Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (24 page)

Harry was dead.

No changing that.

But so too were
The Undertaker’s
three victims.

Death warps perspectives.

Officially, I was off the case.

Unofficially, I didn’t give a crap.

Something that Benedict had said had haunted me all the way home.

I knocked my laptop out of hibernation. Its screen shimmied into life. Illuminated the basement in swathes of bluish light. Glimpses of murdered children forming a mosaic across the walls. Young, blooded bodies. Sliced flesh. Newspaper clippings. Same as those in Harry’s folder. Predictions that had never come to pass.

I brought up a search page and set to.

I knew the basics of lethal injection. Death Row inmates get the needle. Then die. Benedict made it sound easy. But the dosages had to be just right. Different for each person – depending on body mass, age, absorbency levels. Maybe a dozen other variables I wasn’t privy to. The fact that
The Undertaker
used this method to kill his victims made little sense to me. There were far simpler, easier ways to take a life. Ones which were less refined but had the same results with less effort. Forget the fancy trimmings. Even injecting air into the bloodstream would have the same outcome.

I typed the words
lethal injection
into the search engine. Was immediately presented with over half a million hits.

Straight away I could see how easy it was to get all the information needed to copycat a State execution. I’d done precisely that with the click of a mouse. Now I needed to know if it was just as easy obtaining the chemicals, and in the right quantities.

Two or three clicks further: websites dedicated to shipping prescription drugs; foreign countries willing to supply banned substances at your own risk; recipes for producing homemade versions of the drugs out of household products. It seemed anyone with the right identification could purchase all sorts of chemicals online. Even the controlled ones.

My cell phone rang.

It was Eleanor.

‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ I asked.

‘Why aren’t you?’

‘I’m working.’

‘Me too. Want to talk?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘I heard about Harry.’

I let the silence cloy.

‘And I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t really help any. But I’m here if you need me. If you change your mind and do want to talk, that is. I’m here. Christ, I’m always here for you. Sounds pathetic, doesn’t it?’

‘Eleanor …’

‘He was my friend too, Gabe. Don’t take away my grief.’

‘I didn’t mean …’

‘We should talk. I’m serious. You need me, Gabe. I’m your only way back into this case. Call me.’

The line went dead.

I took a deep breath to cool the fire in my lungs. Stared at the blooded faces staring back from the walls of the basement until my eyes hurt.

68

^{___________________________}

It was midnight. Rain had turned the roadway into a shiny black mirror of distorted reflections. Fractured images of street lights and neon signs glistening on the wet surface. I was in my car. Quietly parked on Santa Monica Boulevard. Thinking murder.

Despite the late hour and the passing downpour, there was plenty of activity on the street. This was a popular area. Sprinkled with lively bars and raucous nightclubs. Tipsy partygoers drifting from one gaudy venue to the next. Blasts of dance music booming across the street as doors were opened by ominous-looking bouncers in monkey suits. Lines of scantily-clad people behind velvet ropes. Waiting to make an entrance.

I didn’t know why I was here in particular. I didn’t want to be anywhere in particular. Including in my own skin. I got out of the car. Waited for a gap in the traffic. Then crossed the glistening street.

Despite its cloak of darkness, the disco club still looked like a bank. A big black cube with a single splash of neon-pink signage. There were people milling about on the sidewalk: laughing, chatting, hooking-up. All men. Every one of them dressed up like the cop from the
Village People
. The big brute guarding the entranceway looked like a London Bobby from a bad
Jack the Ripper
movie. I showed him my badge. He showed me his.

‘I’m a cop.’ I shouted over the music blasting through the doorway.

‘We’re all cops here, sister.’ He said flatly.

‘Do you all have one of these?’ I asked, getting out my fire arm.

He didn’t flinch. ‘You can’t take that inside.’

‘Try stopping me. I’m the real deal, Bobby.’

I saw him think about it. Then he stepped aside.

I pushed my way through the crowded entrance. Blaring music assaulted my ears. A slave-ship beat. The club was packed to the seams with fake cops. Chatting in groups. Talking in pairs. Hitting off. Looking me up and down. Wondering why I was the only guy not in costume. It was like being in a gay cop convention.

The darkened dance room to my right was a forest of people. A hundred or more men dancing to an insane beat beneath flickering lighting. The barroom looked quieter. Less crowded. But not by much.

‘You made it.’ The Tim Burton girl from Monday. She was behind the bar, pouring drinks as I squeezed my way over. I hadn’t recognized her; she had on monochrome make-up: heavy black eyelids, full black lips, Geisha-white skin. Her long black hair wrapped around her neck like a silk scarf. Buckled. Shiny black gloves up to her armpits. A black leather bustier. She looked happy to see me. ‘What you drinking?’ she shouted over the music.

‘Nothing, thanks.’

‘You’re on duty.’

‘No. I just …’

What? I was off the case. It was midnight. My best buddy had died. A drink wouldn’t cheer me up but it might soften the blow.

She gave me a raised eyebrow. A perfectly curved pencil line drawn on a doll’s face.

‘You look like you need a drink.’

‘Okay.’ I conceded. ‘Whatever you suggest.’

She smiled. I saw something like a diamond glinting on one of her front teeth. ‘You from Tennessee?’

‘How did you know?’

‘The accent. I have family back there. Give me a minute?’

I leaned against the bar. Looked around at the strange assortment of pretend cops. I felt like a fake. I should have felt right at home. I didn’t.

‘Here you go.’

I took the tumbler from the girl’s outstretched hand. Tennessee sour mash. Four measures, easy.

‘It’s on the house.’ She said with another glinting smile.

‘Thanks.’ I took a swig. It tasted good.

‘You looking for Roxy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Roxy’s not here yet. Why don’t you let your hair down. Mingle awhile. I’ll send Roxy over.’

Mingling isn’t my strong suit. Never has been. But the choice was mingle or look like a hare at a greyhound track. I mingled. Zigzagging around the barroom. Bouncing off the high-stem tables like a pinball in an arcade machine. I felt awkward. All eyes on me. The only straight guy in the show. The only real cop not wearing a cop uniform. I supped whiskey. It helped numb the awkwardness. I returned to the bar and got a refill. Another four measures, easy. Went back to mingling. Found it easier. Not as many suspicious eyes this time. Found myself on the overcrowded dance floor. Pounded by throbbing bass notes. Screamed at by shrill trebles. It was hot. Sweaty. Too many bodies with flailing arms. Not enough room to breathe. Strobe lights. Flickering silhouettes. Hard to see anything. Just fleeting glimpses of fake cops in tight uniforms. Flashes of blue. Dangling handcuffs. Sweating faces. The world spinning crazily out of control.

‘Hey, gorgeous. What’s your name?’

The question came from a muscular, shaven-headed guy wearing a plastic police shirt so tight it looked like cling film. He was right in my face. Making suggestive expressions.

‘I’m here on police business.’ I shouted back.

He held up a pair of fluffy handcuffs. ‘So arrest me.’

A hand followed by a long arm slid across my shoulder from behind. Pushed the shaven-haired guy in the chest. He bounced off a dancer and barred his teeth.

‘Back off, Cobb.’ I heard someone shout next to my ear. ‘He’s with me.’

The guy called Cobb snarled and slipped away.

I turned. There was a guy pressed in close. I could smell musky cologne. He was a few inches taller. Sounded familiar. The strobe light panned across the heaving crowd. I caught a glimpse of his face. Fortyish. Eyes too-close-together. It was the Alhambra motorcycle cop.

‘Detective, are you stalking me?’

‘I was just thinking the same thought.’ I shouted back. ‘You’re wearing your real police uniform.’

‘I’m undercover.’ He said with a grin. ‘Here … compliments of Stevie.’ He shoved a whiskey tumbler in my hand. Four measures, easy.

‘I don’t know who he is.’ I shouted back.

I saw him raise his own beer to his lips. ‘Bottoms up, Detective.’ He shouted as the thunderous music rained down on us.

69

^{___________________________}

It tasted like something had crawled into my mouth in the night and died. I lay still for a few seconds. Eyes glued shut. Trying to decide whether it was my brain that was banging or somebody was beating a big bass drum next to my head. The thumping was in rhythm with my heartbeat. I winced.

Alcohol and I don’t see eye to eye. Out of mutual respect, we keep our distance. Had done these last ten months. I should have known better. Did know better.

I cracked open one crusty eye. Then the other. I was in a bedroom. Not my bedroom. I was in a bed. Not my bed. The walls had been painted black to match the carpeting. The bedding was black satin with red rose patterns stitched into the duvet cover. Matching black-and-red drapes, half closed across a single window. Diffused daylight seeping through. Characterless prints – the kind you pick up cheap at Wal-Mart.