Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (61 page)

Glenda Hoyt and an overweight Fed I’d seen loafing around the Situation Room were standing either side of the frosted-glass door leading into the private poker lounge. They looked edgy. Had every right to be. When they saw our arsenal of cops spilling out onto the landing, that edginess turned to something close to distress. They held up shaky hands as we advanced. Tried to get us to back off. But nothing was going to stop us. Not even the threat of violence. Against their protests, we used enough polite force to lever them out of our way.

‘What’s the deal here?’ Sonny shouted as we burst into the room, very nearly knocking the glass doors off their hinges.

I counted seven G-Men standing round an oval-shaped poker table. Five of them I recognized instantly: Agents Stubbs, Cherry, Blom and Wong, plus a worried-looking Miles Tomlin. The other two were meathead lackeys with all the charm of dungeon torturers. They all had their jackets off, except for Wong and Miles. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Faces hard and sweaty in the unforgiving light coming from the overhead strip lamp. It looked like we’d walked in on a Mafia tea party.

A blonde-haired guy lay sprawled on the poker table itself. His fancy silk shirt was ripped round the neck. Blood coated his face and neck. One shoe was missing. His fingers looked mashed by the heels of guns. Blooded and curled like bird claws. I could hear him whimpering, sobbing.

I’d never walked in on this kind of FBI lynch mob before.

I was shocked. We all were.

‘Stay out of this.’ Wong spat with the charisma of a rattlesnake. ‘This is Federal business. The suspect has just admitted to murder.’

‘Looks like he would have admitted his mother’s from Mars if you’d asked him.’ I said.

‘Screw you, Quinn.’

In a flash, Sonny had her gun out. It was a dangerous move. Like throwing gasoline on a fire. But we all copied – even the Feds. A clatter of firearms being cocked. Twenty or more weapons aimed across the poker table with bullets ready to fly.

Face-off.

‘Think you’re forgetting this is my jurisdiction,’ Sonny said with real grit in her teeth. ‘Now step away from Mr. Candlewood. I’m not going to say please.’

Wong sneered. Wong was good at sneering. A lifetime of practice had perfected the technique. ‘Or what, Inspector Maxwell? You’ll shoot me? Give me a break.’

Sonny took a step forward. Aimed the muzzle at the dip between Wong’s snake eyes.

‘If I have to waste a good bullet on your weasel face,’ she said, ‘I will. Same goes for every last one of you boys. Because you should know something, fellas: I’m premenstrual right now. And I don’t take prisoners when I’m premenstrual. So it would really be in your best interest not to piss off my itchy trigger finger any more than you already have done.’

I saw them think about it, collectively. I could smell rusty cogs whirring – or maybe that was Wong’s cheap cologne. They weren’t sure whether Sonny meant the threat. But couldn’t take the chance she wasn’t bluffing.

She sounded genuine to me.

With a deafening
bang
, Sonny discharged her weapon. I swear I saw Wong’s hair part as the bullet tore a hole in the wood paneling behind the Feds.

Every Fed bar Wong lowered their weapons. Started backing away from the poker table.

As if on cue, cops poured in around us – enough to clear us a direct path to Candlewood.

‘You think this is over?’ Wong snarled as the Feds were manhandled out of the poker lounge. ‘Think again. This isn’t over, Quinn.’

I had a bad feeling it wasn’t.

173

^{___________________________}

Gaining an authentic admission of guilt takes art and finesse. It’s easy to beat a confession out of a suspect. Harder to make it genuine. Harder still to make it stick. Wong and his Federal bullies had beaten Harland Candlewood to a pulp. Under extreme duress he’d blurted out a confession inadmissible in every court in the land.

‘Doctors reckon it’s touch and go.’ Detective Michael Shakes was saying as we peered through the glass partition into the hospital room where Harland Candlewood lay hooked up to monitors. Face hidden by bandages. He looked like the Invisible Man without the hat and glasses. I could see the colored pulse lines fluctuate on the monitor displays next to the bed. His rates were up and down like the Dow.

We were at Sunrise Hospital: just Shakes and me. It was after midnight. I’d persuaded Sonny to go home to her kids and leave us to it. Sonny had argued the point; all fired up and ready to shake down the Feds. But I’d insisted. One of us needed to be bright and fresh for the Press conference scheduled for the morning. Besides, Candlewood wasn’t going anywhere; comas aren’t daytrips to the coast. We had a handful of cops guarding him. Deputies from the Sheriff’s Department checking IDs at the Nurse’s Station on the way in. More uniforms downstairs, preventing the Media from overrunning the hospital. No one even related to a G-man was being allowed within fifty feet of Harland Candlewood.

‘The Feds fucked us over.’ Shakes lamented as we gazed through the glass at the unmoving patient. ‘Even if he makes it there’s a good chance he’ll be brain damaged.’

Candlewood’s outlook was gloomy, for sure. The next twenty-four hours were critical. His doctors were fifty-fifty. If Candlewood pulled through, we stood a chance of finding out what role, if any, the head of the biotech outfit played in
The Undertaker
murders. If Candlewood didn’t pull through, there were going to be tough questions asked all round at Langley.

Understandably, I was angry with Wong and his posse. We all were. Their lynch mob mentality had ruined any chances of interviewing Harland Candlewood.

Just when we had found our legs the Feds had come along and crippled us.

No wonder Shakes was grinding teeth.

I heard his cell phone sing. He answered it.

I thought about the possibility of the head of the biotech company actually being
The Undertaker
. Did all the pieces fit? According to his credit card transactions he’d had a room at the Ramada when Helena Margolis had met her death. Physically, he was a good match for our APB photo fit. We’d found the coat and cap, together with syringes and controlled chemicals, in his hotel room before it had been blown to kingdom come. Half his employees had been murdered here in Vegas. Was this bruised and battered man lying here the monster I’d been chasing all week? I wasn’t sure. Couldn’t be sure. Something didn’t feel right.

174

^{___________________________}

In the power vacuum created by Marty Gunner’s untimely death, the Special Agent-in-Charge of the Las Vegas Field Office had assumed control of the case. My case, remember. His name was Hugh Winters. And he didn’t consider me his best buddy.

We arrived at the Situation Room to find techies uncoupling computers and packing away screens. It looked like backstage after a music gig. Show over. Most of the FBI personnel were nowhere to be seen – probably already on their way back to Virginia. One or two Feds left to oversee the clean-up. Hugh Winters wasn’t one of them.

‘I’m going to see Winters.’ I told Shakes as we marched out of the
MGM Grand
.

‘It’s the middle of the night.’ Shakes protested. He was having to jog just to keep up. ‘Gabe, listen to me. He’ll be at home. Tucked up in his bed with Mrs. Winters and their two-year-old Shih Tzu.’

I didn’t ask.

‘You sure this is a good idea?’

‘It’s the best one I have right now.’

‘What about your friend from Quantico?’

I’d called Bill the moment I’d heard Winters was hijacking the investigation. But the connection had gone straight to voicemail. No one had heard from Bill since midday; I was anxious over his whereabouts.

‘Bill’s out of the loop.’ I said as we crossed the taxi rank. ‘It’s down to us to rescue this case, Milk, before the Feds box it up and throw away the key.’

We got in Shakes’ car. Headed west towards Spring Valley. Pedal to the metal.

A showdown with the resident SAC wouldn’t go down well. I knew I’d be treading on toes by confronting Winters face to face. But I was through pussy-footing around. Good people had died these last few days – including Winters’ comrades. They thought by pinning all of the murders on Candlewood’s head they could simply make everything go away. They were wrong.

After a couple of miles, we turned off Tropicana into the brightly-lit entrance leading into a gated community. The place looked asleep. Darkened homes retreating from vanilla street lights.

‘We’re here to see Hugh Winters.’ Shakes said though the driver’s window to a bored-looking security guard leaning out of his hut.

‘You got an invitation?’

‘Sure.’ Shakes showed his police shield.

The barrier lifted and we passed through the checkpoint.

We took a left, following a crescent. Another left and we arrived at the Winters residence. It was located at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac of big fancy six-bedroom dwellings sat on a slight north-leaning rise overlooking a private golf club. Trimmed lawns and imported pines. Swimming pools out back. All in darkness. I asked Shakes to stay in the car, then stormed up the Winters’ driveway.

It took three persistent rings of the doorbell and a lot of knuckles against wood before lights blinked on in the house. I could hear somebody lumbering down wooden stairs. A light came on in the hall. Bolts scraped back.

‘What the hell is your problem, Detective?’ Hugh Winters demanded as he swung open the heavy front door and glared in my direction.

Hugh Winters is a jowly sixty-something with a balding pate, a stubby little nose and gold-wire spectacles. Sounds juvenile, I know, but he reminds me of one of the little pigs from the Grim fairy tale. I saw him pull his heavy housecoat round his paunch as he gave me a
get the hell out of Dodge
nod.

‘It’s after one o’clock in the morning.’ He continued before I could speak. ‘Are you insane? Make an appointment in business hours like everybody else. Goodnight.’

He went to shut the door. I put a foot in it. He pulled it open again. Though not as wide this time. Gave me a malevolent glare.

‘This is my investigation.’ I said.

‘Was.’ He answered. ‘As in past tense, Detective. We allowed you in as a matter of courtesy. That invitation has now been rescinded.’

‘You’ve lifted the lockdown.’

‘We caught the suspect. The FBI nailed him in one day. More than you could do in a week. We’ll be taking full credit for the capture. Now get your damned foot out of my door.’