Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (63 page)

‘You’re a long way from home, Jamie Garcia.’ He whispered, drawing the baby bundle closer to his chest. ‘How can I be of assistance to the LAPD?’

He had a thick southern accent. An infectious smile. For some inexplicable reason Jamie had always thought there was something strangely attractive about a good-looking man nursing a helpless baby.

‘I believe Katherine Dufresne lives here.’

‘You mean my wife? Yes, she does. Least, I hope she does. Is she in some kind of trouble? She collects parking tickets like they’re postage stamps.’

‘Is your wife home, sir?’

‘Actually, no. Well, in a manner of speaking, yes.’ He glanced over Jamie’s head, as if to peer down the road towards the ocean. ‘Kate likes to run, you see. Come rain or shine. Up and down the beach she goes. Incessantly.’

‘When will she be back?’

177

^{___________________________}

The large entrance hall had a timber floor and a chandelier made from an old ship’s wheel hung from a vaulted ceiling. A theme that complemented its nautical setting.

‘Your coat?’

Jamie shucked it off. ‘Thank you.’

The man draped it over a peg on the wall. ‘Not used to this kind of weather, I guess – you being from California and all. Got to have rhinoceros skin for this climate.’ He nodded towards an open doorway. ‘The living room’s right through that way. Just make yourself at home while I put this little one in his crib. Sugar, for the tea?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

The man flashed another of those infectious smiles and disappeared up the hall.

Distantly, she could hear music tinkling away in another part of the house. It sounded like Dean Martin lamenting a fallen love.

The living room was a treasure trove of antique furniture. Maritime collectables. A real log fire burning merrily away in one corner. Yellowy walls with oil paintings of sail ships and steam packets.

She went over to the large bay window and gazed out. It was a picture-postcard view of the wintry ocean. Gulls swooping in the distance like white stitches in a grey blanket. A snowy garden sloping down to a shale beach and a small wooden jetty. Something that looked like a cruise liner creeping across the horizon.

She picked up a framed photograph from the window ledge. The picture had been taken aboard a small fishing boat on a bright summer’s day. It depicted her host standing next to a captured shark. The shark was dangling by its tail from a hook and pulley, bleeding onto the boat’s white wooden decking. The man in the picture was beaming.

‘That’s a long-fin Mako. All seven feet and five hundred pounds of pure killing machine.’

Jamie turned.

‘Took almost an hour to wrestle her out the water.’ Her host walked towards her, holding two glasses of steaming tea. ‘I hope you like Earl Grey.’

‘Right now I’d drink pond water if it was hot.’

She put down the picture and accepted one of the drinks.

‘Please, take a seat.’

They sat. On opposite sofas. Either side of the crackling log fire.

‘So are you going to tell me what my wife’s done?’

‘It’s nothing.’ Jamie said. She sipped tea. Mindful that this man might not be aware of his wife’s past. ‘Your home’s lovely.’

The man studied her through his big dark eyes. She saw his lips part as he was about to question her further. But the wail of a crying baby drifted into the room.

‘I guess my wife’s little secret will have to wait.’ He said as he got to his feet. ‘Drink up, Jamie. I shall return in due course.’

Jamie watched him leave the room. Relieved that the microscope had been removed.

She drank more tea. Her lips tingled. The crackling fire was gloriously warm. She yawned. Spotted a hefty leather-bound photo album sitting on an occasional table. She threw the remainder of the tea down her throat. Then, using both hands, heaved the heavy book onto her lap.

The photographs were the regular type: mostly vacation snaps and family gatherings. Some in and around the house itself. Christmassy ones. A happy married couple on a beach, hugging each other. Pages filled with baby pictures – from birth to present day. He was a good-looking boy. Very much like his father. But there was something vaguely familiar about the mother too. Something that fingered at the back of Jamie’s mind.

Distantly, she could hear the man singing a soft lullaby.

Ring a Ring o’ roses, a pocketful of posies …

She let it wash over her. Soothing like a hot soak. Yawned.

Another page: some professional-looking portraits with older family members. Several of her host and a woman she presumed to be his mother at various stages in his life. A close-up of his wife, Katherine Dufresne, all dolled-up, taken in what looked like a TV studio. TV cameras and boon microphones. Standing next to a man in a tuxedo. A man she knew as Professor Jeffrey Samuels.

Suddenly Jamie’s heart flooded with adrenaline.

‘How are we feeling?’

She looked up, startled.

Her host was walking towards her across the plush Persian rug. Jamie blinked. Had to force her eyes to focus. All at once her head felt too heavy for her neck to support.

‘I expect you’re wondering what’s happing to you.’ He said as he knelt down beside her. Put his face close to hers.

She tried to jerk away, but nothing happened. Tried to answer, but nothing came out.

‘Your tea was dosed with a fast-acting paralytic.’ He whispered in her ear. ‘In about twenty seconds you won’t be able to feel a single damn thing.’

Jamie could hear a gurgling sound in the back of her throat. It might have been a scream. It was the best she could do.

He brushed a strand of hair from off her face. Then leaned in and kissed her gently on the mouth.

‘Is it scary knowing you’re a fly caught in the spider’s web?’ he whispered against her numb lips.

178

^{___________________________}

The hard Nevada water had made my hair fluffy. I spent the best part of five minutes trying to flatten it out before giving it up as a bad job. Another bad hair day in a long line of bad hair days was the least of my troubles. We were fifteen minutes away from a Press conference.

The news of the explosion at
Caesar’s Palace
had been all over the Media since sunrise. Zoomed-in shots of the blackened hole ripped out of the Palace Tower. Debris smoldering in the oasis pool area. Interviews with terrified eye witnesses. Video footage looping every ten minutes.

The Press would have themselves a turkey shoot.

I’d already been on the phone to Sonny to co-ordinate strategies. Get our stories straight. I didn’t like the thought of talking to the Media one bit. A room full of Stacey Kellermans isn’t my idea of a pajama party.

I’d received a text message from Jamie:

‘Gabe. The survivor’s address came through. On my way there now to interview her. Something to think about: are the killer’s calling cards connected to the nursery rhyme Ring o’ Roses? Or the Bubonic Plague? I’ll call when I have more news. Jamie.’

I had no idea where she’d gone. But I knew why.

I sent her a message back, saying:
Be careful. Call me soon.

Then breakfast arrived. Brought to my room by a tip-hungry teenager. I shoveled down eggs-over-easy with French toast, breakfast muffins and waffles with maple syrup. It was the most I’d eaten in one sitting for weeks. I washed it down with lashings of coffee and a handful of antacids. Then went into the bathroom and brought it all back.

‘Damn you to hell.’ I growled at my old ulcer as I rinsed goop off my lips. Shuddered. Puked again. Wiped off more goop.

My cell rang.

I went back into the bedroom and picked up.

‘Bill? Thank God! I worried something had happened.’

‘It did.’ I heard him say. ‘Fuller summoned me to Washington last minute. Demanded an in-person account on how agents managed to get themselves fucking killed in Jackson. I left a message for Marty. Then all hell broke loose.’

‘Marty.’ The memory thumped me in the gut. ‘Bill, I’m sorry.’

‘I’m on my way back.’ He said.

‘But the show’s over. Candlewood’s in custody. The National Guard have all gone home for the weekend. Your colleagues have shipped out. With Marty dead they’ll need you back in Langley.’

‘We have the wrong man.’ I heard him say. ‘I’m on my way back.’

‘But what about Fuller?’

179

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The Press conference had been put together in one of the hotel’s meeting venues. Down the hall from the abandoned Situation Room. A couple of dozen chairs faced a small podium with a table and two chairs up top. It was already full to popping with paparazzi.

Twenty-four hours ago, every top brass official in the State would have been here. Maybe one or two Federal bigwigs. With the capture of Candlewood, the big cheeses had stayed home. Enjoying their Sunday breakfast in bed. Content to watch this play out on the TV. Believing they had their man. They were wrong.

I surveyed the Press pool teeming with news sharks. Didn’t see Stacey Kellerman; relaxed a fraction. No signs of Hugh Winters either; relaxed a little more. Just the brick-faced Sheriff standing with two of his Deputies over in the far corner.

‘You okay, Gabe?’ Sonny whispered as we walked towards the raised dais.

‘Press conferences are like pulling teeth.’ I grouched.

Truth was, I wanted to be one of those guys watching this play out on TV.

 
We took our places in the crosshairs. A tech guy wearing headphones came over and made sure the cluster of microphones sitting in the middle of the desk were picking up. They were. Then he backed away as a general hush settled over our eagle-eyed audience.