Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (45 page)

‘He touched the floor button.’ Ira said.

‘He’s wearing gloves.’

Then the suspect did something totally unexpected. Keeping his back to the camera and his face tilted toward the floor, he turned his head, raised his hand and gave us the finger.

The Undertaker
actually gave us the finger.

‘I’ll be damned.’ I heard Ira Rosenthal say.

‘Freeze it.’ I told the techie.

The image froze. There was writing stitched into the black cotton of the killer’s baseball cap. A white stylized font. Like jagged lightning.

‘Zoom in on the hat.’ I said.

Now the front of the killer’s cap filled the screen.

‘Black Death.’ Ira read the words out loud. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘It’s a European rock band.’ Shakes said. ‘What the hell do you think it is, Ira?’

127

^{___________________________}

Jamie had been staring at the blank laptop screen for fifteen minutes before Captain Ferguson came over and sat down at the desk she shared with Gabe. She still had a humungous headache – time of the month – and waiting for people to return her calls was starting to fray at the edge of her nerves.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

She blinked. ‘Good. Thank you, Captain.’

Jamie had learned to keep her answers short. There was no room for fluff in real police work. Not like her Academy assignments.

‘I just want you to know I appreciate the hours you’ve been putting in.’ He said. ‘I also appreciate we threw you in at the deep end.’

She managed a tired smile. ‘Best way to learn.’

‘It’s also the best way to come unstuck. I’m wondering are we putting you under too much stress? Expecting too much of you too soon.’

He must have been watching her for some time, she realized. Seen her staring into space. Rubbing tired eyes. Drinking too much coffee.

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ She said.

She saw him study her for a second or two. Felt like he could see right through her façade.

‘Gabe speaks highly of you, Jamie.’

Jamie felt her cheeks prickle.

‘He thinks you’re excellent detective material.’

‘It’s certainly a privileged position.’ She said. ‘This apprenticeship. I consider myself extremely lucky. I’ve really enjoyed everything so far.’

‘Have you made any headway today?’

Jamie leaned back in the chair. Reeled off the day’s small discoveries. No major breakthroughs. No correlation that she could see between the Coroner’s reports other than what they’d already discovered. That she was still waiting on information coming from the online rose retailer. No word on the whereabouts of the possible survivor. That she was waiting for the Post Office near Prospect Park in New York to get back to her, hopefully with a forwarding address. But tomorrow was Saturday and it wasn’t looking too promising.

‘Always waiting for something.’ The Captain said in his soft, measured way. ‘Where’s this rose retailer based?’

‘Maine.’

‘I have a contact up there. I’ll get the local PD to put some pressure on them. Hurry them along.’ He looked at her over the top of clasped hands. ‘So what about you, Jamie? How are you doing, personally?’

Jamie thought about it. How was she doing? She had nothing to measure her performance against other than the effectiveness of those around her.

‘Great,’ she fibbed.

‘Monday’s your monthly appraisal.’

‘I know.’ She’d forgotten! ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘I want you to take the weekend off.’

The statement came as a surprise. She tried to hide it.

‘Take the next couple of days to go over your performance, Jamie. Evaluate your strengths and weaknesses. Get your head in a better place. Then come back Monday morning fresh and ready for the review. I don’t want fatigue jeopardizing your career prospects with the Police Commissioner.’

She didn’t know what to say.

‘Walters and Phillips have everything under control here,’ he added.

There it was – in a nutshell. Officially, she was off the case until Tuesday at the soonest.

The Captain slid a sheet of paper across the desk. ‘Before you sign off for the night. Do with it as you will.’

He got up and walked away.

128

^{___________________________}

In eight short hours the Federal Bureau of Investigation had converted a humdrum hotel ballroom into a
James Bond
movie set. Busy as the stock exchange. Big projection screens all over the show. Broadcasting real-time views of The Strip, streamed from sidewalk cameras. There were two rows of tables running the full central length of the cavernous room. Pushed back-to-back. Cluttered with computers, flat panel monitors, coiling cables. Coffee machines on overdrive at either end. Techies working keyboards. Comparing notes on clipboards. Spooling off print-outs.

The hunt for
The Undertaker
was in full swing here at the
MGM Grand.

We were in a side room: me, Shakes, Bill and eight other serious-looking Feds. Sitting around a long conference table with black leather chairs. This was Bill’s hand-picked team of highly-specialized Agents and Profilers shipped in from Quantico. Not really here to do my bidding. The murders in California were incidental to their prime objective. Which was to nail the son of a bitch that had slain their Director’s niece. I was here as a matter of courtesy. There was a trestle table with stacks of white cups and several metallic canisters against one wall. No one was drinking coffee. And none of the cookies had been nibbled at.

Everyone in the conference room had a sheaf of eight-by-tens on the table in front of them. Full color images of the
Bellagio
crime scene. Only one or two had them fanned out.

‘We’ve issued an All-Points Bulletin on the suspect seen in the Bellagio elevator.’ Shakes was telling our FBI audience. We’d spent the last ten minutes going over our findings. ‘It’s not much of a description, but it’s the best we have for now.’

I’d had Ira’s techie burn to disk the recording of the killer. Make duplicates. Then print out some color stills for ID purposes. Copies had been sent to the Sheriff’s Department and the National Guard out on the edges of town.

‘Pretty soon every roadblock and city cruiser will have photos to back up the APB.’ Shakes concluded. ‘If this dude tries leaving town, or even so much as moves around in public, we’ll catch him.’

‘Providing he doesn’t change his appearance.’ One of the Feds said.

 
‘How’s the progress on the hotel guest lists and
the flight manifests coming along?’ I asked.

Another Fed spoke up. He was a sweaty-browed type with a receding hairline and sunken eyes. His name badge read
SSA Miles Tomlin
:

‘Some of the highbrow establishments are refusing to play ball without a subpoena.’ He opened a file. Glanced at it. ‘We have fifty returns. Mainly the more popular hotels. All check-ins made this last week. Almost one-quarter-million names.’

Somebody whistled. It sounded like me.

I turned to Shakes, ‘Exactly how many hotels are there in Vegas?’

I could see him totting it up, ‘Within the city limits and counting motels, you’re looking at somewhere approaching three hundred. Give or take. Easy.’

I was beginning to realize the magnitude of the undertaking.

‘As for the flight manifests,’ Tomlin continued, ‘all but two carriers are accounted for. We should have the complete passenger lists by no later than midday tomorrow. Again, it’s a judicial issue.’

‘Can we get subpoenas?’ I said. ‘For these highbrows?’

‘Already on it.’ Bill said. ‘I spoke with the DA about thirty minutes ago. She’s sweet-talking a Justice of the Nevada Supreme Court as we speak.’

‘We also have Agents working door-to-door.’ Tomlin added. ‘Checking out known criminals. That kind of thing. But we have to accept that somebody may be harboring him, and that he drove here by himself from LA.’

In which case none of the lists would prove fruitful.

I held up a photo of the love mud scrawling we’d found on the bedroom wall back at the
Bellagio
. ‘So what are we making of this message?’

‘Could be a threat.’ Someone suggested.

‘Or a warning.’

‘It reminds me of something Luke Chapter mentioned in one of his papers.’ She was a slender blonde with Himalayan cheekbones and glacial eyes. Her name badge read
SSA Glenda Hoyt
.
 

I sat forward. ‘Explain.’

‘Luke Chapter was an eminent psychologist. Based at Princeton. He authored several venerated books and papers about parapsychology.’

I nodded. ‘The investigation of psychic abilities. That’s right up your street, Bill.’

‘Not even in the same city.’ He said with a wink.

‘So where’s the connection?’

‘Chapter specialized in studying people who claimed to have predictive powers. One particular paper was titled The Hitler Dilemma.’

‘It’s pulp fiction.’ Bill said dismissively. ‘Full of open-ended questions and answerless arguments.’ He turned to me. ‘Chapter really let himself down by aiming at a mass market with that one. I’m surprised they didn’t make a fucking movie out of it.’

‘Maybe it’s in the pipeline.’ I said.

‘Yeah, maybe.’

I looked back at Glenda Hoyt. ‘Please continue.’

‘Chapter posed a morality question: if you could predict the future, would you try and prevent disaster?’

‘Heavy.’ Someone commented.

‘It gets heavier.’ She said. ‘Chapter gave Adolf Hitler as his prime example. He postulated the question: if you knew in advance what the baby Adolf was to become, would you kill him.’