evening. Granville had read Bill Diane’s entry in the logbook after shift change, and he’d heard a personal account from Battles in the locker room when they were changing out. What was it about these federal guys that made them be such pricks all the time? He figured there had to be special courses on ego inflation at the FBI Academy.
No Fibbie would ever believe it, but Granville wouldn’t trade places with a fed for anything, doubled salary included. He liked living on the water in a community where the spectrum of crime was more or less the same as you’d get in a big city, but at a fraction of the scale. His current penance of jail duty-the mandatory six-month sentence for wrecking a police cruiser in a high-speed chase-would be fulfilled in another fifteen days, and then he’d be back on the streets, doing what he loved.
He glared as the man in the suit crossed the waiting room to the reception window.
“I’m Agent Harris, FBI,” he said, producing the obligatory credentials case. “I need to speak with Jimmy Henry.”
Granville took the black leather folder from him and examined it-not because he had to, but because he could. The weight of it told him that the man was legit. Fake IDs were rarely made of the same quality of metal as the real thing. “A little late, isn’t it?” he grumped, returning the creds to their owner.
“The law never sleeps,” the agent said.
Granville rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well our inmates do, and rousting them at two in the morning is a good way to start a riot.”
“That’s what locks are for,” the agent said with a smirk. “I really need to talk with him.”
“About what?”
“About things that are confidential. Now can you please wake him?”
Granville sighed to signal what a pain in the ass it was to do this, and then he stood from his chair and pointed toward the door to his left, his visitor’s right. “Wait for me over there.” Technically, it was within his power to make the agent cool his heels until 6:30 wake-up, but he couldn’t see any good coming from returning shittiness with shittiness. He’d already pissed off his bosses enough to get jail duty for half a year; it made no sense to piss them off more.
Venice waited for the guard to leave his desk and then counted to five before she went to work. With everything cued up ahead of time, it was just a matter of a few keystrokes. The video monitors at the front desk went black for an instant, and when they returned to life, they showed Jonathan dressed just as he was right now, being let in through the security air lock, just as he was right now. Except the pictures were all about six hours old.
She’d rerouted everything she’d recorded earlier to their respective monitors. All but the camera facing the lobby and the front desk, which would continue to project a live feed. It wasn’t a foolproof plan, but given the short time they’d had to put it together, she thought it was pretty darn good.
Jonathan followed the second deputy-a blond string bean of a man whose tag read R. SHENTON — to the interview room and walked with a determined gait to the waiting table.
“I’ll be back with the Henry boy in a minute,” Shenton said before leaving. Jonathan noted that unlike his evening-shift colleague, he did not lock the door behind him.
“He’s walking toward Jimmy Henry’s cell,” Venice said in his ear. When Jonathan didn’t reply, she added, “The guards are all watching camera loops. The audio in the interview room is down.”
He nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and then added, “I don’t need to know what’s going right, only what’s going wrong.” He hated radio chatter.
Unlike his last visit when he was performing for the camera, Jonathan didn’t bother to sit. He paced the strip of tile between the door and the table. When it came time to react, he was going to have to move quickly.
A glance at his watch confirmed that it had only been two minutes, but it felt like fifteen. He understood that Shenton needed time to shackle Henry up and shuffle him down the hall, but knowledge did nothing to move the hands on the clock faster.
“They’re in the hallway, coming at you,” Venice said. “Give it ten seconds.”
Jonathan turned toward the door as it opened and stepped aside to greet his guest. Jimmy Henry wore the shackle rig as before, with his hands cuffed to his waist and his ankles hobbled by a three-foot chain. The defiant swagger from earlier had been replaced with a pale, meek aura of fear.
“Put him in the chair,” Jonathan instructed. He gestured with an outstretched arm the way a maitre d’ would show a guest to his table. It was a presumptuous thing to do in the deputy’s own house, but nowhere near as rude as what was coming next.
He let the prisoner pass, and then, just as Shenton came into range, Jonathan launched an open-handed punch, nailing the deputy with the heel of his hand at the spot where his lower jaw hinged with his upper jaw. It was the sweet spot that every boxer aims for, and Shenton was out cold before Jonathan had even finished the punch. Jonathan caught him under the arms as he spiraled toward the floor.
“Holy shit!” Jimmy shouted, jumping back and then tumbling over his designated chair. “Holy fucking shit!”
“Shut up,” Jonathan hissed. He dragged the deputy to the bolted-down table and gently laid him on the floor in front of it. Moving smoothly, as if in one continuous motion, he produced a pair of handcuffs with a flourish and attached Shenton to the table leg.
“Did you kill him?” Jimmy said as he tried to find his feet again. “Jesus, he dropped like you killed him.”
“I didn’t kill anybody,” Jonathan said. He just hoped he hadn’t broken Shenton’s jaw. He stooped to go through his pockets.
“So what do we do now?” Jimmy asked. He darted to the door and leaned out, looking both ways down the hall.
“Get inside and close the door,” Jonathan commanded. He found a ring of keys in the deputy’s front pocket and shuffled through them. He saw a standard Schlage key, probably for his house, plus a Honda key and another for a Ford. None looked like it was made for a high-security lock. He did find a handcuff key, though, and that was enough of a reason to slip the ring into his suit-coat pocket.
“There!” Jimmy said, pointing. “You just had it. That was the key to these fucking things.” He raised his hands as best he could and rattled his chains.
Finished with the unconscious guard, Jonathan stood and thrust a forefinger at Jimmy Henry. “Listen to me,” he said. “This is my op, not yours. I don’t need suggestions, and I don’t need advice. My job is to get you out. Yours is to do exactly what you’re told. Tell me this isn’t too complicated for you.”
Jimmy reared back, clearly insulted. “Dude, there’s no reason to be hostile.”
Jonathan stepped forward until their noses were nearly touching. “I’m breaking you out of prison, shithead. There are armed guards everywhere, and I want very much to wake up alive tomorrow morning. There is every goddamn reason to be hostile.”
The prisoner jingled as he took a step backward. “Really, dude-”
Jonathan silenced him with a raised finger. “Remain silent, do exactly what you’re told, and don’t do anything I don’t tell you to do. Remember that, and we’ll be just fine.” He waited for the nod that confirmed that his words had penetrated. “Good. Now when we get into that hallway, we’re going to head left, and we’re going to keep going till we’re outside. Then we’re going to catch a ride out of here.”
The prisoner cocked his head. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
His earbud popped. “Scorpion,” Venice said, “we have a problem.”
CHAPTER FIVE
For not being hungry, Jeremy Schuler faked it well. The way he wolfed down the mac and cheese, he was lucky he didn’t lose a finger. Ditto the baked beans and the orange pound cake. Skinny thing that he was, he scarfed more calories in a single sitting than Harvey consumed in an entire day. Clearly, he was a kid who didn’t go wanting very often. In Harvey’s experience, people who understood scarcity ate with more appreciation.
“That was really good,” Jeremy said as he licked the last of the cake from his fingers.
