Authors: Kate Kinsey

Red (31 page)

“Is that supposed to scare me? I’ve got a hostage here, so you better keep away from me!”

“I was just telling you the situation.”

Hanson walked back into the hallway on the balls of his feet, edging closer to Billy’s voice. “You’re in control right now, we all know that.”

“Damned right.”

“Just tell me what you want, Billy.”

Hanson pressed himself up against the wall and held out the mirror. He angled it, hoping to get a glimpse of Billy’s position in the room.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Billy shouted.

“I’m just trying to see if Cherry is okay—”

He could see one wall . . . the edge of the bed . . .

And, finally, Cherry’s terrified face as Billy Knoll stood behind her with an arm around her throat.

Then he saw the faint ghost of Gina’s face in the window behind Billy just as a gun blasted and glass shattered.

Cherry screamed, and she kept screaming as Hanson stepped into the room. Bits of brain and bone were clinging to her face and hair.

Billy Knoll lay in a heap on the floor.

Half of his head was blown away, but one eye stared up malevolently, then began to twitch. Gurgling sounds came from deep in his throat.

Hanson kicked the gun away from the body, and took Cherry by the shoulders.

“It’s all over. Come on. Don’t look at him, just come on out of here . . .”

Griggs was in the doorway.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “He dead?”

“RFD,” Hanson said, steering Cherry through the door. “Real fuckin’ dead.”

Officer Jamison was on the front porch, looking so scared that Hanson almost felt sorry for him. But any sympathy for the young officer was short-lived. It was partly his fault that a man was dead and that Cherry was covered in his blood. He hoped that Jamison had pissed himself.

“Take her down to the ambulance, will you?” Hanson said, pushing Cherry gently in his direction. “If you think you can do that without losing her.”

Cherry moved like a sleepwalker down the front steps, clutching Officer Jamison’s arm. The paramedics were already running toward the house with a gurney.

Gina came around the corner of the house.

“Christ,” Hanson said, wiping his mouth and beginning to feel slightly sick as the adrenaline began to fade. “Goddamn it! Did you have to blow his head off?”

“I had a shot,” she said evenly. “I took it.”

“You coulda killed Cherry! Or me!” Hanson wanted to shake her.

“But I didn’t.”

How could she stand there looking so goddamned calm? She had broken basic rules of procedure, specifically the one that said you didn’t shoot when another officer was in your line of fire.
Goddamnit!
The bullet could very easily have gone through Knoll and into him. And a shot through a window? She was too smart to have taken such a risk.

Hanson held out his hand and she laid the gun in it.

“Shit,” he muttered. “How am I gonna explain this to Daubs?”

Chapter 37

The motive forces of phantasies are unsatisfied wishes, and every single phantasy is the fulfillment of a wish, a correction of unsatisfying reality.

—S
IGMUND
F
REUD

D
aubs got there just behind the ambulance, before the CSU or coroner showed up. Damn, Hanson thought. What was he doing, monitoring dispatch?

The chief looked like hell. He needed a shave for one thing, and a couple of breath mints wouldn’t have hurt, either. But he seemed oddly energized, and Hanson was wary.

He paced down the sidewalk, away from the ambulance, motioning Hanson to follow.

“What in
blazes
was
she
doing here in the first place?”

“It’s her house.”

“You
deliberately
ignored a direct order that she stay
out
of this!”

“What I
did
was close the case. Sir.”

Not to mention saving the taxpayers the cost of a trial, Hanson thought.

Daubs slumped against the hood of the cruiser and stared at the crime tape being strung around the bungalow. At both ends of the street, cruisers were blocking access, but neighbors stood on the sidewalk, gawking.

Hanson had a whole speech prepared about how they’d never have broken the case without Gina, how she’d put in countless hours to bring a serial killer to justice without even getting paid for it—

But what Daubs said next made Hanson’s brain freeze. “It would be best if we finesse the story a bit.
She
didn’t do the shooting. It would be better if Griggs took the credit.”

Did he really mean credit, or blame?

It wouldn’t be the first time the department bent the truth a little. Usually for a good cause. And this was a good cause, wasn’t it? Rewriting history would uncomplicate things, keep Gina out of a sticky investigation, maybe even jail time. She was a civilian who’d blown a suspect’s head off.

Still, it made Hanson queasy.

“Sometimes it’s better,” Daubs continued, “not to ask too many questions,
understand
?”

Hanson nodded cautiously.

“I’m not
entirely
unhappy that we’ll be spared a potentially embarrassing public trial dragging
innocent
people through the mud.”

Innocent people meant Roger and Marla Banks. Daubs didn’t give a damn about Robyn, Quinn, Cassandra, or Randall Heeler.

“
Nobody
talks to the press. I want this to go away as quickly as possible. Do
whatever
you need to do to make it happen. Whatever it takes.”

He locked eyes with Hanson, and Hanson knew this wasn’t just the chief’s usual bluster. He meant it.

What exactly did he mean,
Whatever it takes
?

Hanson thought he knew. Daubs was telling him to make sure everyone had their stories straight. Putting Gina’s Beretta in Griggs’s hand, and finding a credible way of explaining why he hadn’t used his usual sidearm. And doing it fast, before CSU arrived.

He meant convincing Gina that she’d merely been an observer with no knowledge of what had gone down.

“There’s a lot of glory to be had here,” Daubs said. “And personal credit in the favor bank.
Don’t
screw it up.”

He looked up as Louise Fortner dropped a report on the desk in front of him.

“You’re here early,” he said. It was six a.m. Griggs had only left a few hours before, and Gina was at her house, probably trying to get the bloodstains out of her nice oak floorboards. “Or are you on nights, now?”

Hanson was still at his desk, going through his notes and reports for the thousandth time, wondering if the story they’d pieced together would hold.

“I don’t even know what shift I’m on,” Fortner said, frowning. “Or what day it is. Daubs told me not to go home until I processed all the stuff from your shitstorm last night. He said nobody but me should handle anything.”

“That’s job security, at least.”

“It’s too early for jokes. Or too late. But the next time Griggs blows the head off a high-profile suspect, tell him to do it earlier in the day.”

The lies were already making their way through the system. Hanson couldn’t meet her eyes.

“So, what have you got for me?” he asked instead. He picked up the report—marked PRELIMINARY in big capital letters—and tried to read the first page. His eyes didn’t want to focus.

“What
you’ve
got are problems, Hanson.”

“What kind of problems?” His body tensed.

“We found some trace at the other scenes,” she said, sitting on the corner of the desk. “You know, blood that didn’t belong to the victim—”

“Right. We just never had anything to match it to.”

It was hard to butcher someone while they struggled, even weakly, without nicking oneself in the process. He knew CSU had DNA from blood—and sweat—from some of the crime scenes. Not much, but then it didn’t take much.

“We still don’t have anything to match it to,” Fortner said.

Hanson’s chest constricted. He shook his head, certain he must have misheard her.

“Knoll’s DNA doesn’t match,” Fortner repeated. “He didn’t do the murders. At least, not the first two. Not Banks or Macy.”

“Double check it.” Hanson rubbed his palm over his heart, feeling the band around his chest tightening.

“I did. Three times. And it gets worse.”

“Fuck!” Hanson’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “How can it possibly get any worse?”

Hanson stared at her, realized that Fortner looked almost as miserable as he felt, and wondered why. She hadn’t just told fifty lies to tidy up the death of a man who was now no longer their prime suspect.

“The boots we took from Knoll’s place?” Fortner continued. “Wrong size, and the tread pattern doesn’t match.”

They both sat there, saying nothing for a seemingly endless moment.

“So you’re telling me there’s nothing to put Knoll at the scene on any of the murders?” Hanson said finally.

“Nada. But he wasn’t totally innocent,” she said. “I mean, he did rape that girl and he was probably going to kill her, right?”

“We still have a serial killer out there.” Hanson cradled his head in his hands. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . .”

He ran his hands through his hair and straightened.

“Don’t mention this to anybody yet,” he said. “Please.”

“I can give you twenty-four hours, no problem. I rushed this because I knew you’d want it for the press release.”

“Aw, shit,” Hanson groaned. “The press.”

“And I’ll try to hide it from Creepy.”

“Creepy? Why?”

“You didn’t know?” Fortner gave a bitter little bark of laughter. “He’s in Daubs’s pocket. That’s why he’s always creeping around the lab, messing with stuff that isn’t any of his business.”

“The DNA,” Hanson said in desperation. “You found it in all the crime scenes?”

“Well, no. Just on Banks and Robyn Macy. You saw the mess. I was lucky to find anything.”

“So it’s possible that it could be a fluke? The DNA wasn’t from the killer at all?”

Fortner frowned.

“Yeah, and it’s possible there really is a Santa Claus. But I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Look at everything again, will you? Please?
Please
?”

“Hanson, there isn’t anything else—”

“Please, I’m begging you.”

“All right.” She sighed. “I’ll look.”

Hanson’s eyes were burning and his head hurt like a mother, so he took a half hour nap in the bunkroom before going back to his desk.

He had to find something that would link Knoll to the murders before breaking the news to Daubs. But he could find nothing new in his notes.

Then again, he was so tired he wasn’t sure he’d see a giant pink elephant if it stood on his desk.

He pulled the stack of phone records in front of him. He did have one thing now they hadn’t had before—Knoll’s cell phone number. He and Griggs had looked for duplications, and there were some numbers that had crossed over. Marla had talked to her husband, of course, but she’d also talked to Cherry and Cassandra. Cassandra had talked to Quinn. Robyn had talked to Roger and Cherry. Hell, Roger and Cassandra both had calls to Daubs, for Christ’s sake—

555-7286.

He looked down and realized he was looking at Robyn Macy’s LUDs.

555-7286.

He took out his phone and punched in the number.

Just to be sure.

“This is Milton Daubs. I’m not available to take your call but if you—”

Chapter 38

I am ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love and obey . . .
And place your hands below your husband’s foot:
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready; may it do him ease.

—W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE
,
The Taming of the Shrew

H
e went to Daubs’s office on the fourth floor with the LUD printout still in his fist.

“I need to see the chief.”

“He’s not in right now,” Sandy, his secretary, said without looking up from her computer screen.

“He was here thirty minutes ago,” Hanson said, wiping his mouth in frustration.

Daubs had stalked into Hanson’s office around 8:30 a.m., demanding to see Hanson’s report. Hanson was on his third draft by then, but Daubs had taken a pencil, crossed out a line or two, and handed it back to him.

“He went across the street for a bagel,” Sandy said, looking over the top of her bifocals. “You can wait in his office if you want. He should be right back.”

There had to be a rational explanation for Daubs’s phone number appearing on Robyn Macy’s LUDs. But Hanson was damned if he could come up with a single one that made any sense.

He collapsed in one of the chairs facing the chief’s desk and looked at the printout again, as if the numbers would suddenly rearrange themselves.

An affair? Even if Daubs, Mr. Morality himself, was cheating on his wife, the odds of his other woman being one of the murder victims were astronomical.

“You want some coffee while you wait?” Sandy called.

“No, thanks.” He’d had too much coffee already, and his stomach was awash in acid.

The wall behind Daubs’s desk was devoted to professional vanity. Plaques for service and honors from local charities were interspersed with photos. Hanson had seen them all before, but now they annoyed him more than ever.

Daubs shaking hands with the mayor; Daubs at a charity golf event with several gray-haired titans of local commerce; Daubs with the fire chief, Floyd Haggard; Daubs with the Honorable William H. Denton, his father-in-law. . .

Hanson stood up and moved closer for a better look at the man responsible for Gina’s fall from grace.

In the photo, the governor had one arm around Daubs and another around a matronly brunette. Hanson recognized Daubs’s wife, Linda.

Linda had her hand resting on the shoulder of a teenage boy.

It was Jason.

Jason . . .
Daubs?

Shit—

“Do you want me to give him a message?” Sandy called as Hanson jogged past.

He didn’t bother to answer.

Damn it, damn it, damn it!
Hanson castigated himself mentally as he drove, too fast, to Daubs’s house.

The clues that somehow Daubs was linked to this mess had been there since the beginning, but he’d been too distracted by his personal demons to pay attention. And he’d been too jealous of Gina’s boy toy to even consider that Jason might have anything to do with the case.

Linda Daubs opened the front door.

Hanson pulled his face into what he hoped was an easy smile and tried to sound as if his own pulse wasn’t galloping full speed.

“Mrs. Daubs? I’m Detective Tom Hanson—”

“Of course. I remember you from the Christmas party.” Linda smiled. “Are you looking for my husband? I’m afraid he’s not here—”

Hanson threw the dice and prayed that this wasn’t going to blow up in his face. But there was nothing else to do, consequences be damned.

“Actually, I was hoping I could talk to your son.”

“Jason? Why do you want to talk to Jason?”

He noticed, too late, that Linda’s eyes were red, her face puffy as if she’d been crying.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just allergies.” The smile was brittle and didn’t reach her eyes.

“I really need to speak with Jason,” Hanson repeated.

“He’s not here.” The smile faltered and crumpled.

“I recognize his Jeep in the driveway, ma’am. This is really important—”

Linda tried to shut the door, but he pushed his way in.

“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t come in here!”

Jason was coming down the stairs, struggling with a big duffel bag over one shoulder. He saw Hanson and stopped.

Jason’s left eye was swollen almost shut, and there was an enormous bruise on the other cheek as well. His lip was split, and his right arm was in a cast.

“Did your father do that to you?” Hanson asked quietly.

Jason came to the bottom of the steps.

“You can’t be here!” Linda’s voice became a desperate whisper. “My husband won’t like you being here!”

“Does he beat you, too? Or just your son?”

“Jason had an accident.” Linda’s voice trembled with the lie. “It was just an accident, that’s all.”

“Mom, I’m not covering for him anymore,” Jason said. “I’m done, and I’m out of here.”

The boy’s eyes swiveled from his mother to Hanson.

“If you wanna talk, you better make it fast,” he said. “I don’t wanna be here when that bastard comes home.”

“When did you get that beating?” Hanson asked.

“Yesterday. Could you give me a hand with this?”

Hanson took the bag and followed Jason to the Jeep in the driveway. Jason wasn’t moving very fast, and Hanson wondered what other injuries were hidden under his T-shirt and jeans.

There were already boxes and another suitcase in the back of the Jeep.

“Was this the first time?” Hanson hefted the duffel bag into the passenger seat.

“No.” Jason’s voice was flat with the faintest edge of bitterness. “My dad is a firm believer in corporal punishment, which makes all this pretty fuckin’ ironic.”

“So it’s about the kink stuff.” It was more statement than question.

“Bingo.” Jason leaned against the Jeep with a deep sigh. “When I was little, it was just hand spanking for breaking any of his ten thousand rules.

“As I got older, he switched to a belt and then his fraternity paddle.” Jason gave a brittle laugh. “He’s been trying to beat the pervert out of me since I was twelve, and he found me tying shoelaces around my dick.”

Hanson tried to imagine what it had been like for Jason. Hell, most likely, but then it had to have been hell for Daubs as well. His only son was what Daubs hated most: a pervert.

“Why didn’t you leave before now?”

“I have left,” Jason said. “He always bribed me to come home. Bribes or blackmail. The last time I moved out and stayed with Kitty for about six months. But he refused to pay my college tuition until I came back. I’ve only got a semester left. I thought I could get through it. But the past couple of months, he’s just gone crazy. He’s lost it.”

“How crazy is he, Jason?”

Jason looked at his feet.

Hanson could hardly think it, let alone say it. God only knew how hard it was for Jason.

“Were you close to Roger Banks?” Hanson asked.

“He was my godfather,” Jason said dully.

“And Roger knew about you and the kinky stuff?”

Jason nodded, then hastily wiped eyes that had grown suspiciously bright.

“Uncle Roger probably saved my life. You know what autoerotic asphyxia is?”

“It’s hanging yourself to get off, isn’t it? People die that way.”

“Uncle Roger caught me doing it in his garage when I was fifteen. He sat me down and talked to me. He understood.”

Jason sucked in a shaky breath.

“I thought I was defective, sick. If I hadn’t killed myself accidentally with the hanging, I might have killed myself deliberately without Uncle Roger.”

Hanson could almost hear the clicks as, one by one, pieces fell into place. All the murders had begun with this one miserable boy and his fucked-up father.

“Roger Banks introduced you to the community, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. First, just Lady Cassandra. She knew about the autoerotic stuff that Uncle Roger didn’t. When I was legal age, he and Aunt Marla took me to the club with them—”

“When did your father find this out?”

Jason’s eyes were wet and pleading:
Don’t make me say it.

“About two months ago,” Jason said softly. “Christ, I can’t even think about it without wanting to throw up. It’s all my fault. My father found out about Lady Cassandra. He had hired a private detective to follow me because he’d found some books hidden under my mattress.

“He made me stop seeing Lady Cassandra. I think he threatened to arrest her if she came near me again. I stayed away for a while, from her and the club. I didn’t want to get anybody else into trouble. But Lady Gee—”

Jason broke off, as if suddenly realizing who he was talking to. His face flushed with color and he shook his head miserably.

“I couldn’t stay away from her. She’s in my head and my heart and I didn’t want to stay away from her. You understand that, right? You understand what that’s like?”

Hanson opened his mouth, intending to explain that his relationship with Gina wasn’t like that . . . But who was he kidding? In his own way, Hanson was as much Gina’s slave as this beautiful, bruised boy was.

Again Jason swiped a hand over his eyes. He sniffed, then squared his shoulders, and when he spoke again, his voice was harder.

“That was the first time my father didn’t use the paddle. He used his fists. Uncle Roger was furious, said he had to put a stop to it.”

“Do you know
when
he talked to your dad?”

Hanson knew what Jason was going to say, but he still couldn’t believe it. Hanson could hardly breathe, terrified of hearing the words that would change everything.

“The day before Uncle Roger was killed.” Jason broke, sobbing. “Oh, Christ, I think that bastard killed him.”

Hanson called Gina first, but her phone rolled over to voice mail immediately. He turned the car toward her house and then punched speed dial for Griggs.

“Where are you?”

“Hello and good day to you, too, buddy,” Griggs drawled. “Where the hell are—”

“No time for bullshit. Where’s Gee?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Gee, damn it?”

“I don’t know! Tell me what’s—”

“We got it all wrong. Knoll was not our guy. It’s Daubs!”

“Right. You almost had me, you asshole—”

“Shut up and listen to me! Jason, the boy toy? That’s Jason Daubs! He’s the chief’s son.”

“Holy shit.” Griggs’s voice was hushed and strained.

“The kid’s on his way to the coffee shop around the corner right now. I told him you’d meet him there—”

“Okay—”

“You need to get a statement from him, but keep Daubs away from him! Get to a judge for a restraining order, but mostly don’t let him out of your sight. It sounds like Daubs has snapped, and who knows what the fuck he might do.”

“What are you gonna do?” Griggs asked.

“I gotta find Gee first and make sure she’s all right. Then we need to get a warrant to arrest Daubs and search his house.”

“Oh, fuck, this is gonna be a cluster-fuck. Are you sure about this?”

“Yes!”

“All right. I’m on my way now. I’ll take care of Jason, you just find Gee.”