Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (27 page)

I am not a believer in happenstance. Nor am I a betting man. But I have an idea the odds of a murderer chancing upon a pair of my old handcuffs, then using them in a crime I was detecting, are astronomical, if not impossible.

And I don’t believe in coincidences.

Bill was right: the killer had targeted me. Right from the get-go. Purposely left the little girl at the 7th Street Bridge. Purposely used my handcuffs to get my attention. I wondered what else he had purposely arranged – or planned to.

My cell phone rang before I had chance to think about it.

‘Hello, Jamie?’

‘Hi. I thought you should know we have a hit on the rose petals.’

‘Jamie, you shouldn’t be telling me this. I’m off the case. You could lose your apprenticeship.’

‘Let me worry about that.’ She said. ‘I’m keeping you in the loop no matter what. One of the Crime Lab girls recognized the roses by their color and their perfume. She checked with her father. He’s a horticulturalist.’

‘Jamie, can I call you back?’

‘No. Just hear me out. I promise I’ll be quick. They come from a variety of German tea rose called Dark Secret.’

‘Has the Captain told you about the handcuffs?’

‘What handcuffs? Stop changing the subject. I checked. There’s only a couple of nurseries who stock it in the continental US. All are based in New England.’

‘The ones we found on Richard Schaeffer.’

‘Gabe, he hasn’t told me anything. It looks like the roses are originally imported from the United Kingdom.’

‘They’re mine.’

‘The roses?’

‘The handcuffs we found on Richard Schaefer.’

‘Oh.’

I listened to her breathing.

‘Did you check mail order?’ I asked.

‘For handcuffs?’

‘For rose retailers. Jamie, those petals were
fresh
. Unless our killer grew them himself – which I very much doubt – he probably didn’t buy them in New England.’

I could hear her think it through. Cogs whirring. Competing with the grind of traffic.

‘Okay. I’ll petition online retailers. See if we can get their customer lists. By the way, how did he come by your handcuffs?’

75

^{___________________________}

Hunger scraped at his stomach, driving him to the nearest diner. He’d been on the road over an hour. Heading north. Out of LA. On an Interstate awash with traffic and heavy rain.

A road sign for
Grapevine
loomed and passed. Disappearing into the incessant downpour. He thought about his tight bladder. T
ook the next off-ramp. The rental fishtailed slightly on the slick camber as it doubled-back beneath the freeway interchange. Tires whirring from wet to dry and back to wet. There was an illuminated diner sign. Barely visible through the driving rain and the metronomic motion of the wiper-blades. The pace looked quiet. He dumped the rental alongside a battered old pickup with a bumper sticker proclaiming:
‘Heaven Is For Angels – Hell Is For Fun’
. Hooded his jacket over his head. And skipped puddles until he was inside.

The place smelled like the floor had been mopped with dirty dish water. A stale, gym shoe stench that reminded him of bullies and beatings. He headed straight for the restroom. Emptied his bladder. No soap in the dispenser. A hand dryer out of action. Cracked mirrors. Horse trough sinks. An all-pervading reek of sour urine.

He found a booth back in the restaurant farthest from the door. Brushed stale crumbs off the faded plastic bench seat before sidling over to the rain-streaked window.

The diner was more or less empty: just an old rickety guy in the corner and a pair of fat local boys hanging over bar stools at the counter. The old guy was having a conversation with his pancakes. Pitching to and fro as a dribble of maple syrup worked its way down his grey-grizzled chin. The local boys were sniggering, while a nonplussed waitress cleaned a table. One mile an hour.

He turned his attention to the rain-spattered window. He liked the rain. Rain had patterns. Complex groupings intersected by fractured tracks. In a constant state of flux. He saw patterns everywhere he looked. Always had. Part of his
condition
. The coarse, braided bark on the trunk of a tree. The fingerprints of hard, narrow sand ripples on a windswept beach. The crisscrossing footprints of urban birds in freshly-laid snow. Patterns with hidden meaning. Over the years he’d become quite the expert at cracking the patterns. Deciphering God’s code in the chaos.

‘What’s it gonna be?’

He dragged his gaze back inside the diner. The plump waitress was standing over him. Snapping a pink wedge of gum between her teeth like an elastic band. She was in her late fifties. Sheathed in a creased cerise uniform two sizes too small for her drifting figure. A sagging face clinging pitifully to a distant breath of youth.

‘Come on, honey. I haven’t got all day.’

He forced his face into an amenable smile.

Haven’t got all day.

How ironic.

‘
What’s it gonna be?
’

Her scuffed plastic name badge read
Dorothy
.

Right now the killer known as
The Undertaker
wished she’d fly back to Kansas.

76

^{___________________________}

Michael Shakes was undecided whether to keep the information to himself or share it with Stacey Kellerman. Contact with Stacey came with a price. Potential bad side-effects. Stacey was demanding. All-consuming. Everything had to be Stacey’s way or no way.

He re-read the single string of words on the computer print-out – as if maybe he’d misread it the first and the second time around – but the words remained unchanged. Damn. No matter which way he diced this, the outcome would make him the bad guy. And Stacey would never let him forget it.

Like she never let him forget the day he’d told her it was over. Not that there had really been much of anything to finish. A three-week fling didn’t constitute a full-blown relationship. He’d spent three weeks making out and Stacey the last eighteen months trying to make up.

But she had a right to know.

He had a duty to tell her.

He picked up the office phone and started dialing Stacey’s number from memory. Then put the receiver back in its cradle before the call connected.
 

Stacey was like that. She had to blame somebody. Anybody but herself. She blamed her mother for her father abusing her. Blamed her father for driving away her mother. Probably blamed him for costing her an arm and a leg in plastic surgery.

But she had a right to know.

He had a duty to tell her.

Michael Shakes stared at the office phone. Undecided whether to keep the information to himself or share it with Stacey Kellerman.

77

^{___________________________}

I drove through light rain. Not enough to keep the wipers going. Blindly following the freeway. I was trying to piece together the broken links in the killer’s chain. I thought about his calling cards. His victims. Trying to come up with some kind of a motive to help determine if, where and when he might strike next. I was under no illusions. As Bill had put it: the killer was yet to enjoy his fifteen minutes of fame. More deaths were inevitable.

I called Fred Phillips.

‘Fred, how we doing with the background checks?’

I’d had the team compare victim acquaintances. Standard procedure. See if there were any crossovers that might indicate a connection.

Remember, serial killers like connections and loathe randomness. Good connections lead to understanding motive. And knowing a killer’s motive is one step closer to predicting his movements.

I sensed Fred hunch over the phone on the other end of the line – as if hiding the fact I was calling from other watchful eyes in the Department.

‘Preliminary crosschecking between the McNamaras and the professor show no matches.’ He told me. ‘The McNamaras are all Seattle born and bred. Three generations. Originally from Massachusetts. Absolutely no ties with LA.’

‘How about Samuels – he have any dealings in Washington at all, maybe with one of the universities up there?’

‘Not that we can find. Same goes for the McNamaras and Marlene van den Berg. No surface links. I’m telling you, Gabe, these victims aren’t connected. The victimology is all over the place.’

‘Dig deeper.’ I said. ‘Go as far back as it takes. Look into their financials. Their mailing lists. Something connects these people, Fred. If he was after random victims he could have chosen easier targets: the homeless, prostitutes, people who don’t live in fancy houses or in other States. This killer’s It isn’t about the killing with this guy. It’s about making a statement.’

‘We’ll keep looking. Incidentally, the last flag on the mortician list had an alibi.’

‘Okay. Think you can run another screening?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘There’s a chance the killer may have veterinary training. Run the same checks against all animal welfare employees in the Los Angeles area.’

‘That should keep us busy for a while.’

‘I appreciate it, Fred. Can I talk with Jan?’

‘Absolutely.’

I heard the telephone receiver change hands. Then Jan’s voice come through:

‘Before you say anything, as far as I’m concerned, you’re still running this show. No questions asked. The same goes for everyone involved.’

‘Thanks, Jan. I owe you. Do me a favor?’

‘Anything.’

‘Interrogate the National Crime database. Look for killings with similar characteristics.’

 
‘Do you think he’s killed before?’

‘According to my FBI contact, maybe. Let’s just see what turns up.’

‘Okay. I’ll get the team on it. I’ll be in touch soon as we find anything.’