Dead of Knight (28 page)

Knight could see in his mind’s eye the old-timer drop to the ground and convulse after taking a 50,000-volt charge from the prod. The guy would no doubt have a heart attack and croak right there in the lane, with the dog yapping and barking like crazy.

No, he it’s not worth it, he thought. It would bring police attention to the area before he served justice to Newsome. Knight turned and walked in the opposite direction of the dog walker and stopped to change his clothes for a third time. Now in blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt, he made his way to the Quinn Cadillac. Three different outfits would make it difficult for witnesses to accurately describe the stranger they saw in the Creek.

But before he could reach the Cadillac, the pull to finish the mission became too strong, and he turned away from the vehicle and walked back toward the service trail. He needed this business to be finished. After checking for the dog walker, he pulled open the bushes and peered through an opening until he could see the rear door of the Newsome home.

Jack Staal had accomplished little in his first day home from the hospital. He was tired and too weak to move from the couch in his living room for anything more than a trip to the toilet. His legs throbbed, and his headache continued to pound away unless he lay down or, at the very most, reclined. Gina hesitated to go to work until Staal convinced her that he would survive without her care and attention.

Inspector Ross had called at nine AM to ream his ass for leaving the hospital against medical advice. Ross had said that it would probable screw up his compensation claim, but Staal knew the real reason for the lecture was that the Inspector was afraid of a lawsuit. After numerous calls from reporters, Staal unplugged the phone, downed a handful of Tylenol, and went to sleep.

That was yesterday and Staal couldn’t afford another wasted day. He would work alone to find Nathan Campbell and if he couldn’t prove that Campbell was Birthday Boy, Staal would get him for the Sean Moore homicide.

Staal looked over his notes on the Birthday Boy case. He had to establish a timeline of the events of the murders. He had prepared a line at 565 and had a copy with him at home. He would begin with the death of Stephanie MacKay in March. He wrote her name and the estimated time of death on a sheet of 9x11 white bond. Every event particular to the case was entered on the line starting from the left of the page. In past cases, his time-line workups had stretched over dozens of pages as he taped each sheet to the next in one long line.

Staal had trouble keeping his mind on the time-line. He continued to drift to the flashbacks and dreams that had plagued him for almost a month. He left the time-line work on the living room table, shuffled to the den, and sat in front of his PC. His legs felt better, but were far from one hundred percent. Something about the call from Wendy Reynolds had triggered the return of the visions. The same intrusive dreams that were so disruptive two years ago that they had jeopardized his career in law enforcement. 

Perhaps if he found Rebecca Reynolds, his life might be able to get back on track. He called Rudy Vaughn’s number.

An automated message from the phone company told him the number was not in service. Staal’s frustration mounted. Pain shot down his back, and pounded in his temple. A whirlwind jumble of thoughts flashed his mind.

A missing junkie hooker.

Zimmerman taking the fall for killing Walker and the others.

The yellow coupe bearing down on him.

The giant dream version of Karen Van Allen. “You’re a killer!”

Staal pushed away the one thought that had haunted him for twenty-two months. The one he could not allow. Brenda…his Brenda…dying in the field grass…from a gunshot wound…a bullet—from his pistol.

He struggled for breath as his heart hammered in his chest.

Staal made his way to his room to grab his Glock pistol and shoulder holster. Campbell was undoubtedly monitoring his recovery and knew that Staal was awake and on the mend. The little bastard had won their first encounter, gaining the upper hand by surprise, and Staal would not let the freak go up two zip.

In the garage, he swung himself into his 1968 Mustang Fastback. He cringed as a jolt of pain shot through his legs. The old car had been a part of Staal’s life for more than twenty-five years. His father, Travis Staal, had bought it in 1982 as a rusted out project car. Staal and his Dad did most of the work and two years later, the car was his high school graduation present. He turned the ignition key and the big block V-8 roared to life.

Staal had relied on his father’s advice many times over the years. Travis, now retired, had spent thirty years on the force. Although he never worked in homicide, Jack always welcomed his opinions and support.

“Flagstaff,” he whispered.

Travis had made his yearly pilgrimage to the Spring Show and Shine in Flagstaff Arizona. His ’56 Thunderbird would most likely take best in show again.

Staal found himself on Highway 99 heading west at almost a hundred miles an hour. He made his way to Abbottsford International Airport and a mostly unused service road that ran out behind runway two. How many races had he won with the ’68 here, and how often had he and Dana steamed up the windows on countless Friday nights? He parked and reached for his cell phone. The device was capable of e-mail. He wrote....

Dear Mr. Vaughn,

My name is Jack Staal. My father is Travis Staal. I’m looking for Peter Reynolds’ daughter, Rebecca. Her mother has reported her as missing. I would like to talk with your son, Jonathan, as I believe Jon might be able to help me locate Becky. I would only need to
talk
with Jon—so please contact me.

Sincerely, Jack Staal.

He read and re-read the message before he sent it. Waste of time, he thought. He dialed his phone and received Lesley Degarmo’s voice mail. He left a message for his former partner.

The Mustang shuddered as a 747 thundered overhead on take-off. Staal fanned the throttle and watched the tachometer needle zip up to 3500 RPM. He popped an old mix tape into the deck. AC/DC, featuring Bon Scott, played Highway to Hell. Perfect, Staal thought as he eased out the clutch, and then stamped on the gas again. The rear wheels spun and the Mustang fishtailed to the right. A cloud of sooty smoke enveloped the car. “Oh, yeah!”

Staal let his foot off the brake and nailed the accelerator again. The Mustang bolted forward, snapping him back into his seat. Van Halen rocked with Panama, as Lee Roth sang, “Piston’s poppin’/There’s no stoppin’ now!”

Before the road ended, he eased down and then shut the motor off. The hot engine pinged and his heart pounded. A smile emerged on Staal’s face so pronounced that you couldn’t knock it off with a shovel as Travis had often said. The race, however therapeutic, could not wash the strange feeling that overcame him. He thought he heard a child’s soft crying, and he searched for the source.

“Jesus, Staal. See a lot of kids on airfields?” 

The nightmare vision of his Brenda injured and bleeding in a grass field flashed his mind. Anxiety flooded over him, an overpowering feeling that his daughter, was in danger. His first thought was to shake the emotion off, however apprehension would not leave him. He gunned the engine and headed for Brenda’s mom’s house. Staal pushed the old car so hard that it overheated and a cloud of steam floated from under the hood when he parked in the driveway. He charged up the front steps, rang the bell, and pounded on the door with his fist.

“Jack? What the hell?” Dana exclaimed when she swung open the door. Dana was tall and strikingly beautiful, but Staal didn’t even look at her twice.

“I need you to call the school. I think Rebecca is hurt or something. Hurry!”

“Rebecca is fine, Jack. What’s going on?”

“Are you sure?” Staal let himself into the house without an invitation.

“Yes, she’s upstairs working on her science project.” Dana looked toward the ceiling.

“Home? Why is she home? Is she sick?” The thought of his daughter being ill left him dizzy. 

“Jack, she’s fine. The teachers are having their monthly conference thing. Go up and see her. But calm down, you’ll frighten her.”

Staal could tell Dana was losing her patience with his behavior. Pain stabbed his back as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. He took a deep breath at the door to Brenda’s room, knocked, and then entered.

“Hey, Ladybug, how you doing?” He tried to keep the worry from his voice.

“Da-ad, I’m fine. Member what I said about those names?” She held her arms up as if she was surrendering.

“Oh, yes, you’re too old to be called Bumble-bee and Pumpkin-head. I forget, you’re what, five? Or is it six?”

“Da-ad, you know I’m almost eleven. You’re still taking me to see Miley Cyrus for my birthday, right?” A worried look enveloped her face.

Staal paused for a moment, still hearing that faint sound of a child whimpering. The cry changed, became a whining, then a scream of terror. He knew that sound personally. It was Samantha Van Allen’s shriek from a few seconds after a bullet struck her above her left ear.    

“Dad, are you alright? You look all banged up and stuff,” she reached toward his bruised forehead.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He forced a smile. “I thought we might see Motley Crue instead.”

“Da-ad, those guys are so gross.”

Staal’s phone chirped in his pocket. “I’ll see you later, honey,” he said to his daughter. He put the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Jack, it’s Lesley. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

“Sooner? I only called you twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh, I haven’t checked my messages. I’m just calling to see how you are doing.”

“I’m okay. A bit beat up, but I’ll make it. How are you?” 

“I’m good. I only have a minute. So maybe we can get together.”

“Yeah, let’s have lunch or a beer.”

“Well, I’ve got a Team meeting at three and then I’m in court all week. How about lunch, say around noon, at Stamps?”

Staal hadn’t expected to see Lesley so soon. “Lunch sounds great. See you then.”

It was just after eleven, so Staal said goodbye to Dana and promised Brenda that he would return shortly for a visit. Dana queried him about the hit-and-run and continued to look at him suspiciously, but he reassured her that all was well.

“Just checking on my girls,” he said as he walked out the door working hard not to show a limp.

Stamps Pub was a cop hangout, and unusually slow for a Friday. It featured a dozen pool tables, dartboards, and live music on weekends. A few regulars were downing Stamp cheeseburgers and draught beer. Staal glanced at his watch and noticed that Degarmo was late. A beam of sunlight flooded in as the door opened, signaling the arrival of more patrons. Two more cops and three businessmen in suits found seats at the bar. Staal ordered a second Budweiser and noticed how much the waitress looked like Rebecca Reynolds the last time he saw her clean. Someone put money in the jukebox and chose a Jimmy Hendrix tune.

Lesley Degarmo emerged from the doorway in another flash of natural light. She saw Staal immediately and made her way to where he was seated.

“Jack! Sorry I’m late.”

“I told Trish to bring you a Corona as soon as you got here.”   

She nodded. “You look tired. Nice bruises. How do you feel?”

“I’m fine.”
He touched the tender spot on his left cheek.

“Really? Word is you were nailed pretty good. I mean, it’s me; so cut the Jack Staal tough guy bullshit!”

“I’m a little sore—but I’ll live.” Staal knew she was asking if he was experiencing symptoms. “How ‘bout you?”

“I feel like shit! Damn team has me running coast to coast.” They clinked beers and Lesley took a long pull on the bottle.

“Told you to stay with Hanson.”

“Yeah, so how’s it going at old 565, now that we cleared the Birthday Boy case?”  

“Is it solved, Lesley? I mean Zimmermann raped Peck, we all agree on that, but does the Team really have anything solid on the guy to truly link him to Walker and the others.”

“Nothing but a confession. Jack, is this what you called me about? I mean you know I can’t say much until after the trial. I know you must be pissed to wake up and learn that Woolworth and Berger closed the case.”

“Yeah, it sucked, for sure.” Staal took a moment before continuing. “What can you tell me? Why are they so sure Zimmermann did all four?”

“Zimmermann showed them how he found the women through his work at the courier company. He says he delivered to all of them. Woolworth proved that Coast Parcel did business that linked to all the women.”

“But Woolworth couldn’t prove that Zimmermann made all the deliveries?” Staal asked.

“No he couldn’t. But, the women or their companies were all in Coast’s files.”

“Coincidence. CPS is one of the largest parcel services in the Northwest.”

“He also says he planted the cigarette butts, says they were a co-workers.”

“Hmm, it would be nice to know who that colleague was.” Staal gave Degarmo a
you can tell me
look.