Catherine was reaching for her cell phone when the results of her computer search came up.
The charity names all had something in common, too—they represented a colossal, arrogant thumbing-of-her-nose by Rene to anyone who sought to catch up with her.
The names had led Catherine to IMDb.com, the Internet Movie Database. And every one of the names of the fake charities came from a single source—The Sting, the 1973 film about clever con artists taking down a big score. D.S. Ward Worldwide was a reference to the picture’s writer, David S. Ward; Jonathan Hooker, Johnny Hooker, Robert Redford’s character; Pastor Henry Newman, taken from the first name of Henry Gondorff and the last name of the actor who’d played that role, Paul Newman…they all had some resonance within the famous movie. Robert Shaw had portrayed the villain, Lonnegan, his name and the character’s showing up in a pair of the charities.
In a matter of seconds, she’d taken this in, and—hopping mad—she hit speed-dial for Warrick.
Surprisingly, she got Vega instead, as well as the distinctive sound of a wailing siren.
“Warrick’s busy driving,” Vega said, signal crackling and breaking up. “We think Rene Fairmont’s making a run for it.”
“I’m sure she is,” Catherine said. “That’s what I called to tell you—she’s got an escape route set up, conducive to picking up her stashes at the mailbox drops.”
Vega said something that got eaten up in static—one of the downsides of working in Las Vegas was the cell phone signal sometimes just plain sucked.
“What?” she yelled into the phone.
Vega’s voice came back, clearer now. “Warrick and I are headed for her house.”
“I’ll check the local drops,” she said, clicked off, and ran out.
No red Grand Prix awaited in the driveway when Warrick pulled up to the ranch-style house on Rustic Ridge Drive with its browning lawn and FOR SALE sign. The CSI and the detective came out of the Tahoe, guns drawn. Warrick grabbed the ram out of the back—the Fairmont woman’s flight gave them probable cause—and Vega led the way toward the house. Howling sirens in the distance told Warrick backup was on its way.
While Vega covered him, Warrick holstered his weapon long enough to swing the battering ram into the front door—the lock exploded inward, the door yawned open, and Warrick dropped the ram to pull his pistol again.
With Vega in the lead, the duo went through room by room. When the house was established as clear, the CSI holstered his gun and shook his head in frustration.
No doubt about it: Rene Fairmont was already gone.
The master bedroom, more than anything, told the story, the closet door thrown open, rejected clothes on the floor, the bed, and still hanging in the closet. The woman had clearly packed quickly and bailed.
“What next?” asked an exasperated Vega.
“Next,” Warrick said, “we go through this damn house and see what we can find.”
Not long after Warrick and Vega had hit the door, the uniforms had shown up, and they now had the neighborhood cordoned off.
Vega said, “Guess I better canvass the neighbors, and break up the siege outside. I don’t suppose she’s coming back….”
“Sure she is. Right after M.C. Hammer.”
The detective sighed, and ambled out, saying, “Better put out an APB on her car, too.”
After a cursory look around, Warrick retrieved his crime scene kit from the Tahoe and began work in earnest.
In the bedroom, little useful presented itself, at first. The CSI did find a cream-colored dress with red roses on it, on the floor, which he bagged. Then he rooted around in the closet, coming across something really worth finding: a plastic grocery bag on the floor containing several wigs, one of which was gray. A pair of glasses that looked like tri-focals but were clear glass was stuffed in the bag as well.
When Vega came back from his canvass of the neighbors, Warrick held up the wig in one evidence bag and the glasses in another.
The CSI said, “Meet the other Mabel Hinton.”
“Hello Mabel,” Vega said dryly.
“What about the neighbors?”
The detective shrugged. “Nobody’s seen much. They say Rene Fairmont isn’t a friendly neighbor. Keeps to herself. Woman next door says Rene left right before we got here. Says Rene loaded her car with suitcases before peeling away.”
“You got the APB out, right?” Warrick asked.
“Yeah,” Vega said. “But it’s a big city and ‘red Grand Prix’ may not narrow it much…. Should we contact the airport and train station?”
“If you want, but Catherine says there’s an escape route via car and interstate.”
“Better cover our bases,” Vega said, and got on his cell.
Warrick kept looking.
In the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom, he found a drawer filled with elaborate theatrical makeup. Later, in the kitchen wastebasket, amid coffee grounds and other trash, he discovered forensics treasure: a square envelope in Mabel Hinton’s handwriting addressed to Vivian Elliot and three typing-paper sheets of practice attempts (presumably by Rene Fairmont) to duplicate the signature that was part of Mabel’s handwritten return address.
After bagging and tagging, Warrick shared this gold with Vega, who was pleased, or as pleased as the man could be with their angel of mercy on the run.
Warrick got on the cell and updated Catherine.
“Not just the wig and dress,” he said, “but the greasepaint and the works—never mind Derek Fairmont…Rene could have run the UWN drama department from Rustic Ridge Drive.”
“So,” Catherine’s voice crackled over the cell, “Rene went into Sunny Day in disguise, killed her victim, then just melted out of sight in all the distraction of the code blue.”
“Looks like it,” Warrick said. “That way she never drew attention to herself. Didn’t want all the victims to die on her shift…. And she seems to have swiped an envelope from a get-well card sent to Vivian at Sunny Day. I got three pages of forger practice sheets, Cath.”
“Sweet…. Look, Warrick, I’m going to the Rent-A-Box on Warm Springs. Why don’t you and Sam meet up with me there?”
“How come?”
“If Rene’s really splitting, maybe she’ll stop to pick up some traveling money. One of the charities she used has a drop at the Rent-A-Box. I’ve been to two others with no luck.”
“Maybe she hadn’t been there yet.”
“I called to post uniforms at both. Listen, I can’t believe she won’t stop at one of ’em, before she books it.”
“On our way. Where on Warm Springs?”
“Strip mall near Green Valley Parkway.”
“I know it,” Warrick said. “See you there.”
A block away from the Rent-A-Box, Catherine turned off the flashers (she wasn’t using the siren, not wanting to warn Rene Fairmont), slowed down slightly, then passed through the last intersection and wheeled the Tahoe into the parking lot.
Along with the mailboxes location, half a dozen or so other businesses made up the modest strip mall, with maybe fifteen cars in the parking lot. She quickly scanned the vehicles for Rene’s Grand Prix, didn’t see it, but then caught a glimpse of bright red beyond a big navy blue SUV….
Pulling forward, to see past the SUV, Catherine’s flicker of red identified itself as a red Pontiac Grand Prix all right. The CSI was about to pull forward, to block the car’s path, when the Pontiac suddenly backed out of its parking place, nearly hitting the Tahoe, and zoomed out of the parking lot to turn west onto Warm Springs Road.
Catherine, having slammed on the brakes when the Pontiac backed up, needed a few seconds to get moving forward again. By that time, the light at the exit had changed and she watched helplessly as several cars slowly eased past her while, up the road, the red Pontiac threatened to disappear.
Using her ear bud, Catherine could talk to Warrick on the phone and keep her hands free to drive. That was, of course, if the damned line of cars ever got out of her way�
�.
Catherine was about to say the hell with it and hit the siren when she found a spot to get in. She could turn on the siren, and catch up to the Pontiac quickly; but she was in no big hurry to take down a murderer without backup.
She got through to Warrick as she began weaving through traffic. “Where are you?”
“On the beltway,” Warrick said. “We’re headed your way.”
“Better find another route,” Catherine said. “She’s turning north on Eastern.”
“Roger that,” Warrick said. “We’re getting off on Paradise.”
Paradise would allow Warrick and Vega to run parallel with Rene and Catherine. If Rene turned left, the suspect would be turning right into their path. Catherine was getting nearer, and having an easier time keeping the Pontiac in sight. She wanted to pull the woman over—Warrick was closer now—but did she dare do so in the middle of all this traffic?
Though Rene was driving fast, the woman wasn’t speeding any more than most of the drivers on the road—which was good, because it might mean the suspect didn’t know Catherine was back here on her tail.
Maybe Catherine could afford to wait until Warrick was even closer, when they might get a chance to bust this woman without doing it in the middle of a traffic jam. Serving and protecting citizens was a concept at odds with putting them in the middle of a shoot-out or a high-speed chase….
Then Rene swung left on Sunset.
Catherine followed, three cars between them, and suddenly she had the feeling that everything was going to work out.
“Warrick,” she said. “We’re eastbound on Sunset, headed your way.”
“I’ll be waiting,” his voice replied.
But Catherine’s confidence took a dive as she saw the Pontiac lunge right, cross two lanes of traffic, and disappear into a parking lot. The CSI stomped the brakes, heard tires squeal behind her, then jumped the two lanes of traffic herself…only she missed the access drive!
She didn’t want to hop the sidewalk, and—realizing she was in front of a branch of the First Monument Bank—caught the next drive into the bank, going in the one-way wrong. She kept her foot on the brake, pausing there, facing the one-way drive-thru (which was customerless at the moment), as if contemplating a right turn into the parking lot in front of the bank.
The red Pontiac was nowhere in sight and Catherine figured Rene had driven behind the bank building, to come back this way and around through the drive-thru.
“Warrick,” she said crisply, “we’re at the First Monument Bank on Sunset. Suspect seems about to use the drive-thru. Her driving may indicate she spotted me; or this could be a cash stop. In any event, we need to bust her before she leaves the bank.”
“We’re onto Sunset,” Warrick’s voice assured her.
Catherine saw the other Tahoe in her rearview mirror. “I see you! Sight for sore eyes…”
“We’ll go in the entrance, go around, and come up behind her.”
“Ten-four,” Catherine said, as Rene’s Pontiac drew around the corner of the building.
Rene’s hand came out the driver’s side window, dropped something into the slide drawer, then disappeared back into the car.
Where was Warrick? He should’ve been coming around the building by now…and then, finally, there was Warrick and Vega in their own beautiful SUV, easing up behind Rene.
The drive-thru drawer opened again, and Rene withdrew an envelope. Her hand disappeared back inside the car and the Pontiac didn’t move for endless seconds.
Catherine started creeping forward, hoping Rene wouldn’t notice the Tahoe closing the distance between itself and the Grand Prix, and not turning into the parking lot. She needed to nail Rene just after the woman pulled away from the drive-thru window, before she got back on the road.
The glass of the drive-thru window would be bulletproof, but Catherine saw no reason to take any chances at all. Warrick was in line immediately behind Rene, and they would soon have her boxed in. The only thing left was to close the trap.
The car started toward her and Catherine hit the gas to cut her off.
Rene hit the brakes, stopped the Pontiac and came barreling out of the car, on the driver’s side, a large canvas bag of a purse slung over a shoulder.
The suspect had made them!
And now Rene, blonde hair flouncing, in a white blouse, dark slacks, and heels, was trying to make her escape on foot.
Catherine slammed on the brakes, threw the Tahoe in park, and leapt from the vehicle, yanking her pistol from its hip holster. She didn’t point the weapon at Rene, since—right behind her—Warrick and Vega were coming out of their vehicle and were in Catherine’s line of fire. If she shot and missed Rene—a distinct possibility, with the range changing every second—she could easily hit one of her own team.
Conversely, if they should fire and miss, she’d be on the target line.
Catherine resisted the urge to raise the weapon, even as Rene came rushing toward her. Then, at the last second, Rene veered away from Catherine, toward the bank.
Wheeling, the pistol finally up and ready to take aim, Catherine could see why Rene had cut to one side—an older woman…gray and frail and not so different from the Sunny Day victims of the angel of mercy…stood on the sidewalk in front of the bank. The older woman had just come out of the building and held her purse in both hands, probably waiting to be picked up.
The old gal didn’t have long to wait: Rene swung around behind her, making a shield of the woman, who squawked in surprise as her assailant’s left arm looped around her neck, the other hand fishing in that big purse.
Catherine kept the gun trained on the pair as a syringe rose up in Rene’s right hand, stopping just short of the older woman’s creped throat.
“I always wanted to say this to a cop,” Rene snarled. “Freeze!”
Warrick and Vega came up alongside Catherine, and made with her a three-person line facing Rene and her hostage—the two CSIs and the detective each with a handgun poised to shoot.
“What’s in the syringe, Rene?” Catherine said. “Prussic acid?”
“How’d you guess, bitch?”
Traffic had slowed, and bystanders were peering from windows of nearby buildings, and Catherine hoped 911 had been called by now—backup would be nice. Sweat trickled down Rene’s face, like the tears the killer was probably incapable of shedding, and the hostage’s eyes were wide, pitifully so, brimming with terror.
“Well,” Catherine said, “it’s what you used on your lawyer friend, isn’t it? And what you gave to your husband.”
Catherine had a fine line to walk, between scaring the hostage further, and keeping the attention of a serial killer.
Rene’s eyes were wide now, a weird echo of her hostage’s frightened countenance. “How the hell could you know about Derek?”
“He told us—his generosity did, anyway, leaving his skull to the college and his organs to the medical center…. Rene, it’s over. You need to let that woman go.”
“Think so? I’ll need a new lawyer, won’t I?”
Without a word being spoken, the trio from LVPD slowly started fanning out—Vega was at left, Warrick in the middle, Catherine on the right, nearest the street.
“You got cocky, Rene—and then sloppy. We know about all of them—not just Derek and the lawyer and Vivian Elliot, but the other victims at Sunny Day.”
Rene was a beautiful woman; still, her smile over her hostage’s shoulder was hideous. “Oh, you think that’s all of them?”
Catherine and Vega each eased yet another step away from Warrick….
And this time, Rene spotted it. “I said freeze, damn it! All of you!” The syringe drew closer to the old woman’s neck. Rene looked toward Vega. “You—! Drop the gun.”
The detective took a long moment, glancing at Warrick and Catherine for support they couldn’t offer; then finally complied.
“Now you,” she said to Warrick.
Warrick knelt, carefully placed his pistol on the con
crete in front of him, and slowly stood.
Rene turned slightly, the hostage moving with her now, and faced Catherine, looking over the old woman’s shoulder. “Now you, Nancy Drew. Drop it!”
Catherine knew her only advantage right now was having the late afternoon sun at her back. She must be a silhouette to Rene, little more….
“Make me ask again, bitch—and see what happens!”
Catherine held up her left hand in a “slow down” fashion, then began to bend to lay down her weapon, though she had no intention of doing so. It was well within Rene Fairmont’s character to grab one of their weapons from the cement and shoot all three of them.
The CSI would have to shoot…
…though with precious little of Rene showing to aim at, and no margin at all for error. Catherine kept crouching lower, the shot ever more precarious.
Vega said, “Give it up, lady—you got no way outta here.”
“I think I do,” Rene said, and shook her hostage, who cried out in fear. “I have a senior travel discount….”
Catherine was hunkered down now, the gun barely inches off the pavement. “Say you do make it out of here,” the CSI said, “by car or plane or magic carpet. You’re still washed up.”
“Shut up and put the gun down….”
“Y’see, we know where all your drop boxes are—all your fake charities. So much work, so much death—and you’re never going to see a penny of it.”
Something feral went off inside Rene.
The angel of mercy pulled the syringe back, incrementally, to gain momentum to drive the needle into the old woman’s neck…
…but in the momentary window that provided, Catherine rolled to her left, nearly sweeping Warrick’s feet out from under him, and on her stomach, with a better angle, she fired up, the sound of it like a whip crack as the shot shook Rene’s shoulder, sending the syringe spinning through the air where it bounced onto the parking lot with a plastic clatter.
Grave Matters Page 22
