The Kindred Killers (Jake Boulder Book 2)

by Graham Smith

  Her eyes widen with understanding, the coolness gone from her voice. ‘You mean those poor people who were found up in Ashley?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Concern fills her face as tears touch the corners of her eyes. She stands and reaches for her purse. ‘You should have blown me off. We can have dinner anytime. Alfonse needs you more than I do.’

  Three sentences containing just eighteen words make my heart somersault. Taylor understands the way things are. The way things have to be.

  ‘I have to eat sometime. May as well be in a swanky restaurant with a beautiful girl.’

  ‘That is so, like, totally, corrrrrrrny.’ Taylor’s mocking of my compliment is softened by a melodic giggle.

  The waiter comes and offers menus. I suspect from the way he’s eyeing Taylor, he’s a little bit in love with her.

  After our order is taken, I give Taylor the broad outlines of the case. The only key fact omitted is the syphilis. It’s not that I don’t trust her, it’s just not something I want to speak about in a public place.

  As she listens her face depicts her horror.

  I like that she’s outraged. That she wants their killers locked away on death row. It shows Taylor shares my morals, my principles and my belief that perpetrators of criminal acts deserve to be punished.

  A group of happy people brush past us. They’re all toothy smiles and glassy eyes. I give a smiling nod to the blonde holding hands with a Mexican. Noelle is a nice lady – we’d dated. The relationship ran its course and we split by mutual consent.

  Noelle looks sober compared to the rest of her group, she also looks happier. I guess it’s her occasion and broaden my smile.

  A pungent aroma makes my eyes water. There’s puzzlement on Taylor’s face as she looks over my shoulder.

  I turn and find myself just three inches from Ms Rosenberg’s chest. The power of her perfume is enough to make my eyes water as she moves round me and dumps herself into a chair without waiting for an invitation. A click of her fingers alerts a waiter who does well to hide his irritation at her lack of manners. ‘You. Scotch on the rocks. Pronto.’ Despite her size, she manages to overfill every room she enters.

  ‘Good evening.’ Taylor is polite although I can tell she’s not pleased at the way Ms Rosenberg has gate-crashed our evening.

  A fake smile is tossed her way. ‘Hello, doll. I need to talk to Boulder. He’s a hero you know. Treat him like one.’

  ‘What do you want?’ I’ve learned that Ms Rosenberg has no social skills. The only way to communicate with her is to be as blunt as she is.

  ‘Have you learned anything useful yet?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Her eyes narrow as they examine my face. ‘You’re not saying that because I’m a journalist and you’re working a case. You’re saying it because you have nothing to say but don’t want me to know it.’ The waiter places a Scotch on the rocks in front of her. ‘About time. Bring me another.’

  However brief, the interruption has given me a moment’s thinking time. She’s on a fishing trip and is trying to get me to confirm something. I need to find out what.

  ‘You can believe what you want. I have no comment to make because I have no information to give. And I know from past experience how dangerous information can be when it gets into the wrong hands.’

  She ignores my barb and twirls a fork between nicotine-stained fingers. ‘I need something from you, Boulder. All I got so far is the husband was definitely playing away. I don’t for one moment think that’s why they were all killed, but I need a story and that would be a good one. I’d sooner write about what’s really happening, than follow that idiot Farrage around chronicling his mistakes.’

  ‘You’re obviously not after job security. Farrage could keep you in stories as long as he has a badge.’

  Her laugh is an ass’s bray. Heads at nearby tables rotate to look but she is uncaring. Half her Scotch disappears in one slug.

  ‘I don’t know what leads you’re working on, but if I was you I’d be looking at money not sex. One drunken Vegas fumble does not a hate crime make.’

  It takes me a second to reorganise her words into a coherent sentence. She uses the second to drain her glass and send a hurrying scowl towards the waiter.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’ve been around stories all my life. Ain’t much I haven’t seen, heard or written about. Murder is about money and sex. I figure sex is pretty much off the table so it’s about money. Sure it may be about race as well, but there has to be a selection process. Find the reason they were chosen as the victims and that will lead you to their killer.’

  She’s right. While it is the line we’ve been pursuing, we’ve also had an open mind with regards to the fact it smacks of racial hatred. Instead of focussing all of our resources on the why, we’ve split ourselves so Alfonse is looking for a fictional who.

  I need to return the favour she’s just done me. ‘Instead of writing about the investigation, why don’t you write about the reaction to the crime? Get some quotes from a couple of churches, some community leaders and so on.’

  ‘Boring. Predictable.’ A half inch of Scotch is poured between bright pink lips.

  ‘Perhaps.’ I play my ace. ‘But are you aware there’s a Klan Chapter operating out of Salt Lake City? They have a website that gives the contact details of their spokesman, and also their grand panjandrum or whatever they call him. Get a quote from one of them and your piece will be neither boring nor predictable.’

  A notepad has appeared from nowhere. She’s filling it with indecipherable squiggles as I speak.

  ‘Boulder, you’re a star.’ She rises from her chair, draining her glass as she stands. A turn of her head gives her eye contact with Taylor. ‘You’re lucky, doll. If I was twenty years younger you’d have yourself some serious competition.’

  Somehow, Taylor and I manage to contain our laughter until Ms Rosenberg moves out of earshot.

  33

  I slip out of bed and tiptoe into the lounge without waking Taylor. Sleep is eluding me so I figure it’s kinder of me to leave her in peace while I go through some mental gymnastics.

  The thing bothering me most, is Ms Rosenberg’s insistence that money is the reason the Fourniers were selected. I know she’s right but I can’t see how.

  Alfonse has been through their bank accounts looking for anything amiss. He found nothing. Their regular expenditure was around eighty percent of their income. They had no debts, no expensive bad habits and no secret funds. As an experienced detective and successful hacker, these were the first things Alfonse looked for. The reason he didn’t find them is because they didn’t exist.

  Other than a night of passion in Vegas, the Fourniers were squeaky clean. Tomorrow’s first task will be to find out about Darryl’s Vegas trip. Second up will be another visit to the bank to dig a bit deeper into Sherrelle’s work life.

  I’m also concerned about the amount of time Alfonse is spending chasing after shadows. While his probing may give us a number of suspects, it won’t do anything beyond identifying a number of people who happen to be racist. There will be no evidence to link them to the crime we’re investigating.

  Either Alfonse has to give up his search for the time being, or I have to find some suspects of my own so his findings corroborate my suspicions.

  Running the Vegas angle seems like a waste of time but Alfonse and Henry are relying on me to keep the news contained. Ms Rosenberg’s comments earlier, proved the news is already out there. To be fair to her, she’s not talking about printing the story. Her threat no more than a bluff to get information from me.

  Through Taylor, I’ve learned that Dr Edwards has a free space around lunchtime. I plan to take the appointment. I want to know more about the mind-set of the people we’re looking for and the kind of people they might be. In its own way this may be as vague as what Alfonse is doing, but the more I know about the kind of person I’m looking for, the better equipped I’ll
be to spot them.

  I remember about the missing girl. Nobody’s updated me on her status so I assume there’s no news.

  To make sure, I call the station. It’s Farrage who answers the phone. He’s not happy I’m asking him questions but he gives me the answer I need, even if it’s not the one I want.

  I realise I’ve been hoping the girl would turn up somewhere unharmed and surprised at the fuss. A moment of impulse causing an unnecessary panic.

  She hasn’t turned up yet and the family have contacted every known friend. A social media campaign has been started. So far there have been no sightings. Farrage admitted that Chief Watson has called in a couple of retired cops to look into her disappearance.

  This last piece of news is both reassuring and worrying. The chief bringing someone in is a good thing because every minute counts in cases like this. His doing so before the girl is officially missing means he believes she’s been abducted.

  The more crimes committed, the more chances there are of criminals making mistakes. I hope Gazala is returned safe and well but, if she isn’t, her death may prove useful in the most awful way. It’s crass and thoughtless of me I know. But if she is the next victim of whoever killed the Fourniers, her death may give us the clues we require to catch the killers. Having a second victim allows cross-referencing.

  I want to add investigating the missing girl to my list of things to do, but I can’t gamble on allocating the time until it’s known if she’s alive or dead.

  Sleep is starting to beckon me. I need it; my mind is travelling in circles and until I have more information I won’t be able to make sense of anything.

  34

  Noelle caresses her bump as she walks along the bank of the stream. Little Eduardo, or ‘Eddie’, is holding both her and Oscar’s hands. The sun is shining and the grass underfoot is lush and green. Oscar has proven to be a wonderful husband and father. Caring, devoted and selfless, he puts her and Eddie first every time. Life just couldn’t be any better. The one blot on the landscape is a barking dog. It’s not a welcoming bark, it’s one of protest. Of indignation.

  Her eyes snap open. She’s wide awake at once. The barking wasn’t in her dream. It’s Buster who’s barking. She suspects next door’s cat is sitting on the window ledge again.

  Oscar is dead to the world. He’s a heavy sleeper at the best of times, and the wine and beers her father kept pressing on him have taken their toll.

  Her feet grope for the slippers she keeps beside the bed. Buster’s barking ends with a strangled yelp.

  Her ears pick out heavy footsteps on the stairs. The noise is too great for it to be just one person. There are a few of them.

  Terrified, she leans across the bed and shakes Oscar but he’s too near unconsciousness to wake. For the first time in her life she wishes she owned a gun. She clenches a fist and punches his arm.

  He doesn’t react.

  A creak on the stairs tells her they’re near the top.

  She hasn’t time to start questioning who has invaded her home, or worry about what they’re after. Just so long as they take it and go without harming either her or Oscar she doesn’t care.

  A scream pierces the night air, startling her until she realises she’s the one who’s screaming. The volume and shrillness combine to raise Oscar from his slumber.

  ‘Huh. Wass goin’ on?’ Even as he’s speaking, Oscar snuggles himself comfortable.

  ‘We’re being burgled.’

  Her eyes search the starlit room for a weapon. Any weapon at all will do but the best she can find is Oscar’s tin of deodorant. If she can spray it in their eyes she may be able to fend them off while they take what they’ve come for.

  The bedroom door bursts open and a pair of flashlights shine right into her face. She turns away from the blinding lights. ‘Take whatever you want. Just please don’t hurt us.’

  She feels rough work gloves on her bare skin. Her arms are pinioned behind her back and fastened with tape. Another length of tape is used as a gag. She wants to fight back, to kick and thrash against her captors. Thoughts of the baby in her belly stop her.

  More than anything, she wishes she’d had the sense to shout that she had a gun. That would have stopped them. Kept her and Oscar safe.

  One man holds her while three others bind a still groggy Oscar with tape. The room isn’t dark enough for her to see the men properly. All she can tell is that they’re wearing ski masks.

  Their smell has invaded her home. It’s a pungent odour borne of unwashed bodies, stale smoke and a bad diet.

  Once they’ve bound Oscar, two of the men pick him up and head for the door. It’s at this point she realises what the men have come for.

  They’re not here to steal. They’re here to kidnap her and Oscar.

  She feels the prick of a knife in her back and hot breath at her ear. ‘Follow them. Be a good girl and don’t try to escape. If you do, it will go worse for your beaner lover. Do you understand me, bitch?’ The voice is muffled, as if there’s a hand over the speaker’s mouth.

  Noelle nods. Her brain is turning somersaults as it tries to work out what is happening. Why they’ve been kidnapped. Who the kidnappers are. Whether their families will be able to pay a ransom.

  35

  Eddy Hall ushers me into the boardroom of LH Associates. He’s too polite to show his displeasure at me interrupting the start of his day, yet I can tell I’m an inconvenience. Perhaps my standing outside the door with a cup of take-out coffee is too public for his sensibilities. Too bad.

  ‘What can I help you with?’ There’s a subtle edge to his voice. He’s saying one thing with his words and another with his tone. His glances towards the clock and his wristwatch are designed to let me know he’s a busy man.

  His workload or schedule isn’t my greatest concern. I’m trying to catch a gang of killers. Somehow I stop myself from pointing this out.

  ‘Darryl took a business trip to Vegas a few weeks ago. I’m told he went with some colleagues. I’d like to speak to them and find out why they went to Vegas.’

  Hall stops looking at the clock. He takes a seat and gestures I should too. ‘Ursula and I went to Vegas with him. There was a conference about employment law which is an area we’re considering branching into.’

  That he went has taken me by surprise but it shouldn’t have. Bosses are always the first to get the perks. ‘Who’s the Ursula, and can you ask her to join us?’

  ‘Ursula Clague. She’s the head of our acquisitions department.’ He uses the desk phone to summon her. His telephone voice shows deference.

  I wonder if she’s the one who Darryl caught syphilis from. Two co-workers on a junket to the most sinful of cities. It’s the oldest story in the book. A few drinks are consumed and they start to see each other in a different light. Before either realises what’s happening, they’re all hot and sweaty and naked together.

  One look at Ursula Clague kills this theory. She has a certain look of intolerance about her. Her eyes are small, beady and critical. When they flick over me they show disapproval.

  Ursula’s posture is statuesque in its rigidity. All things considered, Ms Rosenberg has the personality of a Playboy Bunny when compared to the stern features of Ursula Clague.

  ‘You asked to see me, Mr Hall.’ She keeps her eyes on me. Perhaps she’s trying to work out why I’m here. Her expression suggests she expects me to steal something.

  ‘I’m not going to insult either of you by asking you to keep what I say to yourselves. You’re both lawyers and understand the need for discretion. Blood from Darryl’s body was tested as a matter of course. It was found he’d contracted syphilis. A conversation with his doctor informed us Darryl had suspected he’d caught the disease in Vegas.’

  Ursula Clague gives a snort. ‘Well that doesn’t surprise me. That place is like a modern day Gomorrah. The only surprise is that Mr Fournier was fool enough to be seduced.’

  Her defence of Darryl makes me warm to her a little. She’s portrayi
ng him as a victim. As if no seductress can be refused. It’s unfair to speculate that nobody has ever tried to seduce her, but life is unfair and she comes across as a harridan. Besides, Gomorrah was nothing more than the blueprint for Las Vegas.

  Hall looks uneasy. He’s licking his lips and a sheen of sweat covers his brow. If he doesn’t look like a man with a guilty secret, no-one does. ‘Are you sure he caught syphilis in Vegas? Are you even sure it was on the trip with us?’

  ‘The dates match up.’ I look at them in turn. ‘Can either of you identify who he may have slept with?’

  I’m hoping it was another lawyer. Someone they’d met at the conference. Someone easy to trace. Both shake their heads and give negative answers.

  Hall is lying and he can tell I know it. His eyes flick at Ursula Clague and the door.

  He’s asking me not to push it until she’s left.

  Whatever he’s hiding will be told if I play the game.

  ‘Thank you very much for your time, Ms Clague.’ I rise and offer my hand. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed your day.’

  She retains her position a heartbeat too long before making for the door. It’s obvious she knows she’s been dismissed so the boys can talk. Her sensibilities are not my concern as she won’t be the hardest person in the world to offend.

  ‘Spill it.’ My words follow the click of the door catch by a fraction of a second. Eddy Hall isn’t the only one who needs to be somewhere else. I also want to let him know who’s in charge of the conversation.

  He glances at the seat his colleague has just vacated. ‘As you can imagine, Ms Clague isn’t the type of person who enjoys a trip to Las Vegas.’

  I nod agreement and gesture for him to continue.

  ‘On the last night, Darryl and I went to the Bellagio for a few games of roulette.’ He shrugs. ‘I hit a lucky streak and won a couple of grand. I had enough sense to cash it in and walk away before I lost it all again.’