The Killing Hour by Paul Cleave Page A

driveway around two o’clock but the phone call to the police was made closer to five-thirty. Did Feldman come here, get preparations under way, take his car home, steal a van and come back, only to find that Young had somehow escaped and was on the phone to the police? Is it possible Feldman has a partner? Several pieces of evidence support the two killer theory. The footprints in the hallway, for a start. The two vehicles. The fact the women were easily overpowered.
    Or is the van just a huge red herring, left behind deliberately?
    The van has been towed to the forensics lab. It will be stripped down and examined to a minute detail. This morning it was reported stolen. The key was snapped in the ignition, the rest thrown beneath it. Why would Feldman do that? By accident?
    The phone. The vomit. The keys. The timing. Feldman had a shower here, he drank beer, he rested on the sofa. An empty glass on the bar has Kathy McClory’s fingerprints on it. Both women were here last night yet they died in their own homes. The only thing that makes sense is the bloody piece of paper in his pocket. He spends an hour at the crime scene then another hour talking to the immediate neighbours. He learns little but isn’t bothered by it.
    The drive to Feldman’s house is refreshing. He parks further down the street than last night and kills the engine and looks down at his pants. Hopefully coffee doesn’t stain. He knows that blood does but beyond that he doesn’t have a clue.

    He switches off his cellular phone. The last thing he needs is to be disturbed. Christ, there are so many detectives on the case nobody should miss him. He glances at his watch. It’s three o’clock. At least it’s stopped raining. He hates this city when it rains. The car windows are down slightly and the muggy air outside replaces the dry air inside. He hasn’t been on a stakeout for years and sitting here he remembers just how boring they are. Jesus, it would be easier to go and get a goddamn search warrant.
    But what if Feldman makes his way home only to find a dozen patrol cars parked outside his house? The bastard will turn around and keep on driving. What Landry needs to do is find and arrest him, bring him into the station by himself, end his career with the people in this country loving him. And why the hell not? He deserves something other than the cancer for all his years of protecting the innocent, doesn’t he?
    He’ll give it another day. Two at the most, but no longer. He can’t assume Feldman’s lust for blood and death has been quenched and that he won’t be out looking for new prey this week.
    He adjusts his seat, opens a packet of peanuts and waits.

10
    The motel smells of depraved acts she doesn’t want to think about. The air is sticky and warm. The bathroom looks like it gets cleaned about as often as the place gets painted. She’s desperate to get away from here, away from Charlie.
    This side of Charlie is something she’s never seen, a side she didn’t know existed. She knows he isn’t going to let her go even if he doesn’t. She wants to believe him or, more importantly, believe in him, but his actions have made that impossible. How much he had to do with the two dead women she doesn’t know. The only thing she knows for sure is that she has to find a way to escape.
    Convincing Charlie she wants to help was easier than she’d hoped, and she guesses that’s because of his need to believe her and no longer be alone. To keep his trust she must take baby steps, she must build up his belief that they can be a team. It’s hard to think how she ever loved him. Does she still love him? No. Nobody can love a killer.

    Is that what he is? A killer?
    Some of what he said makes sense but most of it doesn’t. Two women died and that part is true because it’s been on the news, but who killed them hasn’t been. Was Charlie really there? She hopes not. She really hopes not.
    If he wasn’t there, then all he’s doing now makes even