The Killing League (11 page)

Mack was growing impatient. He walked back into the house and headed for his office. Maybe it was time to bring in Ellen Reznor.

His secret weapon.

38.

Lady of the Evening

Amanda Dekins thought the hotel looked like any of the other hundreds of hotels and motels and inns and rooming houses in which she’d done business.

When she had been younger and slimmer, and her tits had stood up straight and proud, she had been to all the upscale hotels. Back then, the majority of her clientele had been successful businessmen who would think nothing of shucking out eight hundred bucks for a couple hours with an 18 year old hottie.

Now, she was lucky to get 800 bucks after a long night of work.

Still, she’d worked in a lot worse dumps than this place. A lot worse.

She ignored the woman at the front desk and walked down the hallway, immediately spotting the KL placard. This was it, she thought. There could be some psycho in there, maybe a relative of some john she’d done in. Or maybe it was some vice cop looking to arrest her. She remembered a scam run by the FBI where they sent fugitives notice that they’d won a television and all they had to do was show up at a certain place and time. When they did, they were arrested.

Somehow, though, she didn’t think either one of those would be the case. No, this was someone who wanted to play some games. And unfortunately for him, he’d picked the wrong bitch to play them with.

Dekins paused, shook out a cigarette and fired it up. She walked into the conference room and glanced at the security guard, almost daring him to say something about her clear violation of the non-smoking rule.

He remained silent.

She looked at the row of chairs in the semicircle in front of the big television screen. An old bag, a freaky looking guy and some stoner businessman all sat in chairs facing a flat screen.

Yeah, fuck that, she thought. She wasn’t about to sit close to those total losers.

Dekins walked across the room, felt the eyes of the three already seated, and reached the back wall, then turned and leaned a shoulder against it, bringing the cigarette to her mouth and breathing out smoke.

She would stay right here during all this bullshit. She wasn’t here to make friends. She was here to get this over with and hopefully make the bastard pay who’d complicated her life for no good reason.

And then when it was over, maybe she’d find a couple of lonely, desperate businessmen and make a few bucks.

39.

Nicole

Lulu’s on Main Street in Venice was halfway between the Pekiti Tirsia studio and Nicole’s house. She parked her Acura, plugged the meter and went inside.

A television over the bar showed a soccer game in progress halfway around the world. Kurt waved to her from a stool at the end of the bar and Nicole took a seat next to him.

She ordered a bottle of her favorite Mexican beer, Dos Equis.

“I’m surprised how crowded it is,” Kurt said, glancing at the dining room, which was easily three-quarters full and it was still quite early.

Lulu’s was considered a bit of a tourist trap, but the Mexican food was good, the margaritas were big, and the location couldn’t be better.

Nicole took a drink from her beer and glanced over at Kurt.

“I guess happy hour is starting early today,” she said. “So how long have you been training?” she asked.

He took a pull from his Corona. Nicole watched the lime float back to the surface. “A couple years,” he said. “I did aikido for a long time. Almost ten years.”

“Why the switch?” she asked.

He gave a little shrug and she thought he looked a little nervous.

“Something new,” he said. “I like that Pekiti Tirsia uses edged weapons. Most of the time, you don’t get attacked by guys with long bamboo sticks.”

No, Nicole thought, most of the time that’s not how it works when you’re attacked. A little shiver ran down her back and she was always surprised at how close to the surface her memories were. Any mention of attack still triggered a reaction deep down in her gut.

“Yeah,” she said. “Not a lot of gangbangers and crack addicts walking around with Malaysian fighting sticks.”

Kurt smiled. Nicole liked his easy grin. He didn’t have perfect teeth, but they were good, and his face creased into something warm and friendly.

“How about you?” he asked.

She felt a small flutter of apprehension. It used to be much more than a flutter. At times it had practically felt like a flock of Canadian geese taking off inside her, whenever someone new started to ask about her past. It was her own nervous reaction, wondering when, where and how she would tell them she was once famous for, well, something no one wanted to be famous for.

Of course, the guys at class knew about her past, and they might have told Kurt, but Nicole guessed that he didn’t know.

“A couple of years,” she said. “I love it. From day one, I’ve loved it. The movements, the strategy, applying strength in a strategic way. It really is an art form.”

Nicole took a drink of her beer. It felt great after the sweaty air of the fighting studio.

“So what do you do for a living?” Kurt asked.

“I run a restaurant,” Nicole said.

“Really? What’s the name?” he said.

“Thicque, spelled with a q-u-e, instead of a k.”

“What kind of food do you serve?”

“California nouveau. A little bit of whatever I feel like,” Nicole said.

“I’d like to go sometime,” Kurt said.

“You should. Stop by, I’ll take good care of you,” she said.

Kurt looked at her and smiled.

Nicole felt her face flush. That wasn’t what she’d meant to say, it had come out wrong.

But from the look on Kurt’s face, he didn’t mind.

40.

Family Man

Brent Tucker was dressed in a neat but worn blue suit with a white shirt and conservative red tie. He carried his leather briefcase in his right hand, and a leather folder carrying a legal size notepad and two pens in his left hand.

His wallet, with his driver’s license and credit cards was in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. A thick packet of family pictures was in the breast pocket of his shirt. It bulged because the pictures of his wife and children were plentiful.

He’d been to these types of conferences before. Not a lot of them but enough to know that frequently businessmen showed off pictures of their families back home to convince everyone what good family men they all were. And to maybe fool people into believing they weren’t going to go out that night, get drunk and find a hooker or a strip club.

A good, loving family is such a wonderful disguise. Everyone knew that.

Tucker walked into the lobby of the Holiday Inn, bypassed the front desk and walked directly to the conference room behind the KL placard.

Without hesitation, he walked to the row of chairs in front of the television screen and sat down. He paid no attention to the others. He was here to find out his assignment, and perform whatever damage control he would need.

Tucker put his briefcase on the floor between his legs, and opened his leather memo pad. He took out one pen, clicked it, and wrote at the top of the first sheet “KL meeting.”

He adjusted his tie and waited, staring straight ahead. He still didn’t even so much as glance at the other people in the room. This was going to be just like all of the computer product information he was so adroit at reformatting and consolidating into one logical flow.

He would take in the necessary information, analyze it, reroute it, and then take the necessary steps to make it a smooth, logical plan.

He would then execute that plan without varying one iota from his strategy. It would be thorough, flawless and a smashing success.

And then he would kill the person who had disturbed his carefully constructed life.

In the process, he would collect a trophy or two as well.

41.

Mack

“Welcome back,” Mack said to Adelia as she entered the house. He smiled at her.

“What’s that big grin for?” she said, acting with some bravado but he saw right through it. As big and bold as she acted, even Adelia sometimes appeared to him like an innocent youth. A youth who just had a great weekend of romance with her husband now going back to his military job in a far off land.

“No reason,” he said. “You and Oscar have a nice weekend?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You hinting at something, Mr. Mack?”

He raised his hands. “I would never, ever chuckle at the power of love.”

Janice walked over and she and Adelia hugged. They immediately started talking like long lost friends. Once again, Mack thanked his lucky stars that he had found someone as kind and warm as Adelia. Janice loved the woman.

He retreated to his office, shut and locked the door. He had a small fridge next to his desk. He reached inside and twisted the cap off a bottle of beer. He put his feet on the desk and stared at the wall.

It was his work. What he always came back to. He loved Janice, loved taking care of her. But he loved catching bad guys. And not just any bad guys. The worst of the worst. Other than Janice, it was what he lived for.

He took a long pull from the beer.

He looked at his map. He had color coded push pins to represent murders he thought belonged to one killer. Each killer had his or her own color. The killer in Fort Walton Beach, in his opinion, a woman, had purple.

That one intrigued him. Partly because he lived close enough where he could drive over and do some investigative work on his own. And partly because female serial killers were so rare. It was an area of profiling that needed more data.

The reason she was so successful was the same reason killers who preyed on prostitutes got away with it: the people involved in sex for sale were anonymous. Fake names. Disguises. Contrived personas.

It was the perfect hunting ground.

Mack finished his beer and grabbed a second.

Something had to break. Or he would be adding another victim push pin, and soon.

42.

Truck Drivin’ Man

There wasn’t any room for the big rig in the hotel parking lot, so Roger Dawson pulled into the Outback Steakhouse parking lot where it butted up against the west side of the Holiday Inn.

He could have used the plane tickets they sent him, but he preferred to drive. Besides, he’d wanted to give the organizer of this thing a big ‘fuck- you’ of sorts.

Now, he clambered down from the truck cab and walked across the parking lot to the hotel. He wasn’t nervous. He felt instead a sort of anxiousness. Kind of like in high school just before he’d pick a fight with one of the football players who didn’t really know how to fight. Those fucking clods were so big no one ever challenged them. Dawson loved to pick a fight and stomp on their instep, knee ‘em in the balls, and give ‘em an elbow right across the jaw. They’d even tried to gang up on him once, but they just couldn’t handle being hit without wearing a helmet. Nothing like a broken nose to discourage namby pamby rich boys.

He ambled across the parking lot and walked through the hotel doors after they whisked open. Speaking of namby pamby rich boys, Dawson thought, whoever put this stupid ass thing together was light in the loafers. Sending out those faggy little envelopes with the fancy writing. Dawson would love to crack this dude’s skull as soon as he got a chance.

Dawson walked into the lobby and glanced at the welcome desk. There was no one there. He stepped into the hallway, and looked down toward the open doors with signs in front of them. He spotted the KL logo, remembered it from the envelope that fag prick had sent him, and walked into the room.

He spotted the big slab of meat standing by the door. Big guns on the guy. Dawson recognized a hired enforcer when he saw one. The guy had probably never been in a real fight in his life. Or he’d gotten his ass kicked when he was young and hit the weight room, hoping big muscles would scare off anyone. Total pussy, Dawson thought. Sure as shit.

Dawson looked around at the rest of the people in the room. What a bunch of assholes. The guy in the suit was sort of interesting. He had a brief fantasy about getting the guy up in one of the rooms, hitting him over the head and having his way with him.

Leave him up there until the maids come the next morning and find whatever was left of him.

Dawson started to get a hardon.

He went over to the guy in the suit. He sat in the empty chair next to him. Dawson could smell his cologne.

It smelled good.

Dude wouldn’t smell so good after he was done with him, Dawson thought.

43.

Nicole

Of all the tools Nicole had learned to use from her team of therapists, counselors and friends, one was her favorite.

It was called the Scrapbook of Memories.

After the attack and the publicity, Nicole had fallen into a deep depression. She had isolated herself, save for a select few, and her moods had become increasingly negative. She was also highly paranoid, even though no one could blame her for that emotion.

Her therapist at the time had pointed out her new pattern of seeing everything, even the past, in negative terms. Even though everyone told her it was very normal — survivor guilt, post-traumatic stress syndrome — it didn’t feel normal. And simply knowing what your illness is doesn’t necessarily make it easier to deal with.

Nicole’s therapist finally suggested a journal where she could start recording positive experiences, including things from her past if she wished.

It was to be a scrapbook of positive memories.

Nicole had initially scoffed at the idea. A Happy Book, she had originally thought of it. Filled with only happy pictures and happy thoughts. It sounded like something for a kindergarten project. Or something used by that Saturday Night Live character, Stuart Smalley. What had been his catchphrase? Oh yeah, she remembered. ‘Because I’m good enough, smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me!’