Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (40 page)

But there was something else, too.

Something that sent a shiver scurrying down Jamie’s spine.

109

^{___________________________}

Somebody needed to put Stacey Kellerman in the picture, I decided. Get her to retract her character assassination. Or in the very least give a balanced view. Bill was busy. That left me. But I had other pressing matters to attend to.

I finished up at the Hoagland crime scene. Made my way out into fresh air. It was colder than I remembered. Deep shadows cast by towering hotels. Slices of baby blue. Flashing neon. Droves of tourists drifting from one sprawling complex to the next. Every other vehicle a cab.

I tried to wave one down. None obliged. All too busy racing to the next hotel taxi rank.

‘Get out of the street!’ One of the drivers hollered as I leaned off the sidewalk. The vehicle swerved. Found its grip. Then sped away. The cab behind it blasted its horn. Shot past. I got out my police shield and stepped into the first lane. The next cab along hit its brakes. Skidded toward me on blue smoke. Came to a shuddering standstill inches from my legs.

The driver popped his head out of the window.

‘Police.’ I said before he could make a smart ass remark.

‘Should have known.’ He muttered.

A steady flow of traffic was slowing behind. Being forced around the stopped taxi like a boulder in a stream. I opened up the back door and climbed in.

‘Where to?’

‘Inkriminal.’

I saw him eye me suspiciously through the interior mirror as he flicked on the meter.

110

^{___________________________}

Jamie couldn’t get the image of the murdered psychiatrist from Philly out of her head. The only way she could describe the woman’s killing was
sadistic
.

During what looked like a home invasion, the killer had gone out of his way to make the psychiatrist’s death as brutal, as painful and as long-lasting as possible. After overpowering her with chloroform, he’d bound, raped and tortured Jeanette Bennett. It was clear from the outset that the killer had had no intention of letting her go. He’d done too much damage.

Every one of the eight-by-tens showed the same dreadful picture: the unearthly tranquility of death. Blue-grey skin. Bruising to the thorax. Multiple puncture wounds on her lower abdomen. Lacerations to her face. Probably made by a small blade swept to and fro like somebody painting a gate. Small, round burn marks where her nipples used to be.

At first glance, the burn marks looked like scorched bullet holes. But Jamie knew them for what they were. She had one herself: a souvenir from a gang dispute in her youth. They were deep tissue burns caused by the applied pressure of a lit cigarette against the skin.

Jeanette had them all over her body.

It looked like she’d been drilled by a branding iron. Over and over. None of the wounds post mortem.

Jamie’s stomach had adopted a fetal position.

They were the tattooed trademarks of a torturer.

111

^{___________________________}

The number left by Patricia Hoagland on the notepad in her hotel room belonged to a downtown tattoo parlor called
Inkriminal
. I had the cab deposit me on the sidewalk Paid the fare and got out.

The place was part of a strip mall of single-floor retail stores a couple of miles north along The Strip. Mostly tacky Vegas souvenirs, a one-stop tee-shirt shop, a pawnbrokers. That kind of thing. Rundown. You couldn’t miss the tattoo parlor. There must have been a dozen large signs in varying colors and fonts, proclaiming its existence. A few big arrows pointing to the doors – just in case you missed them. Windows coated in big peel-off stickers advertising exotic artistry and painful-looking body piercings.

I went inside. The place was deeper than it was wide. A single area by the looks of it. Walls painted vermillion. A cops and robbers theme that complimented the establishment’s questionable name. Pictures of piercings and tattoo photos up all over the place. Reclaimed police bric-a-brac keeping up the theme: strip neon from the roofs of patrol cars, a few dummies wearing skunk stripes and cuffs. Cheaply done. There were two men further down the shop. One lying in an easy chair while the other drilled ink into his unsuspecting skin.

‘Hi, welcome to Inkriminal. How can I arrest you?’

It wasn’t the most original greeting I’d ever heard. But ten out of ten for effort. She was standing behind a chest-high reception counter. Shaven head. Complex tattoos covering every inch of skin from the throat down. More metal pinned in her face than the monster from
Hellraiser
.

‘I’m looking for Bob.’ I said.

‘You here on a referral?’

‘Kind of. Is Bob around?’

‘Piercing or tattoo?’

I showed her my badge. ‘Just Bob.’

She raised a studded eyebrow. ‘That for real? Looks just like mine.’ She pointed to a plastic version pinned to her lapel.

‘Bob.’ I repeated.

She leaned on the counter. I could see ghostly images flowing around her bare arms. ‘Are you sure I can’t interest you in a tattoo?’ She said. ‘We have some great police designs. Plus discounts for genuine cops.’ She saw the look on my face and added: ‘Tough crowd, huh? Okay. So you want Bob? You’re looking at her. Okay? I’m Roberta.’

‘In that case I need to ask you a few questions.’

‘You here about Murphy?’

‘No.’ I made a face. I’d been asked the same question by Stevie Hendricks back at the club on Santa Monica Boulevard. ‘Murphy. Is that street code for something?’

‘Yeah. It means do you want to score some shit. Of course it’s not code for anything. Jesus, you cops. You’re just like my old man: always looking for a conspiracy. Murphy’s just some dude. Makes obscene phone calls every once in a while. We’ve reported him, like, a million times.’ She leaned over the counter again. ‘Are you sure I can’t interest you in some body art? Maybe a nasal piercing?’

‘No.’

‘Your loss.’

‘I’ll take it. Do you know a Patricia Hoagland?’

‘Should I? I mean I know a Patricia Franken. That’s her married name. I don’t know if Hoagland was her maiden name. But she’s seriously whacked-out. I mean, wow seriously.’

‘Unmarried and definitively Hoagland.’

She stuck out a lip filled with silver loops. ‘Look, we get a lot of people in here. Mostly first names. Some lasts. We’re a popular tourist attraction. Our clients come from all around the world. It’s hard to remember individual names. You have a picture?’

I showed her a close-up photo on my cell, taken on the nineteenth floor of the
MGM Grand
. Saw her brow pull away.

 
‘She had your number written down.’ I said. ‘She was staying at the MGM.’

A shrug. ‘Can’t say it rings any bells. I guess she could have made a booking.’

‘Could you check?’

‘Sure.’ She opened up a big black ledger resting on the counter. Glanced down a page. Turned it to another. Glanced down that on. ‘Can’t see her. She had one of our cards, did you say?’

‘Just your number. Written on a hotel pad.’

A shake of the head. ‘Nope.’

‘Mind if I take a look?’

I saw her think about it.

‘Easier here than going down to the Station.’ I said.

‘I’d like to see that happen.’ She said. ‘Luckily for you I’m in a good place today.’ She swiveled the ledger around. ‘Go ahead. Take a look. I’m not blind. She’s not here.’

I looked at today’s page. Scanned a list of half a dozen names. Looking for Patricia Hoagland. Turned the page. Scanned Saturday’s bookings. Same thing. Looked at Sunday’s. Nothing. Turned back to today’s. Re-scanned. Bingo.

I stabbed an index finger on a name. ‘Who’s this?’

Roberta spun the book around. Read the entry. Shrugged. ‘New appointment. Booked in for a Rosicrucian. With me. Today at two.’

‘A Rosicrucian?’

‘Anyone told you you’re hard work?’ She hefted a large photo album from underneath the counter. Flicked through until she came to the desired page. Spun the album around. Pointed.

‘A Rosicrucian is a tattoo.’

It was a cross with a rose in the center. I could easily imagine it being filled with ash and surrounded by petals.

No such thing as coincidence.

‘Do you remember him making the appointment?’

‘Not in person.’ She said. ‘He called. Made the booking over the phone.’

‘What did he sound like?’

She made a face. ‘You mean was he excited, worried, nervous?’

‘I mean his accent.’

‘He sounded like you.’ She said. ‘He sounded southern.’

112

^{___________________________}

I stood on the sidewalk outside the tattoo parlor on Las Vegas Boulevard. Letting the cool breeze sober my thoughts. It was past midday. Less than two hours to kill before the person that had made the appointment with Roberta showed up. Or didn’t.

And if he did, I’d have him.

I thought about Stacey Kellerman. The nuisance reporter had mentioned countless more murders in other States. I wanted to know if that was all conjecture or she had privileged information. She’d also mentioned both the little girl and the killer by name. Which was some feat, considering we hadn’t released either.

I needed to know the identity of her source.

Judging by the content and timing of her report, she’d been clued-up long before I’d set foot in Vegas.

I didn’t bother trying to wave down a cab this time; too risky, I decided. Instead, I walked the short distance north to the nearest hotel – a soaring concrete column known as the
Stratosphere Tower
– and used their busy taxi rank.