Dead of Knight (34 page)

“All right.” The guy’s nametag identified him as Morgan, Assistant Manager. Morgan sat in front of a computer terminal and began typing. “I’m sorry, but there’s no Campbell staying with us.”

“What about your other local branches?” Gooch asked.

“Nope.”

“Try a company system-wide search for a Damian Knight,” Staal asked.

“Okay.” Morgan typed for almost a minute and then raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Knight is staying with us here tonight in room 317.”

Staal took the door keycard for 317. Gooch told two of the patrol officers to take the south stairway and sent the other two across the length of the hotel to the north stairs just in case. With cops in each exit route, Campbell couldn’t escape without jumping from three floors.  

As Staal and Gooch rode the elevator to the third floor, Staal heard a faint cry of a child. Soon the sound grew louder.

“You hear that, Rachael?” Staal asked.

“Hear what?”

“Nothing, I guess. You ready to take this little prick?” Staal knew he shouldn’t have asked about the sound. He knew the crying child was a phantom that only he could to hear. He blamed Campbell, the hit and run, and Wendy Reynolds reminding him of a young Rebecca Reynolds wailing at her father’s funeral. 

“Yeah, let’s end this shit now.”

As Staal and Gooch stepped out of the elevator on the third floor, a woman brushed by Staal and stepped into the car. Something about the way she moved disturbed Staal, but he couldn’t place what was wrong about the tall blonde. Staal paused and turned to look at the woman, but she was already gone.

“You coming?” Gooch said.

“Yeah, sure.”

Staal rapped on the door to 317, paused, and then slide the keycard through the lock-reader. The light on the reader changed from red to green as the lock clicked open.

Gooch tapped the door enough to open it about two inches and yelled, “Nathan Campbell—Hanson Police!”

The detectives drew their weapons and Gooch knelt next to Staal with her Glock at the ready. Staal kicked the door open. All six cops burst into the room and spread out across the bedroom/ living room area. The room had two double beds, the usual TV tower-honor bar combo, loveseat, table, and two chairs. Gooch headed for the bathroom, while Staal rolled both beds over to reveal a condom rapper and dust-bunnies.

“Bathroom’s clear!” Gooch called.

Staal looked out the suite’s window and noticed that there was no balcony. He then picked up the phone and pushed the redial button. He quickly received Denise Hallman’s machine. “He was here.”

Staal walked around the suite, saw nothing in the wastebasket, then opened the honor bar and put on latex gloves when he found a hand written note.

“From Campbell?” Gooch asked.

“Yeah,” Staal read the note aloud. “Dear Jack, Perhaps a drink would wash away the taste of failure. Sorry I wasn’t in when you dropped by. Nice going, scaring my 80 year old mother and her twin to learn my whereabouts. When will you realize that you and I are on the same side? Perhaps the Marshalls will have better luck, as you appear to be a few steps behind.  Bye for now. Got to fly.  Sincerely, D.K.

Staal read the note again and felt his temperature rise. He unfolded the sheet fully and noticed at the bottom of the page was a lipstick kiss, as though a woman had blotted her make-up.

“Shit! Fuck!” Staal yelled.

“What?” Gooch reached for the note.

“That blonde in the hallway was Campbell in drag,” Staal said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, look.” Staal pointed to the lipstick on the page.

“Shit! You noticed something about her, didn’t you?”

Staal nodded. “Let’s go talk to that manager again.”

Morgan rolled his eyes when he saw Staal and Gooch approaching the desk.

“Is there a Best Western near Abbottsford International?” Staal asked Morgan.

“Yes, of course. The Best Western Regency Inn is five miles from YAX,” Morgan said.

“What’s the address?”

“32110 Marshall Road, Abbottsford.”

“That’s it.” Staal read the note once more. “Can you tell me who is staying in room 108 at the Regency inn?”

“Yes, I suppose.” Morgan typed on the keyboard. “This is very irregular.”

He sighed, ran his hand over his beard, and then said, “108 is vacant and is listed as out-of-service for maintenance.”

“Huh?”

Another sigh. “The room was soiled or damaged in some way,” Morgan said.

“Okay, try 208.” Staal said. His mind a blur of thoughts.

“Is this really necessary?” Morgan flailed his hands.

“Just do it.” Gooch ordered.

“A Ms. Angela Collins is staying in that room.”

“Good. Write the address down for me, Morgan.” Staal set the cardkey for 317 on the desk. Angela Collins was Dickson Collins’ wife.

Morgan handed Staal a business card from the Regency Inn and said, “Should I call over there and inform management that the police will be arriving?”

“No,” Gooch said. “That won’t be necessary.”

Staal drove to 32110 Marshall Road under full lights and siren. He knew in his heart that Campbell was long gone, but he had no choice but to check out the Regency Inn.

“Jack, how did you figure it out, room 208 and all? You got the airport from ‘Got to fly’, but how did you know the note held clues? ” Gooch asked.

“Well, I know his mother isn’t eighty and that got me thinking that the note was more than a taunt. I just started to put it together.” Staal knew that this second effort would end up like the first, with an empty room, and another taunt from Campbell.

Gooch didn’t have as much trouble with the desk manager of the Regency Inn as Staal had with Morgan. The Regency Inn was a brand-new building, featuring in-room Internet and HD television.

The detectives took the main stairs to the second floor.

“We should call Abby PD,” Gooch said.

“We don’t have time...if Campbell gets on a plane!”

Gooch with her weapon drawn keyed the door to 208 a second before Staal kicked it open. The detectives used the same technique as before, with Gooch taking the bathroom while Staal checked the main living area. The living room was clear.

“Staal!” Gooch yelled.

Staal jogged to the bathroom and found Gooch kneeling over the motionless form of a Latino female who was gagged and blindfolded with tape and tie-strapped to a room chair.

“Jesus, is she gone?” Staal asked.

Gooch had her hand to the woman’s neck searching for a pulse. “No, she has a good rhythm. She’s been Tasered at least twice, though.” Gooch pulled the duct-tape from the woman’s mouth and carefully stripped another shred from the woman’s eyes. “I’ll call an ambulance!”

Staal worked at the plastic binds with his pocketknife. Staal saw the horror in the woman’s eyes and spoke to her. “It’s okay, ma’am. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Gooch spoke to the woman in Spanish and learned that her name was Maria Estavez and she was a chambermaid in the hotel. Maria said that a woman stayed in the hotel for two nights before the man attacked her from the bathroom. Maria said that she was sure that her attacker was the man from TV, Birthday Boy.   

Staal walked around the room once more, looking for clues as to where Campbell had gone. The room was empty except for some fast-food containers in the trash. The EMT’s arrived and said that although Maria was fine, she might need treatment for shock.

When Maria was lifted and placed on a stretcher, Staal noticed the note taped between her shoulder blades. He pulled it off, called Gooch, and read the note aloud.

“Good work, Jack. You are a topnotch investigator. Unfortunately, I’m that much better. What, did you stop for some Mickey-D’s? Anyway, I’m checking my list, and I have to get my motor running. Perhaps you and the boss lady need a vacation—mom says cruises are great. Lots of food, drink and salty fresh air. You need a hobby, Jack—my Dad liked to gulf. Try fishing for Salmon—or perhaps you’d prefer something bigger—like a whale? Good luck & take care. D.K.”

Knight drove the rental Dodge Caliber away from Hertz and down the onramp for Highway 1 West. He was dressed as Angela Collins, and worried that people would notice that he wasn’t really female. He didn’t like working in drag, but he did not hate it, either. Staal and the cops had his drivers’ license photo, sketch artist drawings, and computer mock-ups of him as Damian Knight on every news broadcast running all day. The Collins outfit didn’t bolster his self-esteem and confidence in the same way the Knight costume did, but it would keep him safe from the police.

His road trip would take him down the highway until he literally ran out of road and hit the ocean. He stayed on H1, crossed the Second Narrows Bridge into North Vancouver, took the Upper Levels Highway through West Van until he saw signs for the Horseshoe Bay ferry terminal. Horshoe Bay was a sleepy village of high priced homes and shops that catered to tourists and ferry passengers waiting for their departure time.

At the terminal, he paid the fare and parked the Caliber in the line up. He got out of the rental and walked around the shopping centre. This was more than a move to stretch his legs; he wanted to see if he attracted attention dressed as a woman. He believed that he could pass as female as long as nobody looked at him too closely. He had shaved his arms and legs, painted his fingernails a dark red and practiced facial make up for days before he began his mission. The blonde wig was gone, traded for a medium length brunette and a B-cup bra stuffed with gel falsies gave him a more womanly shape.

The afternoon sun was getting warmer by the minute. Knight needed something to drink. The Cheesecake Café sold pastries and coffee to customers in the ferry lineup. Ordering a bran muffin and a cappuccino would be his greatest test, since a feminine voice was even harder to master than the walk. He pulled it off, and smiled all the way back to the Caliber. He glanced at the dash clock, noticed that he was more than an hour early for the 5:35 sailing, and turned on the radio.

The radio was preset to a news and call-in talk station and the so-called Birthday Boy Strangler was the lead story. It went on about how Harold Zimmerman, the man the Mounties caught and charged for attempting to murder and rape Eleanor Peck couldn’t be the right guy, since another victim had turned up in Morgan Creek.

“Gee, do you think!” he hissed.

One caller said that the police had dropped the ball and now she was losing faith in the RCMP. Another said he believed that Zimmerman was the right man but his accomplice was still on the loose. He flipped off the radio, eased the seat back, and closed his eyes.

His mind drifted to Maria Estavez, the chamber maid. He regretted harming the innocent woman. It was that damn Jack Staal’s fault. If Staal hadn’t harassed Irene, then the second hotel set up would never have happened and he wouldn’t have had to use the Taser on Maria. Knight felt rage boil in him when he thought about Staal releasing Duncan Quinn.

The list of reasons to harbor ill will against Jack Staal was growing daily. He had messed everything up. His thoughts drifted to the Regency Hotel and the games he played with the good detective and his sergeant, Gooch. He was certain that the plan had worked, and that Staal would now be infuriated by the mockery contained in the notes. An emotional Jack Staal would be a careless Jack Staal. Knight’s work would continue without fail. Justice would be swift, and if necessary he would face Staal again.

Knight noticed that the vehicles ahead of his rental were driving toward the ferry and boarding the ship. He quickly started the Caliber and drove up the entrance ramp.

Once parked, he checked his makeup in the rearview mirror. People moved past the vehicles and made their way to the stairs and elevators that took passengers to the seating areas.

He was about to leave the Caliber, when he thought better of doing so. It was too risky for him to sit on the passenger deck. Someone might recognize him from the news broadcasts.

He lay back in the driver’s seat and waited for the ferry to depart. Sailing conditions were near perfect, but when they reached open water, the ferry rocked slightly, and the rolling movement turned his stomach. He felt nauseous, thumbed the power-window switch, and then panicked when nothing happened.

“Turn on the ignition, moron,” he whispered to himself.

The window lowered and a salty breeze filtered into the Caliber. He inhaled a long breath, but the draft brought in vehicle exhaust and diesel fumes from the ferry’s engine room. He coughed and quickly rolled the window up again. He pounded a fist on the steering wheel, jerking when the horn sounded.

“Shit!”

Knight opened the door, climbed out of the Caliber and made for the front of the vehicle deck. He stopped at the bow and held onto the rusty chain that ran the width the deck. He realized that he had his eyes clamped shut and made himself look out across the ocean. Pleasure boats shared the ferry’s pathway. A sudden gust of wind blew his brunette wig askew and ruffled his skirt. He yanked it back into place. At least his nausea was abating.