Killing Spree (37 page)

Gillian stepped in the ticket line for the Space Needle’s scenic elevator. She remembered Ruth’s other warning—earlier today. What if that e-mail forecasting Barry’s death was some kind of trick? Someone could be following her, hoping she’d lead them to Barry. Or perhaps this was all an elaborate trap, and it was
her
death someone had planned for tonight.

Gillian took some solace in the fact that none of her books featured a murder scene in or around the Space Needle.

She got to the ticket window and pulled out her wallet. A group had gathered for the next elevator ride.

“Gillian? Mrs. Tanner?”

She turned to see a lean, swarthy-looking Latino man with a goatee and perfectly groomed, moussed hair that miraculously resisted the light rain. He wore a brown leather jacket and tight black jeans. “Put your money away!” he said loudly, getting the attention of the ticket seller and a few different families waiting for the elevator. “I was misinformed. They had a bar on the observation deck, but it closed in 2000. Do you know what’s up there now?”

Gillian shrugged. “No.”

“Several screaming babies, about three dozen kids running amok, their stupid parents, and another fifty morons all on their cell phones, talking over one other and saying the same thing:
‘Guess where I’m calling you from!’
Christ, spare me. I’d rather be staked to an anthill naked than go up there again. What a rip-off!”

Gillian tried to ignore the icy, contemptuous stares from the ticket-seller and the folks waiting for the elevator. Her head down, she quickly stepped out of line. “You must be Sal Salgado,” she muttered. “Maybe we can move away from all these people.”

“That’s cool with me,” he said. “Want to check out this amusement park?”

“Sure,” Gillian said. She’d been to the Seattle Center amusement park on a warm summer night four years ago. She, Barry, and Ethan had taken in all the rides and galleries. The place had been overflowing with people and noise. The smell of hot dogs, chili, and popcorn had filled the air. Tonight it was deserted, due to the rain and cold. But the unoccupied Ferris wheel, gilded with bright colored lights, kept revolving anyway.

“I lied to you on the phone, Mrs. Tanner,” Sal said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m not a mystery fan. I don’t have any of your books. I know your face because I had you under surveillance a while back. But I didn’t want to creep you out by telling you that over the phone.”

“Well, thank you for your honesty—I guess. Did you see anything interesting?”

“Just you,” he replied with a wicked, little smile. “I find you very interesting to look at.”

“Sal, you know what you just said about not wanting to creep me out? Well, you’re kind of doing that now.”

“The charm ain’t working, huh?” He let out a little laugh. “Sure you’re not in the market for a little Sal action? No extra charge. Comes with the
one-time-only
deal.”

“No, thanks,” Gillian said.

“Well, you’re breaking my heart, Mrs. T.” He glanced up at the empty conglomeration of girders and rails that was the Wild Mouse. “I might as well tell you, I wasn’t the only one checking you out. I noticed this other guy around your place. But he was a slippery son of a bitch. I never got a good look at his face.”

Gillian frowned at him. “When was this?”

“About six weeks ago.”

She didn’t think this elusive Peeping Tom could have been with the mobsters looking for Barry, not five weeks ago. She was pretty certain they’d only recently restarted their surveillance. Was this
slippery son of a bitch
her copycat?

“What really drove me nuts about this yo-yo was he seemed to be eyeballing me as much as he was eyeballing you. It was like his idea of a game or something. He was there for a while, and then just disappeared. Pretty soon, I figured out your old man wasn’t sneaking back to you any time soon, so I beat it out of there.”

“Where did you go?” Gillian asked.

“Missoula, Montana. It’s where I tracked him down—about five weeks ago. He was staying in a dump called the Aces High Motor Inn, registered under the name Frank Carmichael.”

Beneath the blinking neon sign for the Aces High Motor Inn, Jason noticed the “perks” listed on a yellow billboard with movie theater marquee lettering:
POOL—FREE MOVIES—HBO—ROOMS WITH KITCHENS!

He remembered the oafish night clerk at the last motel telling him that
Frank Garner
had been evicted for trying to smuggle a hot plate and microwave into his room. Perhaps
Frank
had moved on to a motel where he didn’t have to cook in secret. Jason pulled into the parking lot of the Aces High Motor Inn.

It was one of those sprawling two-story motels from the sixties—with outside entrances to each room, pale-blue-painted cinder block with black doors. Tiki torches adorned the lobby entrance.

Like so many of the other lobbies, this one smelled of stale coffee. It was mostly windows—and that ugly blue cinder block. Three slot machines were lined against one wall, along with—for the kiddies—one of those games with the claw-on-a-crane picking up prizes in the glass case. The stocky, thirtyish brunette behind the registration desk wore a white shirt, black pants, and a vest that had hearts, spades, diamonds, and aces on it.

Jason asked her if they had a
Frank Garner
or
Barry Tanner
registered there. “Frank and Barry and I are getting together for a reunion,” he explained. “They said they might be staying here.”

The desk clerk checked her computer and shook her head. “Sorry, sir. I don’t show either one.”

He pulled out the photo of Barry and Gillian. “Barry might have registered under another name. This is his picture. You don’t recognize him by any chance, do you?”

The clerk’s eyes widened as she looked at the photograph. “Oh, my God,” she murmured. “It’s Mr. Carmichael….”

“Mr. Carmichael?” Jason repeated. “Then you know him?”

She nodded. “Yes, I
knew
him. He’s been staying with us since early October, and then…” The woman trailed off. She was still staring at the picture.

“Go on,” Jason said.

She clicked her tongue against her teeth and shook her head. “There was an accident a few nights ago. Mr. Carmichael, he—fell. He was out on our patio. They think he might have had too much to drink….” She shook her head again. “God, it was pretty awful. The pool’s still empty. We—we had to drain it to get rid of all the blood….”

“It’s still ringing,” Gillian said to Sal Salgado. She had her cell phone to her ear.

“I had the same problem calling that hotel,” he explained. “They have only one desk clerk, and if he’s busy or out for a smoke or in the can, you can just forget about getting through.”

Gillian had given up counting after the first dozen ring tones. They stood by the motionless merry-go-round in the deserted amusement park. The Space Needle loomed above them. “How did you find out Barry was staying at this hotel?” she asked, still listening to the ring tones.

“Probably the same way you found me,” Sal answered. “Did you go asking around at the local casinos? And did one of the hotter-looking waitresses tell you that I was snooping around asking about your hubby?”

Gillian nodded. She clicked off the line, and decided to try again in a few minutes.

“Well, ol’ Barry had a thing for the girls in uniform—waitresses, I mean—wherever there were casinos and race tracks. I’m sure you’ve figured out the guy hasn’t exactly been a choirboy while AWOL these two years. Good-looking guy like that. How can you blame him? I know how he feels.”

Gillian sighed. “All right, so Barry got around a little.”

“
Got around a little?
Lady, he did more banging than a screen door in a cyclone. I just followed the trail of satisfied waitresses, and ended up in Missoula, Montana. I got lucky with a few of them myself, all in the line of duty, of course.”

“Of course,” Gillian said with a tiny sneer.

“Cut your old man a break. He’s an addict. These guys spill over from one addiction to another—babes, booze, betting. FYI, all the honeys I talked with said your old man was a real gentleman. Quite a few of them even wanted to get serious with him, but he always told them the same thing—that he was in love with his wife.”

“That’s nice to hear, thanks,” she said tonelessly. She gazed down at the Space Needle lights reflected in the wet, dark pavement. She had such mixed feelings about Barry right now. She hit redial on her cell phone, and started listening to the ring tones again. She shot Sal a look. “Was this woman who hired you one of Barry’s
honeys
?”

“I guess she wouldn’t mind if I told you,” Sal replied. “Hell, seeing as she’s in a coma, she won’t be objecting to anything.”

Gillian took the phone away from her ear and stared at him. “She’s in a coma?”

He nodded. “Been that way since Halloween night. She was visiting New York, and some scumbag stabbed her. You know her. She took a night class from you a while back.”

“Jennifer Gilderhoff?” Gillian said. “Jennifer hired you to track down my husband?”

Sal nodded again. “She was one of the babes who wanted to get serious with your wandering old man—at least, it seemed that way to me. They had a little fling shortly before Barry went on the lam. She said they met when Barry came to your class one night. He stayed in touch with her after he disappeared. So that gave me an edge over these
Goodfella
types who have been after him for a while. Jennifer knew where he was hiding for those first few weeks. Apparently, Barry kept asking her how
you
were doing, which really put a bug up her ass. When she didn’t sign up for your class again, Barry gave Jennifer the old heave-ho. That was like—eighteen months since she’d seen him.”

Gillian still wasn’t getting an answer from the Aces High Motor Inn. She gave a vexed look at her cell phone, then clicked off the line. She frowned at Sal. “Did Jennifer say why she suddenly wanted to find my husband after eighteen months? Was she still in love with him?”

“She said it was for
‘closure.’
I think that was the word she used. It’s one of those words only someone with a uterus uses. I don’t pay much attention to the why when a client hires me for a job. I dug up the information and gave it to her five weeks ago.”

“Do you know if she went to Missoula to see Barry?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Mrs. T.”

“Do you think—” Gillian hesitated. “Do you think it’s possible my husband had anything to do with her stabbing?”

“A
real gentleman
like your husband? I feel I’ve gotten to know the guy and all his aliases. He’s definitely screwed up with his addictions—the gambling and the babes. But is he a killer? I wouldn’t bet on it, lady.”

Gillian’s cell phone rang in her hand. She quickly clicked it on. “Yes, hello?”

“Gillian? It’s Jason Hurrell.”

“Yes?” she said. She was about to ask him to clear the line, but something strange about his tone made her hesitate. “What is it?”

“I tried to get you at home, but the machine answered. I didn’t want to tell you this on a machine.”

“Tell me what?” Gillian asked. She had an awful feeling in her gut. “Where are you?”

“I—I’m calling from a police station in Missoula, Montana. There was an accident. At least, they’re calling it an accident. I’m sorry, Gillian….”

Apparently, the Missoula Police couldn’t find any identification on the man floating in the pool at the Aces High Motor Inn near dawn on Friday. He’d been registered at the motel under a possible alias,
Frank Carmichael.
They surmised that he’d been drinking heavily on Thursday night, and on his way to his room, he’d tripped and split his head open on the edge of the motel’s pool.

Frank Carmichael
was now a “John Doe,” lying in the Missoula police morgue.

His poor wife,
thought Gillian, though she knew it was Barry in the morgue.

Everything seemed to be coming at her in a fog once she heard Jason say Barry was dead. All of it seemed to be happening to someone else.
Poor Mrs. Carmichael.

“Barry was my friend,” Jason told her on the phone. “But I really didn’t know him very well. In fact, I didn’t even know where he was staying. We were in Gamblers Anonymous together. Sorry I couldn’t tell you anything earlier. He didn’t want me to. I can explain it to you tomorrow. They’ll need you here in Missoula to identify Barry’s body. It’s him, Gillian. I saw him. But you need to come here so it’s official. I can make your travel arrangements for you. If you flew here in the morning, you could be back home by mid-afternoon.”

“That’s fine. Thank you very much,” she said numbly.

“They have the cause of death down as an accident. But you and I know what really happened.”

She knew exactly what had happened. She’d written that murder scene by the pool in
Killing Legend
. She’d told her husband’s killer how to do everything.

“You never heard from Vicki, did you?” Jason asked.

“No,” she said—almost distractedly. “I think Vicki’s dead too.”

“Jesus, why is this happening?” he whispered.

They didn’t talk much longer after that. Jason promised to call her later in the evening with her travel itinerary. Once Gillian switched off her cell phone, Sal cleared his throat. “Did somebody die?” he asked apprehensively.

She just nodded.

“Is it your husband?”

She nodded again. “Could you walk me to my car, please?”

He just put his hand on her arm and said nothing. On their way to the parking lot, the light drizzle turned to rain. Gillian glanced back at the wet, lonely amusement park. She remembered that warm summer night they’d come here as a family. Barry had won a three-foot-tall stuffed gorilla in a ring toss, and Ethan had named him Pete. That had been a lovely night. But from now on, this sweet little park in the shadow of the Space Needle would be the place where she found out her husband was dead.

When they reached Ruth’s car, Gillian remembered to take out her checkbook for Sal Salgado. “How much did I owe you?” she murmured.

He shook his head. “No charge, Mrs. Tanner. You—you’ve paid enough already.”

She drove Ruth’s car home. But the trip was all just a blur. She didn’t cry. The only thing she thought about was how she would tell Ethan his father was dead.

Gillian found a parking spot in front of the duplex. Dazed, she sat inside the car for a while. She didn’t know how long. But suddenly, someone was tapping on the window. Gillian gasped, then stared up at Ruth on the other side of the rain-beaded glass.

She climbed out of the car and started to cry.

“Oh, no,” Ruth whispered, shaking her head over and over.

Gillian heard the front door slam. She glanced toward the porch. Ethan walked down the steps and came toward her. “Dad’s dead, isn’t he?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Gillian nodded. He threw his arms around her. She’d expected him to fall apart, but he was the one comforting her.

After all the tears, the explanations, and mutual consoling, Ruth went out and brought back some food from a teriyaki place. It was strange that they could sit down and eat after everything that had happened. Then again, maybe they’d been unconsciously preparing for this night for the last two years. During their dinner, the phone had rung. It was Lieutenant Lynn Voorhees, asking if she could stop by.

Ruth had put some pressure on her friend earlier in the evening, lighting a fire under Lynn that couldn’t be lit two nights ago when they’d first told her about the copycat killings. At Ruth’s urging, Lynn had run some unofficial checks on their one remaining suspect, Rick Slaughter.

Lynn had been at it for only three hours. She hadn’t spoken with Rick yet. In fact, none of Rick’s neighbors had seen him since Friday. Still, the lieutenant had said she’d uncovered some “interesting information” about Rick.

Gillian told her to come over. They were washing the dishes when they heard a knock on the door.

“Is there someplace where we can talk?” Lynn Voorhees asked after Gillian showed her into the living room. Taking off her trench coat, Voorhees shot a look in Ethan’s direction.

“Right here is fine,” Gillian said, hanging up the lieutenant’s coat for her. “Ethan can hear whatever you have to tell us.”

Ethan gave her a furtive smile, and sat down in the easy chair.

Lynn Voorhees wore an ice-blue sweater set, and her mousy brown hair was swept down around her shoulders. She joined Ruth on the sofa. “Well, okay, that’s fine. Listen, I’m sorry about—your loss.”

Gillian sat across from her in the club chair. “Thank you.”

She turned to Ethan. “You know, Jodi really enjoyed meeting you. In fact, next time she’s staying with me, she might just give you a call. She has a lot of gay friends.”

There were two seconds of dead silence that seemed to last forever. The only one not looking down at the floor was Lynn Voorhees, who didn’t seem to realize she’d said the wrong thing.

“Okay, so you were checking on Rick Slaughter for us,” Ruth chimed in. “What did you come up with?”

“Well, for starters, no one has seen him since Friday. I talked to his neighbors and his landlord. They seem to think he’s a nice enough guy. He goes off on bike trips now and then.” Lynn pulled a notebook from her purse and checked some of her scribbling. “He was away on a trip at Halloween and the following week. I haven’t been able to confirm where he was during this period.”

“So he could have been in New York and Chicago,” Ruth said.

Lynn shrugged. “It’s possible. I spoke with a neighbor who saw him early Thursday morning.”

“Thursday morning?” Gillian said. “Then he could have killed that man in Montana too.”

“The one who was
operated
on? Yes. And Rick was back at work on Thursday.”

Gillian nodded. “I know, I saw him.”

“So in order for him to kill your husband in Missoula late Thursday night or early Friday morning, Rick would have had to fly to Montana—again—right after punching out at the college on Thursday. He’d have had to cut it really close—time-wise.”

“Still, it’s possible,” Ruth said.

“I suppose.” Lynn nodded. “Rick came into the office on Friday afternoon to pick up his check. According to his boss, he got into an altercation with one of his coworkers.” She looked at Gillian and cocked her head to one side. “The fight was about you, Gillian. Apparently, this coworker was supposed to have looked something up for you, and she didn’t. Rick saw your name and phone number jotted down on her desk blotter. He asked her what business she had going on with you. The coworker told him to butt out or something along those lines, and this led to some harsh words. Rick got pretty abusive. They both ended up bitching to their boss about it.”

“Do you know
when
this happened on Friday afternoon?” Gillian asked.

“Sometime between two and three.”

Gillian was thinking about Friday afternoon in front of Ethan’s school. She’d spotted that man in her rearview mirror, the one with the sunglasses and stocking cap. It could have been Rick. But the timing might have been too close to when he’d been at the college.

“I got the landlord to let me into his apartment tonight,” Lynn continued. “That could land me in a pile of trouble, so keep it on the QT. Anyway, Rick has a porn collection like you wouldn’t believe—videos, DVDs, and magazines. Real kinky stuff, too. After leaving that place, I wanted to take a shower. Along with his extensive porn collection, Mr. Slaughter does have a handful of ‘normal’ books. Three guesses who his favorite author seems to be.”

“Pearl Buck?” Ruth chimed in.

Lynn threw her a deadpan look. “Gillian McBride, with Henry Miller running a close second.” She closed her notebook and stuck it back in her purse. “That’s all I have for now. It’s going to take a lot more digging to find out what kind of alibi Rick Slaughter gave investigators of the schoolgirl killings. I’ll be honest, Gillian. I still don’t see a connection between what’s happening with this copycat and those murders from two years ago. Ruth told me about the saddle shoes in your closet, but I think that’s someone just playing around with you.”

“Playing around?”
Gillian repeated.

“I’m not saying it’s harmless, Gillian. But from everything Ruth tells me, this guy likes to play games. And he isn’t above sending you on a wild-goose chase for his own amusement.”

“You mean like what he did to me today?” Gillian asked. “Telling me he was going to kill my husband tonight when he’d already murdered him three nights ago?”

Lynn nodded glumly. “It’s all a game to him, a very evil game.”

“You’re not going to keep your underwear on, are you?”

Craig stood on the other side of the high school’s indoor swimming pool. It was nighttime, and they were alone. One of the overhead lights flickered. Craig took off his sweater and tossed it behind him. Then he pulled his T-shirt over his head. “God, Ethan, what’s the point in pool-crashing if you won’t skinny-dip?”

Ethan tentatively stood by the edge of the shallow end in only his boxer shorts. He felt self-conscious about his body. And he didn’t want to be the first one to get naked. Besides, he didn’t trust Craig. He was still kind of mad at him for being so creepy lately.

“C’mon, lose the shorts!” Craig hopped on one foot as he pried off a Chuck Taylor Converse sneaker, and then he went through the same ritual removing the other shoe.

Ethan couldn’t help admiring Craig’s athletic physique—the defined chest and wiry torso. Craig started to unzip his jeans. Ethan could see he wasn’t wearing underpants.

Ethan didn’t want to be caught gawking, so he glanced down at the water in the pool. A moment later, Craig let out a yell, and then there was a splash.

Ethan watched the rippling blue water, and Craig—naked—moving like a torpedo under the surface. But he stopped moving as he reached the shallow end. He stayed motionless underwater for a minute.

“Craig?” he called, starting to panic.

Ethan watched him ascend to the surface. All at once, he was semi-dressed—in a white T-shirt and khakis. And it wasn’t Craig in the water. A lifeless body floated to the top of the pool.

Ethan’s dead father stared back at him, and then his eyes rolled back in their sockets. His mouth yawned open. A gash in his forehead started oozing blood that rapidly spread across the blue water.

Ethan suddenly bolted up in bed, gasping.

He wasn’t sure if he’d screamed out loud or not. He blindly reached for the lamp on his nightstand and his hand fanned the air until he found the switch. The digital clock read 2:47
A.M
. Catching his breath, Ethan realized he was covered in sweat. He climbed out of bed and changed his T-shirt.

He wouldn’t feel better until he checked the rest of the house. He pulled a pair of sweatpants over his boxer shorts. Opening his bedroom door, he heard Ruth snoring in his mother’s bedroom. It was a reassuring sound. He saw the kitchen light was on, and padded down the hall to find his mother in her robe, sitting at the breakfast table. She had a glass of white wine in front of her. She seemed only mildly startled to see him. “Oh, hi, honey,” she murmured. “Couldn’t you sleep either?”

“Not too well,” he mumbled, touching her shoulder on the way to the sink. He turned on the cold water and slurped from the faucet.

“Ethan, you’ll give yourself a stomach cramp. Use a glass.”

“It’s okay, I’m done.” Wiping his mouth, he shut off the water. “I feel kind of dumb. I should have taken the couch tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can’t sleep a wink anyway. Sit down for a second.”

Ethan plopped down next to her at the table. She patted his arm.

“That cut on your lip doesn’t look so bad, thank goodness,” she said. “I was very proud of you tonight, Ethan. In the course of one day my little boy has become a man. I know that sounds corny, but it’s true.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t do much. His back was turned, I hit him with the bat, and he went down. Hell, anybody could have done it.”

“I’m not talking about that, Ethan. I’m talking about how you were there for me tonight. It made me realize that you’ve grown up. Your dad would have been proud of you, too.”