“Omaha’s about 180 miles from Kansas City. Just a hop up and a skip down. Twenty, thirty minute flight,” Tully said. “Might be some delays. Sounds like there’s a bunch of new snow.”
“I have a rental. I’ll drive.” She hated flying. Tully’s “hop up and skip down” already had her stomach flipping. “It’ll probably be quicker than trying to get a flight, getting to the airport, going through security.”
“Looks like a three hour drive, but in the snow—”
“No problem.”
“You sure?”
“You worry too much. I’ll exchange my rental car for an SUV. Let Omaha know I’m on my way.”
5:41 a.m.
Old Market Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska
He looked out his hotel suite’s window and down on the empty cobble-stoned streets. Earlier there had been horses and carriages, street performers on a couple of the corners. The brick buildings used to be warehouses on the Missouri River but now housed restaurants and specialty shops.
Last night despite the snow, the sidewalks had been filled with people, the streets busy with traffic. There had even been a patrol officer on horseback. And yet just five, six blocks he been able to slide a blade up into a man’s heart and walk away. In fact, he walked back through the hustle and bustle to his hotel without a single person noticing.
All was good. He was back in his groove. That nagging fury would no longer drive him to make reckless mistakes.
New Orleans had set him off track. Then Nashville really screwed him up. He had always been careful about choosing targets no one would miss. But Heath Stover, a blast from the past, had knocked him way off his game. And so did that girl, that rich bitch pretending to be some lost soul. The news media continued to cover her murder but at least they were calling it just another unfortunate incident, just another of a long list of crimes besieging the Occupy camps across the country.
That’s the word a reporter used, “besieging,” like the protesters were soldiers in dugouts coming under attack. He shook his head at that. He was sick of seeing the protesters in every city he traveled to. Thankfully he hadn’t had to deal with any of them in Kansas City or here in Omaha. Another good sign that he was finally back on track.
Sales were up. Bosco’s new laser-guided scalpel was a huge hit. Omaha’s medical mecca was like putty in his hands on Thursday and Friday at the Qwest Center conference. He had exploded past his sales quota. Still, it had taken this morning’s kill to renew his confidence.
He looked around the suite and rubbed his hands together. Checked his watch. Maybe he would shower, dress and go down for the breakfast buffet. He had the whole day off. He didn’t have to leave until tomorrow morning. Tonight he was looking forward to the Holiday of Lights festivities. The Old Market would be filled with people again and sounds of the seasons. Now with his newfound confidence he wouldn’t need to go far at all to find target number two.
7:26 a.m.
Omaha Police Headquarters
Nick Morrelli crushed the paper cup and tossed it into the corner wastebasket. He’d had enough coffee. He was tired. He wanted to go home. He rubbed his eyes and paced the room, a poor excuse for an employee lounge with a metal table and folding chairs, a row of vending machines, coffee maker and a sagging sofa along the back wall.
The door opened and his captor came in, shirt sleeves rolled up, shaved head shiny with perspiration. Detective Tommy Pakula handed Nick a black and white print-out, a copy of a driver’s license.
“Do you recognize this guy? Maybe seen him around any of your properties?”
The license had been enlarged which only made the photo blurred. The guy looked pretty ordinary, could be anybody.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Pakula sat down in one of the folding chairs. Pointed to one across the table for Nick to sit down. They’d already done this. What more could he ask? But Nick sat down. Tommy Pakula was one of the good guys. Four daughters. Still married to his high school sweetheart. Nick had been questioned by him before a couple years ago. Another case. Another killer.
“You were a sheriff not so long ago,” Pakula said, getting Nick’s attention. That was true. Nick had been a county sheriff. Got his fill after a killer almost claimed his nephew as his next victim. Just when Nick thought Pakula might finally cut him some slack, the man came in with another verbal punch. “You should know better. So tell me again why you thought you should be touching this dead guy before you called us?”
“If he wasn’t dead I wanted to help him.”
Pakula raised an eyebrow.
“It’s Gino,” Nick said, almost a whisper.