Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (62 page)

He tried to close it on my foot. Didn’t happen.

‘You didn’t just nail him,’ I growled, ‘you crucified him.’

‘I hear he resisted arrest.’

‘Bullshit.’

Winters’ piggy little eyebrows lifted halfway up his domed brow.

‘Your boys worked him over so good he’ll need spoon-feeding for the rest of his life.’ I said. ‘And that’s if he pulls through.’

‘Not my problem.’

‘I needed him to talk, Winters. Your goons had no right roughing him up like that. Marty wouldn’t have okayed that kind of retribution. For all we know he isn’t the killer.’

‘Go home, Detective.’ Winters said through closed teeth. ‘You’ve got your man. Do the paperwork and get the hell out of my State.’

My fists were balled. Red mist descending. Muscles tensing, ready to propel me into an imminent brawl.

Beyond Winters I could hear somebody else shuffling down the wooden stairs. I caught sight of fluffy slippers and a pearlescent silken kimono. A scent of primrose.

‘Darling, who is it?’ I heard.

‘Nobody.’ Winters answered, keeping his little piggy eyes on mine. ‘Go back to bed, dear.’

More shuffling. Then a blonde-haired woman appeared in the gap next to Winters. She was in her early fifties, but looked ten years younger.
God, she was beautiful.
Eyes like sapphires. Lips like ruby.

‘Gabe?’

‘Angela.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘To pick a fight with Hugh.’ I said. I’d never been able to lie to Angela.

She poked Winters in the ribs with an elbow. ‘Has my grumpy husband been misbehaving again?’

‘You could say that. I’m sorry I woke you.’

She flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I was still counting sheep. We haven’t seen you since the funeral. How are you, Gabe?’

‘Pissed.’

She smiled. No need to say it. I felt the heat go out of my rage. Angela had always been a calming influence.

I saw her nudge her hubby again. ‘Hugh, you didn’t tell me it was Gabe. Stop being a complete asshole and show him in. It’s rude leaving him on the stoop.’

Winters made as if to open the door fully. I took my foot out of the frame. Then he reversed his decision and slammed the door in my face.

I heard the two of them burst into argument. I backed up a little. I didn’t want to cause a fight. Didn’t want to upset Angela. Then the light in the hall went out and heavy feet trudged back up the wooden stairs.

I took a deep breath. Let it slowly escape through pursed lips.

175

^{___________________________}

I’d never subscribed to sulking or skulking, but I was considering an annual subscription. I got Shakes to drop me off at the
MGM Grand
. It was after 2 a.m.. For the first time in a relentless week of chasing
The Undertaker
a sense of directionless had settled over me. Dark clouds against the dark of night. I needed to regroup, refocus and rethink what I thought I already knew. Caffeine always helped.

I picked up a thick black Americano from the all-night deli and drained it dry before I reached my terrace suite.

I ran a sink.

Called Bill

He didn’t pick up.

I left a message.

Then I shed Roger’s blackened clothes. Washed. Shaved. Examined the fresh butterfly closures on the bony corner of my temple. Wondered if they were waterproof. No traces of blood, as yet; always a good sign.

I popped a couple of aspirins. Swilled them down with tepid faucet water. Shuddered.

Then I showered. Scrubbed filthy plaster out of hair and eyes. Worked soap into skin creases. Watched grey water drain down the plughole. It felt indecent washing away the remnants of the bomb blast. Like I didn’t give a damn about Marty’s death. But I did. I blamed myself for his death. Anyone would.

I rinsed off, climbed out, rubbed down.

The butterfly closures were intact.

Sonny had laundered my LA attire. I pulled on clean clothes. Leaned against the sink top while I blasted my sneakers with the hotel hairdryer. Mused over the evening’s tragic events while the hot air dried the fabric.

Something felt hinky about the whole affair.

Too contrived. Like one of those movies where the plot conveniently intersects unrelated characters just to add an otherwise implausible twist.

I wasn’t convinced Candlewood was the only killer – if at all a killer in his own right. I could no longer think of
The Undertaker
in terms of being Ethan Davey Copes either; not since the boy’s body had been exhumed back in Jackson.

That left three possibilities:

Candlewood was the killer. He worked alone. He’d thrown up smokescreen after smokescreen to obscure his true identity. Which meant the Feds were right. They had their man and it was game over.

Candlewood had an accomplice. They’d lodged together at the Ramada on Vermont back in LA. Maybe the guy who liked to mask his voice. Which meant there was still a killer on the loose. And I couldn’t allow the Feds to close the investigation.

Candlewood was a stooge.
The Undertaker
was an as yet unidentified subject (or Unsub as the Feds liked to say). He’d used Candlewood as a decoy to throw us off track. In which case the Feds were wrong. And it was game on.

I thought about the implications of all three scenarios while the sneakers steamed. We had a connection: Harland Labs. I still didn’t know how the LA victims factored into it. But I knew they must. Somehow. We also had the working theory that the killings were a means to prevent a future calamity from happening. Bizarre just thinking about it, I know. But potentially fatal to ignore.

I thought about the biotech outfit up in Boston – which had become the primary connection in our investigation.

If Candlewood was the killer, why systematically kill his employees and those connected to his firm? Why not simply terminate their contracts instead of their lives? It didn’t make sense. Unless Candlewood’s only involvement was as a scapegoat for the real killer.

The sneakers were dry. I went into the living space. Slid open the glass door leading out onto the terrace. Recoiled from the icy wind.

When push came to shove I could only be certain of one thing: if Candlewood wasn’t the killer then
The Undertaker
was still at large. Still out there. And the biggest manhunt in Nevada history had just been called off. For nothing.

176

^{___________________________}

The city was snowbound and had been for weeks. Old grey slush lay compacted on the ground. Hard as granite. Jamie could feel the chill of it eating into her face as she watched their shaky descent through the gunmetal cloud deck. The Boeing 737 landed in a squall of hail and slithered its way down the salted apron. One or two people cheered and clapped, mostly with relief.

Jamie said her goodbyes to the British woman and made her way to the car rentals counter. She opted for a two-door intermediate. Then took the courtesy bus out to the rental pick-up point. It was winter-muffler weather. Far too cold for her thin Californian coat. The sun had risen an hour ago, but it looked more like eight in the evening than eight in the morning. She found her allocated car and sat with the engine running. Letting the heater warm her hands. She debated telephoning Gabe, but remembered the time difference. She sent him a text message instead. Then punched a zip code into the GPS navigator and followed its monosyllabic directions out of the airport.

Bullets of sleet rained from an ashen sky.

She knocked on wipers.

Traffic was heavy heading south – slowed by the inclement weather. The drive was long, monotonous. Lack of sleep dimming the edges of her vision. She should have grabbed a coffee at the airport, maybe some breakfast, maybe even a nap. Too late now.

She thought about her destination as she drove. Not knowing what or who she’d find once she got there.

An hour and twenty-five miles later, she crossed a bridge with an impressively long span. The sleet began to ease off as she left the city behind. Up ahead, the sky was brightening to a battleship grey. She left the expressway after the first toll station and continued south. After a couple of miles, the navigator told her to take a sharp left down a sloping lane. The backend fishtailed slightly on the slippery corner. She corrected it. Now she could see the Atlantic Ocean coming towards her. A wedge of steel seen through the skeletons of leafless trees.

‘You have arrived at your destination.’

Jamie tucked the rental behind a black SUV and killed the engine. She climbed out of the car. It couldn’t have been more than a degree or two above freezing. She pulled her flimsy coat close. Braced herself against the bracing breeze. She could hear gulls cawing in the distance. Taste salt in the back of her throat.

There was only one house at the end of the lane: a redbrick construction with colonial undertones. White-rimmed windows with Georgian-style panes. A wisp of white smoke curling from a terracotta smoke stack.

She climbed the stone stoop leading to a large front door. Took a deep breath and pressed the bronze bell push. She’d already decided that if nobody was home she’d wait for their return – probably freeze to death in the process.

No answer.

She skipped from foot to foot; trying to keep warm. Rapped against the white-painted wood. The cold impact stung her knuckles. She knocked again, harder with the heel of her hand.

Jamie detected movement from within. She backtracked a little as the door creaked open.

It was a man in his early thirties. Tousled dark hair and the makings of a five o’clock shadow. He reminded Jamie of Robert De Niro in
Taxi Driver
. The same smoldering smile. Same broody eyes.

‘Can I help you?’

There was a bundle in his arms, she noticed. A baby, she realized. Wrapped up snug in baby-blue woolen blankets.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ With useless fingers Jamie held up her ID. ‘I’m with the police department.’