Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (65 page)

‘Sonny, I still don’t see how I fit into all this.’

‘Well, there’s the cruncher,’ she said. ‘I know it’s all a crock and you had nothing to do with it, but the Feds swear they found incriminating evidence at the Kellerman crime scene. Proof definitive, Gabe. Something that points the finger of blame directly at you.’

Another stunner.

‘Me?’

At any other time I would have been bowled over by this second accusation, but I was still flat on my back from the first.

‘You do know I’m being set up?’

‘Gabe, you don’t need to convince me; I’m on your side. Heck, we’ve spent most of the weekend together. I know you’re innocent. What I don’t understand is why the Feds would falsify evidence.’

‘Because they didn’t.’ I said.

It had suddenly occurred to me that I’d played straight into the killer’s hand.

‘It’s not the Feds.’ I said. ‘They’re just the stooges in all this. It’s him, Sonny. The Undertaker. He’s the one setting me up.’

Now it was Sonny’s turn to pull a face. ‘Candlewood killed Kellerman?’

‘Forget Candlewood! Candlewood’s a red herring thrown in to throw us off the scent. Candlewood isn’t The Undertaker. The Undertaker’s still out there. He set me up.’

‘But why?’

The door opened. The Sheriff appeared in the doorway like the man who marches the guilty to the gallows. Waved us both out. He still had his Deputies with him. There were more boys and girls from the Sheriff’s Department holding crowds of reporters at bay down the corridor, I saw. The Press conference was over; there were bigger fish to fry. Namely, me. Suddenly, the arrest of the Celebrity Cop from LA was more newsworthy than a dozen homicides.

‘Sheriff, what’s happening?’

The Sheriff drew a troubled breath, let it slowly out. ‘This is no longer our call, Sonny. SAC Winters is personally heading up the investigation into Ms. Kellerman’s homicide.’

‘And I’m their prime suspect.’ I said.

‘I don’t know anything more than that, Detective. This is pretty much out of my hands. It’s a Federal matter now.’

‘You do know I’m being set up?’

The Sheriff didn’t acknowledge it either way.

‘So what happens next?’ Sonny asked.

‘Until further notice, Detective Quinn is under house arrest.’

‘And you’re buying their crap?’

I saw the Sheriff’s face squirm. He knew he was being manipulated, but his hands might as well have been cuffed.

‘Like I say, Sonny, it’s not my call. They’ve got agents all over this. They’ve even commandeered the Crime Lab.’

‘Which means they’ve found something.’ I realized. ‘Do we know what?’

Again, the Sheriff didn’t acknowledge it either way.

 
‘I’ll look into it.’ Sonny said. ‘Me and Milk will get to the bottom of this. I promise.’

‘And if I refuse to go quietly?’

Another long sigh. ‘That wouldn’t be in your best interest, Detective. Winters has already been on the phone to Internal Affairs. They’re sending somebody over. From LA. It won’t look good if you make a fuss.’

‘Won’t look good?’ Sonny echoed. ‘Jesus Christ.’

My whole credibility was on the line – being piped to every News channel on the planet – and he thought making a fuss was inappropriate.

‘This is bullshit.’ I said between closed teeth.

‘Maybe it is. But if Winters had his way you’d already be shackled in a holding cell right now. I told him there was no way I wanted my Department overrun with News people. Be glad of the compromise.’

‘So I got house arrest as a concession. Gee, thanks.’ I didn’t mean it.

‘Hope you like prison food, Quinn.’

I glanced round. It was Wong. He was swaggering towards us. Sniggering like the infernal Cheshire Cat on crack.

It was as if somebody flicked a switch in my brain. Don’t ask me why I did it. I just did. Call it impulsion – or even repulsion. I launched myself at Wong. Talons first. All I wanted to do was wring his little wiry neck. Wipe that self-righteous grin clean off his face. I took everyone by surprise – including Wong. Even managed to yank his tie hard enough to make his eyeballs bulge before the Deputies wrestled me off.

‘Your badge is mine, old man.’ Wong gasped as he loosened the noose around his neck. ‘And your pension. You screwed up big time. Now it’s time to pay the piper.’

The Sheriff nodded to his Deputies and, a little red-faced, they marched me toward the elevators.

‘Gabe, I’ll shake the bugs out of this rug.’ Sonny called.

‘Thanks, Sonny. In the meantime have somebody fetch me copies of all our case notes. Plus a laptop. While you clear my name I’m going to catch The Undertaker.’

184

^{___________________________}

He was flexible. You had to be. You couldn’t go around eliminating dozens of people from all walks of life and in all kinds of situations by being fixed to a single game plan. You had to adapt. Be creative. Be ready to initiate contingency plans. The fact that Officer Garcia had arrived unexpectedly at his family home had catapulted the cat among the pigeons, for sure. Forced him to reschedule. To accelerate his plans. But it hadn’t shifted his focus one iota.

No one questioned him as he escorted the drugged LA cop through the airport. No one queried his fake police ID. As far as the Port Authority Police at Newark Liberty cared, he was NYPD Homicide Detective Nathan ‘Nate’ Westbrook – returning a mentally-ill criminal to Vegas jurisdiction. Even his fake letter of approval from the TSA legitimizing the carrying of Jamie’s weapon on board was waved through unchecked. Security wasn’t interested in anyone who didn’t fit within the stereotypical parameters of a Middle Eastern terrorist. In fact, his passage onto the plane and out of Newark was expedited by his newly-assumed identity and the handcuffed woman in his custody.

‘Officer, would you like some refreshments? Coffee? Tea?’

He hauled his gaze away from the case notes and gave the stewardess a wholesome grin.

She was a formulaic trolley dolly. More fake smiles than brain cells. Lacquered plastic – with six coats of make-up, baked to perfection. Smelled like a perfumery. Bright red talons. A deliberately suggestive smile. A cleavage trying desperately to break out of its tight white cotton confines.

She had no idea she was smiling down at one of the FBI’s Most Wanted. No perception she was inches away from death – if he chose it that way. No awareness of her own frail mortality hanging precariously in the balance.

He allowed the stewardess a brief glimpse of the police shield hooked to his belt and the handcuffs on Jamie’s wrists.

The stewardess seemed impressed. She settled on her haunches. Kept her voice to a minimum, ‘We have an Air Marshal seated a few rows back if you need him. Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.’ She touched his knee. ‘Anything at all.’

He thanked her for her courtesy, but assured her the restraints on his captured fugitive were purely a technicality. His prisoner was heavily sedated and could offer no resistance. The rest of the passengers were quite safe. No need to worry. No need to wake the Marshal.

She blinked spider-leg lashes at him.

As a compromise, he ordered a bourbon on the rocks. She came back a minute later with his whiskey and her cell number.

‘I’m in New Jersey every other day.’ She said. ‘Call me sometime. No strings.’

He slipped the number in his pocket as the plane began its long descent into Denver.

185

^{___________________________}

Nothing I could do about it. I was off the case and feeling sore. Scratch that; I was feeling
pissed
. Somebody had set me up and that somebody was ringing my cell phone right this minute.

‘You stitched me up, you son of a bitch.’

I could hear
The Undertaker
laughing down the line. It sounded like a paper-shredder gorging itself on corrugated cardboard.

Truth was, I was still freaked out by the Darth Vader monotone. Still repulsed by its inhuman drone. Some things are a spill-over from childhood.

‘Oh dear.’ Mocked the mechanical voice. ‘Has something happened to upset your day? Are those nasty past indiscretions finally catching up with you?’

I hung up.

186

^{___________________________}

Detective Michael Shakes sat in his Day-Glo orange Mustang for fifteen minutes before climbing out and slamming the door. In those fifteen minutes he’d watched the boys from the Coroner’s Office wheel an empty gurney into the house on Deuce Street. Then wheel the same gurney out ten minutes later. The only difference had been the direction of movement and the black body bag on top of the stretcher.

He had also spent the last couple of hours chastising himself. He should have checked up on Stacey sooner. Should have followed up on his instincts. Found out why she hadn’t been answering her phone. Made a point of breaking down her door. Maybe even disturbing her killer. Saving her. A whole load of should haves and not a single did do.

Too late now.

Stacey was dead and so was a little piece of him.

He waited for the ME’s van to disappear down the street before walking up the path and going inside the house.

He’d been here before. Once or twice during their fling. Everything looked the same as it had back then. Everything except the arcs of blood on the crisp white walls.

He made his way toward the open-plan kitchen. Across cream-colored carpeting. Past stylish black leather furniture. Nodded solemn greetings to the CSU techs still processing the scene.

By the looks of things, Forensics had worked through the night. He could see dozens of numbered hit markers stuck on walls, cupboards, windows. Post-its indicating direction of blood spatter and suspect fingerprints. Patches of white powder on darker surfaces. Yellow flags showing the locations of suspect footprints and areas where evidence had been removed for analysis.

 
Judging by the amount of arterial spray on the kitchen walls, Stacey had met her fate between the breakfast bar and the big black refrigerator. There was a chair standing on the tiled floor. One of those breakfast bar chairs with the extra-long legs. Basically, a tall stool with a back.