Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (38 page)

Ten minutes later he was slipping through the rear entrance of the
Bellagio Hotel
. He took an empty elevator to the thirteenth floor. Watched numbers increment on a little LCD screen set above the sliding doors.

The corridor on the thirteenth floor was deserted. A Housekeeping trolley parked halfway down. Stacks of fluffy white towels.
Bellagio
toiletries. Tubs of pens. He scooped up a bundle of towels as he passed.

Twenty strides later he was at his destination.

He rapped briskly on the door.

A man’s voice:
‘Who is it?’

Housekeeping. He held the towels up to the spy hole. Put on a Mexican accent.

‘Can you come back later? We’re a little busy right now.’

No, he couldn’t. Towels had to be changed daily. It would only take a moment.

The door clicked open.

He threw his weight at the door. The man on the other side stumbled backwards. He aimed the stun gun and fired.

105

^{___________________________}

Sonny walked me out into the parking lot. ‘Have you thought about doing a Press conference?’ She asked as we strolled across the black tarmac. ‘News is everything in this town. It’s compulsive viewing.’

I had considered it. Right from the get-go, back in LA. But Press conferences tended to go one of two ways: deterrence or determination.

‘Let’s hold off awhile.’ I said. ‘See how this pans out. In my experience, Press conferences either scare killers off or send them on killing sprees. Last thing you need is a city full of panicking tourists.’

‘Well, it’s your call.’ She said with a nod. ‘Just throwing it out there. I have some good contacts in the local Media. We can use them. An informed public is a vigilant public.’

I’d already used the Media to try and snare
The Undertaker
once and failed.

‘Do you know the reporter who accosted me this morning?’

‘What did he look like?’

‘She.’ I said. ‘Blonde hair. Shoulder pads. Looked like Barbie.’

Sonny smiled. ‘That’s Stacey. Stacey Kellerman. She’s an up-and-coming name in these parts. Heading for the bright lights – or so she thinks. She been giving you some trouble, Gabe?’

‘None that I can’t handle.’ I said. ‘She knew about the killer’s previous victims. Plus, his nickname.’

‘And you’re curious to know how. Maybe she has a source. You could ask her. But she probably won’t give it up.’

A red-and-white jet roared by overhead. Low enough to count windows. We waited for the thunder to roll past before continuing:

‘I’ve already sent manifest requests to all the airlines.’ Sonny said. ‘Vegas is isolated. Most visitors come here by plane. All credit card reservations are stored electronically. We can get a run-down of everyone who flew in from LA in the last couple of days.’

‘Good.’

But only good if he hadn’t paid cash at the ticket desk. Or even drive here by car. I had a feeling
The Undertaker’s
identity would be as well hidden as his face on the thrill ride snapshot with Patricia Hoagland.

Another thought occurred:

‘Once we get lists of all LA travelers, can we cross-reference it with hotel guest lists?’

‘You mean check out everyone in person? I guess it’s doable. Use up heck of a lot of manpower.’

‘We’ll have the FBI to help.’ I reminded her.

‘All the same, Gabe, there’s over a third of a million visitors here in Vegas at any given moment. Over half a million at the weekends.’

‘That’s a lot of rooms to canvass.’

‘You bet it is. And that’s providing the guests are in those rooms when we check them out.’

I was beginning to understand the enormity of the task. With guests constantly checking-in and checking-out, it would make any list not only extremely lengthy but also in a perpetual state of flux.

We came to a shiny silver Nissan SUV. This year’s model. I could see a child’s doll on the backseat. A
McDonald’s
polystyrene cup in one of the holders.

‘Give you a ride someplace?’ Sonny asked as she popped the locks.

‘The MGM Grand.’ I said. ‘I want to go over Patricia Hoagland’s room. See if we missed something.’

‘Okay.’

We climbed into the brand new Nissan. There was a dream catcher dangling from the interior mirror. Sonny handed me a business card.

‘My numbers,’ she said. ‘Call me if you find anything. Or need anything. Anytime. Night or day.’

106

^{___________________________}

The Sheriff’s Department had posted a Deputy outside the sealed Hoagland crime scene. I found him sitting on a chair in the ridiculously-long corridor. Reading a sports magazine. He jumped to his feet when he saw me approaching. Rolled his read into a tube.

‘Clean-up crew been here yet?’ I asked as I showed ID.

He shook his head. Opened the door and let me through.

The drapes were still pulled right back, I saw. Dust motes dancing in the bright morning sunshine. Through the window I could see one of the huge hotel complexes across the street. A fake Manhattan skyline. Scaled-down skyscrapers. A luminous green Statue of Liberty.

CSU had removed the sheets from the bed. The pillows were missing too. No sign of any petals. Or that a woman had died on this bed hours earlier. I went over to the nightstand. Snapped on gloves. Pulled open the drawer. A bible. Pocket-sized. It looked untouched. Out of curiosity, I nudged it across the bottom of the drawer. Saw a fine imprint in a fine scuff of dust.

There was a message pad and pen on top of the nightstand. Every hotel has them. A handful of creamy pages, each bearing the hotel’s name, crest and contact numbers. Somebody had written a telephone number and the name
Bob
on the topmost page:

Looked like a woman’s handwriting. Carefully, I tore off the sheet. Folded it. Picked up the green pen with the hotel’s name stamped in gold. Put both in my pocket.

At the foot of the bed was a long set of drawers with a flat screen TV on top. A small cardboard tent advertising TV channels. The latest blockbuster movies and adult only channels. I checked the drawers: empty. I went over to the mirrored closet that comprised the entire wall separating the bathroom from the bedroom. A tired-looking man in dire need of a shave reached towards my fingertips as I reached for the inset handle. Helped me slide open the big door.

Patricia Hoagland had been traveling light: a single piece of luggage. A purple-effect crocodile skin carry-on with a pull-out handle. A thick coat and scarf draped over a hanger up above. A purple blouse and what looked like a grey business skirt suit. Never to be worn again.

The built-in safe was wide open. Empty.

I picked up the carry-on. Slung it onto the bare mattress. Lay it on its back and unzipped it.

Rummaging through a dead person’s personal effects might excite some people. But not me. I threw back the lid and inspected the contents.

Mostly underwear. Same condition as the garments Patricia had been found in. Whites washed on hot with colors that run. A knitted sweater. Bobbly. A few used toiletries. A paperback book: the latest chick-lit from somebody I’d never heard of. A woman’s wallet containing a Mayflower Bank visa card, a couple of hundred dollars in cash, a return flight ticket to Boston Logan International. No driver’s license.

I left everything in the carry-on. Zipped it back up. Stood there looking around. Waiting for inspiration.

There was a writing desk and office chair near the window. A telephone with an internet connection point. A few colorful pamphlets arranged in a fan. Vegas shows. Vegas shopping. Vegas nightlife. One odd-one-out leaflet advertising a company dealing in pharmaceutical research.

My cell phone played its merry tune. I dug it out. Then felt my face break into a big grin when I saw the caller’s ID:

‘Gracie!’

‘Hi, Daddy.’

‘How are you? It’s good to hear your voice. I tried calling earlier this week. Then I got waylaid with other things.’

I heard Grace chuckle down the line. I loved that laugh.

‘I’m great.’ She said. And I believed it. ‘I meant to call a couple of days ago. But things have been hectic this week here too. It looks like we’re both snowed-under with work.’

‘Even in sunny Florida.’ I smiled.

‘So how are you, Daddy?’

‘I’m working a new case.’ I announced. ‘But before you say anything, I’m not pushing myself too hard. It’s keeping me busy, you know?’

I am a firm believer that kids should never carry their parents’ burdens.

‘Busy is good.’ She agreed. ‘I guess it gets you out of the house – which is better than nothing. But please be careful. For me?’

‘Without question.’

We chatted for a while about easy-going things – father and daughter stuff. Grace is my escapism. That chuckle of hers is like womb music. Then I heard her cover the hand piece. Mumble something to someone beyond the pick-up.

‘Something’s come up.’ She said as she uncovered the receiver. ‘Daddy, can I call you straight back?’

‘Take your time.’ I said.

Then she was gone. Call disconnected.

Lamely, I stared at the phone for a few seconds. When it didn’t ring, I went over to the window and stared out at the Dali landscape.

Bill was right: this was Disneyland for adults. Mile after mile of themed hotels. Sprouting out of the desert like enormous glass cacti. Fed by streams of never-ending traffic. Gorged on greenbacks.

In the far distance I could see copper-colored mountains. Snowy peaks. Feathers of white cloud. It looked a far cry from the hustle and bustle going on nineteen floors below.

The room phone rang.

I twisted my neck to look at the phone sitting on the nightstand. With its red light flashing.