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Authors: Kate Kinsey

BOOK: Red
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“Man, he’s a real piece of work,” Griggs said.
Hanson kept his eyes on the road, then glanced at the speedometer and realized he was doing 50 in a 35 zone. He eased his foot off the gas.
“So, Gee,” Griggs said into the silence. “What’s a tire thumper?”
“It’s what truckers use to check the pressure in their tires,” Gina said flatly, eyes focused on the scenery flashing by. “It’s like a miniature baseball bat, or a billy club. Filled with lead shot.”
“Shit,” Griggs said. “That could do some real damage. That could be it.”
“Could be,” Hanson said cautiously, glancing at Gina in the rearview. “But why would he tell us about it?”
“Especially if he’s right,” Griggs said. “I mean, what the fuck? Does he
want
us to think he’s guilty?”
“Quinn likes to play games,” Gina said. “He’s just fucking with us.”
“He guessed we didn’t know the weapon yet,” Hanson said. “And the bastard wanted us to
know
he knew. It was just a lucky guess—”
“Lucky guess?” Griggs asked. “I didn’t even know there was such a thing—”
“Well, Quinn does,” Gina said. “He has one in his toy bag.”
“Holy shit,” Griggs cried. “He hits people with that thing?”
“No, of course not,” Gina said tiredly. “You’d break bones with that.”
“Then what does he do with it?” Griggs asked.
Hanson didn’t want to know.
“He inserts it,” Gina said.
“Oh, shit,” Griggs said. “What, a dildo ain’t enough?”
“Sometimes,” Gina said, “it’s not.”
Griggs whistled low, but didn’t say anything else. They drove along in silence until Hanson pulled up to Gee’s house.
“Call me if you get something,” she said as she got out. “I’m gonna check the computer, see what I can find there.”
Maybe she just needed to check the messages piling up on her cell phone, Hanson thought, watching the swing of her hips as she mounted the front steps. Who the hell kept calling her? Some needy client, an old pervert who needed a spanking?
Quinn?
“Seriously,
is
she on the rag?” Griggs asked.
“Shut up,” Hanson said, pulling away from the curb.
“Did you check out that sales clerk, what was her name? Maggie?” Griggs grunted. “She was cute. A little plump, but I like a little meat on the bones.”
“You were supposed to be getting a statement, not trying to pick her up.”
“You know, it hurts my feelings that you think so little of my detecting skills,” Griggs said. “You were too busy eyeing Quinn’s jugular to notice, but if looks could kill, Gee would be dead meat.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That Maggie. She recognized Gee the minute we walked through the door, and she didn’t like it one bit.”
“She’s his submissive. Or slave. Whatever.”
“Well, duh,” Griggs grunted. “I knew he was fuckin’ her even before he volunteered the information. You could tell just by the way she kept looking at him.
“And because you can tell just by lookin’ at him, he’s a slut-hound,” Griggs continued when Hanson didn’t respond. “I don’t get it though, he ain’t exactly Brad Pitt. And he talks like a goddamned professor or something. So what now, kemosabe? We go check up on Mr. Lee’s alibi?”
“Hell, yes,” Hanson said. “I don’t trust that little fuck.”
Chapter 20
Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.
—O
SCAR
W
ILDE
 
 
 
 
U
nfortunately, Quinn Lee’s alibi checked out in every detail.
The local camera club met at the YMCA, where there was a wall of their work and a bulletin board full of photographers’ business cards. The first two Hanson called had not been at the meeting that night, but the third and fourth verified that Quinn had attended.
“He and Maggie even stayed a little late,” Sarah Spivey volunteered eagerly. She sounded at least sixty. “He was helping me decide on what glass I should get next.”
“Glass?”
“Lenses,” she explained.
Angela Sabatta, the latte lady, was not happy to get his phone call, but agreed to meet them in the cafeteria of the hospital where she worked.
“This is so embarrassing,” she whispered. “We just had coffee. That’s it.”
“Where did you meet Mr. Lee?” Griggs asked.
Angela, in her pink scrubs, shifted in her seat. She was a registered nurse in her forties, and very uncomfortable.
“Starbucks. I told you that already.”
“I mean, before you met for coffee. How did you first come in contact with him?”
“Oh. Umm. On the Internet, okay? It’s not illegal . . . Is it?”
“You’re not in any trouble, Angela,” Hanson assured her. “We’re just trying to verify his whereabouts that day—”
“Is he in trouble? My husband
cannot
find out about this—”
Hanson thanked her for her time without making any promises.
CSU operated in the basement, and to Hanson the crew down there always seemed a little pale and squinty, like cave dwellers unused to daylight.
“I’ve ID’d the weapon.” Fortner grinned upon seeing them. “I’ve been testing and measuring, trying to match the wound dimensions—”
“It’s a tire thumper,” Hanson said wearily.
“How did you know?” she asked. “Damnit!”
“Lucky guess,” Griggs grunted.
“It’s a little like a police baton, or nightstick,” she explained, handing Griggs a printout from a website. “Truckers use them—”
“I know what it is.” Hanson looked at Griggs. “Quinn was right. How’d he know?”
In the photo, it looked like a sawed-off baseball bat. Hanson read the ad copy over his partner’s shoulder:
This high quality Tire Thumper is made here in the USA! Crafted out of a solid piece of cedar that is turned on a wood lathe to give it the proper contours down the body.
“Well, at least he’s buying American,” Griggs commented, handing the sheet back to Fortner.
“Sure.” Fortner laughed. “I found a lot of them advertised online in trucking and RV equipment, but this one had the right measurements. And it’s being advertised on this website as a
self-defense
item.”
The tire thumper measured nineteen inches long and roughly two inches at the tip. The compact size made it easier to hide than a baseball bat or tire iron.
“That must be why it says right on the club ‘Use only as a Tire Thumper,’ ” Hanson murmured.
“Says it has a ‘light gloss coating,’ ” Griggs muttered. “Miles said he found polyurethane trace in the wounds.”
“So this is a match to all the cases?” Hanson asked.
“Roger Banks and Robyn Macy are matches so far,” Fortner said. “I did an Internet search, and there are cases now of people being arrested for carrying tire thumpers as ‘lethal weapons’ even when they haven’t used them on anything but their tires.”
“Hell, anything can be lethal if you use it right,” Griggs said. “I could throw my cell phone at somebody, hit ’em in just the right spot, they drop dead. We gonna arrest people for carrying cell phones, too?”
“We gotta go back to Quinn,” Hanson said. “I want
his
tire thumper.”
“What if he won’t give it to us?”
“Then we get a fuckin’ warrant.”
 
Quinn handed over his “toy” without hesitation.
“Do I get a receipt for this? I would like it back. For sentimental reasons.”
Hanson had known he would give it to them. Gina was right; he was playing games. He didn’t even bother to hide his amusement.
“That was fast,” Fortner said when Hanson handed her the sealed plastic bag.
“Hey, we’re professionals.” Griggs grinned.
“Well, wood is difficult to get completely clean,” she said. “Blood gets down in the grain. Unless someone completely submerged it in bleach, we should be able to find something.”
“It’s clean,” Hanson said. “It’s gotta be or the bastard wouldn’t have given it up so easy.”
She got out a tape measure.
“Measurements are in the ball park. I think this is the same model as the advertisement. Got the same warning stamped on it.”
“How fast will you know something?”
“I’ll get to it as fast as I can,” Fortner said, annoyed. “But do you have any idea how far behind we are? The lab was already backed up before this case—”
“Yada yada yada,” Griggs said, rolling his eyes and making yakking motions with his hand. “You’re breaking my heart.”
“Oh, blow me,” Fortner snapped.
Hanson glared at Griggs, then turned back to Fortner.
“I promise to beat the crap out of him at the first opportunity,” he told her. “Please, do what you can. We really need your help—”
“Yada, yada, yada,” Fortner said, mimicking Griggs’s talking hand. “Get out of my lab.”
“Jesus, you’re not even housebroken,” Hanson groaned in the hallway. He punched Griggs’s shoulder.
 
“He still could have done it,” Hanson said, scooping out more guacamole with a chip.
“Come on,” Griggs said. “I don’t like the guy, either, but unless Maggie is flat out lying, or he drugged her and snuck out in the middle of the night, I don’t see how he could’ve found the time.”
They were having dinner at the Mexican place Quinn had mentioned, and, Hanson had to admit, his chimichanga was excellent.
They not only had Quinn’s receipt, but the manager and a waiter remembered the couple.
“You’re sure you remember them?” Griggs asked. “Both of them?”
“She has lovely . . .” The manager hesitated, then cupped his hands in front of his chest and gave them an embarrassed smile. “And Mr. Quinn, he always requests extra hot, and . . . Well . . .”
“And well what?” Griggs asked.
“I always have to make sure I put them in Jose’s station,” he said reluctantly, lowering his voice. “Rita, my waitress, she don’t like to wait on Mr. Quinn.”
“Why is that? Does he treat her badly?” Hanson imagined Quinn pawing the waitress’s ass as she leaned over the table with more salsa.
“No, it is not like that,” the manager said. “He always gave her very big tips. She just doesn’t like the way he look at her. Like she has no clothes on.”
Hanson thanked the manager, and the man gave a slight bow before turning away.
“We didn’t ask Quinn where he was for the other two murders,” Hanson said.
“Come on,” Griggs said, wiping his mouth. “If he didn’t do his wife, why bother with the other two?”
Gina appeared around the corner. She slid into the booth beside Hanson.
“So you got my message,” Hanson said.
“Good timing.” She reached for the chips. “I was hungry.”
The waiter came over, and Gina ordered a Number Six and a Margarita on the rocks.
“Quinn’s alibi is looking good,” Griggs said in between bites of a soggy fajita.
They filled her in on the afternoon’s events. When Hanson told her they’d taken Quinn’s thumper to the lab, she didn’t seem surprised.
“You know it’s not the murder weapon, right?” she asked.
“I know.” Hanson took a swig of beer. “Right type of weapon, but not the right one. Any luck on the computer?”
“There are only twenty-two women on FetLife in this part of the state using some version of ‘Cherry’ as their screen name,” Gina said. “Another fifty-seven on Collarme and eighty-six on Alt.”
“Shit,” Griggs said.
“No kidding. Almost none of them have photos—showing their faces, I mean. Half don’t even include a physical description in their profile.”
“I’ll bet half aren’t even women,” Griggs said. “Just a guy in his basement named Chuck.”
“Personal experience?” Gina asked.
“Fuck you,” Griggs said.
“I sent e-mails to all of them, but I’m not holding my breath. For all we know, this girl’s real name is Cherry and her screen name is something else entirely . . . Or she’s got another scene name—”
“Why would she need more than one?” Griggs asked.
“How many e-mail accounts do you have?” Gina countered, forking a slice of steak from his plate.
“I dunno,” he mumbled defensively.
“I have six different profiles spread out on Fet, Alt, and Collarme,” Gina said. “One on each as a fem-domme, but they aren’t all under the same name.
“I didn’t do it that way on purpose,” she continued. “Lady Gee was already taken on Fet, so there I’m Lady-G2U—”
She pulled out a pen and wrote it on the place mat.
“On Alt, I am DominaG499; and on Collarme, I’m LdyGina—”
“Right.” Griggs nodded. “I tried to get Goodcop4sex on Yahoo! but it was already taken.”
“What did you end up with?”
The waiter set down her combo plate.
“Cuffs762.”
“What about the one on AdultFriendFinder.com?” Gina smiled around a forkful of rice.
“How do you know I have a profile on there?” Griggs asked, looking surprised and guilty.
“Every guy like you has a profile on there. Did you post a photo of your cock, too?”
Hanson laughed.
“He did, didn’t he?” Gina chortled. “Oh, my God—”
“It’s not funny.” Griggs shook his fork at Hanson. “Shut up or I’ll tell her about that eHarmony crap you signed up for.”
“You said six profiles?” Hanson interrupted.
“I also have one on each site as a submissive. Again, three different names. That’s in addition to my regular e-mail accounts, including my old AOL addy that I can’t even remember the password to.
“My point is that even vanillas have half a dozen different personas online,” she continued. “With kinky folks, the number is usually double.”
“Even if we ran down all the Pauls.” Hanson sighed. “We probably wouldn’t find him.”
“Some lifestyle folk are completely out, they’ve got their kinky pseudonyms right on their Facebook profiles,” Gina said. “But most are more careful. Don’t underestimate just how paranoid these people can be.”
Hanson’s phone chirped, and he held it to his ear, listening.
“No surprise there,” he said, his lips curving downward. “Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Hey, do me a favor? Get someone to deliver it back to Quinn Lee at Lee’s Cameras. And hey, make sure you send a guy . . . Just because. Thanks.”
“That was Fortner,” Hanson said, tucking the phone back into his pocket. “Quinn’s thumper is clean.”
“Well, we knew that,” Griggs said. “But why did you bother asking her to get it back to the asshole so fast?”
“Because I wanted him to know we’re moving fast on this,” Hanson said. He didn’t want to say his real reason out loud: that he didn’t want Quinn to have any reason to come asking for it as an excuse to “run into” him or Gina. Neither did he want to risk Quinn asking Gina to bring it back to him personally.
And mostly, because he just didn’t want to see the damned thing again.
“I told you he was just fucking with us,” Gina said.
“So what do we do now?” Griggs asked.
“First, we finish our dinner,” Gina said. “Then we go talk to Marla Banks again.”
Hanson realized he should have thought of that. He had no idea how Marla Banks would react to seeing Gina, but he hoped it would shake loose anything she might be holding back.
“It’s getting pretty late,” Hanson said. “Let’s do it first thing in the morning.”
“Fine,” Gina said. “Order me another margarita.”
 
Marla took one look at Gina and burst into tears.
“Oh, God,” she choked out. “I was so afraid of this—”
“Marla, it’s all right,” Gina said, taking the woman in her arms. “It’s gonna be okay, don’t cry.”

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