Dead Even (20 page)

Ms. Younkin sounded annoyed. “Why don't I just fax them to you? Wouldn't that be easier?”

Mike hesitated. “I may have questions. How hard will it be to reach you again?”

“Well, I
do
have a busy schedule this morning. I'm going to be in and out. As a matter of fact, I have an important meeting I have to attend in about twenty minutes, and it will probably take all of that just to read these to you.”

“Okay,” Mike said, wondering if it would change her attitude any if she knew the information she was giving him might put away a serial killer, and one of their own people at that. “Just fax them. But give me a number where I can reach you, even if you're in a meeting. This is extremely important, and time is a factor.”

Ms. Younkin sighed deeply. “All right. I'll have my secretary fax these papers to you, and I'll tell her to get hold of me if you call.”

“Thanks,” Mike said warmly. “I appreciate your trouble.” He gave her the station's fax number, hung up, and called over to Butch. “Any luck yet?”

Butch shook his head. “Do you have any idea how many convention centers there are in some of these cities? It's like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

Mike heard the fax line ring and went over to the machine. “I may have just what you need right here. Hold on a minute.”

He waited impatiently while the machine spit out twelve papers. He took six, and handed the other half to Butch. “Well, this is it. Let's see if we can match up any of these dates.”

Mike whistled softly as he quickly scanned down the sheet. “Two—three—six—seven. Jesus, Butch! I have seven dates that match.”

Butch looked up, grinning. “I have eight! And two that are close enough to call a match.”

Mike looked closely at the paper. “Wait a minute. There is no mention of the convention in Lawrence—where Audra was attacked. Why the devil wouldn't it be on this list?” He pulled the telephone toward him and dialed Seattle again. This time, it took only seconds before Ms. Younkin came on the line.

“How can I help you, Lieutenant Ramsey?” She sounded resigned.

Mike explained the problem.

“I sent you just what you asked for, Lieutenant—a list of our conventions,
System's
conventions, for the middle third of the country. I couldn't say for certain, but I imagine the meeting in Lawrence was a general insurance convention, which includes any company that wishes to attend.”

“Do your people attend these?”

“Yes. We encourage their participation in both, and sometimes we are the parent company—the one who does the planning. That job rotates from company to company.”

Mike took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly. “You wouldn't happen to have that information, also, would you, Ms. Younkin?”

Ms. Younkin's voice sounded weary. “Yes. I imagine I can dig that up for you, too, though it may take awhile. I suppose you need it yesterday?”

Mike laughed. “That's about right.”

*   *   *

Forty-five minutes later, Mike and Butch opened the door to Markham's office and strode in, broad grins on both their faces.

“You wanted
two
corresponding dates, Captain?” Mike said. “How about twenty-three?”

Markham looked at them disbelievingly. “You're kidding.”

Butch handed him a sheet of paper. “And not only that, but we have confirmation. Howard Simpson was registered at the convention center for each and every meeting. He was
in town
the evening all twenty-three girls were first reported missing—from Oklahoma City to Omaha!”

“Christ Almighty,” Markham said. He jabbed at a number on the phone. “This is Markham. You're still holding Howard Simpson?”

He listened a minute. “I don't care how much his lawyer is squawking. I want tight security on him—two officers with him at all times and two more on the door. Under no circumstances is he to be released, and he isn't to so much as take a piss by himself. Is that understood? I'll be there in a few minutes.

*   *   *

Audra stared at the deed to William's Academy. “Why didn't you tell me all this, Bess? My God! You knew all along that I would get the job, didn't you?”

Bess bobbed her head up and down. “Yes, child—and I'm sorry for deceivin' you. I just didn't want you thinkin' you couldn't get the job all on your own. If you remember, you needed a good dose of self-confidence about that time. I—I only did what I thought was best.”

“And B&B Oil? You really own that?”

The old woman heaved a long sigh. “By golly, I do. And you might as well know I've paid off all your student loans. The money you send in each month has been put in a savings account for you—not that you'll be needin' it. When these old bones of mine give out, everything is goin' to you. Matter of fact, I've already transferred half of my holdings into your name. You should be hearing from my banker shortly.”

Audra's mouth dropped open. “Oh, no, Bess. You don't need to do that. I—”

“Now, child, don't argue with an old woman. That's the way it is. I've had the papers drawn up for years now. The only thing is, I would like for you to continue doin' what I started—helpin' people who are down on their luck. And I know you'll do a good job of it. There ain't a phony bone in your whole body. I've watched you. You don't go lookin' down your nose at people; you treat 'em all with dignity.” She nodded her head solemnly. “No, child. I'm not makin' no mistake leavin' it all to you. Ever' last penny. And givin' you half now, why, all that's gonna do is break you in kind of easy like.”

Audra swallowed hard. “Just how much are we talking about here, Bess?”

Bess looked at her and smiled. “Well, I don't rightly know for sure, child. I suppose somewhere between fifty and sixty.”

“Thousand?” Audra asked.

Bess guffawed. “No, child. Million. Fifty or sixty million.”

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Mike wiped sweat from his forehead and started in again. “Mr. Simpson—Howard—I know this is difficult for you, but you aren't making it any easier by not cooperating. We have you dead to rights. There is no reason not to talk to us. None.”

Jerome White cleared his throat. “My client has answered all your questions. If you don't like the answers, that is your problem.”

“
Mr.
White,” Mike turned to the man. “Your client is responsible for at
least
twenty-three young girls meeting their deaths. And by the time we're finished, that number could easily double. Now I'll thank you to keep your damn mouth shut.” It occurred to him as he saw the look that crossed Jerome White's face, that perhaps he would regret those words. “I'm sorry,” he said to the man. “That was uncalled for, and I apologize. But you have to understand we aren't dealing with stolen hubcaps here.”

He also was not dealing with a run-of-the-mill attorney. Jerome White was well known, and had a reputation for being as hard as nails. He was a man who did not like to lose. Simpson couldn't have found a better man to have in his corner.

White looked at Mike, smiled, and clasped both hands behind his head casually. He tipped back in his chair, studying the handsome officer. He remembered the trouble Ramsey had gone through—the drinking and the bad press. Could he use that?

Howard Simpson looked up at Mike. “I did
not
kill those girls. How many times do I have to say it?”

“Then how do you explain the fact that you were in every city on the day they were killed?” Butch asked. “Coincidence?”

“I'm sure I wasn't the only insurance man that attended every one of those meetings. Surely there were others.”

“No, sir,” Butch said. “We have already checked on that. You were the only agent for System Insurance that made every single one of those meetings. The only one.”

“And I can verify my movements at those meetings,” Simpson said hotly. “Bring me my notebooks. I keep very thorough notes of my activities. I'm certain I can clear this up.”

“Yes, sir,” Mike said. “We have men over collecting your books right now. Don't worry. We intend to go through them with a fine-tooth comb!”

Captain Markham and Harry Windslow stood looking in through the one-way glass. “That does it. We're wasting time here. Tell lab I want a blood sample for a DNA profile. We need to nail that bastard down before the press gets wind of it. All hell's going to break loose then.”

Windslow nodded.

“And Harry,”

“Yes, Captain?”

“I got a tip a few minutes ago from Colorado. Seems our man is on the move again, heading back this direction. I can't believe he'd have the balls to set up shop in Hays again, but be on the lookout for him. The info is on my desk. And you and Bill will have to handle it; I'm going to have my hands full here.” He ran his hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. “Just what the hell I need. A serial killer and a major drug dealer. Christ Almighty!”

He was still staring through the window at Simpson and did not see the look that crossed Windslow's face.

*   *   *

Harry hurried in to Markham's office and rifled through the papers on his desk until he found what he was looking for.
Damn,
he swore under his breath as he quickly scanned the material.
There's no time to warn them! They left Denver an hour ago.

He exited Markham's office and returned to his own desk. He sank down in the chair, and started drumming his fingers nervously back and forth over the paper. He only had hours left on the Hays police force anyway. What was the best plan?

It had started twenty years ago when he was a rookie cop on the Denver force. Papa Joe Gallinni had approached him and made him an offer he couldn't refuse, so to speak. He had worked both sides of the street ever since. He enjoyed the extra money, and in his youth he had liked the extra prestige that went along with associating with the Gallinni family. There were always lots of women, lots of parties, lots of booze. But finally, it had caught up with him. He had quit the Denver force days ahead of the start of an internal investigation. He had cited health reasons for quitting, but he knew the long investigation was going to muddy his name, even in this little shit town he had come to. Last night he had received the word from one of his old buddies on the force in Denver. The indictments were to be handed down tomorrow and his name was among those listed.

Six months ago, Papa Joe had tried to make the best of the situation, and, with his help, use Hays as a major distribution point. Neither of them had counted on the efficiency of the police force in this little podunk town. And
he
hadn't counted on running into Mike Ramsey again.

It was just pure-assed chance that had thrown them together at the Gallinni mansion anyway. Joe Gallinni's daughter had met Ramsey at a Denver hot spot, and invited the handsome drunk home with her. He had been shaking Papa Joe's hand when the library door opened and in walked Maria Gallinni with Ramsey on her arm. She made the introductions, and Ramsey promptly passed out. When they checked his pockets and found out he was an out-of-town cop, they hustled him to Maria's car and ordered her to drop him back at the bar.

He hadn't really been worried about Ramsey remembering him. The man had been just about as drunk as it was possible to get and still be alive. But then Ramsey had surprised him by asking if they hadn't met before. And another time he overheard him laughing about the night he got drunk in Denver and ended up at the house of a mob boss. Sooner or later, he was afraid Ramsey would put the two together. His only recourse, in case that happened, was to try to discredit anything he might say. He had thought Ramsey would be an easy target, with his history of drinking, but all he had managed to do with his stories was irritate most of the men on the force. Three had called him a liar right to his face.

Not that it mattered anymore now. His only chance at this point was to intercept Gallinni's men, warn them off, then hightail it out of Hays. Papa Joe would know what to do. Maybe he would send him overseas or something.

*   *   *

The six men assembled in Markham's office were the cream of the crop; all were seasoned officers with good track records. Mike ticked off the areas that needed covering. “All right. We have to obtain the DNA profiles taken from the sperm found in the bodies of the last few victims. We need it as soon as possible for a comparison. We also need copies of the coroner's reports on all victims, as well as every scrap of info you can get on the killings. Ted, you handle that. Have everything faxed to save time.”

Ted nodded.

“And Leon, check with the people Simpson worked with. See what they thought of him, if they ever questioned his activities, that sort of thing. Neighbors, also. Kyle, I want you to take forensics to his house. I especially want them to go over the van carefully. Audra Delaney remembered a van. Could be it was used in some of the killings.”

Butch interrupted. “The Dodge van in the garage was brand spanking new, Kyle. See if Simpson has always used a van, and if so, try to run down his old ones. If you locate any, have forensics check them, too.”

All of the officers were acutely aware that every single thing they did over the next few days would be scrutinized, talked about, splashed across headlines throughout the country, and discussed on national news. Serial killers made headlines. Serial killers got books written about them and usually, their own damn miniseries. Now wasn't the time for any screwups.

Markham looked at the faces of his officers. “I'm going to keep a lid on this until we have more of the solid evidence back. I had a little chat with Simpson's attorney, and informed him if he ever expected any help from our department again, he wouldn't leak this to the press. And then just to be on the safe side, I called the editor of the paper and spoke with her. She agreed to give us some time, but added if someone else broke the story, she would personally have my ass for breakfast. And I believe her, so keep your mouths shut about this case. Understood? Don't tell people any more than you have to to get the job done.”