Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (43 page)

I came to Stacey’s place.

Nothing spectacular. Looked quiet. Black vertical blinds pulled to at all the windows. No motorbike on the driveway.

120

^{___________________________}

The killer known to himself as Randall Fisk removed a glove. Pressed two fingers against Stacey Kellerman’s jugular. Detected the faintest trace of a pulse. Replaced the glove.

The shot of homemade secobarbital had knocked her out cold. It would keep her comatose long enough for him to set the scene. Then he’d use a paralytic. Awake but frozen. Aware but powerless. When the end came he wanted her to
know
.

Overpowering the reporter had been easy. He’d waited next to the door connecting the house to the garage. Expertly inserted the syringe into her throat as she’d entered the house. Caught her before she’d slumped to the floor. Carried her into the kitchen – where he’d placed a dining chair in the middle of the floor space. Heaved her into it. Tilted her head back so that he could drizzle superglue across pearly teeth. Smear it across cherry lips. Smudge lipstick and gloss all over her cheeks. Then he’d held her mouth closed until the fast-setting glue stiffened.

Now he was watching her. She smelled like a whore. Looked like one, too, in her skin-tight leathers. Everything fake.

He inserted the second syringe into her neck Squeezed the plunger. Paused as he heard knocking coming from the front door. A second later, Stacey Kellerman’s cell phone began vibrating on the kitchen counter. He ignored it. Removed the needle from her neck. He could hear soft murmurings as the adrenaline roused her. Saw her eyelids flutter against the bright light as consciousness hardened.

He leaned close enough to touch noses. Waited for her pupils to focus. Said
hi
. He sensed her struggling to escape her paralyzed body. Saw the whites of her eyes flare as she comprehended her predicament. Other than the quickening of her breathing she was deathly still.

He whispered in her ear the reason why she must die. Heard a muffled screech gurgle deep in her throat. A scream that resulted in snot bubbling from her nose. The superglue was holding fast. He stroked a curl of bleached hair from her face. In a few short moments, Stacey Kellerman’s Miss America complexion had gone from sunshine blonde to asphyxiating blush.

The impatient pounding at the front door was beginning to grate.

He blew her a kiss as he backtracked out of the kitchen.

Her terrified gaze followed him every step of the way.

121

^{___________________________}

No answer. I waited a few seconds. Then banged on the door again. Listened. No sounds coming from within. Was she even home?

I stood back a little and examined Stacey Kellerman’s house from the outside. The vertical blinds prevented anyone seeing in. No signs of life anywhere. A wooden side gate locked. As I said: no motorbike.

A woman walking a Red Setter smiled uncertainly as she passed on the sidewalk. I flashed my badge. She smiled again before moving on.

I dialed the landline number provided by Beecham.

122

^{___________________________}

The killer known publicly as
The Undertaker
leaned his brow against the wood of Stacey Kellerman’s front door. Peeped through the peep hole. Allowed himself an uncustomary smile as he spied the Great Celebrity Cop standing barely a few feet away.

Synchronicity.

Question: was the Great Celebrity Cop alone or was the house surrounded by dozens of trigger-happy cops? A SWAT team ready to break down the door any second. Smoke-grenade him into submission.

Answer: unlikely.

He watched the Great Celebrity Cop loom in the fish-eye lens. Reach up. Rap knuckles against the wood. Tremors reverberated through his skull.

He stood there for a moment. Soaking up the energy. It took him back to his childhood. To a time when his father had banged angrily against his bedroom door. But he hadn’t given in. No reason to change anything now.

He went back into the kitchen.,

123

^{___________________________}

I was revving up to check out the backyard when a bright orange Ford Mustang rolled onto the driveway. It was a souped-up number. No muffler. Black speed stripe running up the hood and over the roof. I recognized the guy that climbed out. He had on a tan leather jacket over a coffee-colored roll-neck sweater. Yellow-tinted glasses. He was the lithe basketball player type I’d seen on the elevator landing with Sonny Maxwell back at the
MGM Grand
. Imagine Will Smith with Jackson Five tailoring.

‘What brings you here, Detective?’ He asked as he slammed the door and came over.

‘You’re Sonny’s partner. Right?’

‘Right.’ He stuck out a gloved hand. We shook. ‘Detective Michael Shakes. But you can call me Milk.’

‘I get it.’

‘Sure you do. Any damn flavor you like. So, like I say, what brings you here?’

‘I guess I could ask you the same thing.’

‘Me and Stacey go way back. Don’t ask. Because it’s prickly. And I really don’t want to dredge it up. Let’s just say we dated. A long time ago. And it was a mistake. Okay?’

‘Fine with me.’ I said. ‘I just wanted to ask her a few questions. About the source of her information.’

‘Right. The news report. I saw that.’ He nodded. ‘Did you get your answers?’

‘She isn’t home.’

‘She’s not?’ He looked slightly relieved. ‘Damn. You sure?’

‘I’ve been knocking the last five minutes. Tried both her numbers. No one’s answering.’

‘Damn.’ He said again.

I heard his cell phone ring. Something Beethoven.

‘Excuse me, Detective.’

‘Sure.’

He dug it out. Answered. I saw him nod. Face lengthen.

‘We’ll be right there.’ He said after a few moments. ‘Don’t let anyone in and don’t let anyone touch a damn thing.’

124

^{___________________________}

A heavy-lidded police detective in a tweed jacket and loafers – who introduced himself as Duane Slack, twenty years in the service – met us as we climbed out of the Day-Glo Mustang. We were at the side entrance of the swanky
Bellagio Hotel
. No signs of the circus I’d seen at the
MGM Grand
earlier in the day. No Stacey Kellerman assaulting me with her microphone and her wraparound leg.

‘Who sounded the alarm?’ Detective Mike Shakes asked as we hurried toward the express elevators.

‘Housekeeping.’

‘You kept everybody out – including Hotel Sec?’

‘Like you said. Ira isn’t happy.’

‘Screw Ira.’

We came to the elevators. Shakes pressed the call button.

‘Your boy needs a putting down.’ Slack said as he caught my eye.

I wasn’t exactly sure what
‘a putting down’
involved. But who was I to argue? Defending the indefensible isn’t my style. After all, Duane Slack was right on the money: if I let Anne McNamara’s words continue to eat away at me,
a putting down
was the least of
The Undertaker’s
worries.

We rode the fancy brass-and-glass elevator to the thirteenth floor in uneasy silence. Duane Slack smelled like old damp rope left out in the sun to dry. Salty.

We left the elevator. Passed a guy in a grey suit being held at arm’s length by a pair of no-nonsense boys from the Sheriff’s Department. He threw us daggers all the way down the corridor.

The guest room doorway was manned by a sour-faced Deputy.

125

^{___________________________}

The first thing that struck me as we entered the suite on the thirteenth floor of the
Bellagio Hotel
was the sickly-sweet stench. Crime scenes seldom smell like a candy store in the heat of summer.

‘The air con was on full heat when we got here.’ Slack said.

We moved deeper inside.

The suite was decked out in a similar décor as the one back at
MGM Grand,
I saw. The colors varied slightly, but only slightly. I noticed a food trolley standing in the middle of a lavish living space. Remnants of eggs over easy on white crockery.

‘In the bedroom.’ Slack said.

The gold drapes in the master bedroom were hauled right back. The room faced west. Looking out over the Interstate. I could see the sun sinking towards snow-capped mountains. Turning the window into a block of glowing bronze.

Two bodies lay on the bed: a man and a woman. Side by side. Both naked.

‘Now that’s something you don’t see every damn day of the week.’ Shakes said as we moved closer. ‘Human porcupines.’

The killer had gone to great lengths to cover his victims from head to toe in finger-sized hypodermic syringes. They jutted out at every angle. Easily a hundred protruding from each corpse. Some containing red fluid. The whole thing looked like one of those modern art exhibits that wins all the big prizes.

‘Only the bony parts took a miss.’ Slack said. ‘Looks like those directly above vital organs are larger and filled with blood.’

I heard Shakes say: ‘Their blood?’

Slack shrugged inside his tweed jacket. We wouldn’t know the answer to that question for some time.

Shakes turned to me, ‘Detective, does this fit with your boy’s MO? You ever seen anything like this before?’

‘No and no.’ I said.

Truth was, I was shocked. This was a display of purpose. Of controlled rage and channeled anger. A deliberate demonstration of the killer’s intent. Made with painstaking precision. Nothing like I’d seen before. Not entirely convinced we were dealing with the same guy.