Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (37 page)

The phone shrilled. Dead on time. Stacey picked up.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Stacey.’

The voice was male. Calm, collected. She detected a slight southern twang. He was trying to smooth it out. But it was there. It reminded her of the killer Max Cady in the movie
Cape Fear
.

‘I’ve done what you asked.’ She said. She’d spoken with the killer a couple of days ago. Set everything up. Made her deal with the devil. ‘Now I want you to do something for me.’

The Max Cady voice on the other end of the line paused, then said, ‘Stacey, your performance today was exceptional. Show-stopping. Give yourself a round of applause. You deserve it. Better still, have another glass of merlot and let’s celebrate. When will the next message go out?’

‘It’s set to do the nines all day. Starting midday.’ She said.

‘Good girl. So what would you like me to do for you, Stacey?’

‘I want you to kill the opposition.’ She said bluntly. Her words and intentions were as cold as the wine swilling round in her belly. She hadn’t needed long to think about what kind of return she wanted for granting a serial killer his fifteen minutes. She’d wanted this all her working life. ‘A deal’s a deal, right?’

‘Are you sure you’re ready to move up into the big league, Stacey?’

‘I’ve been ready all my life. Do we have a deal?’

‘Who do you want me to kill for you, Stacey?’

Stacey smiled to herself. Men were animals. Predictable and pathetic. Wrapped around her little finger.

‘You know the whore that hosts the World News show alongside Alexander Stokes? I want her job. That’s what I want out of all this. Do you understand me? I do my part. You do yours. You get your interview. I get her job. I want you to kill Quinn’s daughter-in-law Kate Hennessey. Or we can call the whole thing off.’

Stacey Kellerman took a gulp of wine. Heart racing. The merlot was bitter on the back of her tongue.

103

^{___________________________}

The secret to keeping warm in cold weather is to layer up. Despite the glaring sun and the brilliant blue skies, Vegas is cold in January. The clothes on my back were all I’d brought at short notice. I picked up several souvenir T-shirts from the hotel to go on under my thin Californian shirt before venturing outside.

The Las Vegas Metro PD South Central Area Command is located less than a half mile from
Luxor
. On the other side of the neighboring hotel complex. I was glad of the walk; it gave me chance to breathe.

There were three immediate questions burning in my brain: what connected Patricia Hoagland to the LA victims; how had the reporter come by her information; and was it merely coincidence that the latest victim was related to the Director of the FBI?

The last question could possibly prove the hardest to answer.

I drew my jacket in close against the chill. Walked out from beneath the unmoving gaze of the giant reconstructed Sphinx. Turned right as I hit the sidewalk.

The Nevada breeze was hard against my face. I should have felt wide awake. I didn’t. Vegas has the kind of subliminal buzz only found in cities that never sleep. A barely perceptible heartbeat pulsating outwards along the arterial roadways from the heart of the city. I should have felt right at home. I didn’t.

I thought about the evidence bag weighing heavily in my pocket. Started getting angry. Took a deep breath and forced a lid on my boiling blood. Nothing I could do about it. Not now, anyway. What was done was done. But I remembered the plea of a grieving mother. Had every intention now of fulfilling her demand.

I crossed an intersection. Arrived at the Station House. I’d called ahead. Spoken with the Sergeant overseeing the Homicide Bureau.

‘I’ll make sure Senior Inspector Sonny Maxwell is available when you arrive.’ He’d told me.

I signed in. Left my firearm with the Desk Sergeant. Followed directions to Sonny Maxwell’s office. I assumed my counterpart was the lithe basketball type I’d seen earlier in the morning at the
MGM Grand
. I was wrong.

‘Sonny Maxwell.’

She was the willowy woman with the brown ponytail. The one I’d seen having the heated exchange on her cell.

We shook hands.

‘I was at the Grand this morning when you arrived.’ Her grip was firm, but not too firm. Smile brief, but warm. ‘Didn’t get chance to say hello. Too busy trying to get those damned Feds off my case.
Your
case as it turns out. Mind if I call you Gabe?’

‘It’s my name. You okay with Sonny?’

‘No.’ She sounded southern. Maybe one of the Carolinas. ‘Just joking. Sonny’s fine. We had a wager on how long it would take you to show.’

‘I hope you won.’

‘I’ll let you into a little secret: I load the dice.’ She went over to a coffee machine in the corner. ‘Interest you in a drink? I just put a pot on.’

‘My addiction.’

‘Could be worse.’ She poured coffee. ‘Me, I used to smoke thirty a day. Damn near killed myself kicking it into touch a few years back. Now I diet. Constantly.’

‘You don’t look the type, Sonny.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment. But don’t be misled; I can party with the best of them. Here you go.’ She handed me a steaming cup.

I gazed around at the neat surroundings. Sonny Maxwell was a meticulous worker and a stickler for tidiness, it seemed. Everything looked organized. Case files color-coded and alphabetized. Pencils sharpened. Points at attention. A row of prickly cacti on the windowsill arranged in height order.

I pointed to a group of framed photographs on her desk. ‘These your kids?’ Two boys and a girl. Snaps taken on vacation. Summer sunshine. Looked like Disney.

I sensed Sonny bristle with pride. ‘Sure are. The three terrors. Love them insatiably. You got kids, Gabe?’

‘All grown and flown the nest.’ I said. ‘Great looking family, Sonny.’ I had to say it. It smacked me on the chin. A happy hen and her brood. ‘No pictures of Mr. Maxwell?’

‘That philandering dick? Nah. Roger’s living in Atlanta with his new wife. Good riddance.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I’m not. Roger could never keep his zipper up. That silly student of his was the best thing that ever happened to us.’

She perched herself on the corner of the desk. Studied me like an elementary school teacher about to tell her class a gripping story.

‘Okay, Gabe, this is your pie. Ain’t disputing that. So how we gonna slice it?’

Sonny had gone straight for the kill. Steel arrow neatly severing the spinal cord from the brain stem. I decided I liked her immediately.

‘Joint task force.’ I said.

‘I’ve had nothing but brick walls from the Feds all day.’

‘The situation’s changed since this morning. The local Feds have had their noses pushed out. The show’s now being run by one of my good friends from Quantico.’

Sonny nodded. Looked wary. ‘Given the circumstances I’d have expected some bigwig from Langley.’

‘Bill Teague’s as big as they get.’

‘Oh, I think I remember him. He was the guy that helped you crack the Star Strangler case, right?’

‘Right.’

‘The one who sees dead people?’

I smiled. ‘Not too sure about that. Bill’s quirky, I admit. But I think he’s just extremely intuitive and brilliant at reading hunches. He’s in the process of setting up a Situation Room as we speak. If it’s okay with you, we’ll oversee the police investigation while Bill looks after the FBI. We’ll run things from there.’

Sonny was still nodding. Still looked wary.

‘It’s worked out okay in the past.’ I said, trying to reassure her. ‘We’ll have a free reign. No Federal interference. Plus, the unlimited resources of the FBI at our disposal.’

‘So, it’s true … Hoagland is related to Director Fuller?’

I nodded solemnly.

‘Sonny, there’s going to be no holds barred to catch this killer. We’re talking a nationwide manhunt. I know Fuller; he’ll throw everything at this. More manpower than we can shake a stick at.’

‘Sounds like your boy hasn’t a cat in hell’s chance.’

‘Hopefully.’

I saw Sonny Maxwell nod. This time she didn’t look as uncertain.

‘Any chance of catching up on your case notes?’ She said. ‘This killer has a pretty weird set of signatures.’

‘Central should be faxing them over any time soon. If not already.’

‘I’ll check. Let me know if there’s anything you need from this end. Goes without saying you have the full backing of this department.’

‘Thanks, Sonny. But I have a feeling the FBI won’t come to the party empty-handed. Mark my words, when they’ve finished setting up their incident room it will put NASA to shame.’

Sonny put her cup down on the desk. ‘Then I guess the real question is: do you think this maniac will strike again, here, in Vegas?’

104

^{___________________________}

Did everybody daydream about their role in the greater play? He’d heard that the world’s most successful innovators, entrepreneurs and artists did exactly that. The killer now known to the Media as
The Undertaker
lit a cigarette and sucked hard. Daydreaming allowed him to decipher patterns. It was part of his condition.

Beneath the shadow of the giant Sphinx, fanny-pouched tourists gathered in little knots like sheep. Waiting to be whisked away to another of the ridiculously-themed hotels
.
They were giving him a wide berth; smokers were lepers these days.

Normally, he avoided detours. Planned routes were safe. The shortest path from A to B was never through C. But this distraction had presented itself as if preordained. Too tempting to pass up. He sucked on his smoke. Daydreaming about how it might play out.

A sleek, white-and-black tram
whooshed
into the monorail station. Looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. He buried his cigarette in a sand-filled urn. Let the tourists fill up the train before finding a spot near the front of the carriage. Clung to a hand loop as the monorail went into reverse.