Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) (46 page)

Tracy spun around the door frame and took aim. The man was cowered in the bathtub, naked, hands raised like a child pleading against an impending beating.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t the Cowboy.

He’d remade the bed, smoothed the spread of every wrinkle, folded her clothes with care, and placed them on the corner. Then he’d sat down to watch his cartoons.

Do your chores and you can watch your cartoons.

He checked his watch and tapped a cigarette out of a pack. “Do you smoke? It’s a disgusting habit. But it does serve certain purposes.” Another good line. He’d have to write it down so he wouldn’t forget it.

Raina moaned but the gag in her mouth made it unintelligible. Without the Rohpynol, she was more alert, attentive. Now that she was subdued and hog-tied, it certainly had its advantages. It was like ad-libbing during a live performance, and so far, the rush was incredible.

He lit the cigarette, leaned forward, and placed the tip against her upturned sole. She flinched and tensed, tightening the noose. When the rope gripped, her eyes widened. God, he loved it when their eyes widened. It was like seeing deep into a person’s soul, exposing them for who they truly were, without the pretenses and the makeup and the costumes—just naked and unadorned. Whores.

She moaned as her skin smoked and reddened. The muscle fibers in her legs twitched. He sensed that this one would be quick. Perhaps too quick. He didn’t want that. Maybe he didn’t need the cigarettes. He grabbed the rope extending down her spine and pulled it toward her head to provide slack. “Shh,” he said. “Relax. Relax. Breathe. There. Better? Now watch the show. This is one of my favorites. You don’t want to miss this.”

Tracy rushed from the room onto the second-floor landing. From here, she had a better view up and down Aurora. The next-closest motel was to the north, halfway down the block, kitty-corner from where she stood. The stairs shook and the iron railing rattled as she hurried down the staircase, vaguely aware of faces staring out from behind curtained windows. She didn’t bother getting into her truck but ran straight to the street. She hesitated at the curb to judge the traffic, then darted across, narrowly dodging a truck. The driver looked at her as if she were a lunatic. In the far lane, a car honked loudly and came to an abrupt stop. “Hey, sweetheart,” a guy yelled. “Where’re you going?” Tracy ran around the hood.

She reached the sidewalk, one arm pumping, the other braced against her body to lessen the pain. She followed the signs for the office and pulled on the glass door. It rattled but didn’t open. She swore and banged hard on the glass. Then she noticed a buzzer to the right and a handwritten sign on a three-by-five card.

After 1:00 A.M.

Push Buzzer

She pushed the buzzer and cupped the tinted glass to peer in. A barefoot man in a T-shirt came out from behind a wall, buttoning his shorts. Tracy had her shield pressed to the glass.

He hurried to unlock the door.

Still out of breath, Tracy said, “I’m looking for a woman. She would have come in alone about an hour to an hour and a half ago, and asked to rent a room for an hour or two.”

“Hey, I know you; you’re that detective that’s been on the news. You were hunting for that serial killer, the Cowboy.”

“Has a woman been in the last hour or so?”

“I thought they caught that guy.”

“You need to listen to me. A woman’s life is in danger, and I need to find her. Have you rented a room to a woman—?”

“Yeah. Yeah. A woman came in,” the man said, flustered. “Just about an hour ago. Small. Blonde.”

“What room?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t remember the room. I . . . I need to look.”

“Do it.” Tracy followed him behind a counter cluttered with stacks of paper, sticky notes, and portions of the newspaper. The man fumbled through it. “What room?” Tracy urged.

“I don’t . . . I don’t . . .” He spun and riffled through more stacks on the counter behind him. “Here. Here it is. 17. She’s in 17.”

The woman’s legs had begun to shake. Her muscles looked like taut bowstrings beneath her sweat-slickened, glistening skin as she fought to hold her pose and keep slack in the rope.

It wouldn’t be long now.

“Watch this one,” he said. “The bird is a chicken hawk, so even though he’s not even a tenth of a size of the big rooster, the rooster is still his prey. It’s instinct. He can’t shut it off. He’s programmed to kill the rooster because . . . well, because that’s just the way it is.”

He lowered the tip of the cigarette to her blistered sole and pressed it firmly to an already-burned area. The woman tensed and groaned, moaning into the gag. Her legs straightened, and this time her body began to spasm. He ground the burning embers deeper, and her spasms became more violent. Gurgling sounds escaped her throat, and a thin red line of blood trickled down her neck from beneath the rope.

She wouldn’t make it to the end of the cartoon.

“Do you want to know how it ends?” he asked.

Tracy ran back outside as soon as she grabbed the key from the clerk. It was the old-fashioned kind, with teeth. Her gaze followed the doors around the building, coming to rest on a door at the far end, tucked in an alcove beneath an “Exit” sign. That was the room.

She was only vaguely aware of the clerk following her as she ran across the parking lot. From inside the room, the glow of the television flickered behind a curtained window. She pressed an ear to the door and heard music, silently inserted the key, turned the knob, and shoved against the door. It resisted. He’d applied the interior bar lock. Tracy removed her Glock and stepped back. She took aim, fired her Glock, and kicked the door open.

He sat with his back to the wall, a six-inch serrated knife pressed to the young woman’s throat. She remained hog-tied, in the process of choking herself.

Tracy took aim. “Drop the knife, Nabil.”

The Pink Palace floor manager smiled. “I drop the knife and you’ll shoot me.”

Tracy’s eyes shifted to the clerk, still standing outside, and the man took off running in the direction of the office.

“Let her go, Nabil.”

“Can’t,” he said. “The show’s not over. You must always finish the performance.”

Tracy’s gaze shifted to the television—a Bugs Bunny cartoon. She looked to the woman. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly. Hissing sounds escaped her mouth from behind the gag, which looked to be soaked with saliva. “At least remove the gag and let her breathe.”

“How did you find me, Detective? How did you know?” Kotar displayed no hint of concern or panic. His voice was even, calm. He pulled on the rope, providing slack. The woman’s breathing slowed.

“A police officer pulled you over. You told him you were putting up posters for a lost cat.”

Kotar smiled. “Angus the cat. He said he had a daughter, that she’d be heartbroken if she lost her cat. He even took one of the fliers. What did he do, call the number?”

“He went to the house.”

Kotar chuckled. “A Good Samaritan. Wow. Never saw that coming. How come the newspapers and TV stations don’t report those kinds of stories? Seems like all they do is criticize the work you do; don’t you get tired of it?”

“Yeah, I do,” she said, knowing she needed to keep Kotar talking, and calm. She sensed she needed to let him believe this was his show. Glock still on target, she asked, “Can I sit?”

“Not on the bed,” he said. “I just made it. Use the chair.”

She pulled over the desk chair and placed it in the doorway so she could be seen from the parking lot. Outside, the rain continued to fall.

“It’s tough, you know,” Kotar said. “You play your part, and the critics just want to pick it apart. That blonde bitch on Channel 8 sure has it out for you.”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

Tracy flexed her shoulder and grimaced at the pain.

“I read about that,” Kotar said. “Your shoulder?”

“Collarbone.”

“That’s got to hurt.”

“More than you’d think for such a small bone.” The woman’s eyes pleaded with Tracy. “Why don’t you let her go, Nabil?”

“I can’t. I can’t stop.”

“You stopped before.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you killed Beth Stinson almost a decade ago.”

Kotar smiled. “You’re good. You’re really good.”

“I’m thinking about quitting,” she said, wondering why the hell it was taking backup so long to arrive and whether the man had called 911. She looked for an opening to get off a shot.

“Why would you quit?”

“I’m tired of all the bullshit, Nabil. The politics of it all.”

“I know the feeling. I quit acting for the same reason. What would you do?”

“Teach school.”

“I read that about you. What was it, biology?”

The woman started to choke, gagging. Kotar looked annoyed at the interruption and pulled on the rope again, providing more slack. The woman seemed to catch her breath.

“Chemistry.”

“You shouldn’t quit. You quit and the assholes win.”

“Maybe,” she said. “What about you? What would you do if you weren’t managing a club?”

“That’s easy. I’d be an actor.”

“Yeah? Movies?”

“Eventually. I’d do theater again. That’s my passion.”

“Were you any good?”

“I was. I could really get into character, you know? The directors said I was totally believable.”

“What was your favorite role?”

“Too easy again. McMurphy.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
.”

“Good role.”

“Yeah, I thought that would be the one that really jump-started my career.”

“So what happened?” The woman looked to be calming.

“I got screwed. It happens. LA is a toilet. Everything is a scam down there. No money in it unless you make it big. Plus I have to work nights now. Got to pay the bills, right?”

“Right.” She glanced out the door but still didn’t see her backup. She remembered Santos telling them that some killers played out a scene in their head, and she wondered if Kotar saw this as his big scene. “So now you have to decide something else, Nabil.”