Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (34 page)

It was giving him a headache.

This was why he hated Vegas.

A burly numbskull from Hotel Security tapped him on the shoulder. Asked to see his ID. The guy was scruffy. Food stains on his tie. Grime rings on his cuffs. One of those faces which looked out of place on a head. The killer handed over a driver license – fake, of course – and drew an equally fake smile.

‘Where you staying, Mr. Presley?’

The Hilton. A lie, of course. Sounded right.

‘Personal contact number?’

Disposable cell. No trace.

‘How long you plan on being in town?’

As long as it took to get his point across. What did he think? Did he want to see his pocket full of syringes?

The numbskull wrote
‘available until weekend’
on his clipboard and moved on.

The killer pulled down the peak of his cap. Snapped his fingers at a passing waitress. He ordered a double martini. No ice. Then went back to watching the cops scurrying like termites.

95

^{___________________________}

Gingerbread mountains dusted in sugar. Fondant communities connected by piped icing. I was hungry, I realized. Gazing through the window at the dry sandy basins and the shattered peaks of the Mojave Desert. Hadn’t eaten since … some other day.

I got up.

Cherry held out a hand, ‘Where you going?’

‘The john.’ I said. ‘Want to join me?’

The lavatory was located behind a door at the back of the cabin. A little larger than the ones in public aircraft. But not by much. I slid the bolt across to lock the door and switch on the internal light. Looked at myself in the mirror. Unshaven. Sunken eyes. Crooked nose. Tousled hair with speckles of grey at the temples. Two lots of first aid like X’s on an treasure map. It is a universal fact that women complain about the lighting in fitting rooms doing them no justice. I believe the lighting in aircraft toilets takes some beating. I pulled a tongue at the zombie staring back. Then knocked on the faucet. Let it run a few seconds before cupping hands and drinking.

I popped some of the paramedic’s pills. I didn’t want to. But my head was on the brink of exploding.

Thirty minutes later we rolled to a standstill at McCarran International Airport. The Feds led the way. We crossed the cracked apron to a waiting black sedan. I could smell aviation fuel and hot rubber. It was also colder here. Much colder. Cool blue skies scratched by cirrus. This was the high desert of old cowboy movies – not the sun-seared Sahara. Snow-peaked mountains dominated every horizon.

Cherry slid into the back seat with me. Tight fit. He was big. Not flab big. Muscle big. Stubbs sat up front with the driver. Cherry smelled like I’d expect a
Gillette
commercial to smell if they ever invent smell-o-vision.

Like a Daytona racer, our sedan shot down the curving roadway that exited the airport. A loop of broad concrete and asphalt. Smooth. We passed imported palms set in hand-picked shale. Went right through a red onto a long, straight road running north. Exceeded the speed limit. Easy. Our driver swung around slower knots of traffic like a footballer dodging the defense. Thirty seconds later, we shot past the famous diamond-shaped
Welcome to Las Vegas
sign.

‘Gotta love Sin City.’ I heard Stubbs mutter to himself up front.

Not me. I had two very good reasons not to like this place. The first: it had been here, a few years back, that I’d been landed with the ball and chain
Celebrity Cop
moniker. The second: I didn’t want to think about.

Vegas had grown bigger in the interim. Like one of those crazy chemistry tricks in school – where a few harmless chemicals suddenly turn into an expanding foam monster. It’s a bad analogy, I know. But that’s how it felt. Like the city was a tumor growing dangerously out of control.

‘You guys from around here?’ I asked conversationally.

‘Fuck off.’ Cherry said with a snicker.

The city came at us like a glass-and-metal tsunami. A cliff of mountainous buildings, rising up out of the desert. Each one taller, fancier and more intimidating than the last. Everything about the place looked big and pretentious. Like monumental Dali paintings come to life. But dancing girls are always dancing girls, no matter how well turned out.

We passed the black-glass pyramid belonging to
Luxor –
with its huge replica of the Egyptian Sphinx out front – followed by the blue-and-red parapets of
Excalibur
. Our driver made a right at the next set of signals, down the side of the green-glass
MGM Grand
. Seconds later he hit the brakes as we hit traffic.

Everything was at a standstill.

There were people all over the street, I saw – gathered between unmoving vehicles. Shoving and pushing. Being corralled by a police cordon. Tourists had their camcorders out. People pointing. A couple of news vans in the thick of it.

My
Uh-Oh Radar
was on red alert.

‘Looks like one of you boys let the cat out the bag.’ I said.

‘Fuck off.’ Stubbs replied with grunt.

96

^{___________________________}

Our driver hopped the sedan up the curb with a
thud
and we went the rest of the way on foot. It was mayhem. People all over the place. Standing on car fenders. Snapping pictures. I saw a news reporter plowing her way toward me. Microphone in hand. Cameraman in tow. I tried to avoid. But there wasn’t much room for maneuver. She anticipated my swerve and adjusted her intercept course.

‘Detective Quinn!’ She shouted above the chaos. ‘Channel Nine News!’

She was in her late twenties. Mandatory big blonde hair. Heavy make-up. Shoulder pads. Looked like she’d just stepped out of an ‘80s soap.

‘No comment.’ I shouted back.

It was an automatic response. I didn’t know what she wanted me to make comment on. But I was pretty certain it wasn’t about the weather.

Stubbs and Cherry were busy bowling people out of the way. Cutting a channel toward the hotel entrance. The reporter slipped under Cherry’s arm and grabbed my elbow. I tried to pull free. But she wrapped a leg around mine, rooting me to the spot. Cute. Then she spun us round to face her cameraman.

‘The breaking story this hour is the murder of Patricia Hoagland. A conventioneer from Boise, Idaho – right behind me, here at The MGM Grand.’ She addressed the lens with poise and finesse – with me like a deer caught in the headlamps.

The Feds hadn’t noticed.

The crowd closed in.

Her leg tightened like a constrictor.

‘With me is Senior Detective Gabriel Quinn of the LAPD: laughably known as the Celebrity Cop. As you know, Detective Quinn is renowned for his high profile cases. Including the apprehension of the Star Strangler here in Las Vegas a couple of years ago.’

She jammed the microphone under my nose. I could smell strawberry lip gloss on the sponge muffler.

‘Detective Quinn, rumor has it that the murder of Patricia Hoagland is connected to several others committed in Los Angeles over the past week by a serial killer you’re calling The Undertaker. Is this true?’

As if on cue, a deathly silence descended over the crowd. The commotion froze. All at once. As though somebody had paused time. Every eye on the street was fixed my way. Even the Sheriff’s Deputies manning the cordon stopped and stared. One or two cameras flashed. I heard a pin drop. Realized it was my astonishment clicking in. I blinked like that damned deer.

Then King Kong interceded. Agent Cherry disarmed the reporter of her microphone and gave her enough of a push to send her crashing to the sidewalk. Her leg promptly uncoiled itself like a cat’s tail and she popped off a black leather pump in the process.

Laughter rippled through the watching crowd.

Cherry hooked a big paw under my arm and dragged me through the cordon. I caught sight of the reporter waving the camera out of her face as the hotel doors closed behind us.

‘You boys certainly know how to treat a lady.’ I said as they marched me across the cavernous lobby.

‘Fuck off.’ They said in unison.

We took an express elevator to the nineteenth floor. The carriage was all fractured mirrors. It looked like something Alice might have seen on the other side of the Looking Glass. A pair of police detectives were hanging around the upper landing. One was a tall African-American with the physique of a basketball player. The other was a petit woman with long brown hair scooped into a ponytail. She was on her cell phone. The exchange sounded heated. The basketball player was bumming soundlessly into a harmonica. Gave me a nod as we set off at a march down a ridiculously long corridor.

Movie posters lined the walls:

West By North West, Psycho, Vertigo …

We were in good company, it seemed.

Another two Feds were loitering outside a guest room door: a runny-nosed kid from Chinese descent and a big Nordic brute with buzz-saw hair. The kid had a pinched-face. The King of Siam arms-folded type. The big guy was ex-military. Sloppy hands in sloppy pockets.

‘Quinn.’ Pinch Face said as we arrived. ‘About time.’

He didn’t offer his hand. I wouldn’t have taken it in any case. I’m fairly good with first impressions. And this kid was all newly-promoted god complex.

‘I’m Agent Wong.’ He said. ‘This is Agent Blom. I’m in charge. Do you know why you’re here?’

‘Book signing?’

Wong sneered. Leaned close. I could smell cologne bought in one of those dollar marts.

‘Word up, Quinn.’ He breathed. ‘I know who you are. I know all about you. I know you like to sensationalize criminals. Give them household names. And I know I don’t like it.’

I leaned closer still. Ignored the wreak of sandalwood.

‘Feeling’s mutual, Wong.’ I breathed. ‘Now back off.’

 
Pinch Face pulled back.

‘You’re here in an advisory capacity only.’ He said. ‘This is my crime scene. My investigation. Don’t touch anything. Remove anything. Or generally do anything to compromise it. Just tell me what I need to know and you can be back in LA before lunchtime. Get me?’

I got him. Knew immediately that I didn’t like him. It takes a lot for me not to like somebody. Didn’t take much in Wong’s case. He had one of those permanently malleable faces that spoilt brats like to use to embarrass their parents at family functions.