Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (3 page)

The pictures were mainly of him: Samuels. Accepting awards at glitzy ceremonies or posing with celebrities at charity galas. The professor looked uncomfortably popular. Square peg in a round hole. In most of the shots he was wearing the same tuxedo and the same forced smile. Same as the photo curled up in my hand.

There are two reasons why people plaster their living spaces with photographs of themselves: vanity or validation. Judging by Samuels’ strained expression, these pictures were more about self-confirmation than narcissism. But listen to me: I’m no psychologist.

One of the frames was slightly tilted on its nail.

You wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it.

And I was looking for it.

I peered closer.

And that’s when something thudded above my head.

Breath froze in my throat.

Skulking around the home of a dead man in the dead of night comes at a price. The mind likes to play tricks. It’s nature’s precursor to our fight or flight reflex. The crooked branch of a tree tapping against a window pane. Wind whistling
Tubular Bells
under the eaves. In the thick of night they morph into every mortal danger known to the imagination. Another fact of mine: I don’t believe in ghosts – so don’t try and convince me otherwise. The seemingly inexplicable is not necessarily unexplainable.

I waited ten seconds. Heard no more sounds. Then clamped the Maglite between teeth and carefully lifted the tilted picture frame down off the wall.

There was a sliver of an image in the center of the mount. Ripped down both edges. Barely the width of my little finger. I hadn’t noticed it yesterday. Wasn’t exactly sure if the discrepancy had even been there yesterday. I placed the torn photo in the evidence bag against the left edge of the sliver.

They were an exact fit.

7

^{___________________________}

Like I say, I don’t believe in coincidences – especially when it comes to homicide. Coincidences are for people who think the universe is cute. It isn’t.

My cell phone shrilled. It sounded like an air raid siren. I almost dropped the picture frame. Rummaged it out before it woke neighbors and got every dog in the vicinity howling.

A text message:

‘Meet me at Winston’s. 5:30. You’re buying.’

I checked my watch. Not quite five.

Something
clunked
upstairs.

Just so you know: I have this thing I call my
Uh-Oh Radar
. It comes from deep down in the gut and can pick up ley lines better than any dowser. Most of the time it goes about its business without demanding too much attention. But every now and then it screams like a banshee.

I tipped my best ear towards the ceiling,
listened
.

Nobody was home. Even I shouldn’t have been here. Samuels had no pets. No tenants. No skeletons in the closet I didn’t already know about. No reason why anything should be clunking around upstairs.

Gently, I stood the frame on the mantelpiece. Slid out my non-issue fire arm: a .45 caliber Glock. Lightweight. Better stopping power than the standard-issue 9 mm Beretta. All the while with my ear tilted towards the ceiling.

Something made a
shuffling
sound directly above my head.

Instinctively, I started towards the hallway.

Then it sounded like somebody running. Thudding across the ceiling. Right above me. Moving faster.

I rattled around furniture. Rushed to the foot of the stairs. Hollered a warning – one of those generic police phrases etched into the public psyche thanks to procedural cop shows.

But nobody hollered back.

I stared along the gun’s sights. Shone the powerful Maglite up the stairs. I could hear blood banging against my ears. Feel hot adrenaline in my stomach.

On the landing, a curtain was fluttering in an open window that hadn’t been open a second or two earlier.

Somebody was in the house!

I took a cautious step up the stairway. One, two, three. Then heard the rumble of an engine kick into life outside. I turned. Jumped back down the stairs. Threw open the front door and clattered down the stone steps – just in time to see a dark SUV tear away from the curb and go screeching down the street at a breakneck speed.

Automatically, I held up the cell phone and snapped a picture of the fleeing vehicle.

8

^{___________________________}

Recently, more out of convenience than conviction, the all-night bar known as
Winston’s
has become my regular haunt of late – especially of
late
. It’s a stone’s throw from my place on Valencia. So it’s reason enough to get me out of the house whenever I’m home.

 
I squinted at the harsh glare of the strip lights illuminating the sidewalk before going inside. A bell tinkled against glass. I said
hello
to old Milo camped behind the counter. Milo is part of the fixtures and fittings hereabouts. He had a copy of
Playboy
on his lap and a bottle of beer in hand.

I continued onward through aisles of magazines. Processed foodstuffs. Fast cars and potato chips. Followed the smell of freshly-brewed coffee.

Winston’s
is actually a 24-hour drugstore with a bar in back. The place has seen easier days, but it does what it says on the sign. The bar itself is comprised of a handful of Formica-covered tables, collapsible chairs, a few rickety stools along the bar. Worn but working. Re-runs of the weekend’s games loop on an old TV set. The picture’s fuzzy – a bit like its surroundings.

I slid onto a stool. There was only one other patron here tonight: a young bearded anti-establishment dude with dreadlocks and a distrusting face. He was sitting at a table in the far corner. Back to the wall. Tapping away at a battered notebook. Every now and then his suspicious eyes glanced around the room. He realized I was watching and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

I pulled off gloves. Stuffed them in a pocket.

Dreads virtually lived here. But then again so did I.

‘The usual, Mr. Q?’

Winston Young – seven feet on bare soles – poured a cup of black coffee, added three sugars. Pushed it across the counter.

I gave him a look that read
‘I’m expecting more’
and he graciously added a thimble of neat whiskey and a bowl of pistachios.

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem, Mr. Q.’

I picked up the coffee. Sipped. Scalded lips. Felt my grumbling ulcer grumble a little less.

Distantly, I heard the bell chime against the door. Somebody had entered the store. I knew who that somebody was. The plastic
Lakers
clock on the wall said it was precisely five-thirty. I saw Winston sink into the shadows behind the bar, like a vampire shrinking from the approaching dawn.

‘Of all the bars in all of the world … isn’t it a little early for coffee?’

Eleanor Zimmerman is the white Grace Jones. She has a silvery, box-cut hairdo, impossibly-sharp cheek bones and the disposition of a domesticated tiger. Eleanor is like the human equivalent of one of those hardboiled sweets with the sticky soft center. Her dress sense is something else entirely. Shoulder pads and 80’s disco. Somehow it works.

She perched herself on the stool next to mine and gave me the once over. Whenever my life seems in crisis, Eleanor turns up like a bad penny. Sometimes I think she stalks me. But she’ll have you believing she’s my guardian angel.

‘What ditch have we been sleeping in? You look like shit.’

‘What do you want, Eleanor?’

‘This, for starters.’ She picked up the thimble of whiskey and downed it in one. Then flapped a hand at Winston to come fill her up. He approached, cautiously. Poured the whisky at arm’s length. Like Eleanor was contagious.

‘Isn’t it a little early for hard liquor?’ I countered.

‘What do you care, Detective? Moreover, what do I care? It’s medicinal. Prescribed. If you’ve got a problem with it, talk with my doctor.’ She scooped a handful of pistachios from the little dish on the bar and started skinning them.

I sipped scalding coffee. Said nothing.

Eleanor detests silence. I do it on purpose.

‘Did somebody die?’ she asked Winston after a few seconds.

Winston stalled like an unrehearsed actor on stage for the first time. He blinked, as if blinded by a spotlight. I saw his mouth work wordlessly. Bewilderment in his big brown doleful eyes.

‘Stop picking on him, Eleanor.’

‘You’re picking on me.’

‘I’m allowed to.’

‘You mean I let you.’ Eleanor threw more doomed nuts into her mouth and cracked them apart with big white teeth. She stared at me. Like I had transparent skin and she could see all the darkness churning away inside of me.

‘I hear you’ve been back to the scene of the crime.’

She emphasized the last four words, as if they were something to be hallowed. I didn’t like it. Made a face to show it. Making faces is one of my fortes. You’ll see. Sometimes they get me out of trouble. Mostly, they get me in it.

‘Eleanor, have you been following me?’

‘Why, are you on Twitter?’

I kept the face held. ‘It’s been ten months; I don’t need to talk about it. And I don’t need mothering.’

‘Really? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Do you even own a mirror?
 
You make Lieutenant Columbo look like a fashion icon. Tie never quite knotted right. Three-day stubble. Always one cufflink while the other sleeve misses out.’

Unconsciously, I fingered the solitary cufflink. Pulled my arm up into the jacket sleeve to hide it.

‘And what is it with those sneakers?’

‘They’re comfortable.’

‘With dress pants?’

I sighed; Eleanor never misses a trick.

‘When you get to my age you don’t do style. You do practical. Besides, you’re wearing pajamas underneath your coat, aren’t you?’