(2011) The Gift of Death (27 page)

34

If this is what crazy felt like then I’m well and truly
loco
, thought Josh. Anxiety was clawing at the back of his skull, eating away his mind like an ants’ nest lodged in the brain. His mouth was dry. His skin felt itchy, somehow not his own. And his vision was blurred, foggy. He took another sip of black coffee, hoping that the caffeine would help him concentrate. But it was no use. He couldn’t think about the case. All he could think about was Kate.

He had left twelve messages on her voicemail now and still no reply. He’d called Cassie, but also no pick up. He got the feeling that something else was going on that had nothing to do with “them”. What the fuck was Kate up to?

He dialled the house in Beverly Hills, his fingers shaking as he did so.

‘
Can I help you?’

‘
Mrs Cramer, it’s Josh.’

No response.

‘
Look, I know I’m not exactly your best friend now, but –‘

‘
But what Detective Harper?’

The use of his surname stung him.

‘
Have you seen Kate? Do you know where she is?’

‘
After how you have treated her I don’t think it’s any of your business anymore. And now I’m going to hang up. Good-‘

‘
No, listen. I’ve just been on the phone to Naylor, you know the guy stationed outside your house? He told me that Kate and Cassie are having a nap. Could you check for me please?’

‘
Well –‘

‘
I think Kate may have put herself in danger.’

There was silence again. But he could tell that she was concerned.

‘
Just stay on the line. I’ll go and check.’

Josh heard the old lady shuffle her way across the room. He pictured her slowly climbing the wide staircase, passing the framed portraits of herself that lined the walls, images from her movie star days, walking down the grand corridor towards Kate’s room. The first time he had gone in there to make out with her he had felt like some stupid teenager. He’d never forget that sense of anticipation, of excitement.

As he waited he felt his heart beating furiously. Was he going to have a coronary as well as be certified insane?

He heard a muffled sound on the phone. She had picked up an extension upstairs.

‘
Josh?’ Her voice was weak. ‘They’re not here. They’ve gone.’

‘
When was the last time you saw her?’

‘
Well, I’ve just woken up from my nap. It must have been - it was earlier today. A lady came over, a rather larger black lady who Kate said worked down at the public record office.’

‘
I didn’t even know she had a friend who worked in public records.’

‘
Gloria, that’s right. A friend of Cassie’s. She came over to help them with something, I don’t know what.’ Her voice sounded distant, vague somehow.

‘
You’ve got no idea where they’ve gone? I’m sorry to bother you, but I truly believe that Kate may be about to do something really dumb. As in dangerous.’

‘
I don’t know. They were messing about with a computer. They kept mentioning names, doing researches or whatever you call it. All beyond me, I’m afraid.’

‘
Listen. Can you check to see if Kate’s laptop is still there?’

‘
Her laptop?’

‘
Yes, you know her computer, the one she carries around with her. If you go downstairs I’ll call you back in two minutes. Okay?’

‘
Oh, my. I wouldn’t know –‘

‘
This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to ask Naylor – the police officer – to come in and check the computer. And you’ll let him in. Okay?’

‘
Very well. You don’t think Kate’s in any danger, do you? I thought that monster – that Gleason – was dead.’

‘
He is. And let’s pray she isn’t. But we haven’t much time.’

35

Kate walked into the hotel to find no-one at the reception desk. Not that the dirty, litter-strewn, coffee-stained table really warranted that term. She looked up and down the windowless hallway. No sign of life except for the sound of a TV set blaring away in one of the rooms. She wrinkled her nose as the faint odour of urine inveigled its way into her nostrils.

As she walked behind the desk she noticed a bin full of empty Jack Daniels bottles. I wonder what came first, she thought, the shit job or the drink. Then she remembered how much she used to put back. Easily a couple of vodka tonics and a bottle of wine a night. But her drinking was related to stress relief. Yeah, right, she said to herself, who are you kidding? If she hadn’t had been forced to give up alcohol what state would she have been in now? Maybe her pregnancy was a life saver after all.

Under the rim of the desk was a series of black metallic discs each bearing a number ranging from 1 to 33; some of the spaces were empty, others had keys dangling from hooks that reminded Kate of a row of hanging men. She started to search the desk for a clue. Obviously, the owner of this joint didn’t hold much care for order. His booking and reservation system seemed to consist of scraps of paper covered with spidery handwriting and illegible scribbles. Kate managed to decipher some names – there was a Jon Louther in room 23, who was staying for five days; a Maria Juavez in 10, who was here for two weeks; and a Mr Smith in room six, next to which the manager had drawn a question mark.

She ran her hands over a clutch of unpaid service bills, a couple of court orders, a threatening letter from an angry ex-wife, but nothing that told her the room number for Bobby Gleason. Just then she heard someone flush a toilet down the end of the hallway. She moved away from behind the desk just as the door swung open.

A large, heavy-set man started to walk down the corridor towards her. His eye sockets looked like they were in the process of closing up, lost in the fat of his face, and as he came closer he fixed her with a hard bead of an eye.

‘
Can I help you?’

‘
I’m looking for a room - just for a night,’ she said.

‘
Sorry, we’re full.’

Even if she hadn’t snooped around his desk she would have known that he was lying.

‘
Oh, really, that’s a shame,’ she said, trying to adopt a more lazy way of talking. ‘I could sure do with a room for the night.’

He assessed her coolly, as if she were a specimen that he had only ever encountered before at a distance. As he approached, she smelt a mixture of stale sweat and cheap bourbon.

‘
Look, lady,’ he said, walking around his desk and dropping his 200-pound frame into the chair. ‘I don’t know what you want, but let’s not talk shit here. You don’t need a room. If you needed a room you’d go and check in at the Marriott, the Hilton or one of those other places on West Century Boulevard. Even if you were on a budget – which from your two hundred dollar jeans I doubt very much - you wouldn’t chose to come to this shithole. Why would you?’

She played with her purse, nervous now.

‘
What are you? You’re not a cop, I can see that. Let’s see. A private investigator? No, way too classy for that. I got it - you’re a goddamned reporter. What you after? I might be able to help – for a small exchange of some sort.’

‘
You’ve busted me,’ she said, smiling. She thought of Cynthia Ross. ‘Yeah, I’m a journalist – freelance - working on a story for the
Times
.’

‘
So how can I help?’ he said, standing up again, and coming closer.

‘
I’m Gruen, by the way, Dave Gruen,’ he said, stretching out his hand. The touch of it – all slimy and wet – made Kate think of an enormous carp her dad had once caught when they’d gone on a fishing trip. She couldn’t bear the thought of it wriggling in her palms and so when he had given it to her to hold she’d tossed it back into the water.

‘
Hi, I’m Donna. Donna Davies.’ It was the name of a friend from high school.

If he laid a finger on her she would – what? What could she do? She needed that information.

‘
I’m trying to find a Robert – or Bob, Bobby – Gleason. I believe he’s staying here?’

‘
That’s right, honey.’

‘
Could you tell me which room he’s in?’

‘
Could do.’

Kate started to open her purse.

‘
Look, I can’t stretch to much – this is my own money here – but I can give you – what? – twenty bucks?’

‘
You’re kidding me, right?’

‘
Okay – what about thirty?’

‘
Fifty.’ It was not so much a request as a statement. ‘I don’t like to do this – it’s against my principles – but if I do give some info to a reporter then it’s got to be worth my while, you understand.’

‘
Okay, then. Fifty it is.’ She grappled for the money. ‘Here it is. Two twenties and a ten.’

As she handed over the money she felt his fat fingers stroke the underside of her palm.

‘
Which room?’ she said, pulling away from him.

‘
No need to start acting up, lady,’ he said. ‘Only trying to be nice and friendly.’

‘
Where’s the goddamned room?’

‘
Number 27, second floor, right at the end.’ She tried to recall whether the disc with 27 etched into it had a key attached.

‘
Is he in?’

‘
I think so.’ He went to look behind the desk. ‘Yep, his key’s not here so I guess he is. So go straight up, but don’t tell him anything about our – arrangement, okay? Oh, you’ll have to take the stairs, though. Elevator’s out of order.’

‘
Okay, thanks,’ she said, walking away from him.

She took out her cell to check she still had a signal. There was another missed call from Josh.

As she climbed the poorly lit stairway she felt herself growing more anxious. She tried to take a deep breath, but it was useless. Fear began to tighten her throat like a noose around her neck. She could always go back, take Cassie’s advice and call Josh or 911. But that would give Josh the satisfaction of solving the case when, from what she could gather, he’d done fuck all. No way.

Because she was so afraid she deliberately forced herself to walk quickly down the gloomy corridor. She couldn’t quite believe she was standing outside room 27. On the other side of the door was the man who wanted to harm her, possibly even kill her. She raised her hand and knocked. She couldn’t hear anything from inside. Was he out? Could Gruen have been wrong? As she lent forward to put her ear to the wood, the door opened.

She reared back to see a tall, white-haired man, youngish, with white skin and pink eyes. He looked like a ghost. It was a moment before Kate realised he was albino. He didn’t seem surprised to see her standing there at his door. In fact, his eyes didn’t seem to register any emotion whatsoever.

‘
I know who you are,’ he said. His voice was gentle, almost like a whisper.

Just as Kate opened her mouth to speak he reached out and pulled her into the darkened room. She tried to resist, but his grip on her arm was too strong. He clamped his hand over her mouth. She felt her lips press into her teeth and tasted blood. He pushed her into a chair and clamped a pad over her mouth, securing it with brown sticky tape. Then he tied her hands behind her back with a piece of rope.

It took her a while before her eyes adjusted to the gloom – the blinds looked like they had never been opened, and the only light in the room came from the soft glow of candles. She wished she had just sat there quietly with her eyes tight shut. What she saw turned her insides to liquid.

The room was some kind of temple devoted to a dead serial killer. Gleason was the god, the albino the ultimate worshipper. Wherever she looked she was confronted by photocopies of the face of Bobby Gleason, some which had been blown up so that his image nearly covered a whole wall. There were headlines from newspapers, tracking the case from the first killing in 1992 to Gleason’s arrest in 1997, the subsequent trial and imprisonment until his suicide in 2000. Arranged around the walls were cut-outs of the faces of young women, women Kate recognised as Elizabeth Ventura, Jane Gardener, Teresa Collins, Frances Silla and Tracey Newton. Gleason’s victims.

On a piece of paper tacked to the ice box in the corner of the room was a list of everyone involved in the case. At the top was her name; next was Cassie’s.