Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (30 page)

The paramedic’s anti-inflammatory had given me a bad belly. Hadn’t touched the headache. Beneath the weeping egg now going hard boiled on my brow, there was a right-angled indentation that creaked when I worked my jaw. Hardest I’d been hit since George had leveled me with a baseball bat, aged seven.

I was almost home when a text came through on my cell:

‘Meet me at Winston’s. Now. It’s important.’

I got the officer to drop me off on the corner of Valencia and Main. Stumbled the rest of the way to the drugstore. My balance was off. Everything on a tilt. Afternoon daylight subdued.

‘She’s in back.’ Old Milo said as I entered the store. ‘You kids should get a room of your own.’

I smiled. Made my way through the aisles of magazines and snack foods. Following the smell of coffee.

Eleanor Zimmerman was sitting at a Formica-covered table. A knitted blouson jacket with puff sleeves and shoulder pads. There was a half-eaten burger on a paper plate in front of her. The smudged remnants of tomato ketchup. The only other patrons were an elderly couple in the corner; eating fries and supping beer,

I waved a
hello
at Winston who was lingering behind the bar. Sat down on the metal chair opposite Eleanor.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ she said.

‘I had a run in with the Devil.’

She reached out to touch the blooded closures on my forehead. I tipped my head just outside of her reach. Her hand withdrew like a moray eel snaking back into its hole.

‘At least this one.’ I said, pointing to the Steri-Strips. ‘The Band-Aid’s from blue on blue. Friendly fire.’ I clarified.

‘I know what it means.’

She stared at me. Gaze penetrating my invisible skin. Straight into churning darkness.

‘Ferguson put you up to this?’ I said.

‘A deal’s a deal, honey.’

‘And if I don’t comply?’

‘You remain frozen out of the case.’

She leaned forward slightly. Her silver blouse was open three-buttons down. I could see a silver necklace. One of those bar pendants with something like hieroglyphs stamped into it.

‘It’s your choice, Gabe.’

‘Strange, because it doesn’t sound much of a choice.’

I stared back.

Winston came over and slid a cup of steaming coffee onto the Formica-covered table. Retreated back into the shadows.

‘Who’s the number belong to?’ Eleanor asked. ‘The one on your hand.’

‘Nobody.’ I said, hiding it from Eleanor’s eagle eyes.

‘How do you feel about being shut out?’

‘In all honesty?’

‘Please.’

‘Pissed.’

‘That’s good.’

‘It is?’

‘Any emotion is better than no emotion.’

I leaned forward, spoke quietly: ‘Eleanor, I know your intentions are true and honest. I know you believe you can fix me. But some things are just broken. And that’s the way it is. No amount of talking it through will change the past.’

‘That isn’t my goal.’ She said. ‘I want to change your future.’

‘You have an answer for everything.’

‘I’m paid to. Ferguson says you’re still working The Piano Wire Murders.’

I leaned back. ‘Ferguson’s wrong. It’s a cold case. Dead.’

I saw her eyes narrow. ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

‘Because you’re trained to doubt. That’s what psychiatry is all about, Eleanor.’

‘And pursuing The Maestro in your own time is an unhealthy obsession.’ She countered. ‘It will get you killed.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well, maybe some of us don’t want that.’

I picked up the coffee. Guzzled. I couldn’t work Eleanor out. I knew she wanted to help. But I wasn’t sure of her motives. I had a sneaky suspicion that my recovery was irrevocably linked to her own. Wasn’t sure if this unorthodox session was for me or for her.

‘Let’s start from the beginning.’ She said.

‘I don’t want to do this here.’ I replied quietly.

‘Then where? You never come by my office. You can’t keep appointments. The only reason you’re here now is so you can get back to your precious case.’

‘Eleanor …’

‘No, Gabe. Not this time. This time you talk to me. Lay it all bare. On the line. Or I’ll recommend a suspension. I mean it.’

My mouth worked wordlessly.

‘Now let’s start at the beginning.’ She said again.

I let out a long hot breath. ‘I met up with Father Dan in connection with The Undertaker murders …’

‘No,’ she said, cutting me off.

‘No?’

85

^{___________________________}

I stood up so fast that the chair went clattering to the floor. The couple in the corner both looked over. Fries frozen en route to their open mouths. Winston stopped polishing a glass. I heard old Milo shout from the up front:

‘You break it, you pay for it.’

Eleanor glared. ‘Do you have to make a scene?’ she whispered fiercely.

‘I can’t do this.’

‘You’re making a mistake.’

‘No. This was a mistake.’

‘They won’t let you back,’ she called as I turned on a heel and left.

My head was spinning. All at once I couldn’t breathe. I stumbled for the door. Burst through to the fresh air outside. Gasped like a fish out of water. The indentation on my forehead was
ringing
.

‘Head wound like that, man needs his rest.’

I glanced up. Old Milo was standing in the doorway. Chewing tobacco.

‘I’m okay.’ I said woozily.

‘Seen healthier-looking possums on the roadside.’ He said. ‘You head off home, sonny. Get your feet up. The broad ain’t going nowhere.’

Five minutes later I was dropping keys on the hall table in the house on Valencia Street – just as the phone rang.

I let it.

After eight rings the answering machine kicked in. I heard static. Followed by the dialing tone. No message left.

I deleted the entry. Went down to the basement. Dug an energy drink out of the mini cooler and drained it in one.

As personal crusades go, mine had stumbled into a desert about six months back and dried up. The official hunt for
The Maestro
had been suspended months before that. A cold case. Unresolved. Shelved until either new information emerged or he struck again.

I switched on the desk lamp. Looked at the mosaic of murder images filling the wall of the basement.

LAPD had a description on file: a male in his late fifties, white, skilled with his hands, an interest in classical music (maybe). They even had a sketchy artist’s impression: a ghostly rendering that looked uncannily like the country music legend Kris Kristofferson. No name – other than the one we knew. And that was an alias. Worthless. Officially, LAPD had no idea who he was. But I knew who he was. He was my nemesis.

I noticed the two clear plastic evidence bags still sitting side by side on the desk. One containing the torn photo of Samuels in the TV studio. The other, the faded newspaper clipping found on Marlene’s pillow.

I brought the angle-poise lamp in close. Examined the photo of Samuels. Compared it against the crime scene snap still lying on top of the open
The Undertaker Case
file folder. I saw the anomaly straight away. In the picture taken in the TV studio, Samuels had a white handkerchief tucked nicely into the breast pocket of his tux. In the one showing Samuels lying on his bed, the handkerchief was red.

There were three possibilities why
The Undertaker
had used a red handkerchief instead of white: either he was a pattern freak and the red choice went better with the crimson cummerbund, or he’d used the first handkerchief at hand, or he’d put it there for a reason.

I picked up the newspaper clipping. Examined it the through the fisheye of a magnifying glass.

It was from a copy of the New York Times. Dated 1961. A column of print carefully cut from the top of a larger article. A small, bold paragraph-style heading which read:

‘One of the biggest medical tragedies of modern times’

My cell phone buzzed.

‘Yes, Jamie?’

‘This search we’re running to find similar killings. It’s throwing up all sorts of potential links. Do you have some time to go through them with me?’

‘How many flags are we talking?’

‘Over two hundred. And the results are still compiling. We have mock executions, assisted suicides, cults. You name it.’

‘Give me a minute.’

I put down the phone. Put on glasses. Brought the laptop out of hibernation. Tapped a password and logged into the secure LAPD access point. The authentication process deliberated for a second. Then piggybacked Jamie’s workstation.

‘Okay.’ I said, picking up the phone. ‘I’m looking at the same thing you are.’

It was a window of slowly accumulating data directly filtering in from the FBI’s National Crime Information Center database in Clarksburg. A counter in the corner incrementing steadily. Already beyond the two hundred mark.

‘You can eliminate the mass cult suicides and the deaths through barbiturate overdose.’ I said as I scanned the flags. I heard Jamie tap keys at her end and the results on the screen were reduced by over ninety per cent in one fell swoop. Better. Still over thirty to go cut back.

‘What veterinarians wreaking revenge on wayward partners?’