Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (21 page)

I followed signs for Departures. Crossed the enclosed bridge connecting the parking structure to the Terminal. Picked up the pace and ran towards Ticketing. LAX is one of the busiest airports in the world. The major West Coast hub. Turnaround for over a million passengers a month. It seemed like they were all heading my way as I zigzagged through the droves of commuters. Police shield held aloft. I ignored the lines of travelers waiting for boarding tickets at the check-in desks. Went straight to the front.

‘The name’s Quinn.’ I said breathlessly. ‘I called in advance.’

‘Sir, you’ll have to get in line.’ The attendant said.

‘Yeah, buddy. Wait your turn like the rest of us.’

I ignored the guy in the business suit behind me. Showed the attendant my badge. ‘This is official police business. I need to be on that flight.’

The attendant sucked a lip. She didn’t like breaking protocol. I can understand that. Especially under the glare of the red-faced businessman I’d barged ahead of.

‘It’s a matter of life and death.’ I added.

Reluctantly, she checked her screen. ‘I’m sorry, officer, boarding has now ended for that flight. We have another in two hours. I can gladly check you in on that one. But there’ll be a ninety-minute layover in Portland.’

I leaned on the counter. Saw her pull back; my countenance must have scared her.

‘It’s imperative I make that flight.’ I said. ‘Imperative.’

I couldn’t wait two hours. Couldn’t bear the thought of hanging around biting nails. Listening to lounge music. I had to make the flight.

I felt a hand on my arm. ‘Hey, buddy. Didn’t you hear?’

I spun round and shot the business suit a dark stare. ‘Back off,
buddy
.’

He saw my fierce glower. Thought twice. Let go. And stepped back behind the line.

‘They’re already closing the doors and preparing for take-off.’ I heard the attendant say.

I spun back round. ‘Hold that flight! That’s an order!’

Every pair of eyes in the immediate vicinity rotated my way. One of those moments where dropping pins crash and bang.

The attendant gawped.

I saw her supervisor rock back and to on indecisive feet.

Being hot-headed isn’t my strong suit. I don’t wear it well. I look like a fraud. A teddy bear pretending to be a grizzly. The attendant knew I couldn’t hold the flight. Not without the proper paperwork. Signed in triplicate. Or an immediate danger – like a bomb threat. But she could see my desperation. Hear it. With a shaking hand, she buzzed her colleagues at the gate and told them to stand down for two minutes. I thanked her and ran on.

55

^{___________________________}

The blue-and-white sixty-seat SkyWest Bombardier landed at Tacoma International Airport seven minutes ahead of schedule. Screeching tires. Followed by a slight wind shear wobble. It had made the nine-hundred-and-fifty mile flight in exactly two-and-a-half hours. Without a tail wind. I sent my regards to the pilot for doing a fine job. Then ran down the sky bridge into the North Satellite Terminal.

I waited thirty long seconds for the underground transit train to breeze up to the platform. Fill. Then reverse back down the dark tunnel. Thirty seconds later I was deposited beneath Central Terminal. I bounded up the escalator towards daylight.

There was a green-and-gold liveried King County Sheriff’s Department cruiser waiting for me outside the main doors. Engine purring. Red-and-blues flashing silently. A big-set driver wearing a dark brown Sheriff’s Department uniform, gold-tinted shades and a no-nonsense face.

I jumped in and we took off. Wordlessly. Sped away from the concourse like a getaway car. Accelerated out of the airport. Headed east on the 508 for about a mile. Then took the cloverleaf north onto Interstate 5. Reaching 80 mph within seconds. The driver floored it.

It was raining, I saw. Sleeting against the windshield from an overcast sky. Cardboard-grey. Horizontal trickles streaming across the side windows. Car headlights making the droplets glint like diamonds.

We passed signs for Tukwila and the Museum of Flight. Sirens sounding. Weaving in and out of slower traffic. Blinding spray being thrown up off juggernauts as they plowed through the surface water like speed boats.

I sat back and held on.

My driver was on a death wish. I wasn’t.

In the far distance I could see a crowd of skyscrapers huddling against the leaden sky.

I’d only ever been to Seattle once before.

And I didn’t want to think about it.

56

^{___________________________}

I met up with King County Sheriff Mandy Kasson in her first floor Courthouse office facing the Smith Tower. I’d met Mandy last year during the chase of another serial killer.

She shook my hand with vim. ‘Gabe. Good to see you again. Pity it’s always under these kinds of circumstances. How was your flight?’

‘Too slow even at four-hundred miles an hour.’ I said. ‘Are they here?’

‘They’re currently down the hall in one of the interview rooms used by the DA’s Office. Soon as you and I got off the phone I had my men go pick them up. We’ve made them as comfortable as possible.’

‘Do they know why they’re here?’

‘They do.’ Sheriff Kasson smoothed down her jacket and straightened her tie. ‘Shall we?’

57

^{___________________________}

There were two people in the interview room at the King County Courthouse in downtown Seattle on a rainy Tuesday in January. One sitting at a long oval table with a smoked-glass inlay. One looking out through the rain-spattered window at the Puget Sound visible between rain-slicked buildings. The one sitting at the table was a man. His posture spoke of defeat: slumped and slack. Face in hands. Quietly sobbing. The one standing by the window was a woman. Her posture spoke of stoicism: arms dangling loosely by her sides. Fingers curled of their own accord. A thousand mile stare coming from dazed eyes. The man’s name was Peter: a regular Joe with short sandy hair and a button nose. Big-boned. Probably played line-backer in his youth. The kind of guy who believed killing an ant would condemn him to hell. The woman’s name was Anne: a small redhead with a boyish figure and a sallow complexion. The kind of woman who put the car in neutral at every traffic signal, even with her foot hard on the brake. Together they were the McNamaras. A professional couple in their forties. He was a father. She was a mother. And up until Sunday morning they’d been the proud parents of a straight-A’s nine-year-old daughter called Jennifer.

58

^{___________________________}

The sky was a malevolent grey. Rain battering the window. Three cups of untouched coffee between us. We were sitting at the long wooden table. Me on one side. Anne and Peter McNamara on the other. Halfway through the toughest kind of interview a police officer is ever likely to conduct.

The father had roughed up his face with the back of a sleeve. Trying to remove overlapping tear tracks. But his eyes were still red raw. Face heavy with hurt. The mother was the chalk to his cheese: staring at me –
through me
– pupils focusing on something a thousand miles away. Breathing shallow.

As yet, she hadn’t spoken a single word.

I was leaning slightly forward – showing interested body language – all the while acutely aware that I was the only thing stopping these folks from seeing their baby.

 
‘We were in the park.’ The father was saying. He was trying his best to explain in words that didn’t suffocate.

‘On Friday?’

‘Yes. Friday.’

‘Just the three of you?’

‘No. Anne was home. We run an online health store. Anne was adding new products to the range. For the weekend. Isn’t that right, Anne?’

The mother said nothing. She might as well have been a mannequin. Shock affects us all differently.

‘What were you doing at the park?’

I saw a tremor run through the father’s face. Heard it in his clipped words. ‘The bastard killed Nero.’

‘Nero?’

‘Our dog.’ He grabbed a big shaky breath.

‘You walk him in the park?’

‘Every day. After school.’

‘And you think the man that abducted your daughter killed your dog?

A tight nod, restricted by tense neck muscles.

‘What kind of a dog?’

‘German Shepherd. The bastard left the syringe in him. The police say it was probably poison. I don’t know.’

The killer had dealt with the dog by lethal injection. Took it out of the equation. Like a casualty of war.

I took a deep breath. ‘Tell me exactly what happened on Friday, in the park.’

The father shuddered. Pulled the tattered bits of himself together. ‘They were playing. Jenny and Nero. Like always. Chasing sticks and stuff. There isn’t much foliage this time of year.’

‘You could keep an eye on them.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you notice anybody else hanging around?’

‘A few other people, maybe. Some with dogs. I don’t remember. It’s a blur.’

‘Anyone on their own? A man? I know it’s hard, but try and think.’

A tight shake of the head. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘So what happened?’

‘There’s this bench. Where I sit. It overlooks the lake. I sit there while they play. Jenny and Nero. Same thing every day. But something wasn’t right. They were only out of my sight for a few seconds.’ He looked at his wife. ‘I swear, Annie, it was only …’

I heard his voice crack. His throat choke up. Saw Peter McNamara’s complexion redden as he tried to swallow back the surging upset. But I could see fresh tears welling in his eyes.

‘What wasn’t right?’ I asked slowly. ‘On Friday. When you sat at the bench. What wasn’t right?’

‘It was tacky.’ He said shakily. ‘Sticky. Like somebody had covered it in glue. I only looked away for a second …’