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?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jessie gripped the car’s grab handle for dear life.

  Ryan had turned on the siren and was tearing through the downtown streets, making sharp, sudden turns. Apparently the media had already been tipped off about a dead body in the fancy hotel and was forming a crowd outside. He wanted to get there before the scene got too chaotic.

  Jessie was silently grateful that she’d stuck to toast for breakfast as she was tossed around in the car. Despite being discombobulated, one thing stuck with her. Garland Moses had said yes.

  That meant that, if she could force herself to make the most of his involvement, she didn’t have to spend every spare moment freaking out over Hannah’s disappearance. There was now someone looking into it whom she trusted to make some headway, someone who would actually update her on the status of the case. To remain sane, she had to allow that to play out and not fixate on it every second.

  Just as important, if she was going to be of any use in this Bonaventure case, or any future one, she had to have a clear head. She owed it to whoever the murder victim was in that hotel room to provide her most cogent, uncluttered analysis. As if he were reading her mind, Ryan spoke up.

  “This wasn’t my idea.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I thought we should ease back into work with at least a day or two of boring paperwork catch-up. But Captain Decker insisted on sending you out.”

  “That doesn’t sound like him,” she pointed out.

  “Normally, no,” he agreed. “But he was pretty explicit about wanting to assign you a case immediately to keep you occupied. He doesn’t want you anywhere near the Dorsey case and he figured the best way to prevent that is to keep you busy.”

  “He said that?” Jessie asked.

  “Pretty much. In fact, I think he wanted me to convey that to you, kind of like a warning.”

  “Okay, noted,” Jessie said, debating briefly whether to tell Ryan about her meeting with Garland Moses.

  Ryan knew that Hannah was her half-sister but not much more. Furthermore, she hadn’t informed him of whom she had met with or why. He seemed to assume she was meeting with Kat Gentry and she hadn’t corrected his impression. She was concerned that the more he knew about her efforts to learn about Hannah’s case, the more vulnerable position he would be in professionally. She didn’t want him to have to lie on her behalf to the boss if the issue came up.

  Then again, not telling him felt like a personal betrayal of sorts. She glanced over at Ryan Hernandez, two years her senior, and quietly asked herself what she owed him. After all, while he was a detective and she was a profiler, they worked most cases together and were informal partners, even if it wasn’t official.

  Beyond that, over the last few years, their relationship had evolved from purely professional to professionally friendly, to genuine friendship, and now to something else. Ryan’s wife had filed for divorce a few months ago after six years of marriage and, after some awkward verbal dancing, Ryan had recently confessed to Jessie that he was interested in her as more than just a partner.

  She had felt the same way for some time but never acted on it. She’d found him attractive ever since she’d first encountered him, giving a guest lecture at a class she attended. That was even before she learned of his impressive pedigree as a detective with an elite unit of LAPD’s robbery-homicide division called Homicide Special Section, or HSS. HSS dealt with homicide cases that had high profiles or intense media scrutiny, often involving multiple victims or serial killers.

  All that only enhanced the already dashing figure he cut. Ryan was six feet tall and two hundred pounds of street-hardened muscle. And yet, underneath his short black hair, his brown eyes exuded unexpected warmth.

  Now, with only their own mountains of personal baggage to prevent them from taking the next step, they were feeling each other out. There had been one kiss but nothing more. To be honest, Jessie wasn’t sure if either of them was ready for more.

  “Tell me about the case,” she said, deciding to hold off on telling him about the Garland Moses meeting, at least for now.

  “I don’t know much yet,” Ryan said. “The body was discovered by housekeeping in the last hour—a male, forty-something, naked. Wallet was empty—no identification, credit cards, or cash. Initial cause of death seems to be strangulation.”

  “Can’t they ID him by checking who booked the room?”

  “That’s a little weird too. Apparently the card that was used to hold the room is registered to a shell company. And the name on the register is John Smith. I’m sure it will get unraveled but right now we’re dealing with a John Doe.”

  They arrived at the massive Bonaventure Hotel, with its multiple towers and famous exterior elevators, the ones made memorable in the movie In the Line of Fire. Ryan flashed his badge to get past the police barricade and pulled up near the loading dock entrance.

  A uniformed officer met them and led them to the freight elevator and from there, to the massive central lobby. As they walked through it to get to the main bank of elevators, Jessie couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the size and number of atriums and crisscrossing hallways and stairwells. It was as if the place had been specifically designed to confuse.

  She trailed behind Ryan and the officer, taking her time, allowing the complications of the morning to fall away as she focused in on the task at hand. Her job was to profile this crime, to determine potential perpetrators. And that meant staying aware of the surroundings in which the crime had taken place—not just the room but the hotel as well. It was possible that something that happened out here may have impacted the events in that room. She couldn’t ignore anything.

  They passed a group of tourists excitedly heading for an exit in attire that suggested they were going to a famous amusement park. Just beyond them, in a circular, open bar called the Lobby Court, several men in suits were getting an early start on their drinking. A few burly men in identical blue blazers wandered around, wearing earpieces, clearly security. Jessie couldn’t decide whether they were intended to be genuinely discreet or just to give that surface impression.

 

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