I think it’s too late.”
Ignoring the comment, Eliza tried to remember the CPR class she’d taken years ago. It was for treating children but the same principles should apply. She opened Penny’s mouth, tilted her head back, pinched her nose, and blew hard down her friend’s throat.
Then she climbed on top of Penny’s waist, put one hand on top of the other with her palms down, and thrust the pad of her hand down into Penny’s sternum. She did it a second time and then a third, trying to get into some kind of rhythm.
“Oh god,” she heard Beth mutter and looked up to see what was going on.
“What is it?” she demanded harshly.
“When you push on her, blood oozes out of her chest.”
Eliza looked down. It was true. Each compression caused a slow leak of blood from what appeared to be wide gashes in her chest cavity. She looked up again.
“Call nine-one-one!” she screamed, though she knew there was no point.
*
Jessie, who felt unexpectedly nervous, got to work early.
With all of the extra security precautions she had in place, she’d decided to leave for her first day of work in three months twenty minutes early to make sure she arrived by 9 a.m., the time Captain Decker had told her to show up. But she must have been getting better at negotiating all the hidden turns and stairwells because it didn’t take nearly as long as she expected to get to Central Station.
As she walked from the parking structure to the main entrance of the station, her eyes darted back and forth, looking for anything out of the ordinary. But then she remembered the promise she’d made to herself just before she fell asleep last night. She would not allow the threat from her father to consume her.
She had no idea how vague or specific Bolton Crutchfield’s information to her father had been. She couldn’t even be sure that Crutchfield was telling her the truth. Regardless, there wasn’t much more she could do about it than she was already doing. Kat Gentry was checking the tapes of Crutchfield’s visits. She basically lived in a bunker. She’d be getting her official weapon today. Beyond that, she had to live her life. Otherwise she’d go crazy.
She made her way back to the station’s main bullpen, more than a little apprehensive at the reception she’d receive after so long away. Add to that, when she’d last been here she was merely an interim junior profiling consultant.
Now the interim tag was gone and, though she was technically still a consultant, she was paid by the LAPD and got all the attendant benefits. That included health insurance, which if recent experience was any example, she’d need in spades.
When she stepped into the large central work area, comprised of dozens of desks, separated by nothing more than corkboards, she breathed in and waited. But there was nothing. No one said anything.
In fact, no one even seemed to notice her arrival. Some heads were down, studying case files. Others were fixed on the people across the tables from them, in most cases witnesses or handcuffed suspects.
She felt slightly deflated. But more than that, she felt silly.
What did I expect—a parade?
It’s not like she won the mythical Nobel Prize for crime solving. She’d gone to an FBI training academy for two and a half months. It was pretty cool. But no one was going to break out in applause for her.
She walked quietly through the maze of desks, passing detectives she’d worked with previously. Callum Reid, in his mid-forties, glanced up from the file he was reading. As he nodded at her, his glasses almost fell off his forehead, where they had been resting.
Twenty-something Alan Trembley, his blond curls messy as usual, was wearing glasses too, but his were at the bridge of his nose as he intently questioned an older man who appeared to be drunk. He didn’t even notice Jessie as she walked past him.
She reached her desk, which was embarrassingly tidy, tossed down her jacket and backpack purse, and took a seat. As she did, she saw Garland Moses slowly amble from the break room, coffee in hand, as he started up the stairs to his second-floor office in what was essentially a broom closet.
It seemed a rather unimpressive workspace for the most celebrated criminal profiler the LAPD had but Moses didn’t appear to care. In fact, he couldn’t be bothered about much. Over seventy years old and working as a consultant for the department mostly to avoid boredom, the legendary profiler could do pretty much whatever he wanted. A former FBI agent, he’d moved to the West Coast to retire but had been convinced to consult for the department. He agreed, as long as he could pick his cases and work his hours. Considering his track record, no one objected at the time and they still didn’t now.
With a shock of unkempt white hair, leathery skin, and a wardrobe circa 1981, he had a reputation of being crusty at best and downright surly at worst. But in Jessie’s one significant interaction with him, she’d found him to be, if not warm, at least conversational. She wanted to pick his brain more but was still a bit frightened to engage him directly.
As he shuffled up the stairs and out of sight, she glanced around, looking for Ryan Hernandez, the detective she’d worked with most often and whom she felt borderline comfortable calling her friend. They’d even recently started using each other’s first name, a huge deal in cop circles.
They had actually met under non-professional circumstances, when her professor invited him to speak to her graduate criminal psychology class in her final semester at UC-Irvine last fall. He’d presented a case study, which Jessie, alone in the class, had been able to solve. Later, she learned she was only the second person ever to figure it out.
After that, they’d stayed in touch. She’d call him for help after she began to grow suspicious of her husband’s motives but before he tried to kill her. And once she’d moved back to DTLA, she was assigned to Central Station, where he was based.
They worked several cases together, including the murder of high society philanthropist Victoria Missinger. It was in large part Jessie’s discovery of the killer that had garnered the respect that secured her the FBI gig. And it wouldn’t have been possible without Ryan Hernandez’s experience and instincts.
In fact, he was so well regarded that he’d been assigned to a special unit in Robbery-Homicide called Homicide Special Section, or HSS for short. They specialized in high-profile cases that engendered lots of media interest or public scrutiny. That usually meant arsons, murders with multiple victims, murders of notable individuals, and, of course, serial killers.
Beyond his gifts as an investigator, Jessie had to acknowledge that he wasn’t unpleasant to spend time with. The two of them had an easy rapport, as if they’d known each other much longer than six months. On a few occasions at Quantico, when her guard was down, Jessie wondered if things might have been different if they’d met under other circumstances. But at the time, Jessie had still been married and Hernandez and his wife had been together for over six years.
Just then Captain Roy Decker opened his office door and stepped out. Tall, skinny, and almost completely bald save for a few stray hairs, Decker was not yet sixty. But he looked much older than that, with a sallow, lined face that suggested constant stress. His nose came to a sharp point and his small eyes were alert, as if always on the hunt, which Jessie supposed he was.
As he stepped into the bullpen, someone followed him out. It was Ryan. He was just as she’d remembered him. About six feet tall and two hundred pounds with short black hair and brown eyes, he wore a coat and tie that hid what she knew to be a well-muscled frame.
He was thirty years old, young to be a full detective. But he had moved up fast, especially after, as a street officer, he’d helped catch a notorious serial killer named Bolton Crutchfield.
As he and Captain Decker walked out, something his boss said made him break into that warm, easy grin that was so disarming, even to suspects he was questioning. Much to her surprise, the sight of it caused an unexpected reaction in her. Somewhere in her stomach, she got a strange sensation she hadn’t felt in years: butterflies.
