The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3 Read online

  Tail lights are visible in the distance and he knows where Johnson is going, so it’s safer to hang back rather than alarm him.

  Twenty miles from town, he sees hazard lights come on. The gap between the two cars closes. Fast.

  His heart thumps and he can feel his right foot pressing down harder. Taking a deep breath, he calms himself and eases off the gas a little. If this is to be the opportunity, then great, but he’s not going to blow everything by pouncing too soon.

  The knife used on the Niemeyer slut has been dumped and his random selection has thrown up a framing hammer for Johnson. It lies in the passenger footwell on top of a few other tools put there as camouflage.

  His hand caresses the shaft of the hammer as he approaches Johnson’s car. He’s pulled as far off the road as he can and the Watcher can see the back end of the car is jacked up at one side.

  The opportunity is just too perfect to be passed up.

  He draws to a halt and parks twenty feet behind the lame Chevy. Johnson rises to his feet and shields his eyes from the Watcher’s headlights with one hand. The other holds a wheel wrench against his leg.

  The Watcher climbs out and fixes a smile onto his face. ‘You need some help there, buddy?’

  ‘I’m fine changing the wheel, but if you could pull your car a bit closer the light would be a big help.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ He pulls his car nearer to Johnson’s, resisting the urge to floor the gas and crush his target between the two cars.

  He chats to Johnson as he removes the wheel and replaces it with the spare. It’s one of those narrow space-savers and looks odd where once there was a fat tyre.

  Johnson puts down the wheel wrench and turns to start lowering the jack.

  The wheel wrench speaks to the Watcher so he relegates the framing hammer until another time and slips his fingers around the wrench.

  A look both ways to check for headlights reveals nothing.

  The first blow lands on Johnson’s temple, just below the greying hair. He falls onto his back.

  Ten more times the tyre iron smashes into the target’s face. He counts the blows then adds another to make it a round dozen. Odd numbers are just that as far as he’s concerned. Odd.

  He pulls back Johnson’s cuff and checks for a pulse.

  There isn’t one, so he begins the clean-up before someone comes. His muscles burn as he hauls Johnson’s body into the trunk of his own car. He’s heavier than expected and the virus has weakened him more than he cares to acknowledge.

  The jack and wheel wrench are tossed on top of the body. Sometimes it’s safer to leave the murder weapon with the victim rather than get caught trying to dispose of it.

  Next he strips to his jockey shorts and dresses in the spare clothes kept in his trunk.

  He turns south until he finds a side road where he hides his car and opens the trunk. It only takes him a minute to don the ghillie suit before setting off at a run towards a decent vantage point.

  The only thing he carries is a pair of night-vision binoculars and a desire to further progress the pattern.

  Hunkering down in a clump of sagebrush, he wriggles until he’s comfortable. A rock is picked from beneath his chest and placed to one side. It may be a long wait but he’s in no hurry. All that matters is having a good view of Johnson’s car.

  13

  By the time I pull into Alfonse’s drive I am tired, hungry and more than a little irritable. Long drives are part of the American way of life but they’ve been the hardest thing for me to get used to.

  Driving mile after mile on arrow-straight roads where the biggest dangers are speed traps and the soporific effect of tyres on asphalt always grates on my nerves. Being a man of action, the two-hour drive each way felt like a waste of time, despite the fact I’d gotten pretty much all the information I’d hoped to get.

  I enter the house and find Alfonse beavering away at his laptop. He doesn’t speak, but he does nod his head towards the kitchen. The mixed smells of coffee and chilli were already drawing me in like some kind of culinary mermaid.

  After fixing myself a large bowl of chilli and filling two mugs with coffee, I sit down at the opposite side of his paper-strewn desk.

  Alfonse pushes his laptop away and stretches without leaving his seat.

  I swallow a mouthful of chilli. ‘What you got?’

  ‘I’ve traced nine of her last ten clients, and read through the messages she received through the site. They’re all about the last visit or fantasies for the next one.’ A shrug. ‘It all seemed rather mundane. At least as far as that kind of thing can be.’

  ‘Do any of her clients seem like a possible?’

  ‘Not at all. Judging by the message history the clients are ones she’s seen a number of times before.’ He passes me a sheaf of papers with all the details on. ‘I also found a database she had created on each of her clients and their sexual preferences.’

  ‘You’ve been busy.’ It may be stating the obvious, but it’s as close to praise as either of us is comfortable with.

  He gives a small nod of acknowledgement and leaves me to finish my chilli while I read the notes.

  Alfonse’s chilli is just perfect, hot enough to tingle the lips, yet not so hot as to scald the throat. I spoon away until the bowl is empty, my eyes never leaving the spreadsheets he has drawn up.

  Eight of the nine live several hundreds of miles away, while the ninth has a number of homes around the world. Each of the men is wealthy in a way I can only dream of.

  Thinking about it, I should have figured that out from the prices listed on the website. Kira and the other girls charge ten big ones per visit. And that is for basic companionship. Vacation company is fifteen grand a day plus expenses.

  The guys who hire these hookers aren’t your average Joes working behind a desk for someone else. They are guys who own companies, run multinational businesses or live off family money.

  In fact, they are guys like her father and brother.

  Is that what Kira’s hooking was about? Some distorted way to seek revenge against her father? The secret kept so clients could laugh at him behind his back?

  That line of thought doesn’t ring true with my memories of her though. No matter how much I scour my brain, I can’t recall Kira criticising her father or other family members in any way.

  Eight of the ten had seen Kira at her home in Casperton. One of the others had booked her for vacations of varying lengths and the final one had requested she join him in LA to entertain guests at his parties. Alfonse’s digital excavations had followed the clients back through time. All bar one had at some point visited her in Casperton.

  That meant we had nine suspects who knew where Kira lived.

  We know who nine of these men are but the tenth is a mystery. He’s the one with the party bookings. Lifting the spreadsheet bearing his alias, I look at the message history Alfonse has attached and see the tenth man booked Kira on three separate occasions.

  Her brief for the parties was simple. She was to be one of a number of girls hired to accompany and entertain her client’s friends.

  This gets my brain firing a bit faster and my pulse throbbing with a greater intensity as adrenaline surges through my body. Everything about this booking screams organised crime.

  It is one of the oldest tricks in the book: a mob boss would invite a few people to their home for a party. Stunning hookers would be there and when the married businessmen and politicians had been fed enough alcohol, they’d bed one of the hookers. Usually in a room with a two-way mirror and lots of video cameras.

  A few days later the hapless victim is presented with a video or pictures of their indiscretion and given a choice. Submit to their blackmailer or face the wrath of their spouse.

  If Kira had gotten herself mixed up in anything like that, there could be a whole army of people bearing grudges against her.

  The sound of a toilet flushing is followed by light footsteps as Alfonse returns.

  ‘What do you m
ake of it then?’

  I scratch my head. ‘The whole hooking thing has made it impossible. We’d have to fly halfway around the west coast just to speak to everyone and the guy you haven’t yet identified looks real suspect to me.’

  He asks what I mean, so I tell him my suspicions.

  ‘If the guy is involved in organised crime we should steer clear.’

  ‘Agreed. But how come you haven’t been able to identify him? There’s an address on the first message telling Kira where the party is being held.’

  ‘The house is owned by what looks to be a dummy corporation operating from a PO box. I can find out who’s behind it given time, but I wanted to take a look at the others first so I had something for you when you got back.’

  His words further raise my antenna, but I’m not sure we should be going up against people in organised crime.

  Alfonse rubs the back of his neck. ‘If they are involved in organised crime, why do you think they didn’t use some of their own girls?’

  The question shows Alfonse’s naivety. ‘Either they’re not involved in prostitution or they wanted stunning girls to act as their honey traps instead of street walkers.’

  ‘I figure.’

  ‘You’ve read the messages between Kira and her clients, right? It doesn’t seem like there’s anything she wouldn’t do upon request. Imagine the leverage a few photos of some of that stuff would give you.’

  While reading the messages Kira had exchanged with her clients, I had been surprised at her willingness to play whatever part was requested of her. Nothing was too kinky or off limits. By turn she’d been submissive, dominant or compliant to her clients’ most base and degrading whims.

  ‘So, what’s our next move, Jake? Do we fly around half the country pestering wealthy men about their sexual antics with a dead hooker or do we try another angle?’

  I think for a moment. ‘You find out who the tenth man is. I’ll deal with the other nine.’

  Seeing Alfonse’s eyes narrow as a thought comes to him, I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Do you think it could be her father or brother? I mean, maybe they found out about her hooking and decided the only way to stop her was to kill her.’

  ‘Why hire us then?’

  ‘Cover. Or maybe her father doesn’t know and it was her brother.’

  ‘I don’t buy it, Alfonse. It’s too much of a stretch to be her father. If it was her brother, Farrage and his goon squad will be looking at them as a matter of course.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Besides, what about the forensic reports from where she was found? Didn’t Emily say the tests would be done by now?’

  He looks at his watch and curses. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting her in an hour for dinner. I’ve to pick her up at the Coroner’s Office and she’ll let me see the reports before we eat.’

  ‘Off you go then. Enjoy your date.’ The look he shoots me is pure venom. ‘I’ll stay here and keep digging.’

  Setting myself before his laptop, I go to the home page of Fantasy Courtesans for another look around the site. As I search through the various pages, I put in a call to my mother.

  I have to ignore the mixed messages my brain is getting from my eyes and ears until we’ve gone through the usual small talk. After five minutes of chatter I’ve got the number of her psychologist so I bid her goodbye and hang up.

  My mother has embraced American culture and all of its foibles and nuances with a fervent zeal since we moved here. Her accent is now a mish-mash of Glasgow and Utah, and shows favouritism to one or the other depending on her frame of mind. Seeing a psychologist is all part of the lifestyle for her.

  I don’t believe she’ll ever get over the way my father just upped and left one morning, but if seeing Dr Edwards helps her come to terms with his abandonment, I’m all for it.

  Calling the psychologist’s office, I manage to catch the receptionist before she leaves for the day. My luck is in. Dr Edwards has a window tomorrow morning.

  Laying down my phone I refocus all my brain power on the Fantasy Courtesans website. Earlier, I’d skimmed across the site until I’d found Kira. Now I’m taking a proper look.

  Everything I see suggests Young has walked a fine line. The site offers companionship and a girlfriend experience from all its ‘models’. The text indicates the girls would help ‘distinguished gentlemen live out their fantasies’, in a way which promises much without admitting anything illegal.

  There are six other girls working for Fantasy Courtesans but their whereabouts are vague at best. Kira’s location is listed simply as Utah.

  I’m surprised Young hasn’t taken down the page featuring Kira. In his position it would be the first thing I’d do. Picking up my cell, I call him, intending to apply some pressure.

  ‘What do you want, Boulder?’

  ‘I want to know if your girls have got back to you yet. Also I want to know if you’ve had any problems with any of your customers, particularly the ones who’ve seen Kira.’

  ‘Give me a chance. I’ve only just gotten back from the emergency room. My man is on crutches, thanks to you.’

  My natural sarcasm gets the better of me. ‘While I’m pleased to hear you care about employee welfare, I’m trying to catch a killer and need that information as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’m on it. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something.’

  ‘Make sure you do. The police can’t be far behind me.’

  There’s little point pushing him any harder, so I hang up and create a new email address. Then I send the same email to each of the nine people Alfonse has identified.

  I’m not happy about the content of the email or the tone it carries, but time is pressing and I know the odds of catching a killer decrease with every passing hour.

  14

  I stride into the police station and find the same lethargic sergeant as yesterday still rooted to his chair.

  He ignores me as I take the corridor towards Chief Watson’s office. I wait for a response to my knock but get nothing. Three more times I knock, hoping the chief is taking a call. Nothing.

  A laughing voice echoes up the corridor. ‘Chief ain’t in.’

  I return to the desk and ask where the chief is, but the sergeant just shrugs at me with a malicious smirk twisting his mouth.

  As I turn to leave, Chief Watson bursts through the door. The way his brow carries extra furrows doesn’t bode well.

  ‘What do you want, Boulder?’

  ‘I’m here to update you on what we’ve learned about Kira Niemeyer.’

  His eyes flash as he waves me towards his office. ‘You just bought yourself two minutes.’

  He makes notes as I speak. I pay close attention to his face when speaking and there is a tiny glimmer of surprise when he hears about Kira’s hooking. That one split second of lost composure tells me all I need to know about Farrage’s progress. I tell him everything apart from the fight with Mr Steroids and the identities of Kira’s clients.

  It takes a lot of self-control not to ask him how Farrage’s investigation is going, but I need to keep the chief onside.

  He asks the odd question then sits back in his chair. ‘Overlooking the illegal methods you and your buddy used, I’d have to say you’ve made decent progress.’

  He speaks again while I am still considering how to reply to his dig about illegal methods. ‘From what you’ve told me, the list of suspects could be massive.’

  ‘It should also include her family members.’ The chief’s eyebrow lifts. ‘Her father is an influential man who would lose a lot of standing if her secret came out. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that he or her brother were responsible. Unlikely, but not impossible. The brother will also stand to gain a larger inheritance now.’

  He rises to his feet indicating the meeting is over. ‘Thanks for coming in. Because of your report, I now know which way to point Lieutenant Farrage.’

  My nose for trouble has often caused me grief, but it is now twitching
enough for me to pay it some heed.

  ‘There’s something else going on isn’t there, Chief?’

  There’s a moment’s hesitation before he answers. ‘You could say that. A man has been found in the trunk of his car with his face mashed to a pulp.’

  I can’t stop the low whistle passing my lips. ‘Two bodies found in three days. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve got a serial killer on the loose.’

  The haunted expression on his face tells me that’s what he’s afraid of.

  Serial killers, despite all the movies and books suggesting otherwise, are a rare occurrence. Spree killers are more common, but whomever is behind the killings in Casperton it isn’t a spree killer. It may not even be a serial killer as the methods are different.

  Somehow I know serial killers are only recognised as such when they’ve been accredited with five or more murders. I guess that when the magic number is reached the feds will swoop in and take over.

  I can empathise with Chief Watson. If he does have a serial killer on the loose, he has big problems. Farrage and his buddies aren’t equipped to deal with a high-profile and intense investigation. That leaves him as the only competent detective in Casperton PD.

  In all probability, three more people have to die before the chief gets the help he needs.

  ‘Have you identified the body?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve just come back from informing his family.’

  I don’t ask the question. I just look at him until he answers it.

  ‘Paul Johnson. He’s divorced with one kid and worked up at Panchtraik Reservoir. The car was parked halfway between here and there. It looks like he stopped to change a flat and got himself killed.’

  ‘It doesn’t match, does it? Were his wallet and cell taken?’

  ‘No. And the keys to his car were in the ignition.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like a robbery. Good luck with that.’

  ‘You’re not taking an interest?’