Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (20 page)

‘Which means he’s marking his victims as sinners.’ I realized. ‘But what about the superglue?’

‘Not worked that one out yet.’

I smiled. ‘Nice work, Jamie.’

‘Thanks.’

‘One more question before I let you go back to sleep?’

I heard her stifle a yawn. ‘Shoot.’

51

^{___________________________}

The question had been bugging me all day. Buzzing round in my head like a trapped hornet. Worsened by the fact I’d nearly gotten our one and only witness killed.

‘I’m still working on that one too.’ Jamie admitted after a moment’s thought. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s an accomplice?’

‘Richard Schaeffer isn’t smart enough to pull it off.’ I said. ‘His only crime was seeing a meal ticket for life and pushing to the head of the queue.’

What were we missing?

I let Jamie go. Poured myself enough coffee to turn
Sleepy
into
Happy.
Then set about poring over case notes. I am a firm believer that the devil is in the details. Look hard enough. Look long enough. Patterns will always emerge.

I wanted to find
The Undertaker’s
pattern.

I wanted to predict his next move.

In my book, homicides come in two flavors: premeditated and spontaneous.

Spontaneous ones tend to lack design and lean more towards brutality: cracking an old lady over the head for her purse; or snapping a man’s neck in a drunken brawl; or slicing open your husband’s jugular with a carving knife because he’s late home from the office yet again. It is the spontaneous nature of these killings which makes them hard to predict.

Premeditated ones are a whole different ball game wrapped up like a Christmas fancy. Normally they are planned with military precision. With every single miniscule detail worked out beforehand. Premeditated murders make for a much more sophisticated kind of murderer. But they come with patterns. And these can be the killer’s downfall. Because patterns are predictable. And once we can predict behavior we can deduce possible movements.

Find the pattern. Find the killer.

But sometimes even premeditative killers can be unpredictable.

I opened up my cell. Clicked through to the images folder. Brought up a picture of the 7th Street Bridge crime scene. It was broad daylight. I could see the graffiti covered concrete and a black slur of water. There was no murdered little girl in the shot. No tartan blanket. No scattered rose petals. But there was a child in the picture. A boy. Bound to one of the concrete supports with piano wire.

We tell our children that monsters don’t exist. That they are figments of the imagination.

We are wrong.

Sometimes monsters come for our children.

52

^{___________________________}

I woke to the sound of knuckles rapping hard against glass. At first I was disoriented. Thought I was back home, in Tennessee. Twenty years ago. When the Mississippi had flooded overnight. When fire fighters had smashed through the bedroom window before airlifting us to higher ground.

‘Detective? You okay in there? Detective?’

But this wasn’t my bedroom of twenty years ago. I was in my car. Slumped in the driver’s seat. With drool dangling pendulously from one corner of my mouth. I blinked against bright daylight. Discovered the car was parked in the empty lot belonging to the Church of St Therese. How had I got here? I vaguely remembered feeling inconsolably lonely. Getting in my car and driving through the night. Anywhere. On autopilot. The actual ride down to the church was absent.

The nuisance rapping on the glass was an Alhambra PD patrolman. Fortyish. With a gleaming white helmet and mirrored
Ray-Bans.
The motorcycle cop from yesterday. He was waggling a reproving finger in a circular motion:
wind the window down.

I did.

He leaned against the door. I could smell his odorous breath.

‘Detective, this is becoming a bit of a habit. You on a stakeout?’ he asked.

‘No.’ I answered.

‘Anything I can help you with?’

‘No.’ I saw his jaw clench and added: ‘Thanks.’

‘Because if you are on a stakeout,’ he continued, ‘I can help. This is my patch. I know everything that goes on here. You need someone like me. I’m a good asset. An ally in your corner. Coincidentally, I’m available evening and weekends.’

I could see my reflection in his silvery sunglasses. I looked like something not quite alive. And maybe I was.

My cell phone chirped.

‘Excuse me, officer.’ I said.

The patrolman stayed put.

I answered the call: ‘Hello?’

‘Detective Gabriel.’

It sounded more of a statement than a question. A deep muffled bass of a voice. Indistinct. Drowned out by passing traffic. I waved the patrolman away from the window. He was reluctant to move. I wound it back up, giving him no option. The patrolman retreated a yard or so. Stood with his gloved thumbs tucked into the leather belt above his hips. Watching from behind his mirrored lenses.

‘Who is this?’

‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’

The voice was still indistinct. Muffled. But deliberately so, I realized. It sounded more machine than man. Like it was coming through a computer.

‘Detective Gabriel?’

‘Who is this?’

‘You’re the Great Celebrity Cop. You tell me.’

There are only three people who call me
Detective Gabriel.
And my priest doesn’t phone me anymore.

I glanced at the tiny screen on the phone.

It read:
Bill Teague
.

‘How many guesses do I get?’

‘One. Just one.’

‘Okay. How about … Bill?’

There was a pause, then: ‘Guess again.’

I sighed. ‘I thought you said only one guess?’

‘Play the game, detective. Or I’ll gut you alive and feed your intestines to my pet iguana.’

I smirked. ‘Oh my. You sure know how to use that charm of yours. Okay. If you want the full title, how about Special Agent-in-Charge William Teague of the FBI?’

I listened to awkward silence. Then added:

‘You forgot to withhold your number, Bill. Like you did last time you pulled this same crazy stunt.’

There was a click on the line. Then a familiar and more human voice said:

‘Damn it, Gabriel. You got me, you slick son of a bitch. You’re just too damned good for my good. Where’s your sense of humor?’

‘Right now trying to figure out if I’ve just picked up a groupie.’ I said.

53

^{___________________________}

I have known Bill Teague the best part of six years. I have also known Bill Teague the worst part of six years. And we’ve been good friends just about the same length of time.

Bill hails from my home State – which is just about the only thing other than gender that he and I have in common. Bill is my official FBI contact over at the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime in Quantico, Virginia. A vital asset in the Behavioral Science Unit. Or the
Nutcracker Suite
as some people like to call it.

‘What’s with the voice-changer?’ I asked.

‘Boredom.’ He replied.

I shook my head. ‘For the writer of several acclaimed books on criminal psychology, you really do have too much time on your hands, Bill. Take my advice: get yourself a nice young woman and a knot of pesky kids. Settle down.’

‘Yeah, maybe. It’s just too damned hard trying to find a woman on my intellectual level, you know?’

‘I’m serious, Bill. You need to channel all that energy of yours into a more constructive direction.’

‘Like profiling? Isn’t that why I’m on the phone?’

‘I don’t know. Is it? I thought maybe you were just being social. We haven’t talked in months.’

‘Okay, okay. Don’t get heavy. So I heard you were back. Heard you were working a new serial case. The Funeral Director. Or something equally tacky.’

I smiled at his choice of words. ‘News travels fast. And it’s The Undertaker Case. Who told you?’

‘Kate.’

‘You’ve spoken with Katie?’

‘We used to date. Remember? Before your son stole her from me. Every so often we catch up. It’s a girl thing. By the way, she says thanks for the text.’

I’d gotten Jamie to message my daughter-in-law with the new name for our killer – just to keep her viewers happy.

‘So to what do I owe the pleasure, Bill?’

‘Two pleasures, Gabriel. The first is we should get together. I want to profile this Funeral Director guy for you.’

‘And what’s my second pleasure?’

54

^{___________________________}

One of my less-favorable traits is I’m impulsive. It lands me in deep water more than I admit. But sometimes it facilitates.

The moment I got off the phone with Bill I called Airline Reservations at LAX, then the Sheriff of King County, then Captain Ferguson. In that order. Twenty minutes later I was at Los Angeles International Airport. Feeling the heat of the engine radiating through the hood as I leapt out of the car. Smelling the hot rubber of the tires in the confines of the parking garage. I’d skipped every stop light on the way over. Averaging fifty. Siren blazing. Some things are worth breaking the law for.