The Perfect House. Блейк Пирс
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didn’t need any additional stimulation.
A moment later, Officer Katherine “Kat” Gentry stepped out the prep door to greet her. She was a sight for sore eyes. Though they hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot when they’d first met last summer, now the two women were friends, connected by a shared awareness of the darkness inside some people. Jessie had grown to trust her so much that Kat was one of fewer than a half dozen people in the world who knew she was the daughter of the Ozarks Executioner.
As Kat walked over, Jessie noted once again how much of a hard-ass NRD’s head of security was. Physically imposing despite being an unexceptional five foot seven, her 140-pound body was comprised almost entirely of muscle and steel will. A former Army Ranger who’d served two tours in Afghanistan, she bore the remnants of those days on her face, which was pockmarked from shrapnel burns and had a long scar that started just below her left eye and ran vertically down the side of her cheek. Her gray eyes were measured, thoroughly taking in everything she saw to determine if it was a threat.
She clearly didn’t consider Jessie one. She broke into a grin and gave her a big hug.
“Long time, no see, FBI lady,” she said enthusiastically.
Jessie gasped for breath at the viselike embrace, only speaking once she was released.
“I’m not FBI,” she reminded Kat. “It was just a training program. I’m still affiliated with LAPD.”
“Whatever,” Kat said dismissively. “You were at Quantico, working with the authorities in your field, learning fancy FBI techniques. If I want to call you an FBI lady, that’s what I’ll do.”
“If it means you won’t crack my spine in half, you can call me whatever you want.”
“Speaking of, I don’t think I could do that anymore,” Kat noted. “You seem stronger than before. I’m guessing they didn’t just work out your brain while you were there.”
“Six days a week,” Jessie told her. “Long trail runs, obstacle courses, self-defense, and weapons training. They definitely kicked my butt into halfway decent shape.”
“Should I be worried?” Kat asked with faux concern, stepping back and lifting her arms into a defensive stance.
“I don’t think I’m any threat to you,” Jessie admitted. “But I do feel like I could protect myself around a suspect, which was definitely not the case before. Looking back, I was lucky to have survived a few of my recent encounters.”
“That’s awesome, Jessie,” Kat said. “Maybe we should spar sometime, go a few rounds, just to keep you sharp.”
“If by go a few rounds, you mean a few rounds of shots, I’m in. Otherwise, I may take a little break from the daily running and hitting and such.”
“I take it all back,” Kat said. “You’re still the same wuss you always were.”
“Now that’s the Kat Gentry I’ve come to know and love. I knew there was a reason you were the first person I wanted to see when I got back in town.”
“I’m flattered,” Kat said. “But I think we both know I’m not the person you’re really here to see. Should we stop stalling and head in?”
Jessie nodded and followed Kat into Transitional Prep, where the sterility and silence put an end to the visit’s playful vibe.
Fifteen minutes later, Kat led Jessie to the door that connected to the NRD security wing to some of the most dangerous people on the planet. They’d already gone to her office for a debriefing about the last few months, which had been surprisingly uneventful.
Kat informed her that once Crutchfield had threatened an imminent meeting with her father, the already tight security had been increased even more. The facility added additional security cameras and even more identity verification for visitors.
There was no evidence that Xander Thurman had tried to visit Crutchfield. His only guests had been the doctor who came every month to check his vitals, the psychiatrist he almost never spoke to, an LAPD detective who hoped, futilely as it turned out, that Crutchfield would share info on a cold case he was working, and his court-appointed lawyer, who showed up only to make sure he wasn’t being tortured. He barely engaged with any of them.
According to Kat, he hadn’t mentioned Jessie to the staff, not even to Ernie Cortez, the easygoing officer who supervised his weekly showers. It was as if she didn’t exist. She wondered if he was pissed at her.
“I know you remember the drill,” Kat said, as they stood at the security door. “But it’s been a few months so let’s just review the security procedures as a precaution. Don’t approach the prisoner. Don’t touch the glass barrier. I know this one will get thrown out the window, but officially, you’re not supposed to share any personal information. Got it?”
“Yep,” Jessie said, happy for the reminders. It was helpful to get her in the proper frame of mind.
Kat swiped her badge and nodded at the camera over the door. Someone inside buzzed them in. Jessie was immediately overwhelmed by the surprising flurry of activity. Instead of the usual four security guards, there were six. In addition, there were three men in workmen uniforms walking around with various pieces of technical equipment.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Oh, I forgot to mention—we’re getting a few new residents at mid-week. We’ll be full up in all ten cells. So we’re checking the surveillance equipment in the empty cells to make sure everything’s working right. We’ve also increased the security staff on each shift from four officers to six during the day, not including me, and from three to four at night.”
“That’s sounds…risky,” Jessie said diplomatically.
“I fought it,” Kat admitted. “But the county had a need and we had available cells. It was a losing battle.”
Jessie nodded as she looked around. The fundamentals of the place seemed the same. The unit was designed like a wheel with a command center in the middle and spokes extending out in every direction, leading to inmate cells. There were currently six officers in the now-cramped space of the command center, which looked like an extremely busy hospital nurses’ station.
A few of the faces were new to her but most were familiar, including Ernie Cortez. Ernie was a massive specimen of a man, about six foot six and 250 well-muscled pounds. He was in his thirties and just starting to show bits of gray in his close-cropped black hair. He gave a big grin when he saw Jessie.
“Vogue chick,” he called out, using the affectionate nickname he’d given her on their first meeting when she’d shown up and he tried to hit on her, suggesting she should be a model. She’d shut him down pretty fast but he didn’t seem to hold a grudge.
“How’s it going, Ernie?” she asked, smiling back.
“You know; same old. Making sure pedophiles, rapists, and murderers mind their P’s and Q’s. You?”
“Mostly the same,” she said, deciding not to get into the particulars of her activities the last few months with so many unfamiliar faces around.
“So now that you’ve had a few months to get over your divorce, you want to spend a little quality time with the Ernster? I’m planning to go to Tijuana this weekend.”
“The Ernster?” Jessie repeated, unable to stop herself from giggling.
“What?” he said, faux-defensively. “It’s a nickname.”
“I’m sorry, Ernster, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to have plans this weekend. But you have fun at the jai alai track. Buy some Chiclets for me, okay?”
“Ouch,” he replied, grabbing at his chest as if she’d shot an arrow in his heart. “You know, big boys have feelings too. We’re also, you know…big boys.”
“All right, Cortez,” Kat interjected, “enough of that. You just made me throw up a little in my mouth. And Jessie has business to attend to.”
“Hurtful,”