The Perfect Lie. Блейк Пирс

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СКАЧАТЬ bald head, deep creases in his face, a sharp nose, and small, penetrating eyes. He was talking to a uniformed officer but was clearly there to meet her.

      “Wow,” she said sarcastically to the Marshals in the front seat. “I feel like a woman in the eighteenth century being formally handed off from her father to her husband.”

      The Marshal in the passenger seat scowled back at her. His name was Patrick Murphy, though everyone called him Murph. Short and trim, with tightly cropped light brown hair, he projected a no-nonsense sensibility, though that turned out to be a bit of ruse.

      “That scenario would require a husband who wanted to take you in, which I find highly unlikely,” said the man who had coordinated much of her security while she on the run from multiple serial killers.

      Only the slightest hint of a grin at the edges of his mouth hinted that he was joking.

      “You are, as always, a prince among men, Murph,” she said, faux-politely. “I don’t know how I’m going to muddle through without your charming personage at my side.”

      “Me either,” he muttered.

      “Nor without your conversational charisma, Marshal Toomey,” she said to the driver, a massive man with a shaved head and a blank expression.

      Toomey, who rarely spoke, nodded silently.

      Captain Decker, who had finished talking to the officer, looked at the three of them impatiently, waiting for them to get out of the car.

      “I guess this is it,” Jessie said, opening the door and getting out with more energy than she felt. “How’s it going, Captain?”

      “More complicated today than yesterday,” he said, “now that I’ve got you back on my hands.”

      “But I swear, Captain, Murph here has collected a hefty dowry to go along with me. I promise not to be a burden and to always earn my wifely keep.”

      “What?” he asked, perplexed.

      “Oh, Pa,” she said, turning back to Murph. “Do I have to leave the farm? I’ll miss you and Mother ever so much.”

      “What the hell is going on?” Decker demanded.

      Murph forced his face into a mask of seriousness and turned to the confused cop who had walked over to the passenger window.

      “Captain Decker,” he said formally, handing over clipboard with a sheet of paper on it. “The protection duty of the U.S. Marshal Service is no longer required. I hereby officially relinquish custody of Jessie Hunt to the Los Angeles Police Department.”

      “Custody?” Jessie repeated testily. Murph, ignoring her, continued.

      “Any additional security measures are now the obligation of your department. Signing this document acknowledges such.”

      Decker took the clipboard and signed the paper without reading it. Then he handed it back and looked at Jessie.

      “Good news, Hunt,” he said gruffly, without any of the enthusiasm that usually accompanied good news. “The detectives trying to track down Bolton Crutchfield found video footage of someone matching his description crossing the Mexican border yesterday. You may finally be free of the guy.”

      “Facial recognition confirmed it?” she asked skeptically, losing the fake voice for the first time.

      “No,” he admitted. “He kept his head down the entire time he walked across the bridge. But he matches the physical description almost perfectly and the very fact that he took care never to be cleanly captured in video suggests he knew what he was doing.”

      “That is good news,” she said, deciding not to comment beyond that.

      She agreed that she was likely no longer in Crutchfield’s crosshairs, but not because of some sketchy surveillance video that seemed far too convenient. Of course, she didn’t feel like she could tell Decker the real reason was her hunch that the killer had a soft spot for her.

      “You ready to get back to work?” he asked, satisfied that he had addressed any lingering concerns she might have.

      “In just a minute, Captain,” she said. “I just need a quick word with the marshals.”

      “Make it fast,” Decker said as he walked several steps away. “You’ve got a busy day of sitting behind a desk ahead of you.”

      “Yes sir,” she said before leaning down to the driver’s window.

      “I think I’ll miss you most of all, Scarecrow,” she said to Toomey, who’d been her primary assigned marshal for the last two months. He nodded back. Apparently no words were necessary. Then she walked around to the passenger side and looked at Murphy guiltily.

      “All joking aside, I just wanted to say how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You put yourselves on the line to keep me safe and I’ll never forget it.”

      He was still on crutches, though the casts on his legs had been removed last week, replaced by soft boots. That was around the same time he was permitted to remove the sling around his arm.

      All those injuries were a result of being hit by the car Xander Thurman was driving when he ambushed him and Jessie in an alley. He’d broken both legs and his clavicle. So officially, he was on leave from the service for another four months. He’d only come this morning to see her off.

      “Don’t start getting emotional on me now,” he protested. “We’ve got this ‘hard-bitten, reluctant allies’ thing down cold. You’re going to mess it up.”

      “How’s Emerson’s family doing?” she asked quietly.

      Troy Emerson was the marshal her father had shot in the head that terrible night. Jessie hadn’t even known his first name until after he died, nor that he was recently married with a four-month-old son. She hadn’t been able to go to the funeral because of her injuries but had subsequently reached out to Emerson’s widow. She hadn’t heard back.

      “Kelly’s getting there,” Murph assured her. “She got your message. I know she wants to get back to you but she just needs more time.”

      “I understand. To be honest, I’d understand if she never wanted to speak to me.”

      “Hey, don’t take all this on yourself,” he replied, almost angrily. “It’s not your fault your dad was a psycho. And Troy knew the risks when he got into this job. We all did. You can feel sympathy. But don’t feel guilty.”

      Jessie nodded, unable to think of a suitable response.

      “I’d give you a hug,” Murph said. “But it would make me wince, and not for emotional reasons. So let’s just pretend we did, okay?”

      “Whatever you say, Marshal Murphy,” she said.

      “Don’t start getting formal on me now,” he insisted as he delicately eased himself back into the passenger seat of the car. “You can still call me Murph. It’s not like I’m going to stop calling you by your nickname.”

      “What’s that?” she asked.

      “The pain in my ass.”

      She СКАЧАТЬ