Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) (27 page)

 Donovan blinked again, then looked around, trying to scrape away what felt like a thick layer of scum coating the inside of his skull. The Chrysler was parked haphazardly in the middle of a rain-slicked parking lot, blocking at least three of the cars that were angled neatly in their stalls.

 Across the lot was a long, squat building. A sign near the entrance read
ST. MARGARET’S CONVALESCENT CENTER
.

 He knew this place.

 It was Sara Gunderson’s hospital.

 “Shall I call security? Is that really what you want me to do?”

 “Uhhh,” Donovan managed, trying to get his mouth to form the words in his head. It wasn’t working.

 Lucille gave him a moment, but with nothing forthcoming, she said, “Very well, then.” She opened her purse, dug around for a moment, and withdrew a cell phone.

 “No, wait,” Donovan said, holding up a hand, his mind on overdrive. “I-I’ll move the car.”

 He reached across to the door release, pushed the door open, and climbed out. He felt dizzy. Grabbed the roof of the Chrysler to steady himself.

 “Are you all right, Mr. Reed?”

 Donovan turned. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

 “I’m sorry, isn’t that what you said your name was? You’re Ms. Gunderson’s uncle, I just assumed—”

 “Uncle?” Donovan said. This was getting crazier by the minute. “What are you talking about? Where do you know me from?”

 Lucille frowned. “Really, Mr.—whatever your name is—this isn’t the least bit funny. I realize you’re upset, but your behavior is growing quite tedious.” She gestured to the car. “Now, please. I’d like to go home.”

 She turned abruptly, moving toward a silver Nissan, one of the cars that was blocked by the Chrysler.

 “Wait,” Donovan sputtered, grabbing her arm. “Who is it you think I am?”

 “Let go of me.”

 “You said I was in Sara’s room. When was I there? What did I do?”

 “Let go of me,” Lucille repeated, looking more scared than angry now.

 Donovan released her. “I’m sorry. It’s just I … I don’t remember going in there.”

 Lucille waved a dismissive hand at him and continued to her car. “You need professional help, mister. If this is any indication of the kind of upbringing that poor girl had, it’s no wonder she fell in with the wrong sort.”

 She unlocked the door and got inside, Donovan’s bewilderment quickly turning to horror. The last thing he remembered was pulling into a gas station near Motel Row.

 And the headache. That terrible headache.

 But how had he gotten here? And why?

 It just didn’t make any sense.

 Lucille was sitting in her car now, tapping her fingers on the wheel, her angry eyes visible in the side-view mirror.

 Climbing onto the driver’s seat of the Chrysler, Donovan found the keys in the ignition. He was about to start the engine when the sight of the in-dash ashtray stopped him.

 It hung open, nearly overflowing with cigarette butts. Their filters were torn off.

 What the hell?

 Had someone else been in the car with him?

 Then he remembered the craving he’d felt as he’d waited outside Carla Devito’s apartment building. The intense desire to light up a Marlboro. Judging by the taste in his mouth,
he
was the one who had smoked all these cigarettes.

 But how could that be?

 His cell phone bleated, startling him. Fumbling through his coat pockets, he found it, flicked it open. Hesitated. “Donovan.”

 Or should he have said Reed?

 “Where you been all night?” Waxman barked. “I must’ve called you a hundred times in the last couple hours.”

 Donovan was reeling. A spike of nausea assaulted him. “I, uh … I-I must’ve turned my phone off.”

 “Nice going, genius. You better get your ass out here to Fredrickville, pronto. The Wayfarer Inn.”

 Donovan’s gut tightened involuntarily. “What’s going on?”

 “I was hoping you could tell me.”

 Donovan felt like a drunk who’d had one too many on the golf course, only to wake up in a four-by-five jail cell with a fresh new shiner adorning his face. The last few hours were a complete, impenetrable blank.

 “Jack? You still there? I got some news you aren’t gonna like.”

 He wasn’t liking much of anything right now. He braced himself. “What is it?”

 “We found Luther. He’s DOA.”

 Before Donovan could respond, a horn blared—a blast so loud and long it startled a flock of pigeons perched on a nearby telephone line.

 Lucille Baker had lost her patience.

46

T
HE WAYFARER INN
looked even worse in the daylight. An oblong box with peeling blue paint, a row of dilapidated doors, windows sporting stained curtains.

 The parking lot was host to a Crown Victoria convention. More cars than it had seen in over a decade. Sheriff’s cruisers. Unmarked federals. Coroner’s van.

 Donovan pulled in and found a spot near a stretch of crime-scene tape, dread bubbling in his stomach as he stared out at the mix of uniformed and plainclothes cops flowing in and out of an open doorway.

 What the hell had happened last night?

 He thought about the headache, and the odd, erratic glimpses into Gunderson’s mind. He thought about the previous night, his plunge into the river, those few minutes that seemed like hours, stranded beneath a black, turbulent sky as Gunderson reached for him, grabbing his face.

 
Give us a kiss.
 

 He remembered the serpentine tongue, the heat of Gunderson’s breath burrowing deep into his chest like an invading force, an aggressive, ravenous parasite.

 Could it have been more than just a kiss?

 Was it possible that Gunderson …

 No, Jack, don’t even think it. That’s crazy talk. Follow that whacked-out train of thought and before you know it the men in white will be scooping you up to take you straight to the booby hatch.

 Wacky Jacky’s adventures on the other side.

 “Hey, Jack! Over here!” Waxman stood near the open motel-room doorway.

 Fighting to steady his nerves, Donovan cut the Chrysler’s engine and climbed out. Glancing down, he noticed his shoes were caked with dried mud.

 Yet another mystery.

 He tapped them against a tire to knock the mud loose, then crossed through the maze of cars. Waxman gave him the once-over as he approached. “You look like hell.”

 “I love you, too,” Donovan said.

 “Gotta make this quick. Brass could be here any minute, and if they see you nosing around, they’re gonna go ballistic. As it is, our little stunt with Nemo will probably land us both on the unemployment line.”

 “Where’s Luther?”

 Waxman handed him a pair of gloves and white cotton shoe covers. “Let’s go inside.”

 Donovan slipped them on, then stepped through the doorway to find a dingy motel room with decades-old furniture and threadbare yellow carpet, the air ripe with decay.

 The place looked vaguely familiar:

 Pizza box on the dresser. Carpet stained with blood and vomit.

 There were two beds in the room, the far one missing a bedspread. Crime-scene techs hovered around the one closest to the door, where a man about the size of a house was curled up in the fetal position, a gelatinous mass of bloody flesh where the back of his head used to be.

 Donovan recognized the paisley shirt.

 “Charlie Kruger,” Waxman said. “Manager and part owner of this wonderful establishment. Why he’s in here is anybody’s guess.” He gestured to the blood on the carpet. “Looks like the assailant put a couple in Kruger’s legs, then Kruger stumbled to the bed, collapsed, and got a bullet to the head for his trouble.”

 Donovan looked at the stained carpet, then shifted his gaze to the bed. “I don’t see a trail.”

 Waxman shrugged. “So sue me. I’m no homicide whiz. But if that isn’t Kruger’s blood, we’re short a body.”

 “What about Luther?”

 “We’ll get to him in a minute. First I wanna know what the hell happened with you and Nemo last night.”

 Donovan looked around at the crime-scene techs. Sensing his hesitation, Waxman nodded toward a corner of the room. They moved into a huddle, keeping their voices low.

 “Well?”

 Donovan knew he had a choice. He could tell Waxman the truth—that the last few hours had been sucked into a deep black hole—or he could lie.

 “I lost him,” he said.

 “Lost him?”

 “Everything was working like we planned. He went to Carla’s apartment looking for his stash, swallowed the bait, told her he was going after Luther.”

 “And?”

 “I started a tail, got caught by the rain, and lost him. Spent half the night looking for him, but couldn’t catch a break. You and Rachel were right. I was so exhausted by then I wound up pulling to the side of the road and crawled into the backseat. That’s where I was when you called me.”

 “Explains the suit,” Waxman said. “You didn’t think about clueing me in?”

 “It was late and I was out of it. You may have noticed I haven’t exactly been thinking straight.”

 “No shit, Sherlock. What was he driving?”

 “Who?”

 “Nemo. Who else?”

 “A Honda Del Sol. Carla’s car.”

 “You know the tag number?”

 “Not offhand,” Donovan said. “You’re thinking Nemo did this?”

 “It crossed my mind once or twice.”

 Donovan looked at the body, scanned the room. “Where’s Luther?”

 Waxman jerked his head. “Follow me.”

I
N BACK OF
the motel was an empty lot. A patch of mud and weeds that might have been prime real estate at one time.

 Those days were long gone.

 A far corner of the lot was roped off with yellow crime-scene tape. A cluster of cops and technicians quietly worked the spot, their attention focused on a body lying faceup before them.

 The rain-soaked earth sucked at Donovan’s shoes as he walked. Remembering the dried mud he’d just knocked off, a fresh spike of nausea assaulted him.

 Had he been here before?

 Thoughts of Gunderson’s kiss drifted through his mind again, but he immediately smothered them. Play this out, he told himself. Don’t jump to conclusions.

 Yet even as he pushed himself toward denial, his old friend instinct dragged him in the opposite direction, connecting the dots.

 He didn’t like the picture that was forming.

 “Luther Dwayne Polanski,” Waxman said as they reached the body. Luther’s face was a death mask, glassy eyes staring heavenward. “Looks like the assailant came into the room, shot Kruger, managed to wing Luther”—he turned and gestured toward the rear of the motel where a row of windows faced the field. One of them was hanging open—“then chased him out here and put another one in his back. The impact spun him right around.”

 Donovan swallowed. Stared down at Luther’s body. “You’re talking about Nemo.”

 “Who else?”

 “Because of the money?”

 “That would be my guess,” Waxman said. “You realize we’re completely screwed, don’t you? This is all on us. Once the brass puts it together, we’ll both be lucky they don’t bring us up on charges.”

 Donovan kept his gaze on Luther’s body. “That’s the least of my worries. Without Luther, I’ve got nothing. He was my last link to Jessie.”

 “You don’t know that,” Waxman said.

 “I don’t know much of anything right now, except time is running out.”

 And so was Jessie’s oxygen.

 “Maybe Nemo’s been the key all along,” Waxman said. “I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s definitely a chilly bastard.”

 “What do you mean?”

 Waxman gestured to a nearby tech. “Hey, Joe, can I see that butt again?”

 The tech nodded, then opened his forensics case and brought out an evidence bag, handing it across to Waxman. Waxman held it up for Donovan, showing him the damp cigarette butt inside.

 “Son of a bitch stood here and had a smoke after he shot Luther. Mr. Casual. Flicked it onto Luther’s chest. Pretty cold, you ask me.” He handed the baggie back to the tech, but Donovan couldn’t take his eyes off the butt inside.

 The filter was torn off.

 Donovan felt himself starting to teeter.

 “Joe’s gonna try a saliva trace,” Waxman said, “but the rain probably ruined any chances of …” He paused, looking at Donovan, grabbing him by the elbow. “Christ, Jack, you look like you’re about to keel over.”

 “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Donovan said, then turned abruptly and headed back toward the motel.

47

H
E WENT STRAIGHT
to the Chrysler, shut himself inside, then closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wheel.

 Willing himself to concentrate, he tried to remember what he’d done last night. He knew he’d followed Nemo, saw him get out of the Del Sol, go into the motel office—

 —then nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero.

 Now Luther was dead and Donovan had mud on his shoes. And a dull, sick ache in his stomach told him that Waxman was wrong. It wasn’t Nemo who shot Luther. It wasn’t Nemo at all.

 Sitting upright, he reached under his coat, pulled out his Glock, and ejected the cartridge. It had been full when Al Cleveland gave it to him. Now, three rounds were missing.

 Three rounds.

 But that didn’t add up, did it? Luther had taken one to the arm and another to the back, while Charlie Kruger took three hits, making a total of
five.
 

 So maybe Waxman
was
right, maybe the killer
had
been Nemo after all.

 But what about the blood on the carpet?

 Unlike Waxman, Donovan had spent some time with homicide, just prior to going federal, and he knew—just as the forensics techs would soon confirm—that it wasn’t Charlie Kruger’s blood on that carpet. Charlie was already on the bed when he was shot.

 The simple process of elimination said it was Nemo’s blood. It had to be.

 And if Nemo had been lying on that carpet, where was he now? No way he could’ve lost that much blood and walked away. Besides, the stain was static. No trail to the bed, no trail any …