The Boyfriend (6 page)

Till had been hunting killers for a long time, and he had learned patience. People didn’t understand patience. It was very close to humility. It was the capacity to admit to himself that he didn’t know enough to act yet. He was prepared to travel and wait and watch and listen, possibly for a long time, before he made a move.

Till had an instinctive sense that this man was something he hadn’t seen before. He seemed to be trying to make his killings look like what the cops expected to see, and this suggested to Till that they were something else. If he was a simple armed robber or a psycho, there was no easy way the necklace and ankle bracelet would have ended up on another nearly identical working girl. The man was doing the same thing over and over, but Till didn’t recognize it. He was eager to get to Phoenix and get a look at this new girl.

As he drove toward the east the weather was clear and the traffic was moving fast, so he knew he would make the trip in about six hours. He took Interstate 10 all the way, through dry, hot desert with small prickly pear cactus and colored dust. He liked the landscape. It was immense. The eye focused on sights forty miles away and then the hands steered toward them, and there was a restful, unsurprised feeling that helped him to think clearly.

The killer would be young, and he must be handsome. He had somehow managed to ingratiate himself with five very pretty escorts. The way to do that was with money, and he seemed to have used some of that. He had robbed each girl and killed her and probably used her money to win over the next one. But he had shot all of them from the back. They hadn’t been on their beds; they had been on their feet doing some mundane domestic activity. One had been reading a magazine with her iPod earphones on her ears, and the others were changing or vacuuming or something. The one in Miami had been cooking what the police thought was a dinner for two people. Was this killer a pimp?

He couldn’t be. None of the police forces in any of the six cities had detected any evidence of anyone acting in that capacity. Nobody had arranged the dates or driven the girls to them, and certainly nobody had protected the girls. All of them claimed to be independent, and no contradictory tips had come from anyone—customers, friends, or competitors.

Till’s cogitations always returned to the same few issues. What did this man want? He could have killed and robbed any of these women the first time he saw their ads. Why did he always choose girls who looked alike? Did he become a regular customer of one of these girls and later dissolve into a stew of remorse and shame, then kill her in rage? If so, why was he so efficient and practical? He popped each girl once in the back to take her down, and then shot her one time in the head. Crazy remorseful killers didn’t rob their victims, either.

He drove on through the desert, bringing back details from the files and trying to use them to build a coherent theory about this man. Till had come to know many killers over the years, but this one didn’t seem to be like any of the others. In spite of all of the folklore about senseless killings and wild irrational behavior, most killers were fairly easy to understand if all the facts were known. They got angry, they got jealous, they got greedy. Even the crazy ones were logical. They went to the places where their favorite kinds of victims could be found, watched one of them until she was alone and easy to take, and then took her.

Killers tried afterward to avoid being associated with the crime. Some hid the body, some tried to implicate others, and some cut the body up or sank it in the ocean. All logical. This killer was not.

Till arrived in Phoenix in the afternoon. It wasn’t exactly an oasis in the desert. It was more a place where things were brought into the desert and lined up in neat rows—houses, strip malls, even native plants. Till drove to the Biltmore north of Scottsdale, and the impression changed a little. The big hotel was surrounded by gardens and lawns and a golf course, and the greenery supplied a rest for the eye. He liked the Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired design, a construction of individually cast bricks that gave the sprawling buildings the appearance of relics from some lost civilization that the mind couldn’t quite identify.

When he arrived he stepped to the front desk at the edge of the cavernous lobby, asked whether a suite was available, and got one. Unless hookers had changed a whole lot since he had last spoken to one, this girl would like that. When he went up to his room he was pleased. The bed and the rest of the furniture were big and dark and solid, and the suite was spacious, with a view of the green lawns, and beyond them the distant rocky hills. He hung up his clothes in the closet and took possession of the place. When he had gotten settled in his suite, he opened his laptop computer, signed into the hotel’s wi-fi network, and went down the list of Phoenix escorts to the advertisement he had found at home.

The girl’s name was Kyra. She wanted three hundred roses for an hour, five hundred for two hours, or eight hundred for a whole evening. He looked at the photographs. She had exchanged two of the pictures since yesterday for two with better lighting and focus, but she was still wearing the necklace and the anklet in one of them. The ad said she would not respond to text messages or e-mails, and would answer no blocked calls. She began her phone number with *82, because dialing that code would unblock the customer’s number for caller ID.

Till called her number on his cell phone and waited. A young woman’s voice came on. “Hello. This is Kyra.” At first he thought he was listening to a recording because she sounded so professionally cheerful, so he waited for the rest of the recording. Instead, she said, “Come on, honey. Don’t be shy.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I was going to be asked to leave a message. My name is Jack. I just got into town an hour ago, and I’m already thinking I could use some company. I saw your online ad.”

“What’s your last name, Jack?”

“Till. Jack Till.”

“Where’s home?”

“Los Angeles. I’m here on business, and I’ll be around for a couple of days.”

“What sort of arrangement were you thinking of?”

“How about this evening? Is your schedule clear for tonight?”

“A full evening? Did you read the whole ad?”

“Yes. I saw the numbers. But you’re a very attractive woman, and I find your voice appealing. I thought we could start with a nice dinner, and have a pleasant evening.”

“Thank you, Jack. I’ve got to check my schedule. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Can I reach you then at this number?”

“Sure. I’ll be here.”

She ended the call, and he wondered if she was checking some list of crazy men and thieves and bad customers to be sure he wasn’t among them. If he succeeded in getting to know her, he would ask. A list like that might very well include this killer.

He supposed she would probably run his name through the big search engines. He knew she would find him, and she would turn up a few newspaper articles about his old cases. There were even some photographs of him. He had, for practical reasons, always tried to stay away from cameras. But there were a few shots of him coming up courthouse steps or emerging from a police station, where he hadn’t been able to avoid the photographer. If she learned he’d been a cop, she’d also learn he wasn’t one now.

The pictures probably wouldn’t do him any harm with the girl either. He had regular features, and he was six feet three inches tall, and lean. His habitual dress—a dark sport jacket and oxford shirt with no tie—looked neat and well-fitted, even in the recent pictures.

His cell phone rang. “Till,” he said.

“This is Kyra,” she said. “I’ll be able to see you tonight. Please have the eight hundred in a plain white envelope with the word ‘Donation’ written on it. I’ll want it when I arrive.”

“All right. Where and when?”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Biltmore.”

“I can come there if you like.”

“That’s good for me.”

“I’ll be there around seven-thirty, and I’ll call your room from the courtesy phone when I get there, so I hope you gave me the right name.”

“I did. See you then.”

Till pressed “End” on his phone screen. He called Wright’s, the hotel restaurant, and reserved a table for two for eight-thirty, then set the alarm on his phone, lay on the bed, and slept. The long drive through the desert had tired him, and he could tell he would need to be alert.

He awoke at six-thirty, then showered and dressed for the evening. If Kyra was in a relationship with the killer, then it was possible he would turn up tonight to see if Till was an ordinary client or a threat. He might even serve as her driver or bodyguard. Till looked around the room, and selected two spots. He hid his two Glock pistols, one inside the pocket of a sport coat in the closet, and one under the mattress at the foot of the bed.

Then he sat in the leather armchair, looked out the window at the hotel grounds, and prepared his mind. He carefully erased his hopes, and prepared himself for an evening of questions without answers. Hunting killers took patience.

Till was prepared for the possibility that Kyra would simply not show up. Being in a business that was illegal relieved a person of some of the obligation to observe the usual rules and customs. If she had run a more extended search of the Internet and turned up something that said “undercover cop” to her, then she wouldn’t come.

He had decided to use his own name with this girl because the Internet explained who he was, including his careers as a cop and a private investigator. If she showed up, it would mean she had accepted him at his word. He had wanted to be sure that the girl never saw him as some kind of deceiver, and withholding information would have made her feel just that. If she knew the facts and he didn’t set off any alarms, then he would be far ahead. If she did get worried and talked to her friend, the man who had given her Catherine Hamilton’s jewelry, then he might be the one coming for Till.

When Till came out of the elevator into the big lobby he went to the front desk and found a bright-eyed young woman in a fitted uniform, with shiny black hair tied in a tight ponytail. He placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “Could you please call my room at ten-twenty? My name is Jack Till. If I’m not in the room to answer it, can you please have me paged in Wright’s?”

She eyed the hundred-dollar bill as though it had nothing to do with her. “Certainly, Mr. Till. If we don’t reach you, do you have a cell number you’d like to give us?” He did. He watched her write it down. “Ten-twenty,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said. He pushed the hundred-dollar bill toward her, turned, and walked away.

There was a bar on the first floor situated at a crossroads where two perpendicular stretches of lobby met. There was a large set of doors on one side that led to the gardens outside, and a long, broad, open promenade big enough to accommodate a parade that led to meeting rooms in another part of the hotel.

He bought a glass of tonic and drank it while he watched the guests walking along the promenade. The dry Arizona air had been dehydrating him for hours. He bought another and went to sit in an armchair in front of a low table. His cell phone rang and he took it out of his coat pocket and slid the arrow across the screen. “Till.”

“Jack, honey?”

“I’m in a bar near the end of the lobby.”

“Sit tight where you are. I can see you now.”

“I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“This isn’t about me. It’s all about you tonight. But I’m not at all. I’m pleased. I’m coming toward you right now.”

He didn’t resist the temptation to end the call and look for her. He turned to his right and saw her. She was wearing a black dress that was very simple and elegant, with a high neckline and bare arms. He instantly searched for Catherine Hamilton’s jewelry, but with the black dress she had worn a thin white gold chain with a single diamond. On her feet were heels that were only slightly less than too high. He admired her business sense. She undoubtedly came to the major hotels in the area often. This was the oldest landmark hotel in the city, designed and built in the 1920s. There were plenty of groups and families who would not have been happy about an obvious hooker in their midst. Her outfit was understated, her makeup was subtle, so she didn’t raise any suspicions, but lots of eyes followed her as she made her way to Till.

He stood and smiled as she approached. When she reached him she stopped and stood still, expecting, like a model, to be looked at and appraised. Instead, Till took her hand, leaned to her, and gave her a peck on the cheek, and then gestured toward the other armchair ninety degrees from his at the low table. As she sat, he raised his hand to call the waitress.

The waitress came and said, “What can I get you, sir?”

He looked at Kyra. “What would you like?”

“What are you having?”

“This is just tonic. I’d like one now with gin in it, please. Hendrick’s with a slice of cucumber.”

“I’ll have one too,” said Kyra. As the waitress scurried off Kyra said, “Unless you don’t want me to drink.”

Till said, “I don’t have a preference. I want you to be comfortable, and I’ve found that most people feel comfortable having a drink before dinner.”

“Thanks,” she said. She moved only her eyes, scanning to take in the people around her. A couple passed on their way to another set of chairs grouped around a table. Then it seemed safe for her to speak. “I recognized you from your pictures on Google. You look better in person. I saw you, then called your number to see if you reached for a phone. I was glad when I saw you answer, because it meant you were you, not that guy by the bar.”

He followed her eyes. The man was tall and light-haired like Till, but ten years older. “Thank you.”

The waitress brought the drinks, and Till paid in cash and gave her a ten-dollar tip. He raised his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” She sipped. “Oh. It smells like flowers.”

“It does, but fortunately, it tastes like gin.”

The waitress moved off, and Kyra looked around again. “When is our dinner reservation?”

“We’ll go in after we’ve talked a bit and finished our drinks.”