Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (36 page)

‘So Patricia Hoagland is Fuller’s niece?’

 
‘His only sister’s only daughter.’

‘Holy crap.’

‘Exactly. That’s why Wong and his henchmen were sucking in air at both ends. They’re scared shitless of the repercussions if they fuck things up.’

‘They made a great start.’

Bill laughed. ‘Fucking amateurs.’

Now I knew why the Feds had ants in their pants.

I’d dealt with Norman Fuller on several occasions previously. Barely escaped with minor cuts and bruises. The FBI Director was a persnickety dreadnought of a man. Not the kind you wanted as an enemy. Not the kind to take the cold-blooded murder of his niece lightly.

The Undertaker
, I realized, had just made his biggest mistake to date.

‘He’s here.’ I said. ‘The Undertaker.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Why do you think he’s come to Vegas, Bill?’

‘To have a good time? Look around you. This is Disneyland for adults. Who wouldn’t want to come here?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘So am I. There’s a shitload of free money to be made in this town. Just listen to those slot machines: they’re playing the theme tune from
Goldfinger
all the way to Fort fucking Knox.’

I watched Bill tap out a cigarette. Light it from a silver Zippo. Saw him draw a lungful. Hold it. Then release it slowly through flared nostrils.

‘There’s also over a million visitors here at the weekends.’ He added. ‘Which makes great pickings for predators.’

‘Have you any idea how Fuller’s niece ties into all this?’

‘Not one. I didn’t see it coming. Did you?’

‘Nope.’

‘And you know how perceptive I am.’

‘So how is this going to work, Bill?’

‘Simple. I look after the FBI side of things while you head the police investigation. And together we’ll nail his ass to the wall.’

‘From here?’

‘We aren’t going anywhere until Uncle Norman says so, Gabriel. As far as you and I are concerned, that man is god.’ He tapped ash into a bowl on the table. ‘And he’s capitalized pissed right now. Everyone on the slippery slope down is feeling the heat. He won’t rest until we catch the guy that killed Patsy.’

‘So what do we know about her?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Before that.’

‘Before that, Patsy worked as a lab tech for a small pharmaceuticals setup in Massachusetts.’

‘That it?’

‘Don’t be an eager beaver.’

Bill raised his bottle and clunked it against mine.

101

^{___________________________}

I didn’t tell Bill about the evidence bag in my pocket. I don’t know why. I hadn’t mentioned the other two evidence bags to anyone else either. I made arrangements to meet up with my Bureau friend later in the afternoon. He had an incident room to set up. A whole posse of G-Men to corral. I had my own agenda.

The Undertaker
had killed in Vegas. Blood on his victim’s hands. I was back on the case and I wanted answers. I had no way of knowing how long the killer
would remain in town. Or if he would kill again here or even elsewhere. He’d spent a week in LA that I knew of. If he hung around the same amount of time in Vegas, I’d need a room. Someplace to freshen-up and call home.

I caught a gas-powered cab to
Luxor
. I’d stayed in the fake Land of the Pharaohs the last time I’d been here. Had a strange affiliation with the place. Don’t ask. The hotel is full of huge reconstructions of Egyptian gods and their entourages. Chicken wire and fiberglass. But you can’t help but be slightly impressed by the Cinemascope feel of it all. I bought toiletries from a kiosk decked out like a Bedouin tent. Then checked into a room on the eleventh floor of the black-glass pyramid.

I was inspecting the Wet Bar when my cell phone rang.

‘You winning, partner?’

It was Jamie. I told her about Patricia Hoagland.

‘Do serial killers normally change their MO like that?’ She asked.

‘It’s known as escalation.’ I found a
Snickers
in the mini fridge
.
Tucked into it. Cold caramel sticking to teeth. ‘Repeat killers tend to fine-tune their methods as they progress.’ I said. ‘Some increase the frequency of their kill rate. Others get better at killing.’

‘So what does the blood mean?’

‘I’m not sure yet. There are two kinds of calling cards: symbolic and literal. Blood on the hands could signify the killer thought Patricia was guilty of something.’

‘Like Samuels being accused of murder.’

‘Precisely. Or it could mean he caught her red-handed.’

I heard her crack a smile. ‘Jan’s asking can you fax over all the details when you have them?’

‘Sure. Can you guys do the same? Find the number for the Precinct closest to the Luxor Hotel. That’s where I’m at. Room …’ I couldn’t remember. ‘It’s on the eleventh floor. Fax everything we have over to them. Bill’s in the process of setting up an incident room. Until then, we’re working ad hoc. Any news on the Ramada guest list?’

‘Not yet. Fred’s there now. He says the Manager’s a real piece of work. Lawyers dragging heels.’

I’d spent half the night with the guy. Not deliberately awkward; just following protocol. Fred was about to have his patience tried to breaking point.

‘What about the rose retailer?’

‘Nothing so far. I’ll keep on top of it. Jan’s been in touch with the other Coroner’s Offices.’

I finished the
Snickers
. ‘And?’

‘And they all say they’ll fax through the paperwork when they have time.’

I called the Captain. Explained the situation. Thanked him for letting me back in the case – at least on an official footing.

‘This doesn’t let you off the hook.’ He whispered down the phone. ‘Soon as you get back here you see Zimmerman. No excuses, Gabe. She needs to sign you off before you come back in. In the meantime, Jan will continue to run things from this end.’

‘I plan to visit the local PD.’ I said. ‘Get them on board.’

‘Just let me know if you need backup.’

I ran a sink of cold water and splashed away dried sweat. Took a cautious peep beneath the Band-Aid still glued tight to my cheek. Decided my bullet wound needed to breathe. I levered it free. Discarded the blooded sticky to the sink top. It curled up like an anemic leech behind the faucet.

I examined the dressing above my eye. Maroon blood had crusted over. I was in two minds whether to shower it off or leave it alone. I was still debating when the room phone rang. I dried off and answered.

‘Gabriel, it’s me.’

‘Bill? How did you know I was here?’

‘I’m psychic, remember?’

‘Sure. You’re also FBI. What gives?’

‘Just had a thought,’ he said. ‘Something to consider: the blood on Patsy’s hands – I’ve a hunch it belongs to one of his other victims. Maybe the child.’

I shuddered. The thought of
The Undertaker
siphoning off the little girl’s blood made my flesh creep.

‘I’ve already spoken with the Vegas Crime Lab.’ He continued. ‘Got them liaising with their LA counterparts. They’ll send everything over – so we can compare DNA profiles. I’ll be back in touch once I’ve set up the Situation Room.’

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Dragged my jacket over. Took out the evidence bag that Pinch Face had given me back outside the
MGM Grand
crime scene. Tilted it so that I could see what was inside.

You know me: I don’t believe in coincidences.

The Undertaker
had set this up. Planted this evidence to get me here. To make me dance to his twisted tune. But that wasn’t what bothered me the most.

102

^{___________________________}

Stacey Kellerman was down but not out. Being caught on camera crashing to the deck with her legs sprawled in the air hadn’t exactly made her day. But somewhere, some tourist’s
YouTube
account would be getting lots of hits on the back of her mishap.

Other than that, everything had gone according to plan.

She was sore but she’d live.

Suffered much worse.

More importantly, she’d kept up her part of the bargain and delivered the message.

She poured herself a congratulatory cold merlot from the fridge. Replayed the scene in her head: the Celebrity Cop, the crowd, the camera, the unforgiving sidewalk. She just had to hope that her humiliation was ultimately worth it.

She checked her watch. Cleaned out the glass. Refilled it. Emptied it. Felt spaced. Filled it up again.

Soon her
YouTube
calamity would be long forgotten. Overshadowed by something much more newsworthy. Soon Stacey Kellerman would be making headlines across the planet.

She stared at the phone sitting in its cradle on the breakfast bar – willing it to ring.

How many reporters could claim to have interviewed a serial killer
before
he’d been caught?

Exclusivity. That’s what she had. The inside story straight from the horse’s mouth. Every agency in the country would be clamoring to offer her jobs when this was done. But she already knew where she wanted to be: NYC and the most coveted job in American TV journalism.

The killer thought he was smart. But Stacey was smarter. She was the one with all the leverage. She was the one holding all the cards.