Deadly Fate (18 page)

Sally was small with curly dark hair and eyes to match; she smiled quickly and ruefully. “Once, I thought I wanted to make great movies. I'm not the best tech around, really, but when it comes to video...anyway, their ‘security' cameras at the Nordic Lights Hotel are almost older than I am. It's not digital, it's all film. But I think I've cleaned it up pretty well and I have it set to go to the screen—there.”

“Perfect, thanks,” Thor told her.

“Hit the lights—you'll see better. Almost like the movies,” Sally said lightly. “If we only had popcorn. I'll start from the beginning of the day...moving it along until we get to later in the afternoon.”

The room was darkened. Sally hit buttons on her computer; images sprang to life on the screen.

The camera angle had taken in the check-in counter, the concierge and some of the lobby. The hallway to the elevators disappeared into shadow.

For the early part of the day, Sally fast-forwarded. People moved about like ants. Thor, Jackson and Clara all stared at the screen. They saw Natalie Fontaine meet with Amelia Carson and the rest of her crew—Becca Marle, Tommy Marchant, Nate Mahoney and a young woman Clara hadn't met, but who Jackson pointed out as Misty Blaine, Natalie Fontaine's production assistant.

They saw that Natalie seemed to be giving fierce instructions to her workers, and the faces Tommy, Becca and Nate made as they listened and then turned—backpacks and suitcases in hand—to head out to Black Bear Island to prepare the Mansion.

They watched as Amelia and Natalie seemed to have a heated argument. Misty Blaine stood back—definitely not wanting to be part of it.

The tape slowed as night came on. Misty went to the elevators. Amelia went to the elevators. And then Natalie went up at last.

“That's the last we have of everyone but Amelia Carson—we see her in the morning, berating the desk clerk,” Sally said.

Clara glanced at Thor. He seemed uninterested in that. “Go back,” he said quietly. “Go back, please, to where the crew is leaving.”

Sally did.

Clara had no idea what he was seeing. The Wickedly Weird people were there, talking, involved in what they were all saying to one another.

A woman with a poodle was standing near the counter, apparently waiting for someone to come from the elevators to join her.

A group of businessmen was checking in. A couple was studying a brochure. An old man with a head of white hair, wearing a black coat and a slouched hat, was seated in a chair near the front door, reading the paper.

“What's the time line on that shot?” he asked.

“Six forty, early evening,” Sally said.

“Slow motion on his face, please. Back it up a bit, zero in on him,” Thor told her.

Sally did as requested. Clara heard Jackson's intake of breath as the man looked up. He was wearing little horn-rimmed glasses and the lower part of his face was obscured by a white beard.

Clara looked at Thor. He looked back at her.

“Tate Morley,” he said. “That's him. Tate Morley is here.”

10

T
he freeze-frame image of the man Thor was convinced was Tate Morley was printed out several times and sent around.

Not everyone who viewed the image necessarily believed that the man pictured in the rough footage was Tate Morley. Enfield himself was uncertain; Detective Brennan was hesitant to agree, as well.

Jackson, however, believed, as Thor did, that the man definitely could be the escaped convict and serial killer. He could easily change his appearance with different hair lengths and colors, facial hair and hats, glasses and all kinds of accessories.

Thankfully, Enfield and Brennan had enough faith in Thor to see to it that the man's picture was plastered all over the local news, with the warning that he was known to change his appearance.

Thor looked at the footage over and over again—to the point where he thought even Jackson might lose patience—and yet Jackson and Clara sat with him in silence as he did so.

The problem was that no matter how many times they watched the tape, the man managed to disappear.

Not into thin air, but into a large group of people who arrived for what had apparently been some kind of a pharmaceutical convention. He was obscured by a large cardboard cutout of a smiling young doctor pointing to a host of reasons to take a new drug.

The group went by, pausing in front of the man, laughing and chatting for a moment, and then proceeding to the check-in counter.

And then the man was gone. Whether he had headed out of the hotel or toward the elevators, they just couldn't see.

His disappearance was frustrating; at the least, Thor could be grateful that his superiors believed in him enough to warn the public about the possible appearance of a serial killer in their midst. Of course, the Seward population—actually the
Alaskan
population—was already on alert.

Before they left the station, Sally gave them her office space so that they could videoconference with Angela Hawkins at the Krewe headquarters.

She was perfect for Jackson, Thor thought. A woman who appeared to be extremely competent and, best of all, not just attuned to what he did with his life, but totally a part of it.

“I'm going through everything,” Angela said over the computer screen. “It's difficult, because we're tracing some calls through the routers. And his mail! My God, you wouldn't believe the amount of women out there who write to men in prison! They think they're the ones who can change them, or they're the ones who understand them. I swear to you, we'll get through all the letters and calls as quickly as possible. Luckily Will Chan is working in the office, and you know how great he is with computers and film, and people who are trying to hide with disguises or pay-as-you-go phones. We need a little time, though—please bear with us.”

“Of course,” Thor murmured. “Grateful that you're there.”

“Thanks,” she said brightly. “And I'm grateful that you're there—Jackson has talked about you quite a bit.”

“Scary,” Thor said.

Angela laughed. “All good. Anyway, I'll do nothing else but this until I have something for you,” she promised.

“Angela, what about Marc Kimball?”

Thor hadn't realized that Clara Avery was as close as she was until she spoke; neither, apparently, had Jackson.

He'd forgotten, too, that she knew Angela—that she had spent time with her in New Orleans after the Archangel affair.

“Clara! I'm so sorry you're involved in all this,” Angela said.

“It's okay. Hey, I'm with the best of them, right?” Clara said.

“Don't you two dare leave her alone,” Angela said firmly.

“Don't worry. I won't let them. But what about Kimball? He's freaky-scary-slimy, even if he isn't a crazy murderer,” Clara said.

“Ah, yes, Marc Kimball!” Angela said. “His business policies are certainly questionable—especially everything I've read regarding the treatment of his employees. They've had protests, they've tried boycotts...but, people need jobs. According to reports, he was flown via his private jet from New York City to Alaska yesterday morning after learning about the terrible crimes at his property. All I know for sure is that his jet did leave NYC for Alaska. I haven't found an eyewitness account of him getting on or off the plane. Private jets at small airports fly by different laws than commercial liners, so finding someone at a small airport isn't easy—especially when it comes to a very rich man who has always seemed concerned about his privacy.” She paused. “We have proof that the plane left NYC, and we have proof that it landed. But we interviewed the pilot and he never saw Kimball. Doesn't even know what he looks like. He was given his directions via an email the day before he flew, and through the intercom on the plane. He was in the cockpit before Kimball boarded. Since I didn't accept anything about the plane at face value, I can't say for a fact that he was on the plane as he claimed. But I can't say that he wasn't. There are no reports of his having been in Seward until he arrived at the police station there.”

“Thanks, Angela,” Jackson said.

“Yeah, sure,” she said, her voice dropping low and husky. “Be careful, guys, please. This sounds like a really rough situation. I mean, yes, investigating is what we do, but...”

“Of course,” Jackson said softly.

“How is your research going on the others?” Thor asked her.

“No felonies among your television crew,” she told them. “Becca Marle has some unpaid parking tickets. Tommy Marchant was reported once for domestic violence, but witnesses said that his ex-wife was the one being abusive. Nate Mahoney—once again, we're not looking at anything more threatening than parking violations. He had a juvenile record.”

“Really?”

“He robbed a convenience store with some neighborhood toughs—they pretended sticks were guns. The judge put him on probation...his father had just died. Apparently he's been clean ever since. Graduated from NYU film school and apprenticed with one of the top special-effects companies in LA. He took the job with Wickedly Weird Productions about two years ago. None of them sound as if they have the makings for murder and dismemberment. But we all know that might not mean anything.”

“No history of anyone tying firecrackers to cats' tails, throwing stones at dogs or chopping up lizards?” Jackson asked.

Angela shook her head. “Ups and downs in life. Tommy apparently had a very nasty divorce. Poor Becca was literally left standing at the altar. Nate dealt badly with the death of a parent—a situation that is definitely not unprecedented.”

“What about the couple at the house?” Thor asked.

“
American Gothic
!” Clara murmured, and Thor glanced at her.

My thoughts exactly
, he told her in silence.

She smiled slightly.

“Ah, yes, they're interesting. They've worked for Marc Kimball since he bought the property. Alaskan natives, both of them. They had one child who died in infancy. Neither had much of an education, but they are, apparently, the only people who don't kowtow to Marc Kimball. They watch his place, they cook and clean, but—I searched a lot of Facebook pages for this, by the way!—they move about Kimball in something like silence, they don't suck up to him or his guests. In fact, Ginger Vixen—of Ginger Vixen Cosmetics—wrote on a page, ‘I feel like I've entered a Victorian manse when I'm there. The servants don't talk or even crack a smile.' Apparently, she said something to Kimball about them. ‘They're the best at leaving me to my privacy and keeping a true eye on this place,' Kimball told her. As for a criminal background—no. Not even parking tickets!”

“Okay, thanks. We'll get on it here,” Thor said.

“I'm still working. I'll be in touch with anything, no matter how small,” she promised. She said goodbye to all of them. The screen went to gray.

“We'd better get going,” Jackson said.

Thor nodded and looked at him. “I think we should speak with the hotel clerk who was on duty—Arnold Haskell, if I remember correctly. And the production or production assistant who worked for Natalie Fontaine. Misty Blaine. Let's see how she's doing. We spoke when we arrived at the crime scene, but she was really hysterical. Maybe she's calmed down some. I figure she's still at the hotel?”

“Yes. None of the Wickedly Weird crew is leaving yet—they've been asked to stay. I'll check it out, find out where they both are,” Jackson said.

He turned aside to use the phone. Thor found himself looking at Clara. “You do know that this investigation could go on a very long time, right?”

She looked up at him with her incredibly blue eyes and smiled. “No, it won't,” she said. “You and Jackson won't let it take a long time.”

He hesitated. “He might have come to Alaska because of me. For revenge. That puts anyone near me in danger.”

“No,” she said. “I know Jackson, I know some of the Krewe—and now I know you. I'd be in danger if I weren't with the two of you. And you won't convince me otherwise,” she told him.

He nodded. “Well, for now... For now,” he told her. “It's true that we just might need you. I'd really like to avoid a vicious fight with Marc Kimball and twiddling my thumbs while we wait for a warrant if we need something that requires one.”

Her expression faded slightly. “He really does give me the creeps.”

“And I really do want you to keep your distance,” Thor said.

She laughed suddenly. “Suck up to him from a distance.”

“Yep, that's it,” he told her.

Jackson finished with his phone call. “Our hotel clerk, Arnold Haskell, is at the front desk at the Nordic Lights. Let's head over.”

At the Nordic Lights Hotel, the day manager was quick to come and take over for Arnold so that he could speak with them. The four of them headed over to a little group of lobby chairs; Thor noted that Clara was silent but that she was an attentive listener. He had the feeling that she'd be able to remember everything they heard—almost as if she were studying personalities or learning a script.

Arnold Haskell was a young, eager man in his early twenties. He started off by telling them that he'd already spoken to the police; he wished that he could give them more, but he could only tell them what he had seen, and what his dealings with people had been.

Thor showed him the image printed from the security footage.

Arnold Haskell frowned, studying the picture.

“Did you see this man?” Thor asked him.

“Yes, I did,” Haskell told them. “But he wasn't a guest here at the hotel.”

“You're certain?” Jackson asked him.

“Well, to the best of my knowledge. We're a fairly small, local hotel. There are only six of us desk clerks altogether, covering all shifts. You can check with the others, but if he were a guest here, I believe I would have seen him coming and going. I only saw him the one time.”

“And it was the same evening Miss Fontaine was killed?” Jackson asked.

Haskell nodded, his eyes growing larger as he stared at Thor. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I remember that Miss Fontaine was giving instructions to her people.” He hesitated. “I don't think I would have liked to work for her. The evening Miss Fontaine was killed here, he was sitting in that chair while she and her staff were talking. I remember seeing him because I thought he was a bit strange looking—kind of like I'd imagine Marc Twain to look, except that would have been a long, long time ago!”

“Did you see him leave the hotel or head for the elevators to go upstairs?” Thor asked.

Haskell frowned, thinking hard. “A whole pack of people came in—there's a drug company having their annual meeting here. They kind of overwhelmed the desk when they first arrived. They had my attention...but I think he did head toward the elevators!” Haskell said suddenly. “I mean, maybe. You know how you see things from the corner of your eye? I looked at this poster thing the drug company had. And it seemed like it was moving oddly—it jostled! I think he went behind it, toward the elevators!”

“This is important, Mr. Haskell,” Thor said. “Can you remember if he was carrying anything?”

Haskell let out a sigh. “I'm sorry. I didn't even really see the man, much less if he was carrying anything.”

If the white-haired man had been Tate Morley, how the hell had he beheaded a woman if he hadn't gotten upstairs with a weapon?

Unless the weapon had been left for him.

“I didn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary that evening or even in the morning—until all hell broke loose. And I was here from about six until after the cops came the next morning. We work twelve-hour shifts,” he explained. “Everyone loves it—gives us three days off each week.”

“I'm sure it's good,” Clara murmured, offering Haskell a smile. He smiled back at her, a little smitten.

He looked at Thor then, and he seemed even more passionately earnest. “I really want to help you in any way. This is so horrible. And the hotel is so great. Seward is great! I don't want people to stop coming here, you know?”

“They won't,” Clara assured him.

“You were still on duty through the night and the next morning, so you saw Amelia Carson before she left?” Jackson asked.

Haskell nodded. “Oh, yeah. I didn't just see her. I heard from her. She was just irate that we didn't have coffee out! I wonder what it is about people who come to Alaska. Well, I mean, I suppose I should understand. We're used to so much darkness and so much light. But Miss Carson, she just couldn't believe that I could do anything about there being no coffee. The concept of ‘hotel policy' meant nothing to her!”

Thor thanked him for his help, gave him his card and asked him to call if he thought of anything else. Then they rose and asked about Misty Blaine.

“We moved her to the concierge level—easier for a cop to stay up there and guard the hall,” Haskell said. “I'll put you in the elevator to the top. You need a key.”