Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (69 page)

The entire northbound expressway was at a standstill.

Right at the onset of the evening rush-hour.

The killer known to himself as Randall Fisk wound down the driver’s window and turned up his nose.

Already the stench of souring milk was pungent in the air.

He got out of the car. Lit a cigarette. Surveyed the dairy disaster with a frown.

It was surreal.

The whole of the five-lane Interstate had become a glossy white lake, broken by lumpy soft-toy islands. People were out of their vehicles. Churning through the milk. Salvaging soggy souvenirs. Traffic tailing back for at least a mile, deep into the growing dusk. Maybe two. Strings of brilliantly-lit pearls. Lengthening by the second. Traffic crawling past on the other side of the median. All red tail lights. Full of curious drivers.

Something was watching him. Something small and green. With Ping-Pong ball eyes.

Kermit The Frog.

It was sitting stark upright, with waves of milk lapping against its velvety green skin.

Being back in Vegas sooner than planned felt like a glove with a missing finger. Something he couldn’t quite put a finger on, or
in
. But now that he was here he couldn’t think of a more fitting ending to this chapter of his life.

He sucked hard on the cigarette. Blew out smoke rings.

Over the concrete retaining wall, he could see his destination: the impressively tall
Stratosphere Tower
. Lighting up the sky like the Olympic flame.

He finished the cigarette and got back behind the wheel. Patted Officer Jamie Garcia on the knee. Not long now. Soon it would all be over.

When he looked back at the creamy carnage, all that was left of the plush frog was a pipe-cleaner finger poking up from its milky grave.

Fuck you too, Kermit.

195

^{___________________________}

Have you ever had one of those moments where your synapses simply refuse to snap? For about five very long seconds I couldn’t compute the magnitude of those few words scrolling across the screen.

‘Milton Perry?’ Eleanor breathed as she came up beside me. ‘Indicted for the Le Diable killings. That’s a crock of shit if ever I’ve heard it. I don’t believe it for one second.’

I didn’t know what to believe; my brain was still rebounding from being whacked.

We both stared at the screen.

Beyond the flashy banner, the news channel was running a looped recording of what appeared to be an ordinary-looking house in an ordinary-looking street – except for this one had FBI agents and police personnel crawling all over it. Yellow-and-black police tape zigzagged between lampposts. Helicopters hovered overhead. Our viewpoint was from behind the police cordon, along with the rest of the news cameras.

‘… arrested less than an hour ago, charged with five counts of first degree murder.’
A man’s voiceover was saying.
‘Initial reports indicate the police recovered all five decapitated heads from the Milton house. Here you can see what we believe are the first of those heads being brought out …’

Eleanor and I leaned into the screen. Morbid fascination.

The camera zoomed in on a procession of Feds in FBI windbreakers as they marched out through the front door of the house, single-file. Two of them were carrying run-of-the-mill coolers, like the kind you can pick up cheap in any of the large grocery stores – the ones that hardly sell groceries anymore.

The newsreel switched to a shot of Milton Perry being escorted out of his office building in downtown LA by more stony-faced Feds. The office building where I’d spoken to him earlier in the week. He looked flustered. Sweaty. It was like a scene from a TV cop show – where the detainee is hustled through a crowd of camera-flashing reporters before being bundled into an FBI van. I couldn’t completely believe what I was seeing.

‘Was he even on the suspect list?’ Eleanor asked as we watched the footage.

‘No idea.’ I admitted.

The recording switched to an interview with Special Agent Gene Devereux, outside the FBI Field Office on Wilshire Boulevard. The sun was shining. It looked like a hastily-put-together news conference. Devereux looked confident. Teeth gleaming. Like a panther after a kill.

He cleared his throat. Spoke:

‘After an extensive investigation, the FBI have today apprehended and arraigned Dr Milton Perry on the count of five brutal homicides against prominent religious figures in the LA area. Overwhelming evidence was recovered this afternoon from the Milton crime scene.’

‘What led you to Dr Perry?’

‘Like all killers, Perry got sloppy. Sooner or later they all make mistakes. Leave crucial evidence behind at a crime scene. Forensics obtained such evidence from the Alhambra crime scene. Evidence which directly points towards Perry being the perpetrator of these atrocities.’

‘Do you know anything about that?’ Eleanor asked.

‘Not a jot. Initially, I thought he was connected with The Undertaker homicides. Then something changed my mind.’

‘What about the heads?’

‘We discovered the existence of four decapitated heads in a subsequent search of the Milton household.’

Eleanor flicked off the TV.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Turning off this bullshit.’ She held the remote control out of my reach. ‘I know Milton. I’ve known him for years. Okay, so he’s a cantankerous old swine. And he knows how to make enemies. But his bark is worse than his bite. He’s about as capable of murder as you are.’

I didn’t point out that murder was the very reason she was in Vegas in the first place.

‘So where do we go from here?’ I asked.

‘We finish the whiskey.’

‘I mean with your assessment.’

She gave me one of those matronly nods. ‘Well, the way I see it, it can go one of three ways. I can write you up as suffering from PTSD –’

‘Eleanor, I don’t have Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.’

‘– or I can draw an inconclusive verdict and recommend further tests. In which case they won’t be able to use your recent history against you.’

‘You know, I am innocent.’

‘I’m not the one you need to convince. You’ve made enemies over the years, Gabe. Enemies in high places. Some of whom would love to see the fall of the Celebrity Cop.’

I grimaced. ‘I hate that moniker.’

‘Oh, relax. I’ve heard worse. You should hear some of the names I get called. Sticks and stones.’

‘You said three. What’s the third option?’

My cell phone vibrated on the table.

I let it. Waiting for Eleanor’s answer.

She picked up instead.

I saw her expression harden as she listened to the caller on the other end of the connection. Then she faced me. Held out the phone.

‘It’s him.’ She said in a whisper. ‘You better take it.’

196

^{___________________________}

The first words I heard as I put the cell to my ear were:

‘Hang up and she’s dead.’

I froze. What else could I do?

‘I have somebody here who would like to talk with you,’ the synthesized voice rumbled on, ‘only I had to give her a little something to make her compliant. The downside is, she’s pretty spaced-out right now.’

‘Go to Hell.’ I said. And meant it.

‘In that case, I’ll be sure to send Officer Garcia your love.’

Fire swept through my lungs.

‘Jamie’s in –’

‘New York? Think again. She’s right here with me.’

‘You’re bluffing.’ I breathed. ‘Jamie’s in –’

‘My arms.’ The killer whispered in my ear.

‘Put her on the phone.’

‘I’d love nothing more. But that would mean waking her up and I have a feeling she won’t be happy if I do that.’

‘Then stop wasting my time.’ I snarled and hung up.

Immediately, my cell phone buzzed.

It was Jamie’s number!

‘Hang up again and Officer Garcia dies. Then you’ll have yet another innocent death on your conscience.’

‘Don’t talk to me about innocent deaths,’ I growled through gritted teeth. ‘If you hurt a single hair on Jamie’s head …’

‘What? You’ll kill me? Oh come on! Can’t you think of any new clichés?’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want you to listen very carefully to the instructions you are about to hear. If, from this moment on, you fail to do everything I say, then Jamie will die. Do you understand me?’

My thoughts were tumbling over themselves, tripping me up.

‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘Crystal.’ I said. ‘Just tell me where you are and I’ll trade places with Jamie. This is between you and me. Jamie has nothing to do with this. If you want a bargaining chip, I’m worth more to you than –’

‘Pay attention!’

I bit my tongue.

197

^{___________________________}

Personal detachment. That’s what Police Training hopes to achieve – because feelings have bias. It is drummed into us, time and again, that becoming emotionally-involved can lead to deadly mistakes in judgment. But reality isn’t black and white. Sometimes it’s blood red.

‘Gabe?’