Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) by Keith Houghton Page A

to be numb anymore.
     
    I sat outside Cedars-Sinai with the engine running. Squinting at the evidence bag from the van den Berg crime scene. Trying to make out the faded text on the newspaper clipping. The killer had left the torn photograph from the Samuels house with the little girl. Now he’d left this clipping on Marlene’s pillow. If there was a pattern here, why hadn’t he left something similar on Samuels himself?
     
    I got to the NBC4 News studios in Burbank at a little before 11 a.m.. I should have brought the Captain in on my activities. I didn’t.
     
    Kelly Carvelli is a striking African-American woman in the leaner end of her forties. Tall even in flats. We’ve been friends since the Star Strangled Banner Case a few years back. The case that won me my coveted title.
     
    ‘Won’t be a sec,’ she told me as I entered her office overlooking Johnny Carson Park.
     
    She was on the phone. Brokering world-breaking stories for her popular Channel 4 News slot. I closed the door quietly behind me. Pottered around while Kelly ran rings round her caller. There was an ant farm against one wall, away from the sunshine blazing in through the window. It always drew my eye. I went over. Watched the workers scurrying up and down their tunnels, while their queen made her deals from deep within the labyrinthine setup.
     
    ‘Gabe.’ Kelly said as she hung up. ‘What a pleasant surprise!’
     
    I came over. Shared a hug. Came away smelling of Chanel No . 5.
     
    ‘Sunlight looks good on you.’ I said with a smile.
     
    She smiled back without causing a crease. ‘Face fillers. Don’t be fooled. They plump everything out. Take years off. You wouldn’t believe.’
     
    ‘I could do with some of those.’
     
    ‘Hardly. How old are you now: forty-five, forty-six? And you’re still a catch.’
     
    ‘Fifty-one.’ I said. ‘And thanks for the compliment.’
     
    Kelly looked me over. It was a look I was getting a lot lately. Matronly.
     
    ‘It’s been a while,’ she said.
     
    ‘It has.’
     
    ‘How’ve you been? I heard you were back on the beat. Doesn’t seem like two minutes since …’ her words trailed off, as though she’d stumbled down an unfamiliar alleyway and sensed danger lurking in the shadows.
     
    ‘I’m still breathing,’ I said.
     
    She blinked. ‘That’s good. No, I mean, really good. Breathing counts. I recommend everyone do it. Regularly.’
     
    She gave me another squeeze just to be on the safe side. I let the warmth of it enclose.
     
    ‘Thanks, Kelly.’
     
    ‘You’re very welcome.’
     
    We sat down on a big sofa opposite the ant farm. The sunniest side of her office. It felt a world away from the 7th Street Bridge.
     
    Kelly patted my knee. ‘So, tell me: how’s the crime business these days?’
     
    I shrugged. ‘Busy, I guess. Dirty. Plagued with criminals. What about the news business?’
     
    ‘About the same.’
     
    We shared a laugh.
     
    ‘You need a favor, don’t you?’
     
    I smiled; Kelly could read all my moves.
     

    ‘No question you’ve got it,’ she continued without hesitation. ‘Just don’t let it cost me my job this time. Okay?’

 
    34
     
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    The house was as exactly as I’d left it. Doors locked. Drapes closed. One person’s dirty dishes in the dishwasher. A change of clothes hanging around in the closet.
     
    I dropped car keys on the table. Shucked off my coat. Deleted the silent recording on the answering machine.
     
    We are all creatures of habit.
     
    I went upstairs. Down the short hall. Placed a hesitant hand on the door knob of the master bedroom. Leaned my brow against the painted wood. Did my best to breathe away the terrible thoughts associated with the room. Couldn’t bring myself to turn the knob and go inside any more than I had done these last twelve months. I went back down the stairs instead.
     
    The hidden key was exactly where I’d left it. I used it to unlock the basement