The Eyes Die Last (19 page)

Kennedy began rapidly popping phone numbers into her phone.  Her snitches had nothing new for her.

Grandpa had nothing new for her.

Neither the Electronics Division nor Forensics had anything new for her.  She reviewed all her notes again and, surprise, surprise, nothing new there.  By 7, she was wiped out.  Wilder had gone home an hour before.

She tapped a pen against her desk top, rolling the nothing-new news around in her mind.  She popped a piece of taffy in her mouth and glanced one last time at the murder board pictures, the victim’s eyes seeming to plead with her to find their killer.  “Hang in there ladies, I’ll find the bastard.” 

Kennedy wasn’t about to let her almost flawless solve rate be ruined by one sick piece of cow dung.  She refused to let these murders go to the cold case room.  She’d figure this one out.  But, she’d have to work on solving it tomorrow.  Tonight, she was rapidly becoming brain dead.  Wilder had the right idea.  Take a few hours downtime and start fresh in the morning. 

Kennedy drove home listening to the latest country hits and singing along in her loudest voice.  Martina and Carrie had nothing on her.  Her foot slammed down on her brake pedal just as she started to pull into her assigned parking spot.  A small, older model, silver sports car was parked in her space. 

“Shit.  Can’t people find their own damn parking places?”  Looking the car over with a growl, she smiled when she noticed a large dent in the front door on the driver’s side.  “Serves you right.”  She grabbed her heat-wrinkled jacket off of the backseat and made her way out of the parking lot. 

When she got to the door of her apartment, she was surprised at what she found waiting for her.  Or rather who she found waiting for her. 

“What the hell are you doing here, Hershey?  How did you get my address?  It’s not listed, and it’s not listed for a reason.” 

Ed shrugged.  “I’m a reporter.  It’s my job to find out things I’m not supposed to know.” 

“Yeah, well that’s why I consider reporters little pests hanging on for dear life at the bottom rung of the food chain.”  Kennedy shoved past him and started to unlock her door. 

“I came for a reason, Detective.  I’ve got information you might find useful in your investigation.”  Ed smiled innocently. 

“Are you here to turn over the film we requested from last night’s dinner?  That was pretty slick blocking our warrant.” 

“We have an excellent legal team.” 

“Are you here to voluntarily give me a DNA sample?” 

“Sorry.  The legal department has advised me against doing that at this time.”  “Then I’m not interested in talking to you.” 

“I thought, maybe, you might change your mind about dinner and join me for an in-depth discussion of my information.  We could toss it around and see what we come up with.  Two great minds should work together.” 

She thought he was trying to make his eyes look hopeful, maybe even a little sexy, by flexing his brow.  He failed miserably.  To her, he just looked like an idiot with something in his eyes. 

“Listen, the only thing that’s going to get tossed around here tonight is your ass.  If you have information about this case, and you have not revealed it to the proper authorities, you’re obstructing justice.  I said no to dinner the first time you asked.  That was when I was still in a fairly decent mood.  Now, I’m hot and I’m tired and I just want to get some sleep before I have to put in another long day.”  She paused.  What if he has something useful I can use? 

“I’ll take the information.  You can keep the dinner.  Don’t waste any more time trying to wine and dine me.  It’s not going to happen.”  She turned the lock.  “By the way, if you don’t give up the information, I’ll pretend I’m not tired anymore and I’ll haul your ass off to jail on the obstruction of justice charges.  You’ve already been warned once today.” 

Ed reached for the door she had just unlocked.  “Give me some credit here.  I’m going to give you and your partner the tapes when I find them, aren’t I?  I’m not stupid.” 

“Do you really want me to comment about the not-being-stupid thing?” 

“Listen, I’ll tell you what I’ve got, but not out here.  I’m coming in and having a drink with you while we discuss the matter.” 

“Hang on a second.  I’ll be right back and then we’ll talk.”  Kennedy went inside and returned in a few minutes, her shirttail untucked to hide the Sig she’d slipped into her back waistband.  “Okay, come on in.” 

“Really?” 

She opened her door and waved him in. 

Two minutes later Ed was sitting on the couch in Kennedy’s living room with a bottle of beer in his hand. 

Ed’s head jerked back at an awkward angle and Kennedy knew he’d spotted the wall that subbed as her murder board.  He did a double take, swallowed hard a couple of times.  “Wow.  Are those photos of the murder victims?”  He stood and took a step toward the wall. 

Kennedy’s hand shot out, seizing his
wri
st
.
“Stop right there.  You either sit your ass back down or leave right now.  You’re here to talk, so talk.” 
             
“That’s creepy.  How do you sleep here with
that crap all over the wall?” 
She ignored his question.  “I’m waiting, Mr.  Hershey.” 
             
“I can see that you are.  And not
very patiently I might add.” 
A knock on the door startled him.  Kennedy opened it and pointed the officers in blue to the man behind her.  “Would you haul him in—read him his rights first—and put him in interrogation?  I’ll grab my partner and be right behind you. 
             
“Sure, Detective.  What are we arresting him for?” 

“Obstruction of justice.” 

“Wait, wait!”  Ed raised his hands.  “It’s abou
t Nicolas Campenelli.”  No one
moved. 

“I found out tonight that Campenelli has one of his workers out snapping pictures of the local Vegas prostitutes.” 

“And I care because...?” 

“The killer is into photographing his victim’s and I hear Campenelli has a bulletin board full of the photos at his campaign headquarters.  If I were you, I’d want to know what the man is up to.” 

“You’re not me.  If you were, I wouldn’t be throwing you out.”  Kennedy yanked Ed by the arm and took the beer bottle from his hand, giving him a push toward the door. 

“Thanks for the tip.  I’ll look into it.  Have a safe trip home.”  She gave him a final push out the door. 

“Hey!”Ed protested, “I haven’t finished my beer yet!” 

“That’s true, Mr.  Hershey, but I wouldn’t feel right if I let you drink that beer and then drive home.  Good night.”  She looked at the officers.  “Would you mind escorting Mr.  Hershey to his car and make sure he gets out of the parking lot okay?”  They grinned and nodded. 

She shut the door and locked it—all three locks. 

“Good night,” Ed yelled through her closed door.  “I had fun.  Thanks.” 

Kennedy rolled her eyes and leaned her back against the door.  She threw away his beer and got herself a fresh one.  Ten minutes was more time than anyone should ever have to be in a room alone with Ed Hershey. 

“Fun?  What an ass wipe!  He could put the makers of toilet paper out of business.” 

After a long hot soak in her bathtub, Kennedy put on one of the two sleep shirts she owned, the LVPD tee shirt that had been her father’s.  It was from the days before the Clark County Sheriff’s Department had combined forces with the Las Vegas Police Department to become the LVMPD. 

Kennedy climbed onto her big brass bed, loving the familiar feel of the wornout linens.  Snuggling deep into her soft sheets and comforter, she closed her eyes and waited for sleep to claim her. 

One hour and a bag of grape taffy later, Kennedy was still waiting. 

“Shit.  Why can’t I fall asleep?  I’m so damned tired, but all I do is lie here and think about the damn pictures...  and talk to myself.” 

Who was she kidding?  She knew exactly what was keeping her from sleeping.  The case.  Her mind kept going back to her earlier visit with Ed Hershey and his information about Campenelli. 

“Why would the man keep pictures of prostitutes on a board in his campaign headquarters?  If Campenelli was up to something, he surely wouldn’t be posting the pictures for the whole world to see.  Pictures that could implicate him in murder.  Unless of course, that’s what he wants everyone to think.  Nobody ever wants to believe the obvious. 

“He might be a slick bastard who thinks he can throw us off his trail.  Nah, no one that good-looking could be a killer.  What does being drop dead handsome have to do with it?  It’s his eyes.  There’s no evil in his eyes.”  Shit, now she was arguing with herself. 

“No, he couldn’t be a cold blooded killer.  Could he?  Maybe Hershey lied.  The slimy little news anchor seems to have some personal issues with Campenelli.”  She rolled over. 

“Holy Mother of Jesus.  I’ve got to stop talking to myself and I’ve got to get some sleep.  I’ll figure this out tomorrow.  I’ll visit Campenelli.  I’ll sleep tonight and worry about all this shit tomorrow.” 

In her best Scarlet O’Hara imitation, she said, “Why, yes.  I’ll worry about that tomorrow.  Tomorrow’s another day.” 

She lay still while she played scenes from the movie, Gone With the Wind, over and over in her mind’s eye until she f
ell into a much needed sleep. 
She dreamed of large plantations and long Southern belle dresses. 

Kennedy was a Southern belle herself, standing on the steps of a beautiful plantation.  A warm wind blew lightly, the sun shone warm and tingly over her face.  Rhett Butler was there.  He stood tall and handsome, watching Kennedy as her lace ruffled dress and hat ribbons billowed softly in the summer breeze.  So un-Kennedy-like, but what the hell, it was her dream. 

No, that wasn’t Rhett Butler watching her.  It was Nicolas Campenelli intruding in her dream.  Tall and handsome, he watched her with dark eyes.  Walking toward her, he reached out a hand and touched her cheek.  Kennedy shivered as warm waves of pleasure shot through her. 

Before she could thoroughly enjoy the pleasures Nick-the-Rhett was bringing her, Kennedy’s dream took a twisted turn. 

Ed Hershey’s face was in hers.  He was laughing and telling her, “He has pictures of hookers on his walls.  Watch out!” 

Wilder was there too.  “Be careful; Campenelli is killing prostitutes.  He’s our man.” 

Grandpa made an appearance.  “Watch out, now.  Don’t turn your back on him.” 

People were closing in all around her.  Sheriff Taylor, Grammy, even the teenager from the local Grab and Go where she bought her coffee every morning, the cops at Metro.  Where were they all coming from?  They were chanting, “He’s the one.  He’s the one.  He’s the one.” 

Kennedy woke with a start and sat up in her bed, banging her head on one of the large brass decorations on the headboard.  Shaking and covered in sweat, she reached up to rub the top of her head. 

“Christ!  Fucking headboard.”  She sat dazed for a moment or two.  “Fucking nightmare.” 

“Shit, talking to myself again.  What the hell was that all about?” 

She blinked several times, and swiped a hand through her hair.  “Well, the Nick-the-Rhett part wasn’t so bad.” 

A shudder ran through her.  Mortified that she’d let him into her dreams, she chided herself.  “Don’t even think about going in that direction, you idiot.  He’s off limits.  Hell, he’s probably a damn serial killer.” 

Kennedy sat there in her bed, alone with her thoughts.  Her day had begun.  She knew she wouldn’t go back to sleep.  Her mind was still racing as the first few rays of sunshine slipped through her windows.  She stretched long and languidly, almost cat-like, before climbing out of her bed. 

Instead of her usual routine of throwing herself together in fifteen short minutes, Kennedy took her time dressing.  After washing her hair, she added the sweet smelling, gooey stuff that made it shiny and fluffy when she used the blow dryer. 

Kennedy put on a clean tee shirt in a light blue color that she knew brought out the violet color of her eyes.  She used a lint brush on her linen jacket before pulling it over her belted, small-of-the-back harness holding her 9mm Sig Sauer.  “I must be nuts,” she thought as she swiped a rag over her worn leather boots in an attempt to clean them. 

Hell, she would have pressed a nice crisp crease down her jeans if she’d owned an iron.  In the back of her mind, she knew she wanted to impress someone today and she knew where her first stop would be this morning.  Make that her second stop.  Coffee at the local Grab and Go came
fir
st
.
Maybe she’d get a bag of salt and vinegar chips while she was at it. 

Kennedy called Wilder as she was getting into her Mustang.  “I had a surprise visitor last night.” 

“I heard.  Ed Hershey.  Hell, everybody’s heard you called in a couple of uniforms to haul his ass away.  Did it work?” 

“Scared the shit out of him and he spilled his guts.”  She turned the key, waited for the rumble as the car came to life. 

“Yeah?  What’d the little twerp have to say?”