Текст книги "Slices of Night"

Автор книги: Alex Kava

Соавторы: J. T. Ellison,J. T. Ellison,Erica Spindler
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 9 страниц)

“Whoo-eeeee!”

Stover had decided to ride the mechanical bull at the Cadillac Ranch. He was spinning in circles, whooping and hollering and generally making an ass of himself. Two bleached blonde bimbos had attached themselves to him about an hour earlier, and they gazed adoringly at their man for the evening, salivating over his generosity and the size of his wallet.

JR couldn’t stand this much longer. He glanced at his watch, it was past midnight. When had that happened? Granted, he’d been drinking, keeping up with Stover was a challenge for a man who generally didn’t allow himself to indulge more than the occasional adult beverage as a reward. Funny, he’d broken his own rules twice in a month. What did that say? Was he getting lax? Tired? Old?

No. Never old. Not in that way. He was certainly aging, like any normal person would, but he was far from staid and predictable.

Stover, now he was predictable. Out of town, away from his wife, and his mistress, looking to grab the first piece of tail that would bite, throw back as much drink as his protruding gut would allow, then fuck and pass out in a strange room without a second thought.

JR was better than that. Cleaner. Seemlier. And certainly more temperate. Stover drew attention to himself like a five year old throwing a tantrum – everyone around was aware of him. JR never could handle that level of attention from strangers. Not that he wanted to, my God, if he were this indiscreet, he’d have landed in a jail cell years ago. No, prudence and moderation were the keys to his longevity.

Almost as if Stover could read his mind, the man started yelling in a drunken slur. “JR.” The name came out Jar. “Ca’mere. Get yer bony ass up here.”

The blonds twittered and simpered.

JR waved him off, then realized how incredibly intoxicated Stover was. After his invitation, he’d closed his eyes and started to slide off the back of the bull.

It was time to go.

He turned and walked to the bar to settle the bill. Stover had given the bartender his credit card to hold to keep the tab open. JR asked for the tab, and told the bartender to keep it on the card. He figured Stover might as well pay for the drinks, considering how inconsiderate he was being.

But the bartender came back and told JR the card had been declined. Cursing silently, he reached for his own wallet. He’d just give the man some cash, and be done with it.

His back right pocket was empty.

Son of a bitch.

He glanced over to the women who’d latched on to the pair but couldn’t see either of them in the crowd.

Fury began to build in his chest, so hard and fast that the bartender reared back when he saw the look on JR’s face. He’d been ripped off. The worthless bitches had stolen his wallet and run.

He went to Stover, who’d just tripped off the bull, and grabbed him by the shirtfront.

JR hissed the words. “They stole my wallet, you fat fuck.”

“Sucks for you.” Stover began to laugh, the hysterical giggles of a drunken hyena, which just pissed JR off more. He dragged the man to the bar, pushed him roughly against the wooden rail.

“Your card was declined. Pay the tab.”

Something in JR’s voice registered with Stover. He obeyed immediately, pulled his wallet out – he still had his, the shit – and paid for their drinks with two crisp $100 bills.

Satisfied, JR stalked away. He needed to find those women. The last thing he wanted was his name getting out. Granted, it wasn’t his real name on the license and credit cards, but a variation, a pseudonym, if you will, something he used to assure his anonymity as he cruised the country. He’d adopted the name when he failed out of med school. Employers wouldn’t be inclined to hire a man who they perceived wasn’t even competent enough to finish school. That wasn’t it, wasn’t it at all. He could have done the work if he wanted to, but he’d found another hobby, one that satisfied him in ways being a doctor never would. He made a show of struggling with the work so his classmates would think he was just incapable, and he could fade away from their lives.

But Stover was his Achilles heel. He knew JR’s real name. The idiot had spied him in the hotel in New Orleans and remembered.

JR pulled up short at the door to the street. The women became secondary. That was a problem, but it wasn’t fatal. He knew what he needed to do. There was only one way to really fix this mess.

Stover had to die.

He felt a tingle of excitement go through his body.

Two in one day? In one city? Again? Dare he?

His mind answered in the affirmative, with a caveat.

Don’t use the knife.

JR waited for Stover to catch up to him, his mind racing. So many ways to die. Fall in front of a car, trip and hit your head on a light pole…

He thought about his drive around the city earlier and it hit him. The river was only a block away. There were three bridges, too, one of which was solely for pedestrians.

JR assessed the man beside him. He was drunk enough. He’d never be able to swim.

It wouldn’t have the satisfaction of the knife – nothing could top that – but this would solve one very large, loud, nagging problem.

He turned to his old friend.

“Come on, Heath. Let’s go for a walk.”

Stover fell into step beside him, yammering away. God, did the man ever shut his trap?

Well, JR, give him this. It is his last will and testament, after all.

It only took five minutes to mount the bridge and cross halfway to the highest point. He stopped to admire the view. They were standing over the murky river water, the lights of Nashville shining majestically in the darkness.

Time to say goodbye.

He didn’t mean to do it. He really didn’t. JR gave Stover a push, and the drunken fool began to struggle, and there was nothing to be done for it. The blade was in his hand before he even gave it a second thought. JR shoved the knife in quickly, then drew it out. The pain was enough to stop Stover’s cries. He didn’t move for a moment, looking vaguely surprised, then toppled over the edge of the bridge himself, with no effort whatsoever.

JR did something he’d only done once before, in another moment of extreme distress. He tossed the knife off the bridge after Stover’s body. It killed him to do it – my God, what a prize for his collection, a blade that took not one, but two lives, in a single day – but he’d been forced into impulsivity here in Nashville, and like any animal who knew it had just survived a close call, he needed to retreat to his bolt hole and lick his wounds.

He would call the conference organizers first thing in the morning and plead a bad case of food poisoning. In the meantime, he needed to cut his losses and get the hell out of Dodge.

Nashville had been a little too good to him.

Taylor spent Monday evening keeping the wheels in motion on Go-Go’s murder. She had a long sad chat with Joe Dunham, promised him she’d do everything in her power to bring Go-Go’s killer to justice as quickly as possible. It wasn’t an empty promise, she had several solid leads already. She was confident she’d have her man soon.

The interrogation of Derek Rucka gave her absolutely squat, outside of the fact that Go-Go had been known to suffer from a wee bit of kleptomania, and going off her meds exacerbated the syndrome. She was a pack rat, lifting anything she could get her hands on – wallets and phones mostly, but brushes, lipsticks, pens – anything that could be separated from its owner. According to Rucka, it was purely for fun; she took a perverse pleasure in getting away with it.

The kid’s story checked out, and a canvass of the protestors confirmed that he was on the other side of the memorial when Go-Go went down. Taylor cut him loose just after midnight. They’d also found all the wallet and cell phone owners save one. Gustafson. Everyone else checked out. Taylor had that niggling feeling in the back of her head that there was something to this guy. There was a certain arrogance in his eyes she'd seen before. Alone at her desk, she stared at his license photo for a few minutes, then ran him through the system. Clean. She found a phone number and called, but the phone just rang and rang and rang.

Instinct is vital for every homicide detective, and hers was on fire. She called the local precinct that serviced the area Gustafson lived in Virginia, but it was late, and they were busy working their own cases. Someone would get back to her tomorrow, supposedly. She knew well enough that she’d have to call back in the morning, made a note of it on her list.

She’d lock him down tomorrow. Frustrated, she headed home.

John Baldwin, her fiancé, an FBI profiler, was in Minnesota working a case, so Taylor had the house to herself. Sleep never came easy for her with or without Baldwin’s presence, but she’d grown accustomed to having him in her bed while she gazed at the ceiling, at the very least to warm her chilly feet. With both he and Sam gone, she was a bit lonely. But instead of wallowing in it, she grabbed a beer from the fridge, racked up a game of nine-ball and expertly shot the balls down one by one, until she finally began to weary around three. She slept a couple of fitful hours, then got up, showered and headed to Forensic Medical for Go-Go’s autopsy.

Taylor attended herself so the chief could have instant updates to share with his high-profile friends. It was an unremarkable event and only served to make her miss Sam more. Dr. Fox was a good M.E., quick and to the point, but he lacked that little bit extra, the sixth sense Sam seemed to have for making a murder come to life. The girl had been stabbed once, the knife most likely a seven to eight inch double bladed stiletto, sliding right past her ribs under her breastbone into her heart. THC showed on the tox screen; a more complete report would take weeks. Exsanguination was the official cause of death, and it was ruled a homicide.

Taylor felt sorry for Go-Go. She was obviously a very troubled girl, but one who didn’t deserve to die on the street at the wrong end of a blade.

It was still early when Fox finished the post. Taylor debated stopping at Waffle House and getting breakfast, but decided to go back to the office first, which ended up being a good call. The videos from TPAC were waiting on her, with a note from Tim – “Check out 3:47 p.m. Think we may have a shot of our guy. I’m in court, will be over as soon as I’m done.”

Taylor popped the disc into her laptop and hit play.

The footage was surprisingly clear, though in muted black and white. She dragged the bar to the spot Tim suggested and hit play. It took three replays to see it. Damn, Tim had a good eye. There was a flash of white in the bottom right edge of the screen, which Taylor figured must be the bill of a hat. Her theory was confirmed a moment later when a man walked through the full frame, wearing a white baseball cap. He stepped right into a bundle of rags that Taylor assumed must have been Go-Go, then disappeared out of the frames. Go-Go dropped to the ground, and that was it. A fraction of a second. And the bastard’s back to the camera the whole time.

Well, the tapes had at least narrowed her search down to the male species. That cut out fifty percent of the suspect pool.

She did some quick mental measuring, putting the guy against the stone wall that led to the auditorium and figured he wasn’t over six foot. That Gustafson fellow was about that height as well.

She played the tape several more times, but couldn’t find anything more. The idea that Go-Go had managed to pick the man’s pocket as he stabbed her looked incredibly remote. It was a blitz attack, fast, clean. Professional even. And if it was his wallet, he certainly didn’t attempt to retrieve it. He hit the girl, knocked her down and was gone in the blink of an eye. Maybe she was barking up the wrong tree here.

Her phone rang, interrupting her thoughts, and she glanced down to see the cell number of her new sergeant. She answered, “Jackson.”

“Hey, Loot. It’s Parks. I’m down here on River Road boat ramp. We have a floater. ID on him says his name is Heath Stover, late of the great Crescent City.”

“Bully for you. Call Wade, he’s on. I’m working Go-Go.”

Parks said, “I know you are. I’ve already got Wade here. But this is something you might want to see. Our New Orleans dude? He’s been stabbed. Right in the same place as Go-Go.”

Heath Stover’s overweight torso bore a familiar mark, just under his sternum, a slash in the flesh that allowed the yellow subcutaneous fat to squish out around the edges of the wound. The water had washed the blood away. Fox got on the autopsy immediately once the body arrived at Forensic Medical, and Taylor stood to the side, watching, arms crossed, tapping the toe of her boot on the floor while Fox measured and murmured and inserted a caliper into the slit to determine its depth. He finally stood and nodded.

“Same kind of blade. Double edged, sharp as hell. See how there’s no hesitation, nor wiggle room? Went straight in, under the sternum and into the heart.” Fox stood up and looked at Taylor, his brown eyes troubled. “I have to tell you, Lieutenant, whoever did this knew what he was doing.”

“Is it the same person who killed Go-Go?”

“I can’t tell you that. But he – or she – knew exactly where to place the blade for maximum effectiveness. This isn’t your every day stabbing. It’s clean, precise, and done with amazing skill. And Go-Go’s had an identical presentation.”

“I think we’re safe saying he, I believe we have Go-Go’s murder on tape. If she hadn’t gone down I’d have thought he just bumped into her. It was quick. Here, help me run this through.”

They played out the scenario she’d seen on the tape a few times, and Fox confirmed that based on Go-Go’s wound, the stabbing could definitely work that way.

“But Stover here, he got stabbed, then went in the river somewhere. Wasn’t in too long and there is water in his lungs, just a bit, so he was on his last legs when he went in. Could be your blitz attacker hit him and he went in the water, or he killed him by the bank and pushed him. Radiographs show he does have a few broken bones, so he either got in a fight, or fell—”

“Off one of the bridges. We can do a current analysis from last night and see where he might have gone in.”

“That makes sense to me. Huh. Two in one day. Dude’s got a serious problem.”

“No kidding. Thanks, Fox. Now I have to go put Stover and Go-Go together, find out what they have in common. Then I can figure out who did this to them both.”

The words floated to her head again, this time slightly altered.

One of these things is too much like the other.

Taylor spent the drive back to the office in deep thought. Two kills, exactly alike, with two people who on the surface had absolutely nothing in common. A quick investigation on Stover found that he was in town on business, had checked into the Hermitage Hotel in the late afternoon, asked directions to Rippy’s BBQ on Broadway, and set off at a walk around six the previous evening. Marcus Wade was down there now nosing around. Hopefully there’d be a lead.

In the meantime, Taylor set to work getting back with the Fairfax County Police in Virginia. A few annoying false starts later, she was finally connected to a detective named Drake Hagerman. Taylor laid out the story and asked for his help tracking down Gustafson. He promised to get back to her within the day. Satisfied, Taylor hung up and called Marcus to see what was shaking on his end.

What was shaking, apparently, was pay dirt. Marcus answered in a huff.

“I was just about to call you. Can you send me a picture of the guy whose wallet Go-Go had, the one we didn’t find last night?”

“I’ll bring it down myself. Why? You got something?”

“Stover was in here last night, dining with another guy. Description sounds an awful lot like that photo on the license. If it’s him…”

Taylor felt that flash of excitement she got when a case was about to break wide open. Less than twenty-four hours. Impressive. Her people were damn good at their jobs.

“I’ll be there in five.”

She called Chief DeMike and let him know what was happening, then set off down to Rippy’s.

The bar was packed full, the lunch crowd rolling in food and drink and overly loud country music. Taylor would love to know how much they pulled down in a year; Rippy’s was always packed to the gills.

She found Marcus at the back bar, chatting with a ponytailed, jean-clad waitress. He looked quite pleased with himself. Marcus was adorable, and his good looks sometimes helped loosen tongues. Taylor gave him a look, and he cleared his throat and became completely professional.

“Lieutenant, Brandy served Mr. Stover last night. She said he was with another gentleman.”

Taylor had hastliy cobbled together a six pack of photos. She pulled the card from her jacket pocket and handed it to the waitress. “Do any of these men look familiar to you?”

Gustafson was on the top row, third photo.

Brandy didn’t hesitate.

“That’s the guy,” she said, pointing to Gustafson.

“You’re one-hundred percent certain?”

“Absolutely. Gave me the creeps. He smiled too much. And didn’t tip. They were going honky-tonking, the fat one asked me the best place to go. I sent them to Tootsies, of course, and suggested the Cadillac Ranch too.”

Taylor met Marcus’s eye. “Thank you, ma’am. Please keep this to yourself. You may be called on again to provide information. Are you willing to do that?”

“I am. If he’s a creep, I don’t want him back in here. Hey, I gotta go. My manager’s giving me the evil eye.” She glanced coquettishly at Marcus. “Shout at me sometime.”

Marcus blushed red, and Taylor gave him a smile.

“You’re such the charmer.”

“You know it. So this is our guy, huh?”

“Looks that way. You keep on this trail, see if you can track exactly what might have happened. I’m rather amazed, actually. Either this guy dropped his wallet while he was stabbing Go-Go, or she managed to slide it out of his pocket. Pretty incredible presence of mind for a girl who’s stoned and dying.”

“But she was an accomplished pickpocket. Maybe she targeted him just as he targeted her. And they both got screwed.”

Taylor nodded. “That makes sense. Well done, Go-Go. She practically handed us her killer on a platter. I’m heading back to the office and hitting the ‘net.”

“All right. See you later.”

Taylor watched Marcus stride away, thankful to have his keen investigative mind at her disposal, then walked back to her vehicle. She had a date with a computer.

The email notification on her iPhone chimed just as she turned the engine over. It was Hagerman, from Fairfax County. According to him, there was no one named James Gustafson in the Virginia DMV system, and the address on the license was a vacant lot. Her killer was a ghost.

ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, could be a homicide detective’s best friend, if they knew exactly how to use it. It wasn’t as easy as inputting your crime and the system spitting out a match to similar crimes. You had to know what to ask for. Taylor had unfortunately availed herself of its services many times in the past, and had the level of expertise needed to run the appropriate request chain into the queue. Hopefully the results would come back quickly, but the service wasn’t fully automated. A real person had to do some of the legwork, and the FBI was backed up three ways to Sunday on requests. So she inputted the parameters, taking great care with the specifics of both Go-Go and Heath Stover’s crime similarities, crossed her fingers, and went on to the next component of her investigation – figuring out who this man really was.

The ViCAP results came back several hours later, much quicker than she expected. She read the email she’d been sent with trepidation, then sat back in her chair, let the realization wash over her. There were matches in the system from several places around the country, the most recent a homeless woman in New Orleans. Gustafson, whoever the son of a bitch really was, had been a busy, busy boy.

Taylor knew it was time to start raising the red flags. Too many jurisdictions, too many victims. She filled the chief in on her plan, got an atta-girl, then went to the source. Her fiancé was a profiler, after all.

Baldwin answered on the first ring. “Hey, love. How are you?”

“Hi, babe. I’ve been better. Two unsolved cases on my desk from yesterday alone, and just got a report back from ViCAP. I think I’ve got a serial on my hands.” She gave him all the details, then emailed him the ViCAP report. She waited while he accessed it and read the findings. A few minutes later, he agreed.

“You might be right,” he said. “What did you say this guy’s name is again?”

“The license said James Gustafson, but Fairfax County just confirmed that no one by that name exists in the system, and the address is a fake. The license, the cards, all of it, they’re either excellent identity theft or really sophisticated forgeries. Who is this guy? He’s obviously been killing off the radar for years. And he broke his MO with this latest victim. He’s been preying on homeless. Go-Go was a fuck up, she certainly looked the part, but hitting a well-established surgeon from New Orleans? One mistake could be an accident, sure, but the other… there’s a tie to his past, I’m sure of it. The waitress got the impression they were friends, out for a night on the town. Maybe Stover knew the real identity of the killer, and Gustafson felt threatened.”

“That’s a solid theory. He killed a different type of victim out of sequence. The back-to-back kills, I’d bet he’s in some sort of trouble, decompensating.”

“Well, he’s screwed up. Now we know about him. He’s on the radar, and I’m about to make his world hell.”

“He sounds like someone who has spent his life being very, very careful. Listen, I’m totally wrapped up in this case, or else I’d help you myself. But I know who to call. I’ve worked with her on cases before. She’s sharp. I think you should have a chat with her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Maggie O’Dell. Hold on a sec, let me get her number for you.” He rattled off the numbers and she wrote them down.

“I’ll call her right now. Thanks, honey. Call me later, okay?”

“Will do. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Taylor hung up the phone, waited a moment, then dialed. Even if O’Dell couldn’t help, at least the FBI would be aware that something was hinky with the so-called James Robert Gustafson.

The call went to voicemail. Taylor left a message, told the agent who she was, her connection to Baldwin, that she had a significant ViCAP match and wanted to touch base. She hung up the phone, leaned back in her chair and put her boots on the desk.

She’d get some justice for Go-Go, and for Stover. Their deaths would not go unpunished. No matter what. And for the moment, that was the best she could do.