Kill Her Again (A Thriller) (7 page)

P
OPE WASN’T SURE
he felt comfortable letting an FBI agent into his room, even if she was the most beautiful FBI agent he’d ever seen.

No, scratch that.

Special Agent McBride was not really beautiful, not in a conventional way. Not like Carmen and Feather or any of the other showgirls he’d brought up to this room. But there was something about her that struck him the moment those elevator doors opened. Something about the wary expression, the slightly untamed hair, the conservative yet form-fitting clothes.

And then there was the scar.

It ran down the left side of her face, from temple to jawbone, still new from the looks of it. She had covered it with makeup, but it was still plainly visible—a thin, pink, slightly puckered reminder of a very close call.

That scar was the kicker. The thing that made her human. Less . . . FBI. A not-so-subtle sign of vulnerability—a vulnerability she tried to hide with a curt, professional demeanor.

But Pope had always been able to see past such barriers, to dig deeper than most, to the real person beneath. It was a gift that had helped him quite a bit in the past.

Although that thought was instantly laughable when you considered how badly he had fucked up with Susan.

But then how could he have known the darkness in her heart?

How could anyone know?

Unlocking his door, he pushed it wide and gestured for McBride and the boy to enter. Shortly after hanging up on Jake, he’d made a quick follow-up call to fill in some of the details, then took a few moments to clean the place up, stashing any incriminating pot paraphernalia, all the while wondering why he had agreed to this meeting in the first place.

The role he had chosen for himself on this planet, post-tragedy, was that of the sufferer, the wronged man who painted on a fake smile twice a night, six nights a week, to sell over-priced cocktails to unsuspecting tourists. Giving in to Jake’s request had been uncharacteristic. And even now, despite the presence of Special Agent McBride, he wished he had remained true to himself and told his cousin no.

But then there was Evan, standing there with a quiet solemnity that Pope understood all too well. Knowing intimately what little Evan was going through, what he might have seen, and what he might remember with careful and calculated prodding—coupled with the possibility that they might be able to find a missing little girl—was enough to get Pope to immediately reconsider that wish.

Maybe, for the first time in a long, long while, he could actually help someone. Do some good for once.

Gesturing toward the bed, he said, “Have a seat.”

Evan did as he was told, perching himself on the edge of the mattress, but Agent McBride stayed on her feet, taking in the place with undisguised distaste. Not that he could blame her. A room at Caesars it wasn’t. It didn’t even meet the standards of Circus Circus.

But at least the bed was made.

Picking up the phone on his nightstand, Pope called down to Kelly in room service and ordered two Cokes and a glass of milk.

“You hungry, too?” he asked Evan, but the boy shook his head and returned his gaze to the carpet, where it had been fixed ever since Pope had ushered them inside.

Ordering a couple of breakfast muffins anyway, he hung up and noticed that Evan had developed a serious case of the wiggles. Grabbing hold of McBride’s hand, the boy tugged on it until she leaned down and let him whisper in her ear.

Before she could ask, Pope gestured to his bathroom doorway. “In there.”

Evan hesitated, but McBride gently touched his shoulder. “It’s okay. Go ahead.”

The two seemed to have a connection and that was a good thing. Working with children could be tricky, and having someone trusted present would help the boy relax.

Glancing warily at Pope, Evan slid off the bed, then went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

“Poor kid looks like he was struck by lightning,” Pope said.

“He pretty much was. Did Deputy Worthington give you the details?”

Pope nodded. “I could say something cute about kids being resilient, but this isn’t the kind of thing you bounce back from. Not easily.”

McBride studied him a moment, considering his words, and he knew she was weighing them against what she’d heard or read about him over the last couple of years.

It was a look he’d seen a hundred times on a hundred different faces.

After the usual awkward moment that accompanied even the most innocuous reference to Pope’s past, McBride said, “Just for the record, I’m not a hundred percent on board with this.”

“If it makes you feel any better, neither am I.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because my cousin’s a persuasive man.”

“Cousin?”

“Deputy Worthington.”

Surprise flickered across McBride’s face; then she nodded as if this explained something she’d been puzzling over. “Evan’s pretty fragile right now.”

“I’m not interested in compounding his pain. I’ll walk him up to the water’s edge, but I’m not about to make him jump. The moment we’ve got anything tangible to work with, I’m bringing him out.”

Apparently satisfied, McBride looked out the window, taking in his morning view. She gestured toward the distant lights, the barbed wire. “Is that what I think it is?”

“If you’re thinking state prison, then yeah. That’s exactly what it is.”

She frowned. “Why would you build a casino so close to a prison?”

“That’s one of the questions I ask myself nearly every morning. But I’m not complaining. Whatever the reason, it works out just fine for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“That’s where they’re holding my ex-wife.”

McBride seemed startled by this revelation. “Is that supposed to be a good thing?”

“I assume you know my history.”

“I think the whole world does. But why on earth would you want to be so close to the woman who . . .” She paused suddenly, looking as if she’d been about to step into something sticky and had just managed to avoid it.

Pope finished the sentence for her. “Killed my kid? That’s another question I ask myself every morning. But the answer isn’t complicated. I just want to make sure she stays right where she is.”

“I don’t think you have much to worry about.”

“Probably not. But her new lawyers are working on the appeal as we speak, claiming diminished capacity and ineffective assistance of counsel. They’re pushing for a new trial.”

“It’ll never happen.”

Pope shrugged. “I almost hope it does.”

McBride’s eyebrows raised. “Why?”

“Because the moment she shows her face outside those gates,” Pope said, nodding toward the view, “she’s a dead woman.”

9

A
NNA WASN’T SURE
if what she’d just heard constituted a genuine threat or were simply the mutterings of a grieving father. Professionally, her inclination was to take Pope seriously, but what did it matter? The chances of his ex-wife winning an appeal were virtually nonexistent.

Still, there was an intensity in those eyes that was hard to ignore. She could imagine Pope standing here every morning, staring out at that prison complex as he quietly plotted, positioning himself in his mind, weapon ready, waiting for those front gates to open. . . .

Pure fantasy, she decided. No matter how wronged this man had been, she didn’t sense the killer instinct in him. Couldn’t see him pulling a trigger.

Of course, she’d made that mistake before, and had a nice little reminder of that fact every time she looked in the mirror.

All she really knew about Pope was what she had seen on CNN and read in the papers. She knew the bureau had had some involvement in the case, but the investigation had been handled by the Vegas field office and seemed a world away from her life in San Francisco.

Her first memories of it were the photos on
Headline News.
A fragile-looking freckle-faced kid, smiling for the camera. Benjamin Pope, five years old. He had been missing for two days, victim of a carjacking by a large Hispanic man—or so his mother had said. There were daily press conferences and hourly briefings and wild speculation by often-misinformed news media, focusing more and more on the parents, whom police refused to name as possible suspects in the disappearance.

She remembered Pope’s pleas for the kidnappers to return his child and the not-so-quiet rumors that had accompanied those pleas. The talk around the San Francisco Field Division watercoolers was that the press conference was a sham, cover for a man who had murdered his own kid.

The rumors grew into angry accusations when the burnt-out shell of the family station wagon was found in the desert, less than a mile from Ludlow, California.

The charred remains of Benjamin Pope were found inside.

None of the evidence collected pointed to a carjacking, and an autopsy revealed that Ben might well have been dead
before
the fire. Within a day of the discovery, Susan Leah Pope had broken down and confessed to torching the SUV. It turned out that she had been poisoning Ben for months and it had finally caught up to him.

Those less educated about such things believed that Daniel Pope had somehow used hypnosis to force his wife to do the unspeakable. Both CNN and FOX had devoted entire hours to this harebrained theory, but such accusations were quickly quashed by an FBI psychologist, who patiently explained that hypnosis was not mind control.

If anything, Pope was a casualty. The victim of a severely disturbed woman. Just like his son.

How he had wound up here in this hotel room, or why he had chosen to take to the stage and put himself out there as a target for the crackpots and the rubberneckers, was a mystery Anna doubted she’d ever be able to solve.

And she couldn’t begrudge the man his fantasy, no matter how dark it might be.

T
HERE WAS A
knock at the door. Pope crossed to it and pulled it open to reveal a cute but overly perky girl in a hotel uniform holding a tray with two cans of Coke, a small carton of milk, and what looked like two apple muffins.

“How’s this for service?” the girl asked, smiling the kind of smile that, to Anna’s mind, indicated more than friendship. When her gaze fell on Anna, however, the smile momentarily froze, then abruptly vanished—along with her perkiness.

Pope took the tray from her. “Thanks, Kel, I’ll see you later.” Then he closed the door and turned. No good-byes. No explanations. No apologies.

Anna didn’t know what to make of this, but then it wasn’t really any of her business. As Pope carried the tray to the dresser top, she glanced around the room again, surprised to discover that there were no photographs or keepsakes or mementos to be found. Just a generic, run-down hotel room that told the visitor nothing about the man who occupied it.

She was pondering the significance of this when the bathroom door opened and Evan stepped into the room, fumbling with his zipper, having trouble zipping it back up.

He looked so small, framed by the doorway, his face pale and gaunt, reminding Anna, oddly enough, of her mother during those last few days. It was enough to break your heart. And her reluctance to put him through this grew even stronger.

He finally finished zipping, then looked up at her. “Can we go now?”

Pope was the one who answered. “We haven’t had our drinks yet.”

“I’m not thirsty anymore.”

“Okay . . . but I think Agent McBride is.”

He threw Anna a glance and she immediately caught on—although, if pressed, would have agreed with Evan. She just wanted to leave.

Thinking of the missing girl, however, she said, “I could definitely go for something cold and wet,” then moved to the dresser and grabbed a can of Coke. “Can we hang around for just a few more minutes, kiddo?”

Evan looked at her again and shrugged. “I guess so.”

Pope patted the bed. “Have a seat. I want to show you something.”

As Evan reluctantly climbed back onto the mattress, Pope crossed to his nightstand, opened the drawer, and took out a black velvet drawstring pouch. The boy’s gaze immediately shifted to it and Anna thought she saw a tiny spark of curiosity there.

She was curious herself.

Pope returned and crouched next to Evan, offering him the pouch. He hesitated before taking it.

“Go ahead,” Pope said. “Open it up.”

Evan did as he was told, loosening the drawstring with his small fingers. Reaching inside, he pulled out a black plastic box, about the size of a Rubik’s Cube.

Evan stared at it, looking disappointed.

“Turn it over,” Pope said.

Evan turned the box over to reveal a hole cut into the opposite side, the word
Metamorphosis
written in gold paint above it. Inside the hole was what looked like a golf ball made of mirrors—a miniature disco ball—surrounded by several LED lightbulbs.