Pearce Hansen - Stagger Bay

I could probably use this guy without having to be too afraid of his own personal agenda, then. “I got one more thing. Maybe you have some input for me.”

“Shoot.”

“What does it mean when a serial killer drives up to you on the street, says hello and tells you who he is, and then taunts you with his next victim while they’re his prisoner, still alive?”

“What the heck are you talking about?” Miller asked, his voice raised.

I explained, describing my encounter with the Driver, doing my best not to remember the little Hmong girl’s face. Miller was silent for a long while after that, then grunted.

“Markus,” he said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Serial killers don’t come right out and show themselves, anymore than a comic book super villain rips their mask off in public. One of the reasons your brother contacted me was because he knew I’m a fairly decent profiler; I’ve been shooting for VCU a long time. The big boys are back East, but I’m probably as good as you’re going to easily find out here on the Left Coast.”

“Markus,” Agent Miller said. “If the Driver is playing it that loose and crazy, he’s obviously on his last legs. He’s at what he sees as his end game.”

I saw the Club’s entrance door open and Mr. Tubbs walk out, Meshback Number One in front of him, Meshback Number Two behind him pulling drag.

“See, we generally differentiate between ‘spree’ killers and ‘serial’ killers, even though they both have multiple victims,” Miller said. “Sprees kill a whole bunch of people in a short time and then, often as not, kill themselves or suicide by cop. Serials may be organized or disorganized, but their murders are generally separated in time, with their technique becoming ever more similar and ritualized as they kill their way up along their learning curve.”

Meshback Number One got behind the wheel, and Tubbs climbed in to sit shotgun; Meshback Number Two was relegated to the back seat for this particular trip.

“Maybe this Driver is mutating from a serial to a spree?” Miller surmised. “If that’s so, then if he’s not stopped there’s probably a big body count blowout getting ready to happen, soon.

“Something’s changed drastically for him. In which case it sounds like all bets are off and he’s even more dangerous. Things are going to get even uglier with him now, and you need to be very, very careful, Markus. This guy just doesn’t care anymore.”

The Bronco pulled out the Club parking lot and started to make a left turn. But Tubbs saw me standing there and spoke to his driver.

“Dang,” Miller muttered, his mouth aimed away from the phone. “I’ve got to go. I’m already late for a big meeting; time ran away from me here.”

Tubbs’ Bronco rapidly reversed and pulled to the curb butt first, stopping less than a foot from Sam’s front bumper – Meshback Number One could drive, it seemed.

“So what happens if I bring you evidence enough for probable cause?” I asked, avoiding Tubbs’ efforts to catch my eye.

Miller didn’t hesitate: “Then my people and I will be on the next chartered turbo-prop up to Stagger Bay, with a SWAT team, a stack of warrants, and a mob of cracker-jack accountants. You’ll be feeling the warm glow appropriate to any citizen doing his civic duty. And, incidentally, you’ll also have a federal judge who’ll love you forever, as well as a life-long good buddy in the Bureau’s VCU.”

“And one more thing friend,” Miller said. “You don’t strike me as a law enforcement groupie. Heck, if I were you I might not be one either. But I swear to you on my life, if you give me what I need I’ll take them down hard, I’ll burn them to the water line. No getting off on technicalities, as few plea bargains as possible. Trust me, Markus.” He hung up.

“Hello, Sam,” Tubbs said from the Bronco’s shotgun seat, his lipless gash of a mouth compressed into the rictus that was as close as he could get to a friendly smile.

“Mr. Tubbs,” Sam mumbled, looking down at his feet as he never would have for me.

“Hello Markus,” Tubbs said, shifting his gaze to target me in turn. “If you’re done talking to whoever, I think you might want to give me some of your time.”

“Got some good news for you son,” Tubbs said as we stood together on the sidewalk; he had one hand sticking in his pocket with the thumb out as he aimed that contorted smile up at me. “I have me a little pull in Sacramento – got me some good old friends up there in the capitol – and I made some calls on your behalf. Looks like you’ll be getting that quarter mil for your time in prison after all.”

“I could use the money,” I confessed. “But you don’t owe me nothing.”

Tubbs chuckled. “Meaning you don’t owe me nothing neither, right? But you’re wrong anyways, son, leastways about me owing you. I meant what I said before about being a man who pays his debts.”

He gestured toward the Club. “You need to go in there with me now, Markus, and let me introduce you to the boys. They’ve all been wanting to meet you. You’ll be more than welcome.”

I glanced sidelong at Kendra’s dad. “It’s pretty fancy in there,” I said. “I’d feel weird. It’s not really my kind of place.”

Sam’s face sagged more fully into expressionlessness. What, did the kid expect me to shoot Tubbs down on the spot?

Tubbs nodded but his eyes were twin laser beams aimed right at me. “I can relate, son. I’m an old redneck myself – I assure you I felt like a fish out of water the first few times I walked through those doors. Tell you what though, it’ll feel like no more than your due after a while.”

“I’m sure you’re right. You’re painting a very pretty picture here,” I said. “But you’re focusing on what’s in it for me, like y’all are altruists or something.”

I tossed a shoulder, pretending the Club didn’t look strangely sweet from here on the outside. “I know you know the score; you’re the one sitting behind the stack of chips. Me, I’m just a newbie getting dealt in cold. I’m sure you’ll admit it ain’t exactly been a pat hand. How can I trust, if I don’t know what’s in it for you?”

“All right, that’s fair,” Tubbs allowed with a laugh. “I knew I was right about you. You never make no excuses for yourself. You don’t ask for shit from nobody. You’re one of my kind, son – you watch out for number one, I saw it right off. You’re no fool whatever some may think, and I’m for sure not fool enough to treat you as one.”

Tubbs and I crossed the street with the Meshbacks behind us, ready willing and able to pluck the petals off me like a dandelion. I heard a car door slam and turned to see Sam sitting in the driver’s seat of his Lincoln, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“Maybe it’s off topic, but what about the Gardens?” I asked as we walked up the front steps of the Andersen Club. I glanced back at Sam again even as he refused to return my look.

“Do you really even care, Markus?” Tubbs asked as we stepped through the front door. “They’re not even tenants with rights – they’re illegal squatters, for Christ’s sake. I’m sorry about the little girl and all, not that I really know anything about it. Maybe those people thought you walked on water before, but I’ll bet they’ll never think as highly of you again.”

The flunky in the monkey suit muttered inconsequentials from behind his podium station, and granted us full Club access with obsequious gestures. Behind him, a sweeping tongue of a stairway curved down, wide enough for a squad to have marched abreast on. At the first landing above, a stained glass window filled the entire wall – you could have driven a bus through it.