Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (56 page)

‘Mark and Sarah worked for Harland Labs.’ Shakes said, still wearing the same face. ‘They’re a biotech outfit in Boston. Who’s willing to bet they all work for the same company?’

We all sat on the edges of our seats, staring at Glenda, waiting for news.

‘Are you certain?’ She spoke into the phone exactly one minute later. ‘Good. Thanks. Call me back when you find out.’

She closed up the phone.

We were all leaning toward her with expectation.

‘Patricia Hoagland was employed by Waldo Parker. She was here for their biennial convention.’

Our disappointment was profound. We all slouched back.

‘What about the kids at Treasure Island?’

Glenda looked at Shakes. ‘We’re still checking.’

Two minutes later, Glenda’s phone rang. She answered. We all leaned forward again. She nodded. Hung up. We could see by her expression that it wasn’t the news we were hoping for.

‘They were here for a convention, all right. But not the Harland Labs seminar.’

‘Bet you’re glad nobody took you up on that wager.’ Sonny said to Shakes.

‘The killings of Mark and Sarah must figure prominently in the killer’s game plan.’ I mused out loud. ‘His display of controlled rage is too significant to ignore. Can we speak with the kid from Treasure Island again?’

‘Brandon Chu?’

‘Yes. See if their employment was the only commonality between those kids. See if they had any ties with Harland Labs’

Shakes nodded. ‘Soon as we’re done here.’

The door opened. Assistant Director Marty Gunner staggered into our annex and dropped into his chair. He’d just come out of a video-conference call with the Director of the FBI, He looked shattered. He wore the face of a man who had just learned that the communicable disease was in fact fatal.

‘As of five pm this afternoon –’ Marty checked his watch, ‘– in about three hours and thirty-six minutes’ time, all routes out of Vegas will be closed for a twenty-four hour period.’

Sonny sat up. ‘We’re actually closing Vegas? Hot damn. I didn’t think he’d buy it.’

‘Best I can do.’

‘That’s like closing down Disney.’ Shakes said. ‘Only happened once before. In Florida. Back in ’99.’

‘Hurricane Floyd.’ Glenda confirmed with a nod. ‘I was there with my folks. We cowered in a bathtub for two whole hours.’

I went over to the water cooler. Poured a long shot for Marty. Handed it to him. He guzzled it down.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

I felt bad for him. If we messed up, his head would be on the chopping block. Fuller took no prisoners.

‘Give us the details when you’re ready, Marty.’ I said.

‘Yeah, we don’t want to rush you unduly.’ Mike Shakes nodded. ‘But we do have a killer to catch.’

157

^{___________________________}

Jamie Garcia spent the morning the same way she’d spent every Saturday morning since her older brother had been gunned down in a drive-by when she was fifteen. At the Rainbow Project on East 3
^rd
Street in El Este de Los Ángeles. The scheme was in its tenth year. Conceived by the Residents Association and housed in a small reclaimed building that used to be the 3
^rd
Street Market, on the corner opposite Our Lady of Lourdes Church. Its goal was to help steer youngsters away from a life of gang crime. Using a combination of positive teachings and community workshops. So far, it had an immaculate record of achievement.

Most of the morning had been taken up giving a brief talk about knife crime to a group of attentive youngsters ranging between the ages of seven and eleven. They’d listened with pinned-back ears. Eyes as wide as baby birds being fed a juicy stream of maggots. Jamie loved her work here. She couldn’t think of any better way to volunteer her free time to the community she loved so much. But all the time she’d been speaking, her mind had been on something else. Something that didn’t belong inside the four walls of this cheery building.

She’d made up her mind.

She didn’t want to sit on her hands until her appraisal on Tuesday. She wanted to be productive.
Needed
to be productive. Work what bits of the case she could outside of the Precinct.

Jamie watched the children laugh and play.

She’d made up her mind.

She’d do whatever it took to put the killer of Jennifer McNamara behind bars.

158

^{___________________________}

A noose was to be drawn around Vegas, effectively strangling the circulation of traffic and the flow of people out of the city. No one was leaving town until Sunday evening. That gave us twenty-four hours to catch
The Undertaker
. Starting five o’clock. It meant all hands on deck.

Assistant Director Marty Gunner gathered his point men together and delegated duties. Stressed that no one – and he meant
no one
– was to be allowed out through the checkpoints unless they met the exceptions criteria. Exceptions included single females, families with young children, the elderly over seventy, emergency services personnel, and delivery drivers with the correct paperwork. And even then, their vehicles would be checked thoroughly with sniffer dogs for stowaways. Plus, their IDs scrutinized under a microscope.

Once the Feds had their strategies organized, Marty got on the phone to Major General Rosalind Franklin of the Nevada National Guard and made sure everyone was reading from the same page. The Major General was coordinating the National Guard from a temporary command post just off Route 95. Already doing a fine job by all accounts. Her new orders were to apprehend any male even loosely fitting our APB description, no matter what his ID said. If in doubt, detain. That was Marty’s message. Hold until the FBI had run details through their system and given the green light.

My first worry was that
The Undertaker
might be happy where he was, in Vegas, and not even try to run a roadblock until after the noose had been withdrawn.

No plan is fool proof. But many are proven by fools.

Provision was being put into place on the periphery of the city to provide temporary turnarounds and stopovers for vehicles. Diverting traffic back into the city would prove a logistics nightmare. But Marty was one step ahead. He’d already dispatched people to help co-ordinate road signals – to do everything they could to prevent the city’s main arteries from seizing up.

Every hotel in Vegas with rooms not reserved for the weekend was being instructed to keep them aside for tourists and commuters stuck in town. I heard they were glad to oblige – since it meant more guests to charm in the casinos.

Time has a way of rolling on no matter what happens. Five o’clock came and went. The roadblocks started living up to their name. Turnpikes turned into turnarounds. Traffic started tailing back for miles. Even with a heavy National Guard presence there was widespread restlessness. That tension would mount as the evening wore on, I knew. Within ten minutes of the lockdown of Las Vegas coming into effect, we had reports of more than a dozen outbreaks of civil disorder, resulting in arrests and red faces caught on local TV cameras.

This was going to get icky.

I called Bill on his cell to see when he would be back from liaising with Henderson’s Police Department. But the call went straight to voicemail. I collared Marty:

‘Marty, you heard from Bill?’

‘Not since midday.’

‘Is that normal?’

He gave me a
we’re talking about Bill here
look. And we left it there.

Thirty minutes into lockdown, the Situation Room fell under siege to the irrepressible Press as they set up camp in the hotel thoroughfare outside. I kept my distance; I was in no mood for another showdown with Stacey Kellerman.

The process went like this: all hotel guests checking out were to be told about the lockdown and warned to expect massive time delays leaving the city. Those who did not meet the exceptions criteria were being advised to remain at the hotel if accommodation was available. Rooms would be sourced elsewhere if not. Anyone with their own transportation who fancied their chances with the traffic jams could do so. The airlines had be advised of the lockdown and to expect an impact on passenger numbers exiting through McCarran. FBI agents would go from hotel to hotel overnight, checking the identity of every single male. Same at the roadblocks. No stone would be left unturned.

My second worry was that
The Undertaker
could be holed up in a private residence somewhere. And that all our efforts would be in vain. All patrolling officers being told to be extra vigilant, and to check out any suspicious circumstances across the city neighborhoods.

All police and Sheriff’s Department leave was canceled for the weekend. Every officer capable of working was brought in. In an unprecedented move, Uncle Sam agreed to pick up the tab. It was anyone’s guess how many millions
The Undertaker
was going to cost the taxpayer over the next twenty-four hours of delays and disruption.

Already this had become the biggest manhunt in Nevada history.

Forty-five minutes into the proceedings, I telephoned Captain Ferguson. Brought him up to speed. News of the Vegas lockdown had already reached LA. In fact, the networks were running the hastily-put-together FBI Press release like the world was ending. It was spreading across the country like wildfire. An hour into the lockdown, the news had gone global. Viral on the internet. Eyes worldwide were suddenly watching Vegas. Looking closely at our investigation. Examining our every move.

By 6:30 p.m.,
The Undertaker’s
face was lighting up TVs across the land. It was a digitally-aged version of his Tennessee driver’s license. Two images released, side by side: one with tousled blonde hair and a blonde goatee, the other wearing the
Black Death
baseball cap. Even if Ethan Davey Copes had already left the State he’d have nowhere to hide. The whole planet was watching.

Two hours into lockdown, Marty Gunner pulled me over to one side.

‘You heard from Bill?’ I asked.

‘Jackson.’ He answered.

A body – or the skeletal remains of one – had been exhumed from beneath the Copes’ farm silo. It didn’t sound good. Pelvic width told us it was male. Joint development indicated a young adult, possibly late teens. Decay told us it had been in the earth for at least a decade. The remains were being shipped over to Langley for dental analysis. Top priority. No point running DNA comparisons; the body had been buried prior to our new genetic age. But providing the boy had undergone dentistry work, we’d have an ID soon enough.

‘They also found two items buried with the remains.’ Marty told me. ‘One was this.’