Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (53 page)

Up ahead, through smoked-glass doors, I could see a guy in a long dark coat and baseball cap shrugging off a pair of Metro police officers. They were halfway down the gangplank connecting
Treasure Island
to the mainland. Doused in the tenebrous early dawn light.

Blood surged in my brain.

‘Hold that man!’ Sonny shouted as we flew through the doors.

It was like putting a match to a fuse.

The guy in the cap snatched a quick glance in our direction. Then shot off like a firework on New Year’s Eve.

The stunned patrolmen immediately launched into hot pursuit.

And so did we.

Did I mention I hate foot chases?

151

^{___________________________}

We clattered down the gangplank. Scattering tourists like spooked geese. Late nights, early mornings, fast food, cold-blooded killers: they were all conspiring against me now. Pushing blood pressure through the roof.

But I wasn’t the only one with a death wish.

The guy in the cap leapt straight for the eight-lane roadway. Nose-dived into traffic speeding south, without slowing. The air came alive with screeching tires and blasted horns. Puffs of vaporized rubber. Flashing lights. He almost got sideswiped by a taxi. A bang. A spin. But, as crazies do, he picked himself up and pounded on across the street. Long coat trailing behind him like the cape of a cartoon superhero. The two cops were hot on his heels. Waving down traffic. Banging on hoods. The guy in the cap reached the tree-lined median and hurdled it clean. Started causing the same mayhem in the northbound lane.

I hit the pavement on creaking ankles. Saw our suspect roll over the hood of car. Brake smoke billowing. Land straight back on his feet, going full pelt. The thundering crash as one vehicle tailgated another. Then another.

Foot chases can be dangerous things. I’d been rolled by a vehicle once or twice. Cars have no conscience. Even at this early hour, Las Vegas Boulevard was flush with traffic.

We zigzagged through slowing vehicles. Reached the opposite sidewalk the same time as the cops. The race leader was easily forty yards ahead. Young legs and adrenaline. Sonny accelerated past the patrolmen. Widening the gap between us. A second later I was past them too.

It wasn’t hard to figure that Sonny worked out. She made a fine runner, I thought. Clean gait and straight spine. Elbows tucked nicely in. Legs pumping like pistons. Everything moving in harmony. Nice technique. Nice fluidity. All round nice.

What was I thinking?

I plowed on. Years of muscle memory taking over. Forcing blood into thighs and calves. Forcing air in and out of my lungs at a steady rate. I used to keep in some kind of shape. One of those guys you see sweating down the street first thing on a Sunday morning, working his way towards his first heart attack at thirty-five. I used to do a lot of things. Not anymore.

The guy in the cap was bowling people off the sidewalk like pins. More screeching tires. Angry yelps. At this rate he was going to get somebody killed. I saw him leap across a parking garage entranceway. Through the deep shadow cast by an elevated crosswalk connecting one huge hotel to its neighbor across the street. Sonny was still accelerating. Closing the gap. The cops were keeping pace with me, about five yards back. I dodged a taxi exiting the parking structure. Almost got clipped. Heard the driver holler an obscenity. The guy in the cap veered left after
Walgreens,
into the big open piazza outside
The Venetian
resort complex. I made the left about twenty seconds after Sonny. Saw her drilling across a large ornate footbridge curving over a wide turquoise canal. Saw the guy in the cap disappear through the main doors of
The Venetian
, about twenty yards ahead of Sonny.

I sprinted across the piazza, sending pigeons aloft.

‘They’re headed for the mall.’ A geeky-looking kid manning the door announced as I burst through.

I caught sight of Sonny making a left at the end of the long vaulted lobby. Ran on. I had my breathing under control now. But my legs were setting like wet cement. I got to the entrance of the
Grand Canal Shoppes
with the cops on my shoulder.

I looked around. Searching for Sonny.

The mall was a miniature version of Venice. Complete with a canal and fake gas lamps on cobbled streets. At this hour, most of the boutiques were closed up. Just one or two coffee vendors open for early morning business. A handful of yawning tourists and businessmen milling aimlessly about.

I spotted the pursuit about fifty yards away. The guy in the cap had crossed the canal by one of the convex footbridges and was sprinting parallel to the waterway. Away from our position.

‘Split up!’ I yelled at the cops.

They cut across the nearest footbridge, following Sonny’s course. I picked up the pace. Stayed on this side of the canal. Closed the gap as the suspect bulldozed through a gaggle of Japanese tourists. Lost his footing. Slid on his knees across the cobbles. Then picked himself up. Sonny was less than ten paces behind.

Now we were running alongside one another, but on opposite sides of the waterway.

I could see a larger footbridge coming up. Beyond that, the street of specialty shops dead-ended about a hundred yards further on. The guy in the cap was heading straight into a cul-de-sac. He’d have no choice but to double-back. Making a U-turn was out of the question – because that would leave him facing Sonny and the advancing cops. His only avenue of escape was the bridge spanning the widest point. But between him and the bridge lay an open-air café. Nothing between me and the bridge. And at this point it was level pegging.

I notched it up a gear. Capitalized on those muscle memories. Saw the suspect clatter through tables. Sending chairs flying. Sonny ducked as one flew her way. I made it to the humpbacked crossover seconds ahead of the suspect. Slipped and slid over shiny cobbles as I got to the apex. Drew out my Glock and adopted a two-handed defensive stance:

‘Stop! Police!’

152

^{___________________________}

His name was Kevin Boone. But his clients knew him as
Repo
. He was twenty-eight. From Henderson. With a rap sheet that read like a comedy of errors. Turned out he was nothing more than a small-time dealer – of drugs, not cards – peddling low-grade PCP to any teenager with an allowance. Presently Boone was serving a two year probation under State law. So when he’d been pulled aside outside
Treasure Island
he’d decided to make a bolt for it rather than risk violating his parole.

But he hadn’t bargained on Sonny’s athleticism.

Then again, neither had I.

He wasn’t
The Undertaker
.

And our melancholy was tangible.

‘What now?’ Sonny asked as we watched the handcuffed drug dealer being marched away for processing.

‘We put together everything we know about Ethan Davey Copes. Apply it to the evidence we already have. Get Bill’s team of Profilers to work out where he might be holed up or even where he might strike next.’

 
Sonny was nodding. ‘But first we need to get you fixed up.’

We were in
The Venetian
security suite. I was sipping hot Italian coffee from one of the street vendors. Trying to clear chlorine from my sinuses. I was soaked to the bone. Dripping water on the expensive tiled floor.

‘And get you in some dry clothes.’ She said.

I waited for Sonny to bring her SUV round to
The Venetian.
Spent the time thinking about the five dead kids over at
Treasure Island
. The boys and girls from the CSU would shortly be processing the scene. Followed by the removal of the bodies by the ME for post-mortem examinations. I couldn’t get my head around
The Undertaker’s
mind-set. Decided I wasn’t yet crazy enough to appreciate the subtleties of his master plan. He’d gone from single kills to multiples inside of a week. Any detective worth his salt will tell you that such an escalation can only end badly.

‘There’s still a chance he’ll turn up on one of the hotel lists.’ Sonny was saying as we headed west down Spring Mountain Road, away from The Strip.

I stared through the passenger window as the burgeoning sunrise painting the monstrous hotels in swathes of gold. She was trying to console me, I knew. See the bright side of a very dark morning. But lately all my silver linings had turned out leaden.

‘You still want to hold back on that Press conference?’ She asked.

My cell phone vibrated. It was a miracle it still functioned. I took it out and wiped it with the towel.

There was a text message, from an anonymous caller:

‘If you had to take one life to save another, could you?’

‘What?’ Sonny asked, glancing over.

‘Nothing.’ I said. I closed the phone. Put it away. ‘Can you arrange the news conference for tomorrow morning?’

‘Sure. I can set it up sooner if you like. This afternoon.’

‘Tomorrow’s fine.’

‘Any particular reason why?’

I thought about it. Why was I stalling?

‘Sonny, I want to make sure we’ve done everything we can to catch this guy first before we go live.’ I said. ‘I don’t want any of those news sharks sensing blood and sinking the investigation.’

‘You’re worried Stacey will grill you in public.’

‘No. I just don’t want her whitewashing the whole affair and turn our manhunt into a personal crusade.’

‘Do you think she’d do that?’

‘She’s already started.’

We drove underneath the Interstate overpass and out the other side.

‘Who’s Harry?’ Sonny asked all of a sudden.

‘My partner.’ I answered, blindsided by the unexpected question. ‘He died this week.’

I listened to the words coming out of my mouth. Not fully believing what I heard.

‘Gabe, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize he was one of the victims.’