The Perfect Trap, page 3
He paused for a second. Jessie could tell he was about to lay down the hammer.
“Rather than beat around the bush,” he continued, “I’m just going to come right out with it. The FBI is taking over the search for Mark Haddonfield.”
Jessie felt her whole body sag.
“What?” Susannah exclaimed angrily.
“I know this isn’t what—,” he started to reply.
“We’ve been after this guy for months,” the irate detective interrupted. “He’s targeting people that Jessie has previously saved. This case is under LAPD jurisdiction, specifically HSS’s. It’s ours.”
“It was yours, Detective Valentine,” Dolan told her firmly. “It’s ours now.”
There was a long, stunned pause in which no one seemed sure how to respond.
“Isn’t your plate full with the hunt for Ash Pierce?” Jamil Winslow finally asked, referencing the assassin on the loose, one who had a very personal connection to Jessie.
“It was,” Dolan replied, “but we’re handing that off to the U.S. Marshals Service. In fact, we’ve already done it.”
"So, to be clear, the FBI is overseeing the hunt for Haddonfield, but we’re working together?” Beth Ryerson asked hopefully, “pooling our resources?”
“I’m afraid not,” Dolan said. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but look around. HSS is decimated. Three of your detectives are in the hospital. Valentine here would be too if she wasn’t so stubborn. Your criminal profiler is still technically on medical leave because of a serious head injury. HSS is not equipped for this right now.”
“That’s not fair,” Jessie found herself shouting in unison with Susannah.
Dolan shrugged.
“I agree,” he admitted. “But over half of your unit is hospitalized or should be. You’re in no position to help. It’s moot anyway. Chief Decker has already signed off on the change. Your unit will be kept apprised but not formally assisted.”
Susannah looked she was about to object again when Ryan cut her off.
“He’s right,” he said. “We’re not in a position to pursue this case right now. The only HSS team members who haven’t been admitted to the hospital in the last week are me, Jamil, and Beth. Need I remind you, I have a whole station to run. And Jamil and Beth are researchers, not cops.”
“Having said that,” Dolan added, “while HSS is technically no longer a part of this case, we could certainly use your research team’s assistance, if you’re willing to share them. It would help us a lot to have access to everything you’ve compiled in recent months rather than having to start from zero.”
“Of course,” Ryan said without hesitation. “Jamil and Beth are at your disposal. Let’s end this meeting now so you can talk with them.”
Susannah didn’t object this time. Jessie knew that even she couldn’t find fault with the offer. Jamil Winslow and Beth Ryerson were a key part of what made HSS so effective.
Jamil, only twenty-five, was not what one might picture when imagining the research leader of LAPD’s top investigative unit. Short and incredibly skinny despite taking on an aggressive workout regimen lately, with thick glasses and no sense of fashion style, Jamil was quite literally a genius. He was capable of filtering through massive databases, sorting surveillance video into manageable buckets, or making complicated financial records understandable, all seemingly in the blink of an eye.
Beth was almost his polar opposite. An unfussily attractive former college volleyball star at UC Santa Barbara, she was over six feet tall, dwarfing even Jessie. But she didn’t just contrast with Jamil physically. She more than compensated for her supervisor’s reserved demeanor with her outgoing one. Her perpetually chill, friendly vibe was the complete inverse of Jamil’s constant, jittery intensity. She almost always had a sunny disposition.
But her casual demeanor had hidden advantages. First, it masked an especially sharp mind, which people tended to underestimate. Secondly, her relaxed energy helped center her more high-strung boss, keeping him focused and positive. As co-workers, they were well-matched.
And what Jessie knew—which no one else did—was that in recent weeks they’d become well-matched personally as well. Independent of that little detail, their shared knowledge and commitment would be an asset to the Clone Killer investigation, no matter who was running it.
Dolan moved in their direction, but Jessie cornered him before he could get there.
“I’m sorry, Jessie,” he said, holding up his hands, “but this wasn’t my call.”
“I understand that it’s not your fault,” she assured him. “That’s not what I want to talk to you about. You said that the Marshals were taking over the search for Ash Pierce?”
“We handed off the case just before I came over here,” he confirmed.
“Did you make any progress before that?”
“You mean in the twelve hours since she broke into your sister’s safe house last night and almost killed both her and her bodyguard?” he asked defensively. “No, Jessie, we haven’t.”
“It’s not a crazy question,” she noted, trying not to get agitated herself. “Pierce jumped out a second-story window to escape when she heard the cops coming. She left on foot in the middle of a rainstorm. Isn’t it reasonable to think she might have been noticed under those circumstances?”
“Of course,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply the question was out of bounds. I guess I’m just frustrated. It’s like she completely disappeared, and we don’t have any idea how. It’s been the same thing ever since she escaped from that prison transport five days ago. We think we have a lead on her, but it dries up. Clearly she’s got multiple hiding spots in the city that she’s established over the years and she’s making full use of them.”
“So you can understand why I’m a little on edge,” Jessie told him. “No one knows where she is, and she’s apparently made it her mission to find my sister. She did it once, even though Hannah was supposedly in a secure safe house. Now Hannah has been moved to a new one and almost no one know where, other than her and her bodyguard, Rufus. Not even Grover, my security guy over there, is in the loop, and he’s Rufus’s boss.”
“That may be for the best, Jessie,” Dolan told her. “If they’re holed up somewhere solid and they don’t communicate with the outside world, it will be virtually impossible for Pierce to find Hannah, no matter how skilled she is.”
“I’d like to believe that,” Jessie replied, “but Ash Pierce was a Marines Special Operations element leader and later, a CIA asset who conducted covert assassinations before becoming a hitwoman for hire. She’s working on a different level. And if she finds Hannah, we might not know until it’s too late.”
“Listen,” Dolan said, leaning in close so that only she could hear. “We may have handed this off to the Marshals, but that doesn’t mean we’re blind.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means that part of the deal was that two of my agents were allowed to stay on as advisors. I get constant updates. And if I learn anything new, you can bet I’ll share it with you right away. Don’t forget, I was there the night you first met Hannah, even before you knew she was your half-sister. I saw the carnage that her father—that your father—caused, torturing her and killing her adoptive parents. This is personal for me, too."
“I get that, Jack,” she told him. “But it’s not the same. Within weeks of that night, I went from not knowing I had a sister to becoming her guardian. I’ve spent the last two years raising her, helping her recover from the trauma she suffered. Now, she was finally moving into a new stage of her life. She was supposed to start college on Monday. But instead, she’s god knows where, living in constant fear of a professional assassin who’s only goal is to kill her.”
“I know,” Dolan assured her. “And I know how important this is to you. We’ll find Pierce.”
Jessie nodded. But she knew his words were empty. He couldn’t promise anything. No one could.
Ash Pierce was out there and until she was brought down, Jessie would never rest easy. The thought made her head start to hurt.
CHAPTER THREE
They finally got a few minutes alone.
Jessie followed Ryan into his office. Grover, who had been walking several steps behind them, positioned himself outside as Ryan closed the door. He was about to turn on the light when she grabbed his hand.
“Don’t,” she requested. “I can feel another headache coming on. Let’s keep it dark in here.”
Normally, Jessie would have fought through the discomfort to keep him from worrying, but she didn’t have the strength for it today. She made her way over to the ratty loveseat along the back wall of his office and settled into it.
“How bad is it?” he asked, concerned.
“I’m hoping to keep it at bay with some quiet time,” she said. “But with everything going on—the lack of sleep and the stress—I’m struggling. I can’t help but feel like it’s all unraveling.”
“What do you mean?” Ryan asked, taking a seat beside her.
She leaned over and rested her head on his chest, allowing herself a long sigh.
“Obviously the head stuff is a constant concern,” she acknowledged. “It was one thing to suffer that initial concussion when Andy Robinson blew up that mineshaft after she kidnapped me six months ago. But then to have my neurosurgeon tell me that I’m at risk for Second Impact Syndrome—that suffering another concussion before I completely recovering from the first one could lead to rapid brain swelling, seriously increasing the chance of death? That warning has literally hung over my head ever since.”
“I get it,” Ryan sympathized. “And then you suffer another concussion by slamming your head into the side of that pool last week while taking down that sorority killer. It’s a lot to deal with. But remember, you avoided the immediate risk. It could have been so much worse.”
“I know,” she said. “But it’s not like I’m out of the woods. And that fear is just hovering there on top of everything else.”
“Everything else?” Ryan asked.
"Sure," she said, lifting her head and looking him in the eyes. "Trey Clark’s death, the injuries to multiple members of HSS, all while completely failing in our efforts to find Haddonfield. Let’s not forget that this so-called Clone Killer is doing all this because of me. He seemed like a fan when I met him on campus at UCLA that one time last year, but clearly his enthusiasm has morphed into something twisted. He murdered people that I had saved from other serial killers. He’s trying to punish me before he kills me. And I haven’t been able to do a thing to stop him.”
“That’s not true,” Ryan reminded her. “You uncovered his identity. Now he’s on the run, trying to avoid capture rather than going after other victims.”
“Tell that to Trey Clark’s family,” Jessie said. ‘Haddonfield is still leaving death and destruction in his wake, even if it’s not as targeted. But that’s not everything.”
“Tell me,” Ryan said, squeezing her hand.
“I just talked to Jack Dolan,” she said, “and even though he said that the Marshals are making catching Ash Pierce a priority, I can’t stop picturing that woman finding Hannah and torturing her the way she did to Kat. Every time I think about it, my gut seizes up in pain. I’m just so sick and tired of being sick and tired.”
Ryan looked at her closely. It was obvious that he wanted to say the perfect thing that would make everything better, but they both knew those words didn't exist.
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” he suggested tentatively, “but maybe you should go home for a while, see if you can get a few hours of sleep. It might help with the headache, and it could help clear your mind, so that it doesn’t all seem so overwhelming.”
She smiled at him, well aware that he really was trying his best. But he had to know it was a futile effort.
“No,” she told him, “I already feel helpless. Going back to the house, where I’d be alone except for Grover? That’s not going to make me feel any better. And I wouldn’t get any sleep there either. I’d be constantly worried that I was missing something important. I need to stay here, in case there are developments.”
The frustrated expression he tried to hide told her where he stood. He was worried about her, and he likely felt as helpless about it as she did. But he didn’t argue, clearly sensing that it would serve no purpose.
“You know that as much as I’d like to, I can’t stay with you,” he said. “While I was dealing with the aftermath of the bombing, the rest of the business of Central Station didn’t stop. In the last twelve hours, there were two other murders, three rapes, and five robberies assigned to us. I have to catch up on things.”
“I know,” she said. “Captaining doesn’t stop for anyone. You should go take care of all that. I’ll be fine.”
He started to get up when she asked him a question.
“Will you be fine?”
He sat back down.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Are you still thinking of resigning as captain and returning to HSS exclusively, like you mentioned in our couples’ counseling session with Dr. Lemmon?”
He shrugged noncommittally.
“On days like this, it seems pretty appealing,” he admitted. “Would you be upset if I did?”
This time, she squeezed his hand before leaning in and giving him a peck on his soft lips.
“I’ll support you, whatever you choose to do,” she said. “I just want you to be happy.”
He smiled, then kissed her back, only his wasn’t just a peck. She leaned into it, closing her eyes and allowing all her concerns to fall away as she focused only on Ryan. Suddenly, his cell phone rang.
She pulled back. Both of them recognized the ringtone. It was Los Angeles Chief of Police Roy Decker. When Decker called, voicemail wasn’t an option—you pick up.
“Sorry,” Ryan said, reaching for the phone.
“It’s okay,” Jessie whispered as all the concerns that had briefly disappeared rushed back into her head.
“Hello, Chief,” Ryan said, holding the phone to his ear.
Even though the call wasn’t on speaker, Jessie could hear Decker clearly. As usual, he was blunt and to the point.
“We’ve got a problem, Hernandez, and I need your help to solve it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Mark Haddonfield was not happy.
As he sat in the stiff-backed chair of the darkened living room, staring through a narrow slit in the blinds at the house down the block, he tried to recall how he’d gotten to this point.
This wasn’t how his elaborate plan to undo Jessie Hunt was supposed to play out. When he first came up with what he called The Strategy last spring, everything had seemed so simple. He would make Jessie pay for her hypocrisy and her cruelty to him by delivering a delicious comeuppance. It had worked wonderfully at first.
He studied her past cases, specifically ones in which she had caught serial killers. Then he chose near-victims of those killers who would have been murdered if not for Jessie’s intervention. He found those people and killed them, using the same method that the original serial killer would have employed.
At first it had been hard. After all, he was a twenty-one-year-old college student. He'd never killed anyone before. That’s why the first victim he chose was a cheating drunkard who would not be missed by anyone. The next victim was harder to eliminate. Yes, she was a rich, entitled piece of work, but she was also a wife and mother to two young children. But he’d managed to get the job done.
Each successive kill was easier, even if the people he took out were largely innocents who didn’t deserve what he did to them. But that wasn’t the point. The goal was to teach Jessie Hunt a dual lesson. First was that no one she rescued was truly safe and that simply by being in her orbit, they were forever in danger.
Second, and more importantly, she was learning that she could no longer behave with unbridled impunity, treating people like him as second-class citizens. All he had wanted was to take her seminar in criminal profiling at UCLA. He’d been a huge fan of her work. He had even transferred from Stanford specifically to study under her tutelage and become a profiler like her.
But he'd been thwarted at every turn. First, he was denied admission to her seminar because he was only a junior, and seniors got priority for hugely popular classes. He’d tried to meet with her to get into the class the next quarter, but she never showed up for office hours—something about security concerns. Then, as if to spite him, she went on sabbatical from the school, returning full-time to work at LAPD’s Homicide Special Section.
He had been tossed aside, stuck in a strange city, without friends or family, at a school he’d only come to for her. And yet she faced no consequences for leaving him high and dry. She was oblivious to his falling grades, his crushing loneliness, or the dismissive nastiness of his fellow students.
In fact, she was celebrated for her profiling successes, constantly on the news because she had brought down this wrongdoer or captured that killer. It was as if she was rubbing salt in his wound. It was as if she was daring him to do something about it.
So he did. And for a time, it was perfect. His first four kills had gone down without a hitch. It was during the fifth that things fell apart.
“That was your fault,” the familiar voice of Jessie Hunt told him, breaking the silence of the living room.
Mark nodded. Jessie was right. Had he simply stuck to the kill, he wouldn’t be in this position right now. But he’d gotten distracted. And he’d paid the price.
“At least you can admit it now,” Jessie said condescendingly. “That’s progress.”
“You don’t have to rub it in,” Mark muttered under his breath. “I know I screwed up.”
There was no denying it. While preparing for his fifth kill at a fancy beach house near the Santa Monica Pier, he’d allowed himself to observe the activities of Hannah Dorsey, Jessie Hunt’s sister, who was vacationing in the area with her friends. Rather than keeping his eye on the prize, he’d become infatuated with the lovely Hannah.
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