Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (9 page)

‘You questioned this PA?’

‘Right up to the point she invoked the fifth.’ I said. ‘Perry too for that matter.’

Ferguson nodded. ‘Maybe when she’s spent a few hours in a holding cell along with the hookers she’ll have a change of heart. In the meantime, do some digging on this PA. See if you can link her directly with Samuels. But if we can’t charge her with anything concrete before evening, let her go. We can always pick her up again. As for the Mayor, I’ll speak with him. See if he can apply a little leverage. For the time being, leave Perry’s name out of this. I’m not Perry’s biggest fan, but I don’t figure him as a murderer.’

‘We should get a search warrant for the Explorer.’

I saw Ferguson’s lip twist. I was being pushy.

‘Half the judges in town play golf with the guy.’

‘So the other half.’

Ferguson gave me one of those
‘you don’t need to tell me how to do my job’
looks that he gives me at least twice a day. ‘Go over the CSU records from Saturday. See if they picked up something to tie Perry in with the Samuels’ murder. Perry’s a public figure; his prints and DNA are in the system.’

I’d already thought about it. Gave a nod.

Ferguson peered at me over a pile of papers on his desk. Looked me in the eye. More of the concerned fatherly stuff. ‘Tough morning?’

‘Aren’t they all?’

‘You look like shit.’

‘So everybody keeps telling me.’

‘How you coping?’

I withdrew, automatically. Ferguson noticed it. I withdraw a lot, you’ll see. Symptomatic of the situation.

‘Fine.’ I fibbed. ‘I’m fine, John. Still catching my wind. But fine. I’ve been back three weeks. I’m still acclimatizing. Nine months is a long time to be out of it.’

The Captain performed a slow, measured nod. I could tell by the way his eyes narrowed that he didn’t believe me.

‘What about the shrink?’

‘What about the shrink?’ I echoed.

20

^{___________________________}

It’s a universal truth that as men age they become exponentially more stubborn. I’m no exception. My name’s up there on that graph. But I am old enough to know which fish are worth frying.

‘Okay.’ I conceded with a sigh. ‘But I’m not promising anything.’

‘Just give it a try.’ Ferguson said.

He looked me over with his watery blue eyes. Ran a bony hand through his smoky hair. Ferguson is one of those people who wears his feelings like a hat. Intentionally disappointing somebody like that doesn’t come easy.

‘Ever heard of a guy called Gene Devereux?’

I thought about it. ‘The only one that springs to mind is a Special Agent with the FBI.’

‘What do you know about him?’

I thought some more. ‘I hear he’s a tight ass. Persnickety. But I’m not sure if that’s just scaremongering or if it’s for real. Last I heard he got bumped over to Washington DC on the back of breaking a long-running arson case down in New Orleans. Word is, he has his sights set on Langley. Where’s this heading?’

‘He’s taking over lead on the Le Diable case.’

I smiled an
ouch
smile. ‘I don’t know whether to be pleased for Bales or send him my commiserations.’

I saw Ferguson draw a quiet breath.

‘You don’t like the FBI, do you, John?’

21

^{___________________________}

Ferguson was right: some lawmen are dangerous, but even they pale in comparison next to serial killers.

I drove north and then east on the San Bernardino Freeway towards Lincoln Heights. Going over the handful of facts I knew about the case. The rose petals. The ash. The glue. The funereal arrangement.

The killer had committed two homicides within a twenty-four hour period. He’d left specific clues at both crime scenes. Plus, he’d arranged both bodies in the customary pose of interment. Nothing random about any of it. Everything deliberate. Unlikely then that he’d chosen his victims by chance. But what connected a venerated university professor and an abducted little girl?

It was mid-afternoon. I was focused on the task ahead. Buildings slid by like crystals in a kaleidoscope. Traffic blurred. I had house calls to make.

I parked on the shiny black tarmac of the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center – otherwise known as the LA Crime Lab – and signed myself in. I knew it was still too early to get a complete forensics breakdown of the Samuels crime scene. But I wanted to see if there was a glimmer of a hope of finding something to tie Perry into the murder.

Do you get the impression I don’t consider Milton Perry a bosom buddy?

The boys and girls from the CSU are particularly protective of their work. And rightly so. In the wrong hands, unprocessed evidence can be compromised in a heartbeat. Try examining the crown jewels next time you’re in London and see how far you get. Doesn’t happen.

Evidence inventories are a different matter. I scanned the list of evidence collected from the Samuels residence. Saw entries for fingernail clippings, hairs, fibers, a bed sheet. A grouping of items comprising Samuels’ clothing. Batches of fingerprints, photographs. A list of swabs taken for semen residue, skin epithelials, a number of chemicals, substances and compounds that didn’t really mean much to the untrained eye.

Nothing to link Perry with the professor.

But Perry’s PA had been there for a reason. No social visit. Not at that hour. Were they covering tracks? I wondered. Planting falsified evidence after the fact? Or removing the real evidence that linked Perry to the murder?

I needed the PA’s confession, I realized. Needed her to betray her boss. It wouldn’t be easy; she’d already sworn allegiance to the Perry camp. I’d need leverage to make her talk. Something she valued more than loyalty.

22

^{___________________________}

I retraced my steps. Headed westbound on the San Bernardino. Jumped off at the Charlotte Street ramp and followed the road as it swung round into the USC Health Sciences Campus.

Professor Jeffrey Samuels had been Head of Genetics here until his death on Saturday morning. I wanted to canvass those who knew him best. I didn’t know what I’d unearth. Maybe nothing. Hopefully something. Truth is, you never know until you ask the questions. Taking character testimonies can be dull work. But there’s no better way to draw a picture of a person. Comments come sugar-coated or laced with cyanide. Adoration or abhorrence. You can’t have it both ways. You either like somebody or you don’t. Generally speaking, people avoid speaking ill of the dead. But we all have enemies. There’s always somebody itching to dish the dirt, knowing their words will be met with no reprisal after you’re gone.

I spent the next hour or so interviewing both faculty staff and several of the professor’s prized students. Everybody was stunned to learn of his death. To the point of hysterics. I kept an eye out for disgruntled colleagues or castigated students with chips on their shoulders. But no one seemed interested in grinding an axe into Samuels’ memory.

So much sugar made me lightheaded.

I closed up shop. Made a detour back to my car to collect an errand. Then walked the hundred yards over to the County Medical Center attached to the campus.

I was aware of the time. Aware I needed to be elsewhere. Chasing the killer. But duty called – if only for ten minutes.

My regular partner in crime, Harry Kelso, had been laid up here for the last month following bypass surgery. He should have been released and back home on sick leave by now, but a string of persistent complications had kept him in and under observation.

A widely-known fact about Harry: Harry likes his food. It’s obvious from first glance. He’s the only person I know who can gain weight in hospital.

‘That’s because they got me pinned down all day long, buddy.’ He protested joyously as I pointed it out. ‘I’m not running it off, see.’ He fingered his bloated paunch. It wobbled under the sheet like a mound of Jell-O.

I made a face. ‘The only thing that runs in the Kelso family is the nose.’

Harry stuck out his tongue. ‘What can I say? They got me flat on my back all day. They come in. They feed me. Sometimes three of four times. Well-wishers send candy. Fattening fruit. I lost a lot of blood. I need to build up my energy. Did you bring dessert?’

I put a pint of ice cream on the bed table.

His face lit up.

I watched him lever open the lid, licking his lips like a kid in a candy store. Then the joy drained from his face and he glared up at me with accusing eyes.

‘What’s this, buddy – some kind of a joke?’

‘Sorry, Harry. I had the heat on in the car.’

He replaced the lid and slumped into his pillows. ‘Never mind. I’ll drink it later. If it kills me, I’m in the best place, right?’

We both laughed.

No matter how dire the circumstance, Harry had an inimitable way of lightening my load. I missed him. His heart attack had happened just days before my return to duty. Bad timing all round.

 
‘So how’s my replacement shaping up?’ Harry asked as I pulled up a chair. Sat down.

‘Jamie? She’s got the makings of a fine detective someday.’ I said. ‘Given time and the right input.’

‘You should bring her.’

‘I guess.’

Harry snapped his fingers, ‘Look at me, buddy: I’m going stir crazy in here. I need female company. Something sweet and soft. Know what I mean?’

‘I brought you cookie dough.’

Harry let out a long, tremulous sigh. I saw his eyes roll up to the ceiling, then roll back down again. I knew Harry well enough to know he was feeling like a cat on a hot tin roof cooped up in here all day long. Harry had been brought up on the streets. He lived and breathed police work. Getting healthy in here was killing him.

I told him about the Mortician Murders.