He peeled off the latex gloves and stuck them in his pocket. It was time for measured exactness, the next clue. Sticking one of the cigarettes in his mouth, he flicked the lighter and held the flame to the end. He drew in a mouthful of smoke, just to get it going, and blew it out, as if it were venom from a snakebite.
A filthy habit. One that he was glad he never started. The smoke stung his eyes. Disgusting. But necessary. He watched patiently as the cigarette burned, the smoke curling off the end.
If they’d had DNA analysis back then, they might have identified Morgan sooner. He wondered how long it would take to trace it to him in this case.
The cigarette in the crime scene photo had been smoked down more than halfway. Almost to the end. But the smell was making him sick. He held the burning butt away from him and tapped the lengthening ash onto the floor.
One more drag to make sure they have enough juice, he thought, and brought the tip to his lips once more. His stomach wrenched at the pungency, but he persisted. After all, he had to get this right. Exactly right.
It took Knox the better part of twenty minutes to locate Norton’s car in the Royal York’s parking garage. A beige Lexus, the red, white, and blue Illinois Land of Lincoln plates standing out like a banner in a sea of white and blue Ontarios. The GPS tracking device took a scant thirty seconds to snap in place under the right rear fender where no one would notice it. Knox got back into his BMW, pulled about a hundred feet away, and stopped. Despite the coolness of the October weather, the wig was making him sweat. He wiped his face with some paper napkins and threw them on the floor. He couldn’t afford to leave any trace evidence, even a drop of sweat, though the probability that they’d find it and make the connection was remote. Very remote. But still, why take the chance? It was all about minimizing risks.
His laptop was open on the seat next to him, and he clicked on the Icon marked Trace.
It took a few seconds for the program to load, and a few more for the signal to bounce off the orbiting satellite. The map of Toronto etched itself across the screen and the hourglass symbol came on. The small automobile materialized, off Front Street, in the stationary position indicating that the vehicle was parked and non-mobile.
Knox shifted into drive and pulled out of the underground facility, circling the streets until he found a suitable parking spot. He could check inside the car later, after he had Norton’s keys. For now, he was content to wait.
He glanced at his watch. Six-fifteen PM. That meant it was five-fifteen in Chicago. Time to check in with Jetters. He picked up his cell phone and punched in the numbers.
Colby slammed the copy of the file down on his kitchen table. Damn, it shouldn’t have worked out like this.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to sort it out again. Tried to remember exactly whom he’d given the file copies to when he’d done the book. Yeah, he’d been careless, but hell, the case was over twenty-eight years old.
His editor had seen them. His agent. The proofreaders.
Shit, it was impossible, but, from what the Feds had told him, this copycat dude had known things that went far beyond the photos and info detailed in the book. No, someone had access to the actual police files.
Colby sat forward, elbows on knees, and contemplated.
Pearson’s skepticism, the sarcastic lilt in his tone, floated in Colby’s memory. It still stung.
“You aren’t trying to tell us you wrote this yourself, are you?” the FBI man had said. “I mean, you had a ghost writer, right?”
That had come at the tail-end of the interview, when Colby was debating whether or not to walk out, or give this asshole fed a knuckle sandwich.
“No, he said. “I didn’t.”
“Detective Colby.” It was Agent O’Keefe’s turn. She managed to get something akin to a compassionate expression on her face. “We’re not the enemy here. We’re on the same side.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Colby said as he headed for the door. “I’ll look over my files and get back to you. In the meantime, why don’t you go check out Lance Fontaine?”
Fontaine. It had to be him. As Laird’s attorney, he would have total access to the police reports. Those hotshot Feds needed to check the lawyer’s discovery motions instead of hassling an honest cop, who just happened to write a good book.
He toyed with the idea of going to Fontaine himself.
No, that would only give the prick more ammunition. He’d just claim client confidentiality and clam up. It would be a wasted trip. Unless…
Colby mulled over the possibility of breaking into the defense attorney’s office, and then shook his head. With his luck he’d get caught on candid camera and be awarded a one-way ticket to the joint.
The small auto-shaped icon began to move just as Knox was finishing his conversation with Dr. Jetters. “He’s moving,” Knox said. “I have to go.”
“Stop him,” Jetters said over the cell phone. “He must not speak at that conference.”
“Leave it to me,” Knox said, glancing over his shoulder as he pulled out. Luckily, the evening traffic was very light here for such a large city. Nothing like New York or Chicago. Knox braked and checked the screen.
The Lexus pulled out of the parking area, and seconds later the auto-icon moved onto the ribbon-like section labeled Front Street going east. The icon turned left on Bay and left again on Wellington. When he saw it turning right on John Street, going back toward Front, which was one-way, Knox knew Norton was heading for the convention center and tailed at a respectable distance. The tracking device was superfluous now, except as insurance. But minimizing the odds against mistakes was what separated the professionals from the amateurs. Thinking of professionalism, he made a mental note to retrieve his GPS locator once the personal interaction had been completed.
Norton’s Lexus signaled and turned right, going into the parking area for the convention center. Knox followed, collecting his entrance ticket and watching the Lexus’ tail lights as it braked and went left. He gunned his own car, cutting down the closest entrance ramp and finding a vacant spot next to the sign that pointed toward the convention center entrance. Beneath the ground the city was quiet and deserted. Hardly any cars. Hardly any noise.
He readjusted the wig and fake glasses, as he got out of his car. His gloved fingers rested on the knife in his pocket, his thumb ready on the hollow eyelet that allowed for the one-handed opening of the blade. The stairway to the next level down, the one where he assumed Norton would be on, was only about fifteen feet away. With a few brisk steps he was there.
Looking around, Knox saw a few people hustling toward the stairs. A car shot past him. He paused in the aisle and studied the parking area, and then he saw the Lexus. Knox casually removed the knife from his pocket as he began walking. Norton closed the door and hit the remote, causing a slight beep of the horn. Knox flipped open the blade and held it against the inner aspect of his wrist. It felt cool and hard.
Norton was fussing with his laptop case, glancing at his watch, totally unaware of his surroundings, probably mentally rehearsing his speech. He looked a little nervous, but he didn’t need to be. It would all be over shortly.
“Professor Norton,” Knox said, the pleasant smile still gracing his lips.
Norton’s head shot up, his face a quizzical knot. He pressed the laptop to his chest, like a school-girl carrying her books.
“Who are—?” The realization apparently dawned on him, despite the disguise. “Knox? Is that you?”
Still smiling, Knox shortened the distance. They were perhaps seven feet apart now. He rotated his head, looking for witnesses. No one around.
“I hope you’re not here to try and dissuade me,” Norton began. “I know he’s angry with me, but it’s time. The world has to know. They have to be told.”
“Certainly,” Knox said. “But over there…” He pointed off to an imaginary point over Norton’s right shoulder. The man’s head turned slightly. Three feet now. Two.
Knox readjuste
d the knife, curled his fingers around the handle, and brought it up in a quick motion striking just under the sternum.
Norton’s gasp was barely audible, and Knox worked the blade around inside the other man’s abdomen.
Knox grabbed Norton’s arm with his left hand, carefully gripping the laptop to secure it, and walked the man back toward the Lexus. No one was around, no one to see them. Knox could feel the warm blood seeping between the glove and his wrist. Norton stumbled along, like a drunken marionette, his legs dragging a little more with each step. When they were between the cars, Knox let Norton sink to his knees. His face was already draining of all color, his tongue curling upward at the side of his mouth.
After another quick look around, Knox dropped Norton on his side, wiped off the blade, and snapped it shut. He checked to see how much of the other man’s blood had gotten on his jacket. It was dark and the blood didn’t show much. Stooping down, he grabbed the laptop and set it on the rough cement, away from the draining crimson puddle. The floor was canted in such a way that the stream was running toward the center of the aisle.
Designed that way for drainage purposes, thought Knox. Convenient. He worked his fingers into Norton’s back pocket, removing his billfold.
Flipping it open, he found the Royal York room keys.
After slipping the wallet inside his own coat, and going through the rest of the dead man’s pockets, Knox hit the remote and opened the Lexus. The blood was running toward the center in more copious fashion now.
Must have hit a major vessel, Knox thought. Have to buy myself enough time to check his hotel room, too.
Knowing it would be better to move to a safer location before tossing it, he grabbed the laptop, slipped inside Norton’s Lexus, and started it. As he pulled out of the space he rolled up and over the body of the now late John H. Norton.
Chapter 3
Leslie Labyorteaux pulled her brown hair back in a ponytail, despite knowing it would make her appear younger. The alternative was worse: accidentally brushing it back and getting blood on it. And she’d been told there was a lot of blood.
At thirty-three, she’d finally worked her way up to detective, after having labored in patrol for five years and property crimes investigations for four-and-a-half. Getting this far had been costly: her marriage, her social life, her family relationships…this was her first homicide, her first whodunit. A dead body in the parking garage at the Convention Center. What more could a girl ask for?
She flashed her badge at the officers standing guard at the entrance and they motioned her car through after giving her one of those looks. The kind that carried the assumption that she was sleeping with somebody higher up to get a plumb assignment like investigator. She’d paid her dues, and would tell anybody that.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she had something better to do: a date with a dead man.
Another officer motioned her to stop, and she brought her detective’s shield up again. He nodded.
“They radioed me you were coming,” he said. “Inspector Graven’s already up there. You might want to pull in here and walk down. It’s only one flight.”
She thanked him and steered her Honda into the open space. As she got out, she reached in her purse for a pair of latex gloves before going down to the next level where a gaggle of men worked behind a ribbon of yellow crime scene tape.
Inspector Graven looked up from a small circle of men in trench coats, his face in its perpetual scowl. He nodded to Labyorteaux.
“Glad you could make it, luv,” he said. “Hope we didn’t break your boyfriend’s heart.”
“Actually, I was just going for a run, sir.”
“A run? This time of night?”
“On the treadmill,” she added.
Graven frowned again. “What bigger waste of time is there, than running and not getting anywhere?” He took a deep breath and tapped another man on the shoulder. “Benson, give her what you’ve got so far.”
Benson, a red-haired, overweight guy, flipped open his pad and began reading quickly.
“At nineteen-ten hours, this date, a patron of the establishment was walking back to his car.” He read off the patron’s name and the information about the vehicle. “As he proceeded down this aisle, he stepped in what he thought was an oil or antifreeze leak.” Benson paused again and pointed to a set of male footprints several yards away. A photographer was standing by the prints snapping pictures. The flash made a bright wink in the cavernous parking garage. “It was at this point he saw the body by that car, and realized that it was not oil or antifreeze, but blood.”
“Cut the superfluous crap,” Graven said, his voice a low growl. “Give her the damn highlights and hurry the hell up.”
Benson’s face reddened to almost the same shade as his hair. “The victim was stabbed in the gut. Looks like your typical mugging gone bad to me.”
“And keep your opinions to yourself,” Graven said.
Labyorteaux saw more techs snapping photos. The flash winked again, its sudden illumination bouncing off the inner recesses behind them. A man lay twisted in the shadows, next to the rear bumper of a parked car, his tongue twisting out of his mouth, locked between frozen jaws.
“Has the victim been ID’d yet?” Labyorteaux asked.
“No, his wallet’s missing,” Graven said. “so get to it, detective.”
The way he said “inspector” let her know that failure, as they say, was not an option.
The next morning Colby felt hung-over and dehydrated. He’d spent last night mulling over the case files with his old buddy, Johnny Walker Red, while too many repressed images of the dead Swanstrom twins kept lingering in his mind. One drink turned into two, and two to four. He was drinking doubles, or, as he put it after downing several, only multiplying by two. The stupid thought had occurred to him in the midst of a drunken stupor that did little to quell the gnawing feeling of guilt in his gut. The Swanstrom twins’ pale faces floated in front of him again. He’d failed them. He hadn’t gotten to them in time.
After stopping at the water cooler, he was downing his second cup—multiplying by two again—when Bosworth, the detective Colby liked least in the division, slapped him on the back hard enough to cause him to spill the water on his necktie. Colby swore at him.
“Hey, hot shot, looks like you got a wet spot on your tie.” Bosworth’s face split into a large grin. “Oh, the LT wants to see ya.”
Colby thought about how sweet it would be to punch the asshole’s face in. “What about?”
“Shit if I know,” Bosworth laughed as he walked away. “Maybe he wants you to sign a copy of your book.”
Colby went down the hallway and spotted Lieutenant Kropper behind his desk, talking on the phone, the little man’s waspy frame looking totally agitated. Colby walked to the open door and knocked.
“You wanted to see me, lieu?”
Kropper’s steely gaze met his. He put a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and said, “Come in and close the door.”
A closed-door session, thought Colby. This can’t be good.
He debated whether it was better to sit in the “hot-seat” chair in front of the desk or remain standing. He elected for the latter, remembering one of the “power tips” from his agent: “Standing forces them to look up at you. It’s a position of dominance.”
A second later Kropper mumbled a “Yes, sir. Ten four. Will do,” and hung up the phone. He snapped his fingers and pointed, indicating the “hot seat.”
So much for the position of dominance, Colby thought. As he settled into the chair he could see the lieutenant’s face was more flushed than usual. “How’s the book tour going?” Kropper asked.
“All right, I guess.”
Kropper nodded, the dash of red still dappling his cheeks. “I got a call from the FBI this morning.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Special Agent Pearson. Know him?”
Colby knew that Kropper had been on the job long enough not to ask a question
without already knowing the answer. He decided to play it straight and close to his vest.
“Yeah, I talked to him yesterday.”
“What about?”
Colby shrugged. “They were looking at a couple of homicides that might be copycats of an old case I worked.”
Kropper smiled. The man had little teeth that slanted inward, like a small rodent’s. “Rog, you’re being modest again.” He folded his hands behind his head after smoothing his thinning black hair. “Don’t you mean the case?”
Kropper sprung forward so quickly it shocked Colby. “Didn’t I tell you when you wrote that damn thing, that the department had better not come off looking bad?”
“Lieu,” Colby began.
Kropper raised his index finger, pointing it like a revolver. “Let me finish.” He took a deep breath, and said, “Maybe it’s time you decided if you want to be a cop or Ernest fucking Hemingway.” Kropper kept his finger extended, his eyes locked in what he must have thought looked like a fierce stare.
Colby compressed his lips. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He met the lieutenant’s gaze with one of his own. After all the years of interviewing suspects, he wasn’t about to let anyone, even his boss, stare him down.
Kropper’s gaze wilted, then he dropped his hand. “How does your case-load look?”
Colby shrugged. “The usual.”
“The Feds are requesting you,” Kropper said. “They’re setting up a multi-agency task force. They want you there as some kind of consultant.”
“A consultant?” Colby said, a tiny bit irritated. Although he was curious about this copycat thing, there were a lot of old ghosts he didn’t want to revisit. “What kind of bullshit is that?”
“Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna give you up without a fight.” He showed Colby the small teeth again. “Especially at the end of the month with Comp Stat looming.” Kropper’s face twitched slightly, then he blew out a slow breath. “Take today to sort through your cases. You can start with the Feds tomorrow. You got any slam-dunks that can be administratively cleared, give them to Bosworth. Anything else, farm out to Dicarlo and Wilson. I want to have something to show the brass.”
Blood Trails Page 4