The Eyes Die Last (34 page)

“I’m good.  You doing okay?” 

“Better than okay.  I recently came across some interesting gossip.”  “Let’s hear it.” 

“It seems Louis
St. Louis
’ mother, who we both know was quite an embarrassment to him, didn’t give up prostitution even after she didn’t need the income.  She seems to have enjoyed the job. 
St. Louis
hated the woman and said so frequently.” 

“We already knew she was a big part of the reason
St. Louis
couldn’t keep a church and it gives him pretty good motivation to hate hookers.  But I’m surprised she worked as a hooker when she didn’t need to.”  She rolled a thought around.  “
St. Louis
must have been one happy worm when she smashed up her car and bit the dust.” 

“Makes you wonder about the automobile accident she died in.  Maybe she had a bit of help wrecking her car.  It was a single car accident. 
St. Louis
’ mother failed to stop at a T-intersection and her car plummeted over a steep embankment.” 

“And if he killed once—to hell with the sixth amendment.” 

“Now you’re catching on, lass.  Might cast enough suspicion to get your warrant for his DNA and a search warrant for his house.” 

“I believe they lived in Boulder at the time of her death.  I’ll contact the BPD and get a copy of the accident report.  Great tip, Grandpa.  You’ve got the best snitches.  Better than any I’ve ever had.” 

“Glad to help out.  About my snitches, I’ve left them to you in my will.”  Kennedy laughed and hung up. 

Like an amp of electricity, a surge of excitement shot through her.  Her fingers tingled as she tapped in the numbers for the Boulder PD at record speed. 

“You’re in luck, Detective,” the Boulder Records Officer told her.  He’d taken down the information Kennedy had and called her back within the hour. 

“We not only have the reports, we still have the car impounded.  It’s kind of nice for a change to see that something got lost in the shuffle.  Normally a vehicle unclaimed after a year would have been auctioned off.” 

“I hear that.  We do the same.” 

“I’m having the investigators go over the car this afternoon.  I read through the files before I called you back.  You’ll find this interesting.  There were no skid marks at the accident scene, which usually means—”

“No brakes,” Kennedy finished his sentence. 

“That’s right.  I’ll fax you the new findings and old files ASAP.  Good luck with your case.” 

“Thanks.  I appreciate the help.” 

Kennedy filled Wilder in, who had arrived while she was on the phone. 

“I think we just got another break, Wilder.  There’s a possibility that
St. Louis
’ mother’s death wasn’t an accident.  No skid marks at the scene.  Boulder PD is going over the car now.  And
St. Louis
had a motive to get rid of his mother.” 

“He hated her for prostituting and getting him ousted from two churches.” 

“If he becomes a suspect in his mother’s suspicious death, it will give us probable cause to get a warrant for his DNA.” 

“Well, while we’re on a roll, let’s get Lieutenant Hazelwood to approve a surveillance team to keep an eye on him until we know.  If there’s a possibility he killed his own mother, there’s a good possibility he’s the prostitute killer.” 

She’d already come to that conclusion.  “Finally, we’re getting somewhere.”  “About damn time.” 

She and Wilder would be taking the killer down soon.  She could feel it.  Somewhere in the corner of her mind, she hoped her gut feeling about Campenelli was on target and he wasn’t the man they’d be bringing in.  Things were looking good.  She cringed.  Jeez, she didn’t need to go there. 

Kennedy grabbed a pen and quickly filled out the forms requesting a surveillance team and a warrant to get Louis
St. Louis
’ DNA when they brought the slimy bastard in for questioning. 

“We’re good, Wilder.”  She smiled at her partner.  “Damn straight, we’re good.” 

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

ED HERSHEY WAS PRE-TAPING A SHORT PIECE THAT WOULD BE RUNNING ON THE EVENING NEWS WHEN HE CAUGHT A GLIMPSE OF FRANK CURTIS STANDING OUT OF CAMERA RANGE, WATCHING HIM WORK.
  The story, about serial killers, included the latest update on the Prostitution Murders, as they were now dubbed in the media.  His report focused on the characteristics and mental instability of serial killers.

Using his best newscaster voice, he read from the prompter.  “Studies show that most serial killers are white, heterosexual males in their twenties to thirties.  Their methodical rampages are usually sexual in nature.  They prefer to prey on women—especially prostitutes, the elderly and...  children.”

Ed saw Frank smile at his dramatic pause, knew his boss was impressed.  No one could milk an audience like he could and Frank knew it.

He continued his commentary.  “These killers go after anyone they consider weak.  They often suffer various forms of brain damage, mental illness, or addictions to drugs or alcohol.  Most grew up in violent households and many were bed-wetters.  As small children they most likely enjoyed starting fires or torturing animals.”

Ed’s voice stayed in character, deep and serious, until he finished the piece.  He turned to Frank for praise.  Instead, he found his news director laughing.  Ed’s fists tightened and he could feel his face flushing with heat.  More than a bit pissed, he narrowed his eyes at his boss.

“What are you laughing at?  I just did a bang-up job on that serial killer report.”

“You nailed it all right.  That’s not what I’m laughing at.”  Frank slapped Ed on the back.  “If you wet the bed or tortured small animals as a kid, you just described yourself, asshole.”

“Funny, Frankie.  Real funny.”  He loosened his clenched fists, felt the blood rushing back into his hands, then to his fingers.

“Well I certainly thought so.  We’ll run the clip on all three newscasts tonight, repeat it in the morning.  It’ll fit nicely just after the story on the latest prostitute’s murder.  Have the police ID’ed the fourth victim yet?”

“Not that I know of.  Of course it’s not likely Detective O’Brien will let me know when they do get a name.” 

“She’s something else isn’t she?  A looker, with brains to match.  Too damn smart to fall for your pick up lines, Hersh.  What she needs is a real man.  A man like me.”  He gave Ed another slap on the back. 

“In your dreams, Frankie.  The detective is hot for me.  I can feel the sparks fly every time I’m around her.  As a matter of fact, I’m thinking I’ll give her a call later and see if she’d like to go to dinner.” 

“You, my friend, are delusional.” 

Kennedy
arranged to meet Wilder at the stakeout and finally dropped off the Mustang at the repair shop.  By the end of the week, she’d have air conditioning again.  There is a God after all.  She took a cab home from there. 

At her apartment building, Mr.  Riggly, an elderly neighbor who lived on the second floor, was busy digging through the rocks that now filled the space where grass had once struggled to grow. 

“Hi, Mr.  Riggly.  What are you looking for?  It’s kind of hot to be out here working, don’t you think?” 

“Don’t you know, Kennedy, old people don’t get hot?  Our blood is like our skin, too darned thin.  I’m looking for a worry stone in this pile of rocks.  I’m afraid I’ve just about rubbed my old one down to the grain-of-sand stage.” 

She couldn’t help but smile at the old guy.  “I guess that explains why you never have any worries.  Can I help you look?  It’ll get you out of the heat faster.” 

“To be honest, I’ve narrowed my choices down to four.  Here, have a look.  I’m kinda partial to this one.”  He handed her a nice, smooth, oval-shaped stone with an ivory crackled color. 

“This one is a keeper, Mr.  Riggly.  It feels good to me too.”  She picked up another stone out of his hand.  “This one’s not too bad either.” 

“You picked the same two that were my first and second choices.” 

“Great minds think alike.”  She winked at him and watched his eyes light up. 

“So they say.  I’m gonna keep the first one.  It has a good shape.  Why don’t you take this one?  It’ll chase your worries away.” 

“Now that I’d like to see.  Thanks.”  It’ll take a hell of a lot more than a piece of rock to get the job done. 

She held on to the stone as she walked inside with the elderly man, figuring she’d dump it later.  Then it hit her.  All her neighbors watched out for her.  But even though she was always cordial, she’d never really gone out of her way to chat with them.  Maybe she’d think about being a little friendlier from now on.  It might be time to take advantage of living in a small building. 

Kennedy pocketed the stone. 

Once inside her apartment, she added several new note cards to her murder board, proof again that the case was moving along.  The list tacked beneath Louis
St. Louis
’ name was growing.  The few pimps and johns she’d posted cards for were dead ends.  She drew an X through them.  The possible motives column only had cards for
St. Louis
, Campenelli, and a third, an unidentified subject.  Most likely the UNSUB was a serial killer.  Serial killers didn’t have motives that made any sense—at least not in anyone’s mind but their own. 

She realized her thumb was rubbing the stone tucked in her pocket and smiled.  Under the column of evidence were the first two victim’s negative tox screens.  Computer matches for DNA found under fingernails and semen were negative.  Searches for the possible missing purses and jewelry were at dead ends.  Looking at Campenelli’s list, she saw it was at a standstill.  She was embarrassed to admit she felt good about that. 

Get a life, Kennedy. 

She finished off a small bag of grape taffy.  Could life get any better?  Looking around at the mess she called home, she realized a clean apartment and three hundred and fifty two channels of cable TV might make life a pinch better.  After all, there’s always room for improvement. 

Her pondering was interrupted when her cell phone rang.  “O’Brien.” 

“Kenny, its Wilder.  Electronics just sent over the film on Campenelli and Mixer.  It checks out just like Campenelli said, one big freakin’ misunderstanding.  Like the man stated, Ms.  Mixer shook his hand as she was leaving.  Ed Hershey, the prick, twisted the whole story, to up his ratings I imagine.” 

“I’m glad for Campenelli, but it doesn’t prove he’s not a killer.  Doesn’t get him totally off the hook.”  Kennedy was already at her murder board marking a big X through the note card tagging the confrontation as a motive. 

“It’s enough to convince me.  The DNA test will convince everyone else.  Why do you keep flip-flopping back and forth about Campenelli?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  She used her Miss Innocent voice. 

“Never mind.  Are you ready for our stake out?” 

“I’m about ready to leave now.” 

“Good.  The pimpmobile with our hooker and her pimp are on the way over to pick you up.  Time to rock and roll.” 

“Okay, I’ll see you later.” 

Kennedy grabbed her purse, opened the door to leave and walked into a solid mass.  The air emptied from her lungs and her head tipped up.  Nicolas Campenelli was standing chest to chest with her, his hand poised to knock. 

He looked her over her from head to toe and his dark eyes went hazy.  If lust had a name, it was Nicolas Campenelli.  Her insides did a flip.  He raised a brow as he looked over her shoulder. 

“Has the Environmental Protection Agency been notified of this place?” 

Her insides flipped back into place.  “What the hell are you doing here?  You can’t just show up at my place.  I expect this kind of shit from someone like Hershey, but you?  How do you even know where I live?” 

“I overheard you and Wilder talking the day you came to my penthouse.  He mentioned your apartment was Windsor Arms.  Finding out which apartment was yours was easy.” 

“Too damn many people know where I live.  It’s Grand-fucking-Central around here.”  She bit at her lower lip.  “I gotta go.” 

“Give me just a second, Detective.  I have something to say to you.”  “Right now?” 

“Now is what I was thinking.  May I come in?” 

Kennedy fought to find her cop voice.  “Fuck you.  I’m working.  Out of my way.”  She started to shoulder past him. 

“I wanted to apologize for getting all bent out of shape over the DNA
te
st
You were just doing your job.  I should have been thanking you since it’s going to clear my name.  So, thank you.” 

Kennedy froze and just stared at the man. 

“This is the part where you say, ‘You
’re welcome.’ Or say something. 
Anything.”

“You couldn’t call me to say that?” 

“Would you have taken a call from me?” 

“I was going to call you later and let you know the film Hershey shot contained just what you said it would.  I’m happy for you.  When the DNA comes back, if it’s clean, you should be totally off the suspect list.” 

Now he was staring, looking beyond her at the cluttered apartment she called home.  She twisted her head around, her gaze following his.  Shit. 

“What the hell is that?”  He slipped past her and moved toward the murder board. 

Turning, she crossed her arms and planted her feet firmly apart.  “That’s none of your business.” 

His vision looked practically glued to the photos of the dead women.  “My, God.  You actually think I—”

“I already told you I don’t think you’re a killer.  I’m doing my job.  If it hurts your feelings, too bad.” 

He spun back around to face her. 

“Look closer, Campenelli.  I’m already X-ing out some of your cards.  Soon your name will be off the list, but only if I do my job and do it right, without worrying about whose feelings I might hurt.” 

Kennedy watched as Nick thought about what she’d said.  His eyes searched

her face and she knew he was looking for any sign that she was lying.  He wouldn’t

find it. 

“Okay.” 

“Just like that?” 

“I believe you.  Now I find I owe you another apology, Detective.” 

“No you don’t owe me anything.  You’ve done everything I’ve asked, answered all my questions.  I understand how you feel.  I wouldn’t like to see my name on a murder board either.”  She led him to her door.  “Time for you to go.  I’ve got work to do.” 

“At this time of night?  Doing what?  Staking out Washington Street?”  She lifted one eyebrow. 

“You’re going to work in Hooker Haven?” 

She looked away.  “I have to go now.  My ride is waiting.” 

“The hideous looking car out front?  You can’t use yourself as bait.  There’s a killer out there.” 

“That’s the whole idea.  I’m trying to catch the bastard.  It’s what I do.  And I’m not the bait tonight.” 

“Irish, you—” He must have seen the determined look in her eyes, and didn’t bother to finish what he’d started to say.  Instead, he said, “Be careful, Detective.” 

“I always am, Slick.” 

“Good luck with your undercover work.” 

He left and Kennedy walked to the pimpmobile, hoping she hadn’t misjudged Campenelli.  If he turned out to be the killer, she’d just shown him her plans to catch him. 

“Shit.” 

She got in the car and let the chatter of the driver, a cop young enough to shave maybe once a week, and Alli, who hadn’t seemed nearly so young under the glare of Metro’s fluorescent lights, wash over her as she sunk into gloom. 

This had better work. 

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

HIDDEN IN HIS CAR OUT OF KENNEDY’S SIGHT, NICK WATCHED AS SHE GOT INTO THE UGLY, PIMPED-UP 1970’S CADILLAC—A REAL HOOKERELLA’S COACH.
  He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to follow her, but his gut told him he had to.  And he always listened to his gut.  He tailed them across town, parking his car near the spot where the Caddy let out a young woman he didn’t know.  Kennedy, still in her jeans and t-shirt, hopped out on the other side and moved off into an alley.

Nick watched as the young cop took a quick look up and down the street before she stopped outside a shop, ‘Wigged Out.’ She appeared to be talking to herself and he grinned when he realized she was using a mic.  Other cops must be nearby.

Nick stepped out of his car and moved across the street, but stayed in the shadows, looking around for Kennedy and her partner.  He felt kind of sleazy hiding.  I’d suck as a bad guy.

It didn’t take long to spot Detective James around the North corner, leaning against a building while pretending to read a newspaper.  Kennedy had stationed herself a little farther down the street to the South.

“D
etective
James, Detective O’Brien, are you guys picking this up?  Can you hear me okay?”  Kennedy watched as Alli fidgeted with her tube top, adjusting the damned thing.

Kennedy said, “Loud and clear.”

Wilder answered, “Ditto.  Either of you ladies see anyone hanging around outside the shop looking totally useless?”

Kennedy laughed.  “Only some pervert around the corner, leaning against a wall and pretending to read a newspaper.”

“Hey, I’m covering your and Alli’s butts.”  His attempt at sounding insulted was weak.

“Is that what you call what you’re doing?  How ‘bout you, Alli, see anyone suspicious inside the shop?”

“Only two sales clerks who should be over here asking me if I need help.”
 

“Report them to the owner...  you can write a strongly worded letter or something.  They can fire their asses.” 

Wilder said, “You’re so tough, Kenny.” 

Twenty minutes and one wig purchase later, Officer Brantley reported she still hadn’t seen anyone she’d classify as suspicious looking.  She’d seen a few degenerates, but no one who looked like a killer.  Nevertheless, Wilder and Kennedy snapped the pictures of everyone who entered and exited the shop, just in case. 

“Hey partner, you see anything over your way?” 

“No, Kenny.  Just a whole lot of wiggling tits and ass.  These women work their stuff.” 

“They probably make a hell of a lot more money than you and I do.”  “Shit.” 

His reaction was short and to the point.  Kennedy started to laugh, but her eyes were drawn to the shop’s large display window as a shadow crossed it.  “Who the hell is that?  You got a visual, Alli?” 

“I see him, but can’t quite make him out.” 

A man in a yellow polo shirt and Oakley’s reached for the door handle to the wig shop and then stopped.  The hairs on the back of Kennedy’s neck tingled and her hand went instinctively to her gun.  “Wilder, check out the guy coming your way.  He looked like he was going in, but something seems to have spooked him.  It’s Campenelli’s campaign manager.  What the hell is he doing in this part of town?” 

“John Tully?”  Wilder asked. 

“Yeah, John Tully.  He wasn’t on our list of possibles so I didn’t push him hard about an alibi.  Plenty of witnesses saw him leave the dinner early with the flu.” 

“That could have been faked.  Mixer’s phone records prove he talked to her right before she was murdered.” 

“And he could have been hanging around this area when she called him.  We can check his cell phone tower records and pinpoint where he was when she made the call.” 

“Let’s follow him and see what he’s up to.  Alli, you stay in position for now.  Ready, Wilder?” 

“I’m always ready.” 

From
his hiding place across the street, Nick spotted John scurrying down the street, keeping close to the buildings.  Detective James took off after John and Nick followed.  John couldn’t be the murderer, not his friend and campaign manager, so why was he here? 

“What the hell is going on?” 

One
store down from the wig shop, Elvis hid behind a shelf of intimate play toys, waiting and watching.  The undercover cop who had arrived with O’Brien moved around the store, picking up wigs and examining them closely.  He had to hand it to her, she blended in well with the other shoppers. 

Elvis hoped they’d find Priscilla’s killer, but he’d find the murderer if they didn’t.  He’d overheard the detectives talking about staking out the wig shop while they stood with him in the Imperial Palace taxi line.  It’d sounded like they were on to something and here he was. 

He’d just decided undercover work was boring as all hell when he spotted Detective James beatin’ feet after some guy in a yellow shirt.  Elvis put down the box of sex toys he was looking through and followed. 

Kennedy
focused on the sound of Wilder’s deep breathing as it surged through her earpiece.  He was moving fast, trying to keep up with the man he was following. 

“Wilder, what the hell is happening out there?” 

“I’m following the guy in the yellow shirt and Oakley’s like you said to.  He’s moving so freakin’ fast, he might as well be running.  He keeps looking in alleys and doorways.  Seems to be looking for something—or someone.  There he goes around another corner.  I’ll get back to you.” 

“I’m about a block behind you.  I’ll be right there.”  “Son of a bitch!” 

Kennedy felt her heart skip a beat and her legs went weak.  “Wilder?  Wilder answer me.”  Why didn’t he answer?  Was he hurt? 

“Wilder, you better fucking answer me.”  She could still hear Wilder’s heavy breathing. 

“Christ,” he finally wheezed. 

His voice, thank God.  “Are you okay?” 

“Hell no, I’m not okay.  I think I may have just lost him.  Damn.” 

“Where are you?”  Relief spread over her, the warmth flowing back into limbs she hadn’t realized had gone stone cold.  She didn’t know if she’d hug him or knock him on his ass when she caught up to him. 

“I’m standing in the middle of an alley, three streets North of the wig shop, Washington and 7th.  Damn and double damn.  There’s no sign of Tully.  Are you sure that’s who you saw, Kenny?” 

“Yeah, I’m sure it was Tully.” 

Nick
, still following the detective, had held back at the corner of the alley Wilder had slipped into.  At least he had until he saw a blur of flashing lights hustle past him and into the alley.  The flash of light was a sight he’d never seen before—and hoped to never see again.  It was an Elvis dressed in a glittering rhinestone jumpsuit with, honest-to-God, working twinkle lights. 

Nick heard the two collide and Kennedy’s partner and the twinkling Elvis begin yelling obscenities at each other.  He didn’t see John anywhere. 

Nick didn’t think things could get much more confusing or much worse for that matter.  Of course that was before Detective Kennedy O’Brien flew around the corner and ran smack into Nick’s hard body for the second time in the same day.  The air whooshed from his lungs as she hit. 

“God
damn, Campenelli!  What the fucking hell are you doing here?”  She looked around the alley, spotted her partner, who was bent at the waist, yelling in between deep breaths at...  Elvis?  Wilder, what are you and Elvis yelling about?  I can hear you guys two blocks over.  What in the world is going on?” 

Wilder tried to explain, but couldn’t quite get the words out.  Elvis babbled a hundred miles an hour.  Kennedy was about to put in her two cents worth when she realized Nick was just standing by with his arms crossed, taking the chaos in.  He was smiling, damn near close to laughing she realized.  That burned her ass even more. 

Kennedy, by virtue of being the angriest and having the loudest voice, took charge.  “Shut the hell up.” 

Kennedy took a deep breath, looked around at the three men.  “This is one giant clusterfuck.” 

Wilder was fine, just winded.  She turned to Elvis, ready to whip some mad on him.  “Would you mind explaining what you’re doing here?” 

“Sorry, Detective Gorgeous Eyes.  I’m trying to find out who killed my Priscilla.  I might possibly, have overheard you and your partner talking about staking out the store.” 

“And?” 

“I thought I’d have a look myself—undercover and all.  I was doing a decent job of it until I saw Detective James take off like a bat out of hell.  I followed in case he needed backup.  And, well, here I am.”  Elvis sheepishly looked away. 

“Undercover?  In a fucking, flashing, light up Elvis jump suit?”  She looked him up and down, blinking at the lights on his clothes. 

“I accidentally hit the on button while running.” 

Kennedy turned on Nick, still with that same grin she suddenly despised, dimples and all, plastered on his face.  “What about you, Campenelli?  What’s your story?” 

“Just out for a stroll, Detective.” 

Wilder and Elvis both stifled grins and she shot them a look that shut them down.  Wilder should know better than to mess with her when she was pissed.  And she was really pissed.