Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (25 page)

There was somebody’s clothes draped over a chair in the corner. A crinkled shirt. Creased pants. Sloppy sneakers. Looked like mine. A wristwatch, police shield and Glock lying on the nightstand.

I looked up at the ceiling.

The owner of the bedroom had plastered a big mirror right above the bed. In it I could see a frightened little boy lying amid tangled black sheets. A Band-Aid on his cheek. Gaping down with eyes like mine.

I pried open tacky lips. Forced last night’s events to the fore.

Where was I? How had I got here?

The nightclub on Santa Monica Boulevard.

The memory came back with a thud. Collided with a frontal lobe. Another wince. This time for a different reason. It was coming back to me now. Sluggishly. In dribs and drabs. Not sure if I wanted it to.

The nightclub on Santa Monica Boulevard.

The theme night.

A hundred homosexual men in tight police outfits.

‘It’s Raining Men’
by the Weather Girls.

Jack Daniels and his merry band.

Spinning round the dance floor with the Burton girl.

And that was it.

Still didn’t explain how I’d got here. Or where here was.

I pushed myself up on an elbow. Rubbed an aching brow.

I could hear the sound of running water coming from the en suite. The door was pulled to. I was in somebody else’s house. In somebody else’s bed. And that somebody was in the bathroom brushing their teeth. I realized with a sudden jolt that bumping and grinding with Stevie on the dance floor was the last thing I remembered.

I sat up. Blood banged in my brain.

I threw back the sheet. Realized I was naked.

The running water stopped.

I looked towards the en suite.

The bathroom door opened.

I pulled the sheet over; expecting the Burton girl to come out.

But it was a man.

A naked man with a fluffy pink towel wrapped around his trim waist. Eyes that seemed impossibly close together.

‘I bet you need an aspirin.’ He said with a grin.

70

^{___________________________}

We were sitting in his sunny kitchenette. Either side of a tall breakfast bar. Drinking instant coffee. Waiting for the aspirin to mute the jungle drums pounding in my head.

‘So you’re Roxy.’ I said.

‘Tim Roxbury to be exact.’ He acknowledged with a tip of his head. ‘You can call me Tim. But most people call me Roxy. We went over this last night. Don’t you remember?’

‘No.’

‘You were drunk.’

‘So it seems.’

‘Do you remember anything?’

‘Just the club. Flashing lights. Loud music.’

The guy with the too-close-together eyes was nodding. ‘So you don’t remember you and Stevie?’

‘Me and Stevie?’

‘Oh my God.’ He breathed. ‘You really don’t remember. The two of you were all over each other.’

I made a face. It hurt.

‘Check out the back of your hand.’

I glanced down. There was a number written in ink across the loose skin. I hadn’t noticed it before.

‘Private cell.’ He said with a wink.

‘Me and Stevie?’ The idea seemed completely alien.

‘Stephanie Hendricks. AKA Stevie. She works the bar. The one with the eyes for you. She bought your drinks all night.’

‘Stevie’s a girl?’

‘Last time I looked. You going to call her?’

‘Unlikely.’

‘Pity. The both of you really hit it off. Real chemistry. I had to drag you apart just to get you out of there.’

He saw the uneasy look on my face and added:

‘Don’t worry, Detective. Nothing happened between you and me either. I’m strictly a professional. I keep my work and my play completely separate.’

I frowned. It hurt.

‘Besides, I make it a rule I don’t sleep with guys on our first date.’ He continued – maybe because I didn’t look too convinced. ‘And you and I didn’t even date. So go figure. I slept on the couch. All night. Didn’t lay a finger on you. Well, maybe just a couple of fingertips when I got you undressed. I did sacrifice my bed.’

‘Guess I owe you a thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘So, how did I ..?’

‘Like I say: you were drunk. All over the place, to be exact. I don’t know. Maybe somebody spiked your drink. You were picking fights. Screaming blue murder. But I had your back. You weren’t in any condition to drive. So I brought you home.’

‘You’ll have to remind me …’

The man with the too-close-together eyes sighed. ‘We came back here and crashed. You raided the fridge. Ate me out of day-old pizza. You asked me about Jeff. About the guy he was with that night six weeks ago. I told you I hadn’t seen him before or since.’

‘Did you get his name, this guy?’

‘I asked, but he wouldn’t comply.’

‘Any idea what they were arguing about, that night?’

‘The guy was calling Jeff a murderer.’

I looked up from my coffee.

‘Of course he was way off base. No one was taking the accusation seriously. We all knew Jeff. Knew there was no way he could hurt a fly.’

‘Who was he supposed to have murdered?’

‘Unknown. Jeff was embarrassed. The guy was in his face. Looked like he was on speed or something. They went outside. I was in the restroom when somebody called nine-one-one. The guy was gone when I got outside.’

‘Did Samuels say anything to you afterwards?’

‘Not a jot to anyone. He called a cab and went home. Didn’t mention it the next time I saw him.’

‘What do you remember about him, this guy?’

‘He was intense. Like De Niro in Taxi Driver. Good-looking, but not my type. And definitely not gay.’

‘Any distinguishing features?’

‘We went over all this last night, Detective.’

‘Humor me.’

‘Thirtyish. Dark, unruly hair. Blue eyes. Nose bent slightly to the left. Sounded vaguely southern. Maybe Alabama. He wasn’t very talkative. Guarded. You think he killed Jeff?’

‘I don’t know. So what were you and he talking about?’

‘I was curious. I noticed him the minute he walked in. I wanted to know what a pumped-up straight guy was doing there at two in the morning.’

Tim Roxbury, the Alhambra motorcycle cop, leaned over the counter and picked up my empty coffee cup.

‘Here, let me get you a refill. I’m on duty in an hour. We need to go back into the city and pick up your car. Then you need to call that number.’

71

^{___________________________}

Have you ever noticed that sometimes the sun seems too bright? I keep sunshades in the car. An old, scratched pair I’d picked up when Grace relocated to Florida. I had them on. But the brilliance was still painful.

I was at Long Beach. Parked in a tow-zone at the back of Rainbow Harbor. Wishing I hadn’t had the aspirin.

I’d agreed to meet my Quantico contact, Bill Teague, over by the picture-perfect lighthouse. Atop a big grassy knoll built on a breakwater overlooking a marina filled with pristine white pleasure craft.

I was still getting flashbacks of sweaty male dancers. The Burton girl’s hot breath against my cheek. Her sweet scent. Soft touch. Snapshot images of her dark eyes and dark lips as the strobe light had swept the dance floor. I hadn’t washed her number from the back of my hand. Wasn’t sure why.

I posted a Police permit on the dash. Got a grip. Then crossed the parking lot to the caw of foraging gulls.

It was Wednesday, 9 a.m..

My friend from Quantico was sitting astride a concrete bench in the lee of the lighthouse. Trademark cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth. Looking more like a character from a Quentin Tarantino movie than an acclaimed forensic psychologist.

He saw me sweating up the hill and made a gun shape with his hand. Popped off an invisible round in my direction.

‘You look like shit,’ he shouted.

‘My epitaph.’ I called back. ‘I should get it printed on tee-shirts. Make me a fortune.’

We patted each other out.

‘Been too long, Bill.’ I said.

‘So let me make it up to you, Gabriel.’ He dropped his cigarette on the ground and stamped on it. ‘There’s a beer shack by the water. Let’s walk and talk. You can buy me a drink.’

We retraced my steps down the spiraling pathway, back toward the touristy Shoreline Village, catching up on old news as we went. I hadn’t seen Bill in almost a year. Felt like yesterday.

‘You meet the parents?’ He asked as we walked.

‘I did. Thanks again for coming through with her name.’

‘Least I could do. You’re officially hunting a serial killer now, Gabriel. That means FBI involvement.’

‘In the shape of Bill Teague?’

‘Consider yourself lucky; you could have had Devereux.’

‘So, did you get to read the case notes Jamie faxed over?’