Red (29 page)

Authors: Kate Kinsey

BOOK: Red

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She dropped the cushion in front of the chair and sat down.

Jason wobbled to his knees and curled up in a tight little ball around her feet.

Hanson didn’t know which frightened him more: how much she had enjoyed hurting this boy, or the way she stroked his hair now with such tenderness.

That’s when she looked up, directly at Hanson, with a sly little smile. He knew then that she’d known he was watching all along.

“I thought you didn’t fuck your clients.”

“I didn’t fuck him,” she said, stretching like a cat. “I dry-humped his face. But Jason’s not a client anymore, and I do fuck him.”

Hanson felt a flicker of anger.

“You dragged us down here for this? Just so you could get off?”

“Please.” She sounded bored.

“You wanted me to see that. Why?”

“Because before we get any further into whatever the hell it is between us,” she said in a hard voice, “I had to make sure you knew who I am, and what I am.”

“I know—”

“You know who I used to be.”

“And that changes what, exactly?” Hanson jammed his hands into his pockets.

“I’m not hiding anything, not anymore.” Her chin tilted forward ever so slightly. “From anybody. And I’m not changing; not for you, not for anybody.”

He knew she meant more than just the pro-domme work.

“So no matter what happens between you and me,” he said slowly, “Jason stays? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Jason, or somebody like him. Unless you want to let me beat the crap out of you on a regular basis?”

“No, thanks,” he said with sarcasm.

“Well, then. There we are.” She turned her back to him and lifted her hair. “Would you mind unlacing me?”

Hanson turned and stalked out the door, letting it slam shut behind him. He took the stairs two at a time until he saw Griggs at the bottom.

“Whoa,” Griggs said when he saw Hanson’s face. “What happened in there?”

“Nothing,” Hanson muttered.

“Is that the green-eyed monster I see—”

“Shut up. We’re waiting for her in the car.”

Griggs had parked up the street. Hanson was grateful that for once, Griggs kept his mouth shut as they walked toward it.

Movement across the street caught his eye. A figure had stepped out of an alley between buildings, but then stepped back in. Was it because he’d seen them?

Hanson glanced at Griggs, who nodded slightly. He’d seen it, too. Together they jogged across the street. Hanson was more curious than concerned, until he saw a man running full-throttle down the alley.

“Stop!” Hanson yelled. “Police!”

“Come back here, dickhead!” Griggs shouted.

The man didn’t slow, didn’t even look back. He just kept running until he reached the end of the shadowed alley.

“Damn it,” Griggs swore.

Hanson spotted their quarry ducking into the doorway of a convenience mart. He motioned for Griggs to follow and slammed through the door, pausing just long enough for the clerk to simply point to the back of the store.

The back door was still swinging as Hanson shot through it. His foot came down awkwardly on an unexpected step, making him swear in pain.

By the time Hanson had regained his footing, Griggs already had the runner up against a brick wall.

“Don’t move, asshole,” Griggs growled, pulling a wallet from the man’s back pocket with one hand while the other pressed against his back. “Don’t even breathe.”

“I didn’t do nothing, I swear!”

Griggs was looking at the wallet with a frown.

“Elliot McKanney?” Griggs handed Hanson the wallet. “Turn around, slowly.”

Hanson knew immediately that this was not the man they were looking for. For one thing, Elliot McKanney was scared shitless.

“What the hell did you run for?” Hanson asked, bending over with his hands on his knees.

“You were chasing me!”

“We identified ourselves as police! Jesus!”

“You coulda been lying,” Elliot stammered. “How was I to know? I been mugged twice in this neighborhood.”

Griggs had pulled up Elliot’s T-shirt to expose a bulge in the waistband of his camouflage pants.

“Oh, I get it,” Griggs said, rolling his eyes at Hanson as he pulled out a freezer bag of marijuana and swung it by two fingers. “What, we look like
narcs
to you?”

“Christ. Let him go, Griggs.”

“Oh, no! Little bastard makes me break a sweat in ninety-degree weather, he’s going in.”

“Come on, man,” Elliot moaned. “Gimme a break, will ya?”

“You really want to do the paperwork?” Hanson asked. “For a baggie of pot?”

“Shit,” Griggs said, glaring at Elliot. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

“Um . . .” Elliot hesitated. “Can I have my weed back?”

“Are you
shitting
me?” Griggs bellowed. “You better run, asshole!”

Elliot took off.

Chapter 34

And Elena was thinking how she would have liked to change places with Bijou, for the many times when men grew tired of courting and wanted sex without it, bestial and direct. Elena pined to be raped anew each day, without regard for her feelings; Bijou pined to be idealized.

—A
NAIS
N
IN
,
Delta of Venus

“S
uperfreak” blared again.

In the rearview mirror, he watched Gina look at the number and then flick open the phone.

“Yes? . . . Slow down—”

Griggs and Hanson exchanged glances and waited.

“No, I didn’t know anything about it . . . I swear to you, no.”

Gina listened again.

“Whatdaya mean, why? Because he’s a prude with a stick up his ass.”

Another long pause.

“I don’t know,” Gina said into the phone. “Let me find out what I can and I’ll get back to you.”

“Fuck!” Gina clicked the phone closed and threw it at the back of Griggs’s seat.

“Hey, watch it!” Griggs grunted.

“That was Dante.” Gina was seething. “The city codes examiner padlocked the Inferno this morning. Some crap about the wheelchair ramp being two degrees out of ADA guidelines—”

“What’s ADA?” Griggs asked.

“Americans with Disabilities Act,” Gina snapped. “It’s bullshit.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Hanson asked.

“It means that until Dante can redo the wheelchair ramp, the Inferno is closed. And if he doesn’t do it within ninety days, the club loses its license to operate.”

“So they’ll have to fix it.” Griggs shrugged.

“And then it will be something else! Goddamn it! Did you tell Daubs about going to the club?”

“Me? Hell, no!”

“Don’t look at me!” Griggs raised both palms. “I ain’t even allowed to talk to the chief anymore.”

“City codes are a crock of shit anyway,” Gina muttered. “They only use them to get rid of people they don’t like.”

“I’m sorry, Gee. This isn’t anything new. Daubs has always been a hard ass on anything not rated PG.”

“These murders just reminded him we perverts still exist,” Gina said. “Bastard.”

Griggs’s phone went off.

But this time the news was much better.

They had a match.

Kerberos’s real name was William “Billy” Harold Knoll.

“Two domestics,” Hanson said, flipping through his jacket. “Two DUIs, and one stalking charge.”

“That’s our boy, all right,” Gina said.

“Asshole did more time for the second DUI than he did for beating up his girlfriend,” Griggs grunted. “Fuckin’ cat killer.”

The photo showed an average guy, all right. He stood an average five feet seven inches, and weighed an average one hundred ninety pounds. His thin blond hair was receding, but it was cut neatly, and his face was clean-shaven.

Except for the eyes that glared coldly out of the photo, and a twist to his lips that hinted at a general contempt for the world, Billy didn’t stand out in any way.

The phone on the desk rang, and Griggs and Hanson looked at each other.

“It’s Daubs,” Griggs said. “Bastard already knows.”

“How the fuck can he know already? We just got this.”

“He’s got his little birdies all over the place,” Griggs hissed. As the phone rang a second time, he gave it the finger.

Hanson grabbed up the receiver. He didn’t even have the chance to identify himself before the chief’s voice drilled into his ear.

“So you know
who
you’re looking for,” Daubs said. “Now
find
him.”

And then the line went dead. Hanson put the receiver back into the cradle and sighed.

“It’s creepy how he does that,” Griggs said, staring at the phone. “Makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.”

Chapter 35

Maids’ nays are nothing, they are shy
But to desire what they deny . . .

—R
OBERT
H
ERRICK
,
“Maids’ Nays Are Nothing”

“A
waste of Kevlar and adrenaline, Hanson.” Jimmy Swails, the lead on the entry team, removed his vest to reveal a T-shirt sticking to his abdomen. “Sorry, but your boy ain’t home.”

Billy Knoll lived in a loft in one of the trendy revamped warehouses downtown. As soon as the SWAT boys had verified that no one was in the apartment, they filed out—arguing over where to go for dinner before heading back to the office—and left the others to do their search.

Two CSUs—Fortner and Lenny—came in with their cases. Bingham and Mercer had come along, presumably as backup, but really in hopes of cashing in on what should have been a headline arrest.

“You know she ain’t supposed to be here.” Bingham’s eyes narrowed as he watched Gina edge past him into the loft.

“Don’t tell Daubs about this, or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Bingham stepped closer and stared into his eyes.

Hanson stared right back, not moving.

“Or I’ll let Gina bust your other kneecap,” Hanson said quietly.

Bingham glared at Hanson and sauntered out of the apartment.

“Daubs finds out about her being here,” Mercer said, “he’s gonna rip you a new one. You know that, right?”

“You gonna tell him?” Hanson asked.

Mercer shrugged.

“I’m staying out of it,” he said, following his partner down the hallway.

“Nice to see ya, Bingham,” Gina called over her shoulder. “Hope the knee hurts like a bastard when it rains.”

“Don’t provoke him,” Hanson muttered, turning back into the apartment.

“Blow me,” Gina said absently, looking around.

The loft had twelve-foot ceilings of glossy timber and three walls of exposed red brick. The remaining wall was all glass, and would have enjoyed a fabulous view of the skyline if only it were on the opposite side of the building. Instead, the window looked out onto a motley assortment of roofs and alleys.

It was small, barely a thousand square feet, Hanson guessed, though the high ceilings kept it from feeling claustrophobic. There were only three rooms: a living room/kitchen combination, a bedroom, and a single bath.

“You know, for a sadistic serial killer, the guy keeps a nice house,” Griggs said, surveying the living room with hands on his hips.

“Place looks more like a hotel room than an apartment,” Hanson observed, walking across the hardwood floor to the tiny kitchen, which was separated from the living area only by a granite countertop with a couple of stools in front of it.

A large carpet of geometric patterns in warm browns, reds, and oranges was in the center of the floor, flanked by a simple brown sofa and a single chair, obviously secondhand. The flat screen on the wall reflected the window’s glare, making it look like a big square dead eye.

“Not much personal here,” Gina said, standing in front of a mostly empty bookshelf. “Except for a few CDs and books—and they’re alphabetized.”

“Can you say anal-retentive?” Griggs asked.

“It makes sense, actually.” Hanson opened a cabinet door and was surprised to find there was actually food inside. “He’s a control-freak, anal, methodical—”

“Oh, Christ,” Gina groaned, pulling out a thick and well-worn paperback. “He’s got the entire Gor series.”

“What’s Gor?” Hanson asked.

“Garbage,” she said, sliding the book back into place. “Don’t even get me started.”

Griggs whistled from the bedroom. “We got his stalker shrine in here.”

The room was barely big enough for the double bed, a small dresser, and a desk. But photos of Cherry were plastered all over the walls.

“Christ.” Griggs surveyed the walls. “He musta spent a fortune on enlargements. That one is almost life-size.”

“Bastard has pictures of her in the grocery store.” Gina looked at the collection of cameras and lenses on the dresser. “He’s even got a tiny video recorder here.”

“Got some boots.” Lenny, the CSU, bent over, reaching into the floor of the closet, and held up a pair of scuffed Dickies.

“No computer, no laptop,” Hanson said. “He must have it with him.”

“We’re gonna take these in, right?” Lenny asked, waving at the photos.

“Take it all,” Hanson told him.

“Can you say DNA?” Fortner came out of the bathroom holding up a toothbrush, making it do a little happy dance. “Got hair, too.”

“Great.” Hanson frowned. “We got evidence, now we just need the damned suspect.”