Deadly Justice

25

BY FIVE-THIRTY, BEN, MIKE, and three uniforms from the Central Division had been through each of the twenty-two rooms in Gloria Hamel’s house twice. Some more.

And come up with nothing.

“Maybe we’re wasting our time,” Ben said. He sat dejectedly beside the fireplace in the den. “Maybe Hamel’s murder had nothing to do with his home life.”

“Whether it did or didn’t, he lived here,” Mike replied. He was opening drawers, looking under rugs, and checking all the other places he had already checked twice before. “There must be something helpful here, something that would give us a hint of what happened to him.”

“Well, I don’t want to sound like a quitter, but I don’t think there’s anything here.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Think about it, Ben. Last night someone took an enormous risk by breaking in here. A very desperate person, if what he did to the lady of the house is any indication. And why? Because he was looking for something. Gloria Hamel interrupted him before he found it, and he fled immediately after the beating. I don’t know what he was searching for. But I know it’s still here.”

“Well, since you put it that way…”

Ben pushed himself away from the fireplace and resumed his search.

“I’m going to check with Sergeant Mattingly. He’s searching the garage.”

The garage? “Mike, there’s also a basement and an attic. In addition to the twenty-two rooms we’ve already searched.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Gloria told me.”

Mike slapped him on the back. “All right, Sherlock Kincaid. I’ll take the basement, you take the attic.” He poked Ben in the ribs. “Unless that’s too high up for you. I don’t want you to get dizzy and fall out a window.”

Actually, it was too high up for Ben, not that he planned to admit it. Worse, the attic had huge windows on two sides. There was no direction he could turn to forget that he was not firmly planted on the ground. He tried to calm himself, recalling that he had once jumped out of an office window at least this high off the ground. Somehow, that only made him more nauseated.

The Hamels’ attic was a junkman’s dream. Almost every inch of floor space was piled high with mementos and castaways. The tremendous clutter guaranteed that this search would take several hours at least.

Most of the clutter derived from the man of the house. Incomplete projects filled the attic—a half-finished model train set, various model airplanes, a ship in a bottle. One corner was filled with fishing and camping gear. The only traces of Gloria he saw were a dust-covered dressmaker’s dummy, a sewing machine, and various needles and threads—remnants of an avocation long since abandoned.

Well, there was no point in procrastinating. Ben chose the closest corner and plunged in. He tried to be as thorough as possible; he opened every drawer, every trunk, every cardboard box. He overturned every piece of furniture, carefully checking for hollowed cushions and the like.

An hour and a half later, he had tunneled a path to the first wall, and come up with nothing that cast any light on Hamel’s death.

He patted down the wall, listening for a hollow sound that might suggest a secret room. All he heard was the consistent thud of plaster and wood.

You’re losing it, Kincaid, he thought to himself. This is real life, not a Gothic romance.

Above him, Ben spotted a huge blue swordfish, stuffed and mounted on the wall. A small plaque informed him that Howard Hamel caught the fish off Padre Island on August 12, 1988.

The swordfish triggered something in the back of Ben’s mind. It took him a moment to bring it back: I love deep sea fishing, Hamel had said. If I could, I’d spend my whole life doing that and nothing else.

Could it be? Ben pulled over a rickety chair and raised himself eye level with the swordfish. Maybe it was just his overactive imagination, but the fish seemed to be…smiling at him. Cautiously, Ben put his hand into the fish’s mouth, stretched, and withdrew.

Nothing. Ben jumped off the chair, utterly embarrassed. Who do you think you are, one of the Hardy Boys? he asked himself. First you look for secret passages, then you stick your hand into a swordfish. What did you expect? Golly, maybe we’ll find a treasure map!

Then he recalled the remainder of what Hamel had said: In fact, I’m going on vacation myself in a few days. Gonna catch some sun and some fish down at Key West. Get away from it all for a few days.

Ben wondered if perhaps Hamel wanted to get away from a specific something. Or someone. If he had some kind of sensitive information, something someone else wanted intensely, Hamel would probably take it with him.

Ben raced back to the corner of the attic containing Hamel’s fishing gear. He tore through the pile, uprooting rods, reels, nets, and sophisticated electronic gizmos. He found a tackle box and flipped open the lid. Lures, plastic worms, hooks, spare line—yes! He thrust his hand down to the bottom of the box and came up with a photograph.

“Mike!”

No response. He ran to the top of the attic ladder. “Mike!” he shouted again.

A few moments later, he heard, “What? I was in the middle of searching the half-filled paint cans. I love paint fumes. This had better be good.”

“It is.” As soon as Mike reached the top of the ladder, Ben thrust the photo into his hands. It was a small Polaroid, not very old.

“Do you have any idea who this is?” Mike said, after examining the photo.

“No. But people don’t normally hide photos of naked girls in their tackle boxes. I thought it might be important.”

“Damn right it’s important.” The photograph showed a petite, blond teenage girl, nude except for a broken heart-shaped pendant on a chain around her neck. The expression on her face was difficult to read. But she was not happy. There was someone else in the foreground, facing away from the camera. The second person was impossible to identify; all that was visible was a bare shoulder and part of the back.

Mike flipped the photo over. On the back, someone had handwritten in a messy scrawl: Kindergarten Club—#1.

“See that strawberry birthmark on her left shoulder?” Mike said. “And two more below her breasts? I recognize the body markings. This girl was the serial killer’s first victim.”

Ben felt a sudden shortness of breath. “But—this photograph looks as if it was taken recently.”

“I agree. There’s very little fading or discoloration.”

“What does it mean?”

Mike shook his head. “It means this case involving Howard Hamel and the Apollo Consortium just became a hell of a lot more important. And deadly.”