Page 9 of Fatal Pattern

“This place gives me hives.” Blade stared at the guard tower like the sniper might pick him off for sport.

Big tough guy reduced to jelly by a penitentiary. She couldn’t blame him. Probably dredged up memories he’d rather keep buried. “Want me to tuck you in the car with snacks and a blankie?”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Then move.”

Inside, the tang of chain-link and pine-scented disinfectant hit her nostrils. She would never get used to that smell. Or the way the armed guards at the security checkpoint tracked her every move. Professional paranoia at its finest. She’d been here dozens of times, yet the guards never seemed to recognize her. Fresh meat or familiar face, everyone got the same treatment.

“IDs,” the guard said, extending his hand.

Tori pulled out her FDLE credentials and Blade handed the officer his Broward County detective shield.

“Purpose of visit,” the guard asked with the flat tone of someone who’d asked the same question a thousand times.

“Inmate interview,” Tori said. “Damien Sullivan.”

The guard examined both sets of identification, comparing photos to faces, checking expiration dates, running the credentials through his computer system. Prison security didn’t rush for anyone.

“Service weapon?” The guard’s gaze flicked to Blade.

Blade unholstered his Glock and handed it over, along with his spare magazine. The guard locked both items in a numbered locker, then slid a plastic bin across the counter. “All personal belongings go in the bin. Weapons, cell phones, watches, electronics, pens, keys, everything.”

Tori dropped her notebook in the bin and waited as Blade emptied his pockets, dropping in his notebook, pen, wallet, phone, keys, and the coins he seemed to always carry.

“Don’t forget your watch. And belt.”

“Right.” He removed both and dropped them in the bin. “I think that’s it.”

The metal detector’s arch waited beyond the checkpoint, its sensors calibrated to catch everything from belt buckles to dental fillings. Blade stepped through first, arms raised. A beep confirmed he’d cleared the scan, but he looked ready to bolt through the nearest exit.

She made it through and pulled him aside to wait for their escort. “What’s with you?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s all the bars and wire mesh. Or could be the big red panic buttons lining the walls.” He swiped at a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. “Why’s it so hot in here?”

“The AC’s broken?”

The joke fell flat. This had to be difficult for him. Walking through these corridors, hearing the electronic locks engage, breathing air that tasted of sweat and desperation. His time in juvie might have been years ago, but some experiences carved themselves into your bones, and she could kick herself for not considering how this place would affect him.

“Detective St. James? Dr. Crew?” A correctional officer approached, keys jangling from his belt. His uniform was a khaki shirt with brown pants. Instead of a gun, the CO had pepper spray and a steel baton. “Name’s Trussler. I’ll be escorting you to the interview room.”

They followed the CO through the first set of electronic doors. The heavy steel slammed shut behind them, sealing them into the institutional maze. Black eyes mounted in armored housings swiveled to follow. The cameras recorded every second for guards who probably ate donuts while watching visitors navigate this cinder block labyrinth.

Each secured door required Trussler to swipe his card and wait for an invisible hand in the control booth to buzz them through. The metallic clang of locks disengaging bounced off concrete walls painted that particular shade of institutional gray that existed nowhere else on earth.

“Well, this is unexpected.”

Tori turned. Warden Maggie Quick stood near the control center, in her usual brown pants and white uniform shirt with her badge pinned above the left shirt pocket. She wore her black hair styled in a shaggy pixie cut, and Tori noticed the gray strands streaking through her part.

“Warden Quick.” She hadn’t expected to see the warden, who had a reputation for staying off the cell block and behind her desk. “Good morning. This is Detective—”

“St. James. Yes, I know. I’ve seen you on the news.” The warden offered a nod at Blade in place of a handshake. She turned back to Tori. “You’re not scheduled for evaluations today. What brings you in?”

“We’re here to see an inmate,” Tori said.

Warden Quick’s dark eyes shifted between them. “Which inmate?”

“Damien Sullivan,” Trussler interjected.