Watch Me (6 page)

‘Hey, Barker, he could be talking about you,’ Romero called across the room.

‘My alibi’s solid,’ Barker shot back. ‘I was with your wife last night.’

‘You two knock it off.’ Shepherd turned to me. ‘Okay, what else have you got?’

‘That’s it for just now. I need to see the crime scene, or a body. Preferably both. You need to get every spare man you’ve got out there looking.’

‘Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe we’ll find this guy before he strikes again.’

‘And maybe the Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas do exist.’

Shepherd gave me a sharp look.

‘I don’t believe in luck. Never have, never will. Luck is the last resort of people who lack imagination. What I believe in is hard work. That’s how we’re going to catch this guy. Honest, hard work.’

Shepherd opened his mouth to say something, and I had a pretty good idea what was coming next. Over the years I’ve pissed off more than my share of authority figures, sometimes by design and sometimes by accident. This time it had been an accident. On the plus side, I’d just managed to find the limit of how far Shepherd could be pushed. Whenever I walked into a new situation I always liked to know where the lines were drawn.

‘Captain Shepherd,’ I said, respectful and compliant, like a good Boy Scout. ‘Can I have a quick word in your office?’

8

We headed next door in silence. Shepherd’s shoulders were tense, his movements stiff. He was pretty pissed, and understandably so. On the way out, Taylor caught my eye. His expression was neutral, but the cogs inside his head were spinning and his eyes were burning with questions. He must have been wondering what the hell I was up to.

Shepherd pulled the door closed behind us. He sat down at his desk and motioned for me to take the chair on the other side. A stroke of his neat moustache, then he locked eyes with mine.

‘The last resort of people who lack imagination?’

I met his gaze without flinching and said nothing.

‘I do not appreciate being made to look a fool in front of my men.’

‘I can assure you that was not my intention.’

‘Whether you intended it or not, that’s how it came across.’

‘I know. It’s just that sometimes I get so wrapped up in the case, I end up saying things without thinking. I didn’t mean any disrespect.’

Shepherd considered this for a moment, a heavy silence filling the space between us. He was still staring, and I was still meeting his eye.

‘You look at me and see a small-town cop who’s way out of his depth. And you know something, you’re right. I have no experience with something of this magnitude. No reference point. You, on the other hand, do. If the only way to catch this bastard is to cut you some slack, I’m prepared to cut as much as you need.’ A pause, another stroke of that neat moustache. His gaze drilled deep into me. ‘However, please do not disrespect me in front of my men again.’

‘Understood.’

Shepherd settled back in his chair and shook his head. ‘I just don’t get it. How can someone do something like this? Pour gasoline on a fellow human being then stand back and watch them burn? It’s sick.’ He shook his head again, looked at me. ‘How do you deal with this sort of stuff day in and day out and stay sane? How do you sleep at night?’

‘Whisky and sleeping tablets, and who says I’ve managed to stay sane?’

Shepherd almost laughed. ‘Does that work, the sleeping pills?’

‘Most of the time.’

‘All I want is for this nightmare to be over, and for things to get back to some semblance of normality.’

‘You and me both. You’re planning on buddying me up with Barker, aren’t you?’

‘He’s a good man. The best I’ve got.’

‘No, he’s not.’

‘He can run circles around Romero.’

‘I don’t doubt that for a second.’

‘So why would you want to work with Romero rather than Barker?’

It took a second for the penny to drop.

‘Because you don’t want to work with either of them. You want Taylor.’

I nodded.

‘Why? He’s just a rookie. Barker has seventeen years’ experience on him.’

‘I have my reasons.’

‘And I’d like to hear those reasons.’

‘You spoke earlier about cutting me some slack.’ I smiled. ‘It’s time to start cutting.’

‘Okay, you can have Taylor. But if you change your mind, I can get Barker assigned to you.’

‘I’m not going to change my mind. Taylor’s my wingman on this one.’ I got up to leave, stopped at the door. ‘One more thing. I don’t suppose you know his first name?’

9

Taylor didn’t say a word all the way to the car. He didn’t say a word when he started up the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. We cruised in silence along Main Street, past the municipal buildings and that tall white statue of the stern-looking man, the engine rumbling, smooth pavement sliding away beneath our tyres. Traffic was light and it only took a couple of minutes to reach the Imperial Hotel at the south end of the street. Taylor killed the engine.

‘At some point you’re going to have to tell me what you’re up to,’ he said.

‘You’re right. But now isn’t the time.’

I opened the passenger door, stepped out into the heat, then leant back into the open doorway, careful to avoid the hot metal.

‘I need you to sit tight while I go and check in.’

Taylor nodded to my suitcase on the back seat. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘No.’ I banged the door shut.

Because of the geography, the Imperial Hotel was one of the newer buildings on Main Street, dating back to sometime around the mid-twentieth century. The really old buildings were the ones surrounding the town square. As you moved outwards the buildings got progressively newer, as dictated by the rules that governed the slow crawl of urban sprawl. Even though the Imperial had first opened its doors just after the Second World War, those windows still gleamed and the facade was shining like it was new.

A blast of cool air hit me as I stepped from the outside brightness into the tomblike gloom created by the hotel’s heavy stonework. I pushed my sunglasses up onto the top of my head and made my way to the reception desk. There was worn dark wood everywhere and the lights were shielded by green shades. The carpet was red and gold, but repeated cleaning had dulled the colours. The outside of the building might have suggested the 1950s, but inside it was 1850.

It took a couple of minutes to go through the check-in procedure. When we were done the concierge handed me a key with a wooden fob that had
The Senator’s Suite
carved into it.

I have two conditions when I take a case. The first condition is that I get a suite rather than a room. This went back to my FBI days. Despite that multibillion-dollar annual budget, federal agents still had to watch the nickels and dimes. I’d seen the inside of more cheap motel rooms than I care to remember, and that was enough of a reason to insist on a suite. Being a nomad doesn’t mean you have to live in a tent.

The second condition was a bottle of single malt. Anything over twelve years was acceptable, but eighteen years plus was preferable.

I told the guy at the desk that my luggage would be along later, then headed back outside and climbed into the passenger seat. Taylor had kept the engine running, and the air-conditioning was turned to full. He was watching stick figures being massacred on his cellphone.

‘Tommy Taylor. Someone your size, that would be suitably embarrassing. Little Tommy Taylor. Kind of rolls off the tongue, don’t you think?’

He closed his phone and put it away. ‘So Shepherd wasn’t able to help you out?’

‘Who said I asked Shepherd?’

Taylor raised an eyebrow.

‘I’m going to need a different hotel.’

‘Why? This one’s the best in town.’

‘I know, and as far as your work buddies are concerned this is where I’m staying.’

‘You want me to lie.’

‘Only if they ask.’

‘And I’m guessing you’re still not ready to talk.’

‘Soon. So, do you know another place or not? I’m looking for quiet and anonymous. Somewhere they don’t ask too many questions.’

‘Yeah, I know a place.’

Taylor put the car into gear and pulled away from the sidewalk. Fifty yards on he hung a right, and five minutes later we reached the railroad line. The car bumped gently over the tracks, the heavy chassis rising up before settling back on its shocks.

The roads in this part of town were still in good condition, but they weren’t as pristine as Main Street. There was the occasional pothole, and the occasional stray piece of litter blew through like a tumbleweed. The state of the houses was consistent with what you’d expect to find in a relatively prosperous white-collar neighbourhood. Some were cared for like palaces. Paintwork in good order, grass neatly mowed and a flag drooping from a pole in the airless afternoon. Others were crumbling wrecks with overgrown lawns, missing roof tiles, and paintwork that was worn back to the wood. Most fell somewhere between those two extremes.

Morrow Street was lined with bars on both sides, grey two-storey buildings with dark windows. Interspersed amongst these were a couple of guesthouses and diners. Mostly it was just bars, though. This was the dark heart of Eagle Creek. Every town had one, because every town needed one. This was a place where a college kid could get served with ID that was obviously faked, a place where a horny guy with a pocketful of cash could find some relief. If you wanted to score some weed, this was the place to come.

We pulled up outside a guesthouse two-thirds of the way along the street. The door and window frames were bright red, a splash of colour in amongst all the grey.
Hannah’s Place
was painted in red on the sign above the door, the letters swirly and flamboyant. I got out of the car, retrieved my suitcase and laptop bag from the back. Taylor took the case from me and I followed him across the sidewalk.

It had just gone four and Morrow Street was deserted. The place had a desolate, lonely feel, like a film set that was about to be dismantled. A couple of bars were advertising Happy Hour from 5.30 ’til 7.30. Bad math aside, that was when the area would start to come alive. By nine o’clock enough alcohol would have been consumed to get the place really rocking. I wasn’t expecting things to get busy this evening. A Wednesday night the day after a brutal murder, everyone would be staying away in droves.

The inside of the guesthouse was cool, clean and spacious. The scuffed red and white floor tiles were laid out like a chessboard, and there was a faint smell of lemons in the air. A red leather sofa had been pushed into the nook below the staircase. The Fifties Americana feel was enhanced by the black and white stills from old Hollywood that hung on the walls. Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis. Rock Hudson and Doris Day. Paul Newman. Marlon Brando. We walked over to reception and Taylor dinged the old-fashioned brass bell.

‘One second,’ a voice called from the back room.

The girl who followed the voice into the room was in her early to mid-twenties but looked at least thirty. Her hands had seen their share of hard work, and she was lean from being busy rather than hours spent in a gym.

She had big brown fawn eyes, and her blonde hair was short and spiky. Piercings in her ears and nose, and a baggy Gutterpigs T-shirt. It looked like she’d cut her hair herself. It was a practical style for someone who didn’t have any spare hours in the day. No time wasted in beauty parlours. No time wasted brushing it through. No time wasted, period, because time was precious.

I subscribed to a similar school of thought. My hair was a scruffy white mess that hung to my shoulders. Getting ready meant scrubbing a hand across my head a couple of times after I’d gotten out the shower.

The girl saw Taylor and her smile made the years melt away. For a brief moment she looked her real age. There was an understated beauty there that a tough life had tried hard to steal away.

‘Hey, Hannah.’

‘Hey, Taylor.’

Taylor turned to me. ‘Jefferson Winter meet Hannah Hayden.’ He turned to the girl. ‘Hannah meet Jefferson Winter.’

‘Cool name,’ I said. ‘You’re a palindrome.’

She smiled. ‘I can honestly say that’s the first time anyone’s called me that.’

‘Winter needs a room.’

‘Well he’s in luck, since that’s what we do here.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any suites?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, they’re all up on the third floor. They’ve got great views.’

‘Since there are only two floors, I’ll take that as a “no”.’

‘I could give you our best room. It’s no suite, but it does have its own bathroom.’

‘Chocolates on the pillows?’

Hannah raised an eyebrow.

‘How about a candy bar, then? It’s been a while since lunch and my blood sugar level is starting to dip.’

She gave me the look, then shrugged. ‘I don’t have any chocolates, but I’m sure I can find you a candy bar.’

‘In that case you’ve got a deal.’

Hannah looked me up and down and reeled off a price that was probably twenty per cent higher than the going rate. I paid for two nights in advance, then put down an extra hundred and turned it so Benjamin Franklin was staring straight at her.

‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention to anyone that I’m staying here.’

‘Sure.’ The money disappeared.

She handed me the key and Taylor grabbed my suitcase before I could get to it. He led the way up to the second floor and we walked along a narrow corridor to the door at the far end. Hannah was right. The room was no suite. But it was clean and tidy, and the mattress was firm, and there were no alien life forms growing in the bathroom. It would never feature in my top ten, it probably wouldn’t even figure in my top fifty, but I’d stayed in a hell of a lot worse.

The drapes were pulled to keep the heat out and the way the material glowed reminded me of a Chinese lantern. Taylor had dumped my case on the bed and was standing there staring at me.

‘I want answers, Winter.’

‘I’m betting you do. If you didn’t, it would mean I’ve completely misjudged you.’

‘Seriously, I want some answers.’