Donn Cortez - The Killing Jar

They ’d caught the killer. Nick had pointed a loaded gun at the man’s face while the killer shouted at him to shoot-and he had, into the ground. It hadn’t been an act of kindness-the killer was an undersheriff, and Nick knew that his existence in prison would be one of isolation and constant fear.

Nick wasn’t going to help Warrick’s murderer commit suicide. Not unless it took a long, long time.

“Truck’ll be here in ten,” said Riley. She noticed the look on his face and added, “You okay?”

“Fine.” Nick shook his head, forced a smile. “Just thinking about another case.”

“Bad one?”

“Yeah,” said Nick. “About as bad as it gets.”

Grissom studied the twelve letters laid out before him on the light table. According to Stancroft, they had arrived over the last two months, one a week at first and then two.

The envelopes and the stationery the letters were printed on were all identical. Each had been mailed from within Las Vegas itself. Each letter was a single page, double-spaced and printed by an inkjet. The content was an almost mathematical progression of obsession, the first only hinting at it and the last practically raving. Despite that, there was a uniformity to them that was chilling-each was almost exactly the same length, each was folded at exactly the same p lace.

He had lifted numerous fingerprints from the envelopes, several of which were unknown-most likely those of postal employees. Fingerprints on the letters themselves were those of Henry Stancroft and Paul Fairwick, the only two people to have read them; it was Fairwick’s job to read the mail, and he apparently passed the letters directly to Stancroft.

The letters made frequent disparaging remarks about the hotel itself and how Athena Jordanson deserved better. The writer insinuated that her safety was at risk and directed blame, again, at the hotel. The logic was faulty, but the intention was clear: if anything bad were to befall Athena Jordanson, it would ultimately be the hotel that was at fault.

One passage in particular, from the very latest letter, Grissom found especially disturbing: I pity you, in your glass castle in the sky. You think yourself immune to all the ills that befall us ordinary drones, toiling in our endless busywork while you play and sing. I used to think that you were a goddess, that the divinity of your voice was there to lift us up; but now it only serves to remind me of everything we’ll never have, of just how special you are and how unremarkable the rest of us will always be. Living in that penthouse, looking down upon all of us, we must see m no more than scurrying insects to you…”

Scurrying insects was underlined. It was the only phrase in any of the letters that was.

When they got Paul Fairwick’s car back to the lab, Nick processed the inside of the car, while Riley did the outside.

The first thing he found was a crumpled piece of paper on the floor. He flattened it out and read it: it was a single photocopied sheet informing the residents of 4359 Carleton that due to the parking lot being resurfaced, they would have to find alternate arrangements for the next forty-eight hours. A hand-drawn map suggested spots along the same block the car had been found in.

“I didn’t notice any roadwork equipment when we drove past Fairwick’s apartment building, did you?” asked Nick.

“No-but I did notice a security camera over the front door. Could be the killer was redirecting his target to a more suitable stalking ground, one where he wouldn’t be observed.”

“Like the spot where he was attacked. That suggests he was actually lying in wait.”

“There were no obvious hiding places on that block, which confirms he was in a vehicle,” said Riley. “So far, that’s about all we’ve got.”

The tiny white dog cradled in Jill Leilani’s arms stared at Catherine with wide brown eyes. It seemed perfectly happy to stay where it was, though the same couldn’t be said about its owner. Leilani shifted in her seat uncomfortably, glancing around the interview room as if she might bolt at any moment. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair a wild, scraggly mess. She was dressed in club clothes: a short skirt, tiny top, and high-heeled shoes.

“So, Jill,” said Catherine, “how’s that plan to kick meth going?”

“Yeah, okay, maybe not so good,” she mumbled. “But that’s my problem, right? I mean, I don’t have any or anything.”

“Not now. But you’ve got a nice deal lined up for a steady supply, right? Straight from the source.”

Her hands stroked the dog compulsively. “No. No, that’s not true.”

“Sure it is. Hanging around with Hal Kanamu got you a heavy habit, but then you and Hal had a falling out. You needed a new supplier, and you found it in Aaron Tyford and Diego Molinez. Didn’t you?”

“No, no, no. I score on the street, same as anyone else, it’s not hard to find, so much stuff moves through Vegas it’s a hub it all comes up the interstate from Mexico and-”

Catherine cut her off. “No, Jill. The economy’s bad, and you only work part-time at the Shore-mont. Not enough to pay for what you need. So you decided to do a little moonlighting, right? Even a meth cook can use a maid.”

“I-I don’t-”

“It was the little folds you put in the end of the toilet paper that tipped me off. Habit, right? And probably more than a touch of meth-induced obsessive-compulsive behavior. We found towels from the Shoremont in the trash, too.”

“That-that doesn’t prove anything, so what, so what-”

“Maybe not. But we found traces of sexual fluid from three different people on a mattress at the meth lab-DNA from two males and a woman. Aaron Tyford and Diego Molinez are already in jail.” She paused. “As for the female DNA-I’m pretty sure it’s going to be a match to yours. Isn’t it?”

Her bravado broke. Tears began to spill silently down her face. “Yeah. Not enough they made me clean up their damn lab. They wanted other things, too.”

“And how did Hal feel about all this?”

“He didn’t know. I was ashamed to tell him, so I kept it a secret. That’s the real reason we stopped hanging around together-I mean, at first it was because I was trying to get clean, and then it was because I didn’t want him to know what I was doing. Lester knew, but I made him promise not to tell.”

Catherine nodded. Jill had pointed her at Lester Akiliano but hadn’t counted on Catherine finding out about Boz, Molinez, and Tyford. “So what happened, Jill? Did Hal find out? Did Lester tell him? Did Hal confront Molinez and Tyford about what they were doing to his old friend?”

“I don’t know what happened, I swear to God,” she sobbed. “Di ego wanted me to convince Hal to go into business with them. Lester couldn’t change his mind, but Diego thought I could. He was wrong, though-Hal was tweaking big-time on this art project he was into, didn’t want to talk about anything else.”

“I’ll bet Diego didn’t take that well.”

“He was starting to get impatient. I told him I’d keep trying. But then-then Hal turned up dead.”

“You think Diego was responsible?”

“I don’t know.” She stopped, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Thing is, Diego didn’t know where to find Hal. He’d been to his place, but Hal was spending most of his time at this warehouse, where him and this artist were working together. I knew where it was, but I never told Diego.”

Catherine thought back to what she’d learned about Hawaiian women who used to dress up as Pele and extort favors from superstitious villagers. “Did you do that to keep him safe?” she asked. “Or because it gave you a bargaining chip with your dealer?”

Jill Leilani looked down and stroked her dog, who looked back with trusting eyes. She didn’t answer.