Killing Fear (18 page)

“If you spill any of this—a word—I swear no cop will ever speak to you again, on or off the record.”

“I give you my word, Will. As you said, though, I have the photograph.”

“We had Glenn under surveillance after we were forced to release him. But there were only the two of us on the case, Frank and me. No one cared that two strippers were dead. Priorities, you know? And the politicians put strippers right down there with hookers. In fact, the D.A. at the time, that prick Bryce Descario, told me when I went to him with the evidence after Brandi’s murder that he had more important cases. ‘Lie down with dogs, Detective,’ he told me with that condescending grin of his. He didn’t care that many of those girls had been abused as kids, that some of them were working their way through college or grad school.”

Will took a deep breath, motioned for the bartender to pour another Scotch. To take the sting out of the past. When she left, he continued, talking to himself as much as to Trinity.

“I couldn’t get more personnel. Now that Glenn is an escaped convict going after mothers and retired cops, I have every man I need. But then, I had no one. Just me and Frank. And Frank—” He took a deep breath. “Frank wasn’t all right back then. He had some personal problems, had a couple DUIs that no cop ticketed him for. He swore up one side and down the other that Theodore Glenn never left his house the night Jessica was killed. We were taking turns, you know. I did one night, Frank did the other. We were doing this off the clock. We still had to cover our shift.”

“But you didn’t believe Frank,” Trinity said quietly. “If Frank swore Glenn didn’t leave his house, how did Chandler get a conviction?”

“If you remember, Frank didn’t testify.”

Trinity thought back and nodded. “You were the arresting officer.”

“If Glenn had called him to the stand, he was instructed by the chief to admit that he had fallen asleep. If Frank lied on the stand, Causey was willing to send him up for perjury if necessary. We didn’t put any of this in the final report. Only Causey, Frank, and I know what really happened that night. Was that right? No, but would it have been more right to drag the department through a scandal? It wouldn’t matter that we were on our own time. Frank’s drinking and other problems would have been exposed, the department put under a public microscope. Causey put Frank on a desk to keep his pension—we handled it internally. Glenn couldn’t have brought Frank to the stand because it would have proven he had the opportunity to kill Jessica, and we had nothing in writing that indicated Frank was watching Glenn.”

Will continued, heated, remembering how he’d felt when he realized his own partner—a man he should have been able to trust with his life—had let not only him down, but the victims. “If you let Glenn get close enough, he’ll identify your weakness with little effort. He waited until Frank had passed out and left his house. Probably whistling ‘Dixie’ right past Frank’s unmarked car. Snapped the picture for kicks. He killed Jessica, returned, and Frank hadn’t moved.”

“So even though there was no direct evidence pointing to Glenn as killing Jessica Suarez, because of the M.O. you got the conviction.”

“It was touch and go whether the D.A. was going to charge him for all four murders. We only had hard evidence on Anna Clark. But because forensics proved, and the coroner backed up, that the same knife was used in all four murders, Descario decided to go for it.” Will paused, swirled his Scotch around the glass. “Remember, we all knew he’d killed Bethany Coleman. We had hard DNA evidence that we couldn’t use in court, but we knew he was guilty. It was only a matter of time before he slipped up again. You don’t know how sorry I am that I let Frank surveil alone that night.”

“What were you supposed to do? Go without sleep 24/7? You may have fallen asleep without the aid of alcohol sitting in front of Glenn’s house.”

He shook his head. Frank had insisted, and Will didn’t argue even though he damn well knew about Frank’s drinking problem. Frank was the senior detective, after all. And Will wanted time with Robin.

Trinity’s voice was low. “Last night when Glenn told me he didn’t kill Anna Clark, he said to ask you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“He saw you and Robin. In the bar.”

Will clenched his glass, jaw tight, and said nothing.

“He said that you and Robin were, um, involved. It was two o’clock in the morning.”

“Fucking
bastard
!” He punched the bar, stood, and tossed money next to his empty glass. Glenn had watched them have sex. It put all his other cryptic comments into context. The kitchen table. Will’s entire relationship with Robin felt tainted and exploited, now that he knew that Theodore Glenn had watched their most passionate moments.

“Don’t you see what this means?” Will said. “He just put himself at the scene of the crime. RJ’s was across the street from Robin and Anna’s old apartment.”

“Why would he admit to killing three women, and not Anna? It doesn’t make sense.”

Glenn could have been watching him and Robin in the bar. Stalking them. Left them alone, went to Robin’s apartment to wait for her. Anna was home, surprised him, and he killed her instead. It fit.

But would he have had enough time to kill Anna and disappear? The wounds inflicted would have taken quite some time—they were methodical, cautious, not a frenzied attack. The cuts were to maximize her pain and suffering, both physical and emotional. If Glenn had in fact seen Will and Robin having sex in the bar, he’d only have had fifteen or twenty minutes to cross the street, break in, and kill Anna.

But there had been no break-in. Anna had either opened her door to the attacker, or the killer had a key. All the evidence pointed to the killer already being in the apartment when Anna arrived—her packed suitcase next to the door, for example.

Should he reopen Anna’s case? All on the word of an escaped convict to a glory-hungry reporter?

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed dispatch. “I need a car to pick up Ms. Trinity Lange from Bob’s Burgers and take her home. And sit on her. I’ll get the overtime authorized.” He slammed the phone shut.

“Do not move from this stool until a uniformed cop walks through that door and follows you home. Glenn is playing with you, and when he’s done he will kill you. That’s what cats do to mice, and Glenn has sharp teeth.”

Theodore staked out Sara Lorenz’s house in Rancho Santa Margarita.

His
house, he should say. He’d bought it. In fact, he’d insisted that Sara buy a house in the corporation’s name and live there.

Ironically, he’d never seriously considered escaping from San Quentin. The prison was secure, and he didn’t like the idea of being shot in the back. He’d planned on finding another opportunity to escape—such as during one of his appeals. At the time of the earthquake, he still had one more appeal pending. Sara had planned to join him at the courthouse, fully prepared. He had the money to buy people and equipment. He’d been preparing her for this. She had been excited.

There was always the risk that she’d turn on him. That the police had figured out who she was and where she lived. He’d buried the money trail, but letters were still opened and read in prison. He was confident the corporation
itself
was protected, they’d worked out a code for all corporate business, but what if the cops had somehow traced Sara? What if after his escape she’d had second thoughts? She might think that as long as he was in prison, he was “safe.” On the outside, the stakes changed.

There was only one way to find out where Sara Lorenz stood. Confrontation.

Theodore was good at confrontation.

He watched the house he’d bought. He circled the neighborhood. All quiet. He parked behind the development and walked in, through the hills, into the backyard. He had told Sara no security on the perimeter of the house, but that the password to the security system must be
robin.
And the doors must open on a security code, not a key.

“After the bird?” she asked with humor during one of their weekly phone conversations. She knew all about Robin. She’d been keeping track of her for years.

“Of course. I’ve always liked robins,” he said.

“Not me. I’m always thrilled when my cat catches one.”

He watched from the slope in the backyard. Dark and silent. A night-light in one of the rooms glowed dimly.

He walked to the back door. The security panel was there, the numbers glowing faintly green.

76246.

Robin.

The red light turned green. He smiled and let himself in. Listened.

Nothing but the faint tick of a grandfather clock somewhere downstairs.

Sara hadn’t betrayed him, which was good because he’d been prepared to slit her throat.

He climbed upstairs without a sound. The double doors directly ahead at the top of the stairs were framed by recessed alcoves which held urns of fake flowers. That must be the master bedroom.

He crossed the upstairs foyer, the carpet plush against his ill-fitting shoes. Sara was supposed to have purchased a closet full of clothes for him.

He opened the doors.

There she was, sleeping. A thick white comforter covered her slim body. Six or more pillows piled around the head of the bed. Everywhere, white. Everywhere, clean. Neat. Orderly.

Just the way he liked it.

He crossed over to the bed, sat next to her.

“Sara,” he said.

Her eyes opened, confused. “Who—” She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dark. “Teddy.”

Sara was the only one he allowed to call him by a nickname. It seemed to be important to her, though he never allowed anyone else to use anything but his full legal name.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and for a moment he felt strange. At a loss as to what to say or do.

“I was so worried about you,” she said, hugging him tightly.

“Everything is fine.” He swallowed heavily.

“You must be hungry. Tired.”

“I’m hungry for you, Sara.”

She pulled back, stared at him. “Oh.” She started unbuttoning the prim little nightgown she wore.

“Stop,” he said. “Let me.”

Instead, he kissed her. She responded fully, as if they had kissed before when the most they had done was touch fingers through the bars of the prison.

That Sara was so eager for him, neither flinching nor complaining when he touched her, turned him on. It had been a long time since he had a woman, and a rush filled him. He didn’t expect it to last—sex was predictable, especially with the same woman—but this was a first for him with Sara. He pulled off her nightgown, but hid her face.

“Tell me you want it,” he whispered in his ear. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you, Teddy. I want you so bad. I’ve been waiting for this night for years.”

Sara had a nice body. Not long and lithe with big tits like Robin, but nice and tight and firm.

He pictured Robin beneath him, Robin wanting him. Robin asking him to screw her, Robin begging him for more.

He slammed into Sara and closed his eyes. His dick swelled and he exploded.

“Yes!” Sara cried, and Theodore didn’t care if she was faking. All he heard was one woman screaming for him.

Robin.

SIXTEEN

The knocking on the door persisted.

Theodore Glenn wouldn’t knock,
Robin thought.
He’d break down your door, come through the window, grab you in the parking lot.

She hadn’t been sleeping well, but before she was fully awake, her gun was in her hand. She didn’t need to check to see if there was a round chambered; she knew there was. It was nearly two in the morning. She’d slept for all of forty minutes.

She crossed her open loft. Before she looked through the peephole she heard the man on the other side.

“Robin, please let me in. I have to talk to you.”

Will.

She looked through the peephole. Will’s head was low, his hands on both sides of her door. He looked rumpled in his slacks and button-down shirt. He wore no jacket, his shoulder holster exposed.

He pounded on the side of the door. “Robin!”

She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to see him. Today at her club it had been all she could do not to give in to his kiss. Not to let herself be held. Be loved.

Love hurts.

“Please let me in.”

She punched numbers into her alarm system. Disarmed. Slid open one bolt. Turned the second. Pushed back the chain. Opened the door.

They stared at each other. Will’s blue-gray eyes, the Pacific Ocean before a storm, stared at her.

He asked, “Can I come in?”

She stepped back without comment. He closed the door behind him. “Robin—”

She walked around him and bolted the door. She couldn’t leave it unlocked. She felt almost obsessive-compulsive, but in the seven years since Theodore Glenn had killed her friends she couldn’t help herself. She was terrified. Even in her own home.

She skirted Will and went into the kitchen, keeping the counter between her and the man she used to love.

“Who did he kill now?”

Will blinked. “No one. That we know about.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m worried about you.”

She held up her gun and gestured toward the door. “I’m fine. You can leave.”

“Dammit, Robin! You’re not fine.”

“I’ll be fine when he’s behind bars. Or dead. Better dead, I think.”

“He knows about us,” Will said quietly.

Her stomach flipped. “What do you mean?”

“He saw us. Together.”

“You mean
together
?”

“Yes. Having sex. That night, in the bar.”

“Oh God.” She dry-heaved into the sink, her head spinning. She put her gun on the counter because she could no longer hold it, her hands shaking, reaching for the edge of the sink to hold herself up. The thought that Theodore Glenn had not only watched one of the most intimate moments of her life, but that he’d then gone across the street and killed her roommate, undid her rocky composure she’d been barely holding together since his escape.

Will was at her side, pulling her into his arms. She clung to him, dragging them both down to the hardwood floor. He gathered her into his lap and leaned against the wall.