Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel) (33 page)

As everyone started forward, a voice cut through the general chaos.

“We can narrow that list down for you.”

As one, everyone in the room turned to face the doorway. Degget and Kydd stood just inside the room, both wearing huge grins.

“What do you have?” Mann asked. “How many names can you eliminate?”

Degget strutted forward. “Just guessing, but I would say all but one.”

This announcement was greeted with silence and then everyone started talking. By the time Degget and Kydd were at the front of the room, Mann got some order and the others in the room were drifting back to chairs or perching on the edge of tables.

“What have you got?” Mann asked.

“Preston Peterson,” Degget said.

Mann looked back at the list and scanned through the names. He scanned through a second and third time but with only twenty-eight names, all in alphabetical order, it wasn’t too hard to see it wasn’t there.

“No Preston Peterson,” Mann reported.

“No way!” Kydd exclaimed.

There was silence in the room and Mann looked at Degget. “What she said.”

“He isn’t there.”

“He has to be there,” Kydd said. “We have been all over him today and he fits.”

“Who is Preston Peterson?” Livermore asked.

“The god damned, psycho Southside Slasher!” Kydd said.

“Relax, Shane,” Mann said. “The rest of you guys, get on the phones and track these other guys down.”

Mann motioned Degget and Kydd over to a table with Livermore. “Why this Peterson?”

“OK, I do a lot of shit on eBay,” Degget said. Seeing Mann’s puzzled look, he elaborated. “You know eBay, Mann? The auction thing on the Internet?”

“Ya, sure.”

“OK, so we tried to track the flute with stores in and around the city, right? No luck because it hadn’t been bought in the city. I was sitting on eBay one night and realized that was likely where the guy got the damn flute. It was perfect. So I started contacting some sellers. Some of them didn’t want anything to do with me but a couple answered me. One guy gave me a name. It was delivered about three days before the Hart kill.”

“I assume you have more than that,” Mann said.

“This time, he used his own name and address. Harder to spoof things with eBay but he probably thought he was safe anyway. We checked him out today,” Kydd said. “Went through DMV and the age was about right.”

“We also found out that he works for Jackson Catering,” Degget said.

“David Jackson’s company,” Livermore said. “He’s a big donor to the Mayor’s opponent.”

“Not surprised you know the company,” Degget said. “They have vending machines in most of the places in the city, including the hospital, the University and they even have some machines down in the warehouse where Dale Lewery’s rather slimmed down corpse was found.”

“They are also bonded,” Kydd added. “That would explain why he was worried about prints. He is in the system for his background check with us!”

“And,” Degget said, “he lives a mere three blocks from the Fillup where Gabel’s body was found and four blocks from Jake’s Tavern.”

“Damn it. He does sound pretty good for it,” Mann agreed. He glanced up at the board but the pictures were gone. The detectives had their assignments and the tech guy was fiddling with the screen again. Mann turned back to Degget and Kydd. “OK, stay on him and see where it might lead. Maybe….”

“Lieutenant!”

Mann turned back to the kid with the ponytail.

“Lieutenant, he didn’t have his picture taken,” the tech shouted.

“I know,” Mann said. “We are still going to investigate him.”

“No, I mean, he didn’t get his picture taken
that
day.”

The tech ran his finger in a circle on the board and the screen magnified and filled with the words:

ABSENT: Preston Peterson

*

Mann looked up at the clock. Four forty. The surveillance team was in place. It was just a matter of time. They had already sent a pizza to his apartment but there was no answer. Same with the phone call – voice mail. Mann was worried but it was early. He might be on his way home from work.

“The surveillance should be reporting in soon,” Livermore said, quietly. “I want this tight.”

“When he gets back, we’ll cover him, don’t worry. Are you sure you don’t want to take him?”

“The Mayor doesn’t,” Flem said. “And neither does the Commissioner. We are in strict watch and learn mode.”

Mann nodded. He had seen Flem on his little cell phone just after Degget burst into the warehouse with the news. Damn Mayor running the investigation was bullshit. First, they are falling over themselves to arrest an innocent man. Then, they can’t distance themselves enough when they have something solid. If this Preston kills again while he was under investigation, there will be hell to pay. At least Drabick’s name had never been connected to the Slasher case in the press.

“We should move on him,” Mann said.

“The consensus,” Flem said, “is that we don’t have enough. Detective Degget should have matched a serial number or something on the flute. You need something to actually tie this Peterson to the crime scene. Mr. Haynes may recognize him but none of the pictures were left at the crime scenes. We have been ordered to find him and bottle him up until we have something solid. We want an air-tight case against this psycho. I want pressure on him so that I can use him on the Thorman hit.”

“We all do, Inspector,” Livermore said. “Mann, I want you there when we do move in. Full SWAT takedown. I want this done right and sooner than later.”

“It will be. They will let me know the minute he gets back and then we will be set to move. You just have to give me the word.”

Flem stood up and went to the door. “If you’ll excuse me, waiting on things like this always gives me indigestion. Let me know what you come up with.”

As Preston passed the corner, he glanced up at the building that housed the Securities and Exchange Commission. It read four forty five. He confirmed the time with his own wrist watch. The SEC’s clock was one of the few street clocks in the city that could be relied upon.

The temperature briefly replaced the time. Thank God it had dropped below ninety, he thought. Keeping vigil on the street was hell in this heat. Of course, the beer tasted all the better. He thought he would have time for at least one beer tonight.

Tonight, Little Miss Red was going to meet Mister Enjoyment. He would wait at the
Short Sell
until she showed up. He could risk being in there that long. Then, once she showed, he would casually leave. He would be ready so he didn’t lose her this time.

She wouldn’t spend a long time in the bar. None of the sluts like her did. Anyway, by the time she came out, nobody would remember the stranger’s face. He would be forgotten, as he always was, and free to complete his appointed task.

Thinking of the thrill the night held for him, he went through the heavy doors and sat at the bar stool.

“Haynes ID’d his DMV photo,” Mann said to the Commissioner over the speaker phone. “That doesn’t give us much. We haven’t tied him to the bathing suit.”

“Why not?”

“The sales lady is on some kind of retreat with some group of leaf eaters doing a spiritual cleanse,” Mann said. “No phones, no cells. Just a bunch of canoes. We have the local Sherriff trying to track her down.”

Mann still wanted to pull the suspect in as soon as he appeared at the apartment. The Commissioner had overruled him, albeit reluctantly. He wanted to hold off until the case was more solid. His words sounded hollow, as though he was following orders.

“We have enough to go for an arrest and a search warrant.”

Warrants for the task force seemed to be easier to obtain as more bodies were found. They had been issued on much less than they had now.

“We’ve got him tight,” Livermore said, agreeing with Mann but needing to play his political role. “He isn’t getting out of the building. Let’s sit on him tonight and see what more we can come up with. We can do a lot of digging in the next ten to twelve hours.”

“I agree,” added the Commissioner. “I don’t really want to test the new warrant powers in the courts. The city already faces several wrongful arrest suits because of this thing. If the other warrants don’t hold up, and they won’t, we’re screwed. It could taint this case and our guy could walk. There is no way this guy walks.”

“We have the physical evidence,” Mann said. “We bring him in and nail him with the DNA.”

“The DNA evidence is useless if the arrest warrants fall apart. I can’t have that.”

“This is the guy!”

“Then get me more than a year book,” the Commissioner said. “I have faith in you gentlemen. Right now, I’m going to get out of here. I haven’t been home on time all week.”

Livermore stood up and pressed the disconnect button. Neither Mann nor Livermore mentioned that they hadn’t even been home in a week.

After an hour and three beers dumped in the plant, she arrived.

He left his seat on the bar stool and moved across the room in pursuit of the red hair. As casually as possible, he moved up behind her and edged around to get a glimpse of her face. She turned suddenly and their eyes momentarily locked before she looked away.

Every instinct told him to run.

It was the wrong redhead.

Worse, he recognized this one. He knew her. Would she know him? Would she remember him, later?

The panic ebbed away as he realized he knew her from the television. She was a reporter or something.

He circled to get a closer look, wondering if this might be his new contact. Ellen was forgotten for the time being. He was a mere three feet from her, intending to pass by her on the way to the door, when all hell broke loose.

The men in the dark blue suits surrounded three other men standing about five feet from his prey. He was in the middle of what had become the centre of attention for the entire bar.

The guys in the suits were showing official identification and one guy said he was from the FBI.

Preston backed up and almost tripped over a table. He caught himself but attracted the eye of the Fed. He got the once over and was ignored.

The most important man in the city and he was ignored. On the front page of papers across the country and they just looked right through him.

The FBI was helping the SEC arrest some twat in a designer suit – likely for insider trading – and letting the Southside Slasher get away! Their brains had been in their foreskin; lopped off at birth.

He backed away, blending into the crowd. That was the way – money before lives. Like gawkers at a car accident, everyone in the bar was staring at the small knot of men. As they started to leave, the television broad shoved past with her camera so he beat a hasty retreat. Outside the bar, he grabbed the first bus that went by, not even caring that it wasn’t heading toward his home.

*

William Hill hated improvising. Improvisation was for ill-prepared amateurs who had to rely on luck because of their poor planning. Hill prided himself on his careful plans.

However, time was against him. The call from Angelino’s cutout came only minutes before. The message had been clear. They had identified the Southside Slasher and an arrest was imminent. If Hill was going to eliminate the threat, he had to move quickly.

Unfortunately, unlike Drabick, this mark was not under Angelino’s control whatsoever. He was a totally unknown citizen. They had no track on him, didn’t know his location, couldn’t say when he was going to return home and were unsure when he was going to be arrested. The good money was on the morning but Hill couldn’t count on having that kind of time. He had to act now with the small bit of information he had.

He had the mark’s name and address, as well as an undetectable way into the apartment building so he wouldn’t be seen by the watching police. Now, he just had to get at the psycho in the kill zone, assuming the very definite possibility that he might be in his apartment by the time Hill arrived.

Hill watched the street from the doorway he had been standing in as the brown truck drove slowly along the street and stopped, double parking.

His ride had arrived.

The brown uniformed UPS driver bounded out of his truck and went into the store. As he went in, he snatched the UPS envelope from the front window – his indication that there was a pickup. Hill had walked the downtown streets for half an hour, looking for just such a sign. Hill lucked out that the driver was male and an approximate size match.

The driver came out of the store and Hill matched him step for step. As usual, the driver went immediately into the back of the truck. Hill followed him in and clubbed him with his sap before he even knew he was there. As the driver fell forward, Hill grabbed his cap and put it on his own head. Sufficiently disguised for now, he slid behind the steering wheel and pulled down the street to a parking lot at a convenience store.

Shutting both doors and locking them, he went into the back and unbuttoned the unconscious driver’s uniform shirt. Working quickly and efficiently, he was as adept with his latex gloves on as any heart surgeon. If he’d had more time, he would have bought a uniform at a costume store over the Internet. Instead, he had to wear this guy's sweaty stinking clothes. Once the guy was stripped down to his little red bikini briefs – some people really should wear boxers – he started to come around. His eye flickered open briefly and looked at Hill before sliding back into unconsciousness.

Hill made a small sound of regret and propped the driver up against a large box and pulled out his silenced .45 – a match to the one he had given to Thorman. Hill preferred using a .22 since there was better penetration control and less chance of collateral damage that might draw undo attention. However, the hollow points should solve that problem and Hill wasn’t sure what he might face. He might need the stopping power that the .45 offered.

However, contrary to what the movies showed, even quality silencers quickly wear out and loose their effectiveness. Putting the gun away, he considered other options. He reached over and grabbed the roll of packing tape. Taking a strip, he put it across the driver’s mouth and then flipped him on his stomach. He taped his hands behind his back and then taped his ankles together. Finally, sure that the man wasn’t going anywhere, Hill pulled out a knife. Lifting the driver’s head by his hair, he slit his throat, making sure to stay clear of the arterial spray.