Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (8 page)

‘I mean it, Mike. We brought out the best in each other. We were happy. I don’t know. Maybe we just didn’t give it enough time. Didn’t give it a fair crack of the whip.’

‘I wasn’t into all that kind of stuff.’

‘You didn’t give it chance. You didn’t give us a chance.’

She saw his chest fill out as he drew a long breath. ‘For God’s sake, Stacey, just get to the point or I swear I’m leaving.’

‘All right,’ she sighed. ‘All right.’

She pointed to the shallow drainage ditch running parallel to the dirt track.

‘Happy birthday, Mike.’

17

^{___________________________}

Michael Shakes didn’t like surprises. In fact, surprises pissed him off. Especially surprises involving Stacey Kellerman. They’d had a fling. Okay? A long time ago. Three weeks, one summer. Crammed with average sex and no depth. Get over it.

The fact it was his birthday didn’t change a damn thing.

He’d seen her from the roadway – from out on Charleston – a mile back. Posing next to her all-black custom-job Kawasaki motorbike. Unmistakable blinding blonde locks. Angelic on any other head. Immaculate riding leathers. Wouldn’t have even agreed to come all the way out here if she hadn’t been so damned persistent.

‘I’ll make it worth your while.’ She’d promised over the phone. Breathing heavily.

‘I’m married now.’ He’d reminded her. ‘I’m not that guy anymore.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ She’d sounded instantly defensive. Like he remembered. ‘This is purely business, Mike. You use to like the fact we scratched each other’s backs.’

Okay, so she looked good in her black bike leathers and knee-length boots. Like something out of a brochure. A motorcycle calendar girl shoe-horned into the latest gear. Visibly, Stacey had changed a lot since their fling. Undergone plastic surgery. Major reconstruction. Reworked everything. Augmented everything. Molded herself into a million dollar smile and a body to die for. He wasn’t sure if it was all an attempt to get him back or get even.

He studied her through his yellow-tinted sunglasses. Gleaming locks and kissable lips. Couldn’t figure out if she was colluded or deluded. Had no doubt she was still the same Stacey Kellerman on the inside: driven, ruthless, soulless.

He took a step closer to the drainage channel. Peered in.

It was mostly filled with snow. But there were twiggy shrubs poking through. And something that shouldn’t have been there, even on the coldest Monday of the week so far.

‘Is that what I think it is?’

 
‘Depends what you think it is.’ She said.

‘How’d you find it?’

‘Like I say: I got a call. And before you say anything, it was anonymous.’

‘So what did he do, draw you a map?’ He gave her the look which said
don’t play games - be specific
.

‘Screw you, Mike.’ She said with a playful grin. ‘This is the twenty-first century. GPS co-ordinates by text message.’

‘Show me.’

‘I deleted it.’

He frowned. He had never understood Stacey’s rationale. Never got deeper than the hard outer shell. Wasn’t entirely convinced there was anything in there, deeper – that the hard outer shell went all the way to her core.

‘Let me get this straight.’ He said. ‘Some guy called you on your cell. Told you to come out here. Which you did – on a whim. And he even sent you GPS co-ordinates.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

‘Then you deleted the evidence.’

‘Screw you, Mike.’

‘Screw me?’

‘Is that a request?’

‘On the coldest Monday of the week so far? Hell no!’

Michael Shakes took another long look into the ditch. Then dug out his cell phone. He watched Stacey Kellerman light up another cigarette as he made the call. Watched her drape herself provocatively over the gleaming Kawasaki bike. A blonde bombshell poised to explode if things got a little too steamy.

No chance of that ever happening, he knew.

18

^{___________________________}

I glanced in the rear-view mirror at the dark eyes staring right back at me. Quickly glanced away again. The woman on the back seat wasn’t gagged. Handcuffed. But not gagged. But she might as well have been. Her glare was unyielding as I drove on to the Station House in silence.

We were almost there when a text message came through on my cell:

‘My favorite. Don’t forget.’

I stopped at a convenience store on 6
^th
Street. Ran the errand. Then left my tight-lipped passenger with the Desk Sergeant at book-in. The woman looked anything but defeated. She was about to be interned into one of the toughest systems in the country. Fingerprinted. Cross-checked. Information digitized. On record, forever. But she was anything but fazed. Resolute. Looked like she was making an appointment to get her nails done.

I climbed the stairs toward the large open-plan office space, wondering if Perry had an army of lawyers converging on the Precinct. Ready to slap me with a lawsuit.

‘Captain’s on the war path.’ Jamie warned as she intercepted me at the landing. It was a little after 2 p.m.. I was hungry. Thirsty. We were next to the bank of vending machines. I punched in the numbers for two espressos and watched it swallow a five dollar bill.

‘Don’t tell me: Milton Perry?’

‘No idea.’ She said.

She looked tired, I saw. I hadn’t heard from Jamie all morning; so I presumed she was still in the thick of it. Police work takes time. The only cases solved within an hour are those on TV. I pointed to a chocolate bar behind the glass. She shook her head. I got it for myself.

‘So, how’s it going?’

‘I’m not even a quarter way there.’ She admitted. ‘Have you any idea how many people work in the funeral business, in LA alone?’

I shrugged. ‘Supply and demand, I guess. Any luck with the Feds?’

‘No. I think the word urgent isn’t in their vocabulary.’

I nodded. Smiled. When it came to helping out other law enforcement agencies, the Feds had two gears: go-slow and reverse.

I handed her a coffee. ‘Here you go. Keep pestering them. The more you get on their case the faster they’ll want you off it.’

‘Will do.’

‘Gabe!’

I looked up, out across rows of tables, chairs, people, computer screens, towards the glass-paneled offices lining the far wall. The stooped figure of Captain John Ferguson was beckoning with a bony hand. The Grim Reaper in a tweed jacket and loafers.

I nodded an
okay, I’ll be right there
and he disappeared back into his office.

19

^{___________________________}

Captain John Ferguson looked at me like a father confronting his son over poor grades. ‘Gabe, what’s going on?’

 
I closed the glass-paneled door and made a face. Yes, one of those faces. I don’t know why; Ferguson never buys it.

Two things you need to know about John Ferguson: he’s not the world’s tidiest person, and when he speaks he whispers. Even when he bawls he whispers. The story goes that he’s smoked one too many imported cigars, but I reckon it’s a gimmick. You see, when people whisper, people listen.

‘I just got through with a call from the Mayor.’ He said. ‘He claims you’ve been harassing Milton Perry.’

Ferguson’s office smells like one of those backstreet penny thrift bookstores that have more dog ears than the pound. I squeezed into a chair stacked with files. Caught some before they cascaded to the floor. Made a plaintive face.

‘Perry’s an ass.’ I’d been thinking it all the way back to the Station House. ‘Prides himself in it, too.’

Ferguson sat down behind his cluttered desk and dragged a skeletal hand through his thinning grey hair. ‘What is it with you and authority?’

‘For a start, I don’t answer to Perry.’

‘No, you answer to me. And I answer to the Police Commissioner, who in turn answers to the Mayor. And whether you like it or not, Perry holds big sway with the Mayor’s Office. Right now this Department is facing budget cuts. Last thing we want is City Hall on a vendetta.’

I chewed some lip. ‘You’re right.’

‘I know I am. So what’s going on?’

‘You’re not going to like it.’

‘I never do.’

‘It’s about the Samuels’ murder. I have reason to believe Perry is involved in some way. Don’t ask me how exactly. But he’s linked.’

Ferguson didn’t look happy.

I brought up the photograph on my cell. Let Ferguson take a peek. He squinted a bit. Chewed some cheek.

‘That’s Perry’s Explorer fleeing the Samuels’ crime scene.’ I said.

‘Are you sure? It’s not a very clear picture.’

‘We cleaned it up and ran the plate.’ I didn’t mention Dreads and his unauthorized dip into the DMV records.

Ferguson handed back the phone. ‘And you were there, why?’

‘Following a hunch.’ I quickly explained about the torn photograph and the intruder fleeing the crime scene. Fleeing in Perry’s Explorer. ‘So I paid Perry a courtesy call. Turned out his PA was the one driving the Explorer this morning. So I picked her up. She’s in booking as we speak.’

‘Perry’s PA?’

I nodded. ‘Her name’s Kim Hu. She’s been with Perry the last couple of years. Fiercely loyal.’

‘So what was she doing at the Samuels house?’

‘They declined to say.’