Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (18 page)

For many absolutely valid reasons not fully clear to him now, the man also known as Randall Fisk detested the black bitch news presenter. Partly because she reeked of capitalism – one generation up from the ghetto and already mixing drinks with the Rockefellers. But mostly because she was a good friend of the Great Celebrity Cop – who he happened to hate with a passion. Someday somebody would have to teach that black bitch a lesson in humility.

Almost all of the news bulletin was bland flannel-filling drivel. Totally expected. He began to get bored. He got bored quickly. That was one aspect of his
condition
. Did he mention he had a condition? Was it anyone else’s business? Smart people had small attention spans. His was smaller than a nanosecond.

He considered leaving. But the picture on the TV had changed to an overhead view of what looked like an old redbrick mansion set against soccer pitch lawns.

The caption in the corner read:

‘
Breaking News: Attempted Murder of Wealthy Aristocrat at St Cloud Rd, Los Angeles County’
.

41

^{___________________________}

Bandage it up any way you like, I have a healthy aversion towards hospitals. Maybe it’s the all-pervading odor of detergent and death. Or maybe it’s something a whole lot more sinister. The week I’d spent in Cedars-Sinai ten months ago was the longest seven days of my life. Being here again was making my flesh creep.

‘Just try and leave everything in one piece.’ Eric Bryce was warning me as he stepped into the elevator. He was wringing his hands like a dodgy accountant on his way to an IRS meeting.

‘You worry too much, Eric,’ I said.

‘It’s my job. Should be yours too.’ The elevator doors closed on the Chief Administrator’s glower. ‘I’m holding you personally accountable.’ I heard him shout as the carriage dropped away.

I turned. Made my way over to the Nurses’ Station.

No doubt about it I owed Eric. He’d rung bells to get me a nice little second floor wing with a half-dozen empty rooms. Far enough away from the rest of his patients to prevent his insurers having a heart attack.

The fake news bulletin expertly delivered by my good friend, Kelly Carvelli, had been aired without hitch. As far as the killer was concerned, Marlene van den Berg had survived his attack and was now on life support here at Cedars-Sinai. Whether or not the killer had watched the bulletin only time would tell.

Officer Linda Martinez sneered at me from inside the Nurses’ Station. The Captain had put two conditions on my plan: no Jamie – she was still too inexperienced to be exposed to a potentially dangerous stakeout – and secondly, take plenty of back up. I had two undercover cops here with me. Plus, about two dozen more uniforms outside. Waiting at a discreet distance. Waiting to pounce on my command.

Martinez looked extremely uncomfortable in her nurse’s outfit. Like a bouncer in a leotard. Shorter than me by a head and heavier by thirty pounds, Martinez is the blunt end of a sawn-off shotgun. And just as nasty.

It was a little after 10 p.m..

No show from our boy. Not yet anyway. Truth was, I wasn’t expecting anything this side of midnight. I was already thinking of
The Undertaker
as a nocturnal killer. Pre-dawn. When we were at our most vulnerable. It was part of his pattern I was slowly piecing together.

My heels clicked against the tiled floor as I walked the length of the corridor. The lighting was turned low. A few nightlights giving off firefly glows near the ceiling. Plenty of shadows. Every door bar one locked.

In any ambush, maintaining a low profile is the difference between success and failure. There is a lot to be said for the element of surprise – just ask General George Custer. The last thing I wanted our killer to see if he did happen to come skulking down the corridor were two thick-necked coppers bashing their batons up and down the walls. Everything had to look ordinary. Or as ordinary as it could be with Attila the Hun camped behind the counter.

I double-checked to make sure all the doors except one were locked. They were. Then entered our trap room. Sealed myself inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark. A bank of twinkling monitors on the other side of the bed tried their best to brighten things up. Failed. In the darkness I could just make out a hunched human shape under the bed sheets. Marvin, the lab skeleton from the hospital’s teaching facility, was staring up at me through big black holes for eyes.

‘Don’t give me that look.’ I said. ‘It was the best I could do at short notice.’

42

^{___________________________}

Night skies in any sizeable metropolis are rarely full of stars. In their place hangs a filthy charcoal blanket. Washed through with the murky yellowness of reflected city lights. It was beneath this sullen glow that the killer known as
The Undertaker
now strolled, unchallenged, across the cracked asphalt of the service compound.

There was very little illumination after dark at the rear of the hospital. The wire-grilled lamp above the loading dock was out. A dead bulb – overlooked by penny-pinching bureaucrats. Which left just the wan overspill coming from a hundred windows rising into the night.

Through one such window at ground level he could see an old black porter in crisp green coveralls. Stacking cartons of toiletries. Last delivery of the day. The old guy was wearing a pair of earphones. Whistling merrily to himself. Oblivious to everything beyond the task at hand.

43

^{___________________________}

Stakeouts are ninety-nine per cent patience and one per cent perspiration. The hours are unsociable and the excitement is thin on the ground.

I checked my watch. It was late. I hadn’t heard a peep out of Martinez and her sidekick Harris for what seemed like ages. Maybe our boy wasn’t going to bite the bait. Maybe I was wasting everyone’s time. Maybe everyone had called it a day without telling me.

I stretched creaking muscles. Contemplated getting another black coffee from the Nurses’ Station. Felt the bloat in my bladder. Sat back down.

The last protracted stakeout I’d been involved in had sent a killer to ground – or underground along with the rest of the worms. No one had seen a wink out of
The Maestro
in ten long months.

The reality is, about half of all stakeouts are no-shows. Cops on stakeouts have two enemies, besides the crooks , that is: boredom and fatigue. Any one of which can adversely affect the outcome. Together they can be dangerous.

I rolled shoulders and rubbed eyes.

Marvin the Mannequin from the teaching facility was staring at me from beneath his lopsided wig.

‘What you looking at?’ I said with a yawn.

Marvin was the quiet type; he just stared back and didn’t say a word. We were getting along tremendously.

We were now officially into Wednesday.

44

^{___________________________}

I must have dropped off. Slumped in the angle of the walls. With no idea how long I’d been out. I blinked. Got my bearings. Marvin was still staring from across the room. It was still dark. I checked the time. Sat up. Something past three, I think. There was a cold sheen of sweat on my brow and a metallic taste in my mouth.

My cell phone was vibrating in my pocket.

‘Unidentified male heading your way,’ I heard Harris announce as I answered it. He sounded fired up. Ready for action.

‘Alert back up.’ I whispered back. Then jumped to my feet.

I pressed damp shoulder blades against the cool wall next to the door. Wiped away cold sweat with the back of a sleeve.

Had we hooked our fish?

I drew out my Glock and held my breath.

45

^{___________________________}

The killer also known as Randall Fisk had no time for smiles. He had work to do. Smiling could wait.

He nodded a professional
hello
to a nurse occupying the Nurse’s Station. Turned down a long corridor lined with private rooms. The lighting was low. Sleepy. His heels clacked against mopped linoleum.

His disguise was
perfect
.

He could taste the starch in his luminous white lab coat. Feel the stethoscope swing against his chest. No one queried his presence.
 
It was late; anyone with a modicum of authority was home in bed. Ignorant to the fact that a killer now stalked their prestigious hospital.

He arrived at his destination: last room on the left.
The
room. He peered through the narrow glass panel set in the teak-colored door. Saw semi-darkness. Just the barest multi-colored glimmers coming from a bank of electronic equipment. Just enough to outline the huddled shape of somebody lying in a bed.

The killer wrapped his fingers around the hypodermic in his pocket and slowly turned the door handle.

46

^{___________________________}

A silhouette passed across the glass panel in the door. The silhouette of a man. Outlined against the soft amber glow in the corridor outside.

The breath solidified in my lungs.

The subdued lighting coming through the glass panel cast a long rectangular swathe across the floor and partly up onto the bed. I stared at that dull orange oblong, trying hard not to blink.

The silhouette came back and stayed.

It was the head and shoulders of a man.

Blood banged in my throat.

I heard the handle of the door being tried. Pressed my back harder against the wall. Braced myself.

This was it.

This was it!

47

^{___________________________}