Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (15 page)

‘About the same.’

We shared a laugh.

‘You need a favor, don’t you?’

I smiled; Kelly could read all my moves.

34

^{___________________________}

The house was as exactly as I’d left it. Doors locked. Drapes closed. One person’s dirty dishes in the dishwasher. A change of clothes hanging around in the closet.

I dropped car keys on the table. Shucked off my coat. Deleted the silent recording on the answering machine.

We are all creatures of habit.

I went upstairs. Down the short hall. Placed a hesitant hand on the door knob of the master bedroom. Leaned my brow against the painted wood. Did my best to breathe away the terrible thoughts associated with the room. Couldn’t bring myself to turn the knob and go inside any more than I had done these last twelve months. I went back down the stairs instead.

The hidden key was exactly where I’d left it. I used it to unlock the basement door. Then descended the creaking stairs into darkness. Groped around for the pull switch. Pulled on lights.

I’d converted part of the basement a while back. Planned to use it as a den at the weekends. Hang out with Harry. Watch the game. Guzzle beer. All that kind of childish man stuff. I’d even installed a big plasma TV and a pair of matching La-Z-Boys. But the TV hadn’t been turned on this last year. And my cable subscription had expired I don’t know when.

 
We all have our obsessions.

One whole wall of the den was plastered with photographs. Print-outs. Post-its. Forming a multi-colored mosaic that spanned the last twelve months of the life of a man I’d never met. It looked disorganized. But I knew where everything was – every scribbled word, every newspaper clipping, every dead end. None of it had been here twelve months ago. Just a poster from an old movie I was trying to forget.

I opened up my laptop. Got an energy drink from the little trendy refrigerator in the corner. Drank it while the computer booted. Then I sat down. Put on my readers. Checked emails. Scrolled through the masses of junk that multiples like bacteria. Promises to enhance my manhood. Promises to get me out of my financial fix. Promises to wire a million dollars to my bank account if I helped the grief-stricken widow of an African despot. Promises, promises. I deleted them en mass. There were several communications from Dreads. I filed them in my
Dreads
folder without reading them – along with the hundred other unopened emails already in there.

Something was bugging me.

I made some space on the desk next to the laptop. Placed evidence bags on the surface. Switched on the angle-poise lamp. Brought it in close. In the first bag was the torn photograph from the 7th Street Bridge. Bright colors within the cone of hot light. In the other, the faded newspaper clipping left on Marlene’s pillow. Old and yellowed. I had no right keeping them from the evidence lock-up back at the Precinct. No right at all. Didn’t matter.

I peered closer.

Samuels’ strained smile was clear to see. The forced participation of the obliged. He hadn’t wanted to appear ungrateful or even antisocial – so he’d made the effort. Wanted to be at home with his Mozart and his fancy French wine instead. But was going through the motions. Maybe as part of his University contract. Maybe for somebody else. It looked like he was wearing the same tuxedo he’d been laid to rest in by
The Undertaker
on Saturday morning. The same get-up I’d seen in every one of the photographs displayed on Samuels’ living room wall. But something was different. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

I took the folder labeled
The Mortician Murders
from the tray on my desk. Crossed the title out. Replaced it with
The Undertaker Case
.

Okay, so I keep full copies of my case files at home; no crime in that. You’d do the same.

I dug out a CSU eight-by-ten of Samuels lying on his bed in the customary pose of interment. I’m no tailor, but the outfit looked the same as the one in the torn picture. Same dinner shirt. Same cufflinks. Same ten-grand Rolex. The same crimson cummerbund and blood-red bowtie.

So why was my
Uh-Oh Radar
on full alert?

I fished out a magnifying glass and peered at the photograph through the cloudy plastic.

The shot had been taken in a TV studio. Didn’t know which one. Maybe Samuels had been interviewed on a chat show. There were big TV cameras and boon microphones in the background. The grey-haired guy with the short grey beard I thought of as Pointy Face just over his shoulder. The foot of the person who Samuels was standing next to him at the bottom of the picture. A woman’s foot, wearing a fashionable open-toed pump.

What was I missing?

I sat back and chewed some cheek.

Distantly, I heard the house phone ring. I put everything down. Went to the foot of the stairs. Waited to hear if it was my anonymous caller leaving another silent message. But the caller hung up before the answering machine stepped in.

Back in the den, my cell phone chirped.

I picked up:
Detective Fred Phillips.

‘Yes, Fred?’

 
‘Gabe, we need you here ASAP.’ He sounded excited. Slightly breathless.

‘Okay.’ I said curiously. ‘Where you at, Fred? And why?’

‘Place on Folsom street, Brooklyn Heights. We need you here ASAP,’ he repeated. ‘We think we’ve found your boy.’

35

^{___________________________}

I made my way to Brooklyn Heights with flashing neon on the dash. No sirens. No time to pick up Jamie. No time to grab that change of clothes. Or even shower. Plenty of time to wonder if Fred was right: they’d found
The Undertaker.

A handful of patrol cars had closed off access to the eastern end of Folsom Street, I saw as I hammered north along Rowan Avenue. Men and women in blue were checking their firearms and handing out bulletproof vests. A makeshift perimeter was holding back nosy onlookers. I caught sight of a big black SWAT van parked round the corner. Black-armored professionals locking and loading.

A uniform waved me down. Then a big-shouldered Watch Commander with a flushed face pulled me over. I lowered the window. Flashed ID. He nodded. Looked nervy. Made hurried hand signals to his men manning the barricade. A black-and-white reversed out the way. Tires screeched. I was waved through. The barricade closed behind me. Sealing my fate.

Folsom Street looked rundown. An undulating road of bleached asphalt, separating single-floor dwellings in dire need of upkeep. Rusting chain-links and sorry-looking palms.

I could see tense cops crouching behind overflowing trash cans. Weapons drawn. More cops six or seven houses down. Straight-backed behind wilting trees, sucking in paunches, guns held prayer-like.

Walters and Phillips must have hit the mother lode, I thought.

I scraped the curb. Got out. Went round to the trunk. Sprang the lock. Dragged out my bulletproof vest and ducked into it. I spotted the shotgun hooked to the insides of the lid. Thought about it. Then closed the trunk. These houses looked small. Cramped. No one wanted to get caught by a discharging shotgun at close quarters.

Fred and Jan and a couple of no-nonsense detectives from Central were gathered in the shade of a wheel-less camper van. I jogged over. Everybody had their dark blue body armor on. Everybody looked serious and pumped. Ready to take down a serial killer.

‘We were running checks on the flags thrown up on the mortician screening like you asked.’ Fred explained as I approached. ‘This guy, Walden Coombs, spent six months in juvenile detention ten years ago for illegal vivisection.’

It had been the last thing I’d expected to hear on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. But not surprising.

‘Neighbors’ cats, mostly,’ he added.

‘So what’s the connection?’

‘Jeffrey Samuels.’ Jan said. ‘Coombs spent a semester under his tutelage before getting booted out for stealing lab equipment.’

It was a weak strike. But I’d seen flimsier ones hitting a home run.

‘Okay. Which house are we looking at?’

‘Across the street. The pale blue door.’

I glanced around the hood of the van. The house in question looked dilapidated. Flaky paintwork. Filthy windows. Junk in the yard.

‘What do we know about this Walden Coombs?’

‘Mid-twenties.’ Jan said. ‘So far as we know, unmarried. This is his parents’ place. The father had his own veterinary practice until the recession hit. Blew his brains out in the kitchen about a year ago. As far as we know, the mother is still alive.’

‘Somebody’s done their homework.’

‘I like to be thorough.’

‘Neighbors down the street say he’s a bit of a loner.’ Fred added. ‘Spends most nights up and about.’

‘Sounds like me.’ I smiled. ‘What’s he do for a living?’

‘Works part-time clean-up over at the County Medical Center. Helps out in the morgue. Mostly nightshift.’

‘They let him back after kicking him out?’

Fred shrugged.

36

^{___________________________}

On my mark, the helmeted boys from SWAT struck the pale blue door of the Coombs residence with a handheld ram hard enough to make the flaky wood splinter inwards without much protest. The door went clattering into the hallway in a cloud of dust. SWAT poured in after it. Single-file. Fanning out. Weapons butted hard against shoulders. Unblinking eyes locked along their sights. Two SWAT down the hall. Two into the living room. Two heading for the bedrooms. Followed by a stream of teeth-clenching cops with their handhelds darting this way and that. I led the way. Heart-pumping. The place was a mess. Looked like an indoor junk yard. I scrabbled my way into the living room as another bunch of SWAT guys smashed through the back door. I heard the word
‘Clear!’
being shouted throughout the dwelling. Then everyone was holstering their weapons and the boys from SWAT were clearing out.

I met up with Jan and Fred in the kitchen. ‘Looks like nobody’s home.’

‘I wouldn’t go as far as to call this a home.’ Jan said.

 
We were all thinking the same thing. The place was a dump. Smelled like one, too. We were knee deep in a lifetime’s accumulated filth and bric-a-brac.