Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (17 page)

‘You think it’s the killer?’ Captain Ferguson asked as I joined him outside. We could see Coombs through a pane of one-way glass. He was rocking back and forth in the metal chair. He didn’t looked fazed by his incarceration. Quite the blasé.

‘I guess he fits the bill.’ I said. ‘A misfit, white, with questionable morals and a trade that slots him nicely in the profile.’

‘But?’

‘But look at him, John. Everything about this guy is untidy. His appearance. His home. Probably his work. If we know one definite fact about the killer it’s he’s a neat freak. To the point of being obsessive compulsive. Coombs and the man we’re looking for couldn’t be farther apart if they lived on opposite sides of the planet.’

Coombs got to his feet and came up to the one-way glass. Rapped knuckles sharply against it.

‘Hello? Is anybody out there? Can I get a cola?’

39

^{___________________________}

Contrary to the movies, police work does not consist solely of chasing after the bad guy down dark, forbidding alleyways. Most of the real chasing is done sitting behind a desk with a telephone glued to the ear. Hunting down new leads. Investigating paper trails. Thankfully, careening car chases and blazing gun battles are mostly the stuff of make-believe.

The first hour we went through Marlene’s long list of acquaintances. Seeing if anyone had a bone to pick. I’d taken her address book to help with the investigation. Her contacts read like a
Who’s Who
of the rich and famous. Many were rock stars, TV personalities, movie actors. Who would have guessed? But there were just as many less-well-known names who held respectable positions in children’s charities, health foundations and research facilities. Those we did manage to speak with seemed genuinely upset by the news of her death. It was like trying to find someone with a bad word to say about Mother Theresa. Don’t even try.

The second hour we contacted schools. Seeing if they’d had any no-shows fitting the little girl’s description. There was still no word from the FBI. Which either meant nobody had reported her missing yet or nobody was missing her. As a father, the thought of my little girl disappearing without my knowing seemed a scary place to be. Were her parents, even now, oblivious to her abduction?

A quick search came up with in excess of five hundred elementary schools in the metro area. Too many to speak with individually. After the first couple of dozen I contacted the Board of Education and had them do the legwork with a generic fax.

We didn’t even know if the little girl was from LA.

By 2 p.m. the mortician list was just about complete. A grand total of six flags out several hundred candidates – including Walden Coombs. Jan and Fred had already struck off four out of the remaining five and would be looking into number six.

I didn’t want to think about Coombs and his coffin. But I did.

At 3 p.m. I called a Robbery-Homicide update. Our small team assembled around the evidence board that had been steadily filling up all day. More CSU photos had been added. More shots of death and weirdness. I recapped yesterday’s meeting. Didn’t mention the ripped photo. Nor the newspaper clipping. Then started pinning up pictures of the van den Berg crime scene.

‘So what do we know about the old doll?’ One of the sergeants asked.

‘Her name was Marlene van den Berg.’ I said. ‘A widow in her mid-eighties. No surviving children. In fact, no surviving relatives anywhere we can find. She was the last of her kind. And, as such, the sole heir to the van den Berg family fortune.’

‘Money always makes for a good motive.’ Fred Phillips remarked. ‘How much we talking, Gabe?’

‘We’re still working on finding that one out. Right now it’s with the lawyers. What I can tell you is the van den Berg empire started way back, when a hundred thousand bucks made you a millionaire. We guestimate close to a half billion, give or take.’

Somebody whistled.

‘The old doll have a hat full of enemies?’

I looked at the sergeant. ‘Too soon to tell. But we’re not expecting too many. She was liked by all. Isn’t that right, Jan?’

Janine Walters nodded. ‘Fred and I canvassed her neighbors first thing this morning. Everyone spoke highly of her. From all accounts, Marlene was a pillar of the community. With interests in over a dozen children’s charities spanning the globe.’

‘So who stands to gain from her inheritance?’

‘Good question.’ I said. ‘Lawyers being lawyers, we’re still in the dark about that. But I very much doubt Richard Schaeffer will.’

Gil Gomez, one of our fellow detectives: ‘Who’s he?’

I tapped a fingernail against a photo of the surfer dude from Huntington Beach. It had been taken while he was letting off steam down by the pool. He looked like a mad magician in his billowing bath robe.

‘Richard Schaeffer is Marlene’s live-in butler. So far he’s the only person the killer has left alive at any of the crime scenes. Why, we’re not exactly sure. But my guess is it’s important. Looks like he was hit by the same Taser as Samuels.’

‘Is he a suspect?’

‘Not at the moment. His alibis check out.’

‘What’s with the wedding gown?’

I glanced at the snapshot of Marlene lying in the sun on her lovely terracotta terrace. Surrounded by drying rose petals and the plastic-bagged shoes belonging to police personnel.

‘We presume the killer dressed her up post mortem. If you recall, we suspect he did the same with Samuels. We need to find out why he’s doing that.’

‘Have we thought about going to the Media?’ The sergeant asked.

‘We have. But not yet.’

‘First we need to link the three victims together.’ Jamie interjected. ‘Serial killers tend to target groups.’

‘Which means we can’t warn the general public to be on their guard if we have no idea what his target group is.’ I finished.

Just after 4 p.m. Captain Ferguson summoned me into his office.

The window blinds were tilted so that the late afternoon sun painted tiger stripes across the room. Ferguson was penned up behind his cluttered desk. Strumming his fingernails on the worn surface. I’d known Ferguson long enough to know that the action meant he was pissed.

‘I just got off the phone with the Commander.’ He announced as I closed the door behind me. I could hear the restrained irritation in his voice. I began to feel bad; I knew what was coming.

‘Don’t tell me; Bob Gibson called him up?’

‘Did you think for one minute he wouldn’t?’

Bob Gibson is the main man over at NBC. He’s also one of the Commander’s golfing buddies. I’d known Kelly would have had to clear my plan with him first. Fooled myself into thinking Gibson wouldn’t take it further.

‘The Commander wants to know why your plan wasn’t run past him first. I told him I’d had a busy day and hadn’t gotten round to letting him know. Now I want to know the same.’

I made a placating face.

‘Never mind.’ Ferguson said before I could come up with something, anything that didn’t sound like a flimsy excuse. ‘I expect what’s done is done.’ He checked his watch. ‘Too late to back down now. The important thing is, do you think he’ll buy it?’

I took a deep breath. I’d learned long ago never to give out enough rope to hang myself with.

‘I don’t know, John.’ I said. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time. Still does. With this Coombs guy off the hook it’s all we’ve got.’

40

^{___________________________}

The man was enjoying a quiet drink in a quiet bar. No one was bothering him. He was by himself. Sitting at a corner table. With a direct line-of-sight to a small TV set hoisted in the angle of the walls. He was minding his own business. Had been for the last hour or so. Sipping frothy beer. Watching the comings and the goings as happy patrons drifted in and happier ones staggered out.

As bars went,
The Fog Clipper
was a dive. It was a no-frills watering hole known for its home-charm karaoke. Dimly-lit. Wood-paneled. A scattering of eclectic patronage waiting turns at the dusty pool table.

The man’s name was Randall Fisk. But Randall Fisk hadn’t always been his name. At one time it had belonged to another. And he’d had somebody else’s. But the man had owned it for such a long time now that it felt like his. Ought to be his. It was comfortable. Like a favorite hat. Easy. Anonymous. Randall Fisk was an
also known as
. One of many that the man had worn over the years. An also known as. Like a zucchini was also known as something he could never remember. He had plenty of
also known as
identities waiting in the wings. Everybody had them. Difference was, his came out into the spotlight every now and then to perform.

Today he was Randall Fisk: killer. Tomorrow he could be somebody else. A headstrong character like Bill Teague, FBI Super-Special Agent. Or the pedantic Carl Benedict, Medical Examiner. That was the beauty of adoptable personas: he could become anyone he chose anytime he pleased. It all depended on which one got the job done.

At two minutes before 5 p.m. on a cooling January evening in Los Angeles, the man also known as Randall Fisk was sluicing ice-cold beer between his perfect-white teeth. Letting it fizz around his gums before slinging it down the hatch.

So far there hadn’t been any mention of him or his work on any news bulletin. Complete Media silence. Nada. Somebody was keeping their mouth shut. He wasn’t surprised; he knew how the system worked. Last thing the cops wanted was to raise a public panic. It would only make their job of tracking him ten times harder.

He checked his watch.

A few more minutes.

He was used to waiting. He’d waited his whole life. Learned to deal with the boredom by tuning time out. By thinking linear thoughts.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale …

On the TV set, the commercials were coming to a close. News time imminent. He sat up. Pushed his beer aside.

Dead on the hour, the snazzy titles of the
Channel Four News
bulletin flashed onscreen. A pair of news presenters appeared behind the blazing titles: a young male whipping boy and his black bitch sidekick.

‘Hello, I’m Nate Niemeyer.’

‘And I’m Kelly Carvelli. This is the Channel Four News. Coming up …’