Hell's Horizon by Darren Shan Page A

was, nobody did. She’d died a Jane Doe and lain in the Fridge, unidentified, until I turned up.
    So how the hell had this dossier been compiled?
    Frank wanted to see me the next morning, so I made Party Central my first port of call. He was in his office, catching up on a frightening tower of paperwork. He signed his name to stray pieces of paper while we talked.
    “Heard about your promotion,” he grunted. “Congratulations.”
    “Thanks.”
    “The Cardinal’s told me I’m to put myself at your beck and call.”
    “Yeah?” I grinned. “Like a personal assistant?”
    “Fuck you.”
    I laughed and handed him a stack of papers.
    “Any idea what it’s all about?” I asked. “Why he picked me and what he expects?”
    “Didn’t he tell you?”
    “He did and he didn’t. Said I should be setting my sights higher. Told me I was wasting my time where I was. I get the impression this is a test of some sort but I haven’t a clue what I’ll win if I pass.”
    “The Cardinal’s a queer fish,” Frank said. “Sometimes he seems to do shit just for the fun of it. And maybe he does. Many think so. But I beg to differ. I don’t think he spits without evaluating every angle.”
    “How should I proceed?” I asked.
    “Why ask me? I’m no detective.”
    “But you’ve had dealings with them. You know more about it than me. Do I need cameras, recorders, bugs? Approaching people—do I pretend I’m a real detective? What about the cops? And how do I recognize a clue from a lump of dog shit?”
    Frank laughed and pointed at the space above the door behind my head. I turned and looked up. A sign hung there. when in doubt, decide !
    “Ford Tasso said that to me the day I started. When life got me down, I had one of the girls print it up. I glance at it twenty times a day, more if I have to.”
    “If I’d wanted dry old proverbs I’d have bought a fortune cookie.”
    Frank shrugged. “You asked for my advice—that’s it. There’s a thousand ways you could investigate. Sitting around thinking won’t get you anywhere. Nor will doing things the ordinary way—The Cardinal doesn’t want that. When I started, I made some lousy calls, but they were my decisions. The Cardinal respected that and left me to work things out. You’ve gotta do the same. Go out on a limb and hope you don’t fail.”
    “I was looking for more practical advice,” I grumbled.
    “Then look elsewhere,” Frank told me, and that was the end of our discussion.
    I met Bill next, in a bar close to Party Central. We ordered sandwiches and sat in a quiet corner, away from the crowd, discussing Nic and what had happened.
    “How are you holding up?” he asked.
    “Pretty well, considering.”
    “I damn near fainted when Kett told me. We were joking about her Friday, on the way up, remember?”
    “You said if the fish didn’t bite, we should invite her up and tell her to bring a friend.”
    “I’m sorry, Al.”
    “Don’t be. You didn’t know her. I barely knew her myself.” I took a bite out of the sandwich—the bread was stale—and chewed mechanically. “Who told Kett about her?”
    “He won’t say. All I know is, he got a call at home, Thursday. Somebody told him there’d been a murder at the Skylight and the body had been removed. Gave him the room number, date and time, a description of the victim.”
    “Her name too?”
    “Yes.”
    “Any idea who the caller might have been?”
    “If it had been any other hotel, I’d have said a maid or bellboy. But employees are more tight-lipped at the Skylight. My guess is it was another guest, somebody with a conscience. Or it could have been the killer.”
    “You reckon?”
    “The symbol gouged into her back—he didn’t do that for fun. When someone goes to that much trouble, he’s looking to be noticed. He might have wanted the case dragged through the media. Maybe he’s planning to strike again and wants to be recognized when he does.”
    “A serial killer?”
    “Possibly.