Killing Fear (23 page)

“It’s all taken care of.”

“Passports?”

She nodded. “They’re in a safe-deposit box along with the foreign account numbers you gave me.”

“Get the passports and account information. You have a computer, correct?”

“Yes, in the den downstairs.”

“While you’re doing that, I’ll start moving some money around and hide the trail. By the time the cops figure it out, we’ll be in South America.”

“But what if they find you down there?”

He bit back the urge to yell at her. Stupid woman. With forced calmness, he said, “Money buys a lot of freedom. I will take care of it.”

“Of course.”

“After you get the passports and account numbers, bring them to me, then I have another job for you. It’s important. I want you to deliver a letter. You can’t allow yourself to be captured on any security camera. Can you do that?”

She nodded without hesitation. “When and where?”

He stood, grinning, the anger at her earlier foolish question gone.

“Come here.”

She walked right into his arms.

He hadn’t decided whether to kill Sara or not. He had no compelling urge to slit her throat. If he killed her, it would simply be a means to an end. But he might let her live. He could read in the papers about her plight once the cops caught her aiding and abetting a convict. Might help pass the time while he traveled throughout South America, living comfortably on his wealth.

He most certainly wouldn’t take her with him, an albatross around his neck.

Theodore kissed her, hard, his hands on her breasts. He closed his eyes and pictured Robin with him. The smell of breakfast reminded him of the first time he saw Robin McKenna with William Hooper. In Hooper’s kitchen. His fist clenched, his breathing quickened.

Sara gasped beneath him, but he didn’t pay her any attention. It wasn’t Sara, it should never have been Sara here.

He pushed her onto the table, in the same position Robin had been in all those years ago. He took the role of her lover, and did exactly what William had done.

He watched from the beach, his binoculars trained on the open window. They were all over each other, their clothes only half removed but neither noticed. Robin pulled the cop down on top of her, falling back onto the table, a glass crashing to the floor.

Theodore knocked his coffee mug off the table, the ceramic shattering.

The cop went down on Robin, his mouth on her cunt, and she arched her back, her long hair spilling over the edge of the table.

Theodore lifted Sara’s dress, covering her face. He didn’t want to look at her, couldn’t look at her. It was Robin here for him, Robin who arched her back and begged him to send her over the edge.

Robin pulled him back up and guided him into her. Hard, fast, frantic. The table moved beneath them with each thrust.

Theodore guided the woman’s hands to his throbbing cock. She figured it out and pushed him in.

“Teddy!” Robin cried out.

He shook his head, looked down at the table. The dress had shifted and Robin’s face morphed into Sara’s. He closed his eyes, opened them, remembered where he was and who he was with. He withered inside.

“Oh, Teddy, I love you.” She climaxed around his limp dick.

He wanted to kill her. She’d destroyed his fantasy. He was antsy and unsatisfied.

He pushed off of her and walked to the doorway.

“Go do your job. And next time, keep your mouth shut while I fuck you.”

TWENTY

Robin went back to the gun range that afternoon. Hank was surprised, but didn’t say anything. Good. She didn’t want to have to explain. Not now.

Who else would want you dead?

Who?

She fired her entire clip into the target. One large hole filled the paper silhouette. In the chest.

“Let me show you something.”

Mario Medina came up behind her. He held his hand out for her gun, which she handed to him, grip first. He reloaded it and said, “You’re a good shot, Robin. But there’s a rule of three.”

He set up another paper target.

“See, every shot will jerk the gun up almost imperceptibly. Use the natural momentum to your advantage. Your shots are good, but you assume an unmoving target. Aim low and let the momentum of the gun work with you, keeping your eye on the target’s eyes so you know which way he’s going to move.”

He fired three shots in succession. They hit in the groin, chest, and center of the head.

“My way he’s still dead.”

Mario grunted his agreement. “But you used up all your ammo. This is a fifteen-round clip. You can guarantee five kills.”

“I only need one.”

“Point taken.” He handed her back her gun, butt first. “You left the club.”

“Obviously.”

“Do you have a death wish?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You left the club without letting me know.”

She just stared at him, her jaw tight, feeling like a child.

“If you have a death wish, that means my men are in danger. I won’t have that.”

“I don’t have a death wish. Why do you think I’m here, practicing? Why do you think I have a concealed carry permit? Why do you think I can’t sleep—” she stopped. “Why are you here?”

“Because you are being stupid, and I don’t like to protect stupid people. I’m going to keep my eye on you.”

“I hired you to keep your eye on my employees.”

“I have enough men to handle the club.”

Mario took a step closer and said in a low voice, “What I won’t tolerate is you slipping out without a word. A call to your assistant that you’re heading to the gun range is insufficient.”

She was shaking and hoped Mario couldn’t see. “Okay.”

“So we have an understanding?”

She nodded. “It was stupid of me to leave alone. I get that. I’m done here.” She emptied her weapon for the rangemaster to check. “I have work to do, anyway. I’ll follow your rules, Mario. That’s fair. But you don’t have to be with me 24/7. I’ll call when I’m leaving the loft or the club and wait for you. But I value my privacy.”
I need it.

“What is your life worth?”

Robin turned away. “That’s not the point.”

Mario forced her to look at him. “Humor me. I’m discreet.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Mario grinned. “Everyone is entitled to secrets.”

“That’s not good enough, Mario.”

He looked at her, his lips pulling into a tight line. “It’ll have to be.”

Will and Carina split the list of six women with two other detectives. They started with Jane Plummer, the twenty-nine-year-old bank teller who had received probation for two drug offenses nearly ten years ago. She worked within walking distance from her downtown apartment. “Maybe that’s how Glenn plans on getting his money,” Carina commented.

“I think he already has it,” Will said. “But having someone inside a bank would be a benefit to him, perhaps to cover up a money trail? I hope the Feds can track it down, they have far more resources on that end than we do.”

“If Patrick were around, he’d be able to find the link,” Carina said sadly.

Will nodded, squeezed her arm. After eight months, Will thought Patrick’s coma would have been easier for the Kincaid family to deal with. Instead, it put them in a sort of emotional limbo. But Carina was right; Patrick would have been all over Glenn’s financials. Though the SDPD had other good e-crimes cops, Patrick had been the best.

Jane was just leaving for her lunch break when Will and Carina walked into the bank. “Ms. Plummer,” he said, showing his badge. “We’d like a minute of your time.”

She frowned. Jane was a large girl with stringy brown hair pulled back into a limp ponytail. Her skin was smooth and blemish free, but her three chins detracted from her pretty face. A simple gold cross necklace was her only jewelry. “Why?”

“We just have a couple questions.”

They had already attracted attention from the other bank tellers, and the manager was stepping out from his office. Will smiled at Jane, put a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t we go for coffee? There’s a Starbucks on the corner.”

She nodded, flustered. “Sure.” She went with them.

Will sprang for three coffees and they found a table outside, out of earshot from the other customers. “Jane, we have the letters you wrote to Theodore Glenn at San Quentin State Prison.”

She frowned. “Is that a crime? Are you going to arrest me?”

“No, it’s not a crime to write to convicted murderers. Did you know that he escaped from prison?”

“I watch the news.”

“Has he tried to contact you since Saturday night?”

She shook her head, looking confused. “We haven’t been pen pals in a long time.”

Pen pals.
Will kept the disdain off his face. “Do you have many pen pals at San Quentin?”

“A few. I wrote to Scott Peterson. And Cary Stayner. And Erik Menendez, in Coalinga. They all wrote back. I write letters every month. Some people never talk to them after they go to prison. I feel sorry for them.”

Will sent a warning glance at Carina, who looked like she wanted to shake sense into the girl. He put on his best game face and asked, “And when was the last time you heard from Theodore?”

“A year ago. He wrote me a lovely letter. He has beautiful penmanship, you know. He said he was preparing for his appeal and that he didn’t have time to write anymore, but asked me to keep him in my thoughts and prayers.”

“And he hasn’t tried to contact you?”

“I’m not lying, Detective.”

“I didn’t say that you were, Jane. Did Theodore Glenn ask you to do anything illegal? Perhaps in the bank?”

“Absolutely not! Why are you talking to me? Is it because I was arrested for drugs years and years ago? I’m clean, you know. I haven’t touched drugs since I found the Lord.”

“Did Glenn discuss his crimes with you? Did he—”

“I know what you think he did,” Jane interrupted. “And maybe he is guilty. But he deserves forgiveness just as much as anyone else. It’s not our place to decide who lives and who dies. Judgment is reserved for God alone.”

Will’s jaw tightened. “Jane, your pen pal has already killed three people since he escaped. A prison guard, his own sister, and a retired police detective. Glenn has no conscience, and he will continue to kill until he is stopped.”

Jane sighed. “That’s the problem with you people. All you see is the bad in others. Don’t you think it’s possible for someone to try to make amends for their sins?”

“Absolutely,” Will said. “Starting with giving their life for those they stole.”

“I haven’t seen or talked to Theodore,” Jane snapped. “Can I go now?”

“If you see him—if he contacts you in any way—call me.” Will handed her his card as he stood.

As he and Carina walked to their car, she said, “You told me to go easy on her, then you jumped down her throat. Since when do you lose your temper with a potential witness? I thought I always got to play bad cop.” She was trying to make light of Will’s reaction, but he was still angry.

“I just couldn’t take it, Carina. I’m all for forgiveness, but killers like Theodore Glenn don’t deserve to keep their life. It’s the only thing he values and dammit, I hope to be there when they fry him.”

“They stopped using the electric chair years ago,” Carina reminded him. “Cruel and unusual punishment.”

They drove ten minutes to a quiet community outside of downtown. The next name on the list was Sara Lorenz. Her well-maintained house was in a middle-class neighborhood.

Carina looked at her notes. “Sara Lorenz, thirty, bought the house five years ago. Nothing on her. No record, not even a parking ticket. She has a late-model Honda Civic registered to her name at this address.”

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Will said as they walked up the brick pathway.

They knocked, heard a small dog barking, but no one came to the door. Walking around the house they peered into the single-car garage; no vehicle.

“Where does she work?”

“The Feds didn’t have that information. It just says ‘pending.’” Will called Agent Hans Vigo on his cell phone. Voice mail picked up. “It’s Will Hooper. We’re at Sara Lorenz’s last known address. No one’s here, and there’s no place of employment. Can you look into that for us?” When he hung up, he asked Carina, “Who’s next on the list?”

“Dora Halverson. Lemon Grove. Time for a drive.”

Dora Halverson was a fifty-nine-year-old grandmother of seven whose primary hobby was collecting signatures from famous people—actors, politicians, killers.

“That was a waste of time,” Will mumbled as they drove back to San Diego. “Swing back by Sara Lorenz’s house. Maybe she’s home.”

Traffic was miserable, and it was after six when they pulled up in front of the Lorenz house. A ten-year-old Toyota was parked in the driveway. “All right,” said Carina. “Let’s put this wild-goose chase to rest and get back to real police work.”

“You’re in a foul mood,” Will said. “Besides, Lorenz drives a Civic.”

“I’ve been a cop for twelve years, a homicide detective for the last two, and never before have I confronted so many women with such a sick fascination with homicidal maniacs.”

“Grandma Halverson sure seemed pleased with her collection,” Will said, ribbing Carina. “Manson, Bundy, Schwarzenegger—”

“You’re not helping.”

They walked up the pathway and Will knocked on the door, then stepped back. The dog barked. It was a little dog, one that his former partner Frank used to call a dust mop.

The woman who opened the door was forty, trim, and wearing a business suit, minus shoes. She bent down to pick up the little yapper—a black-and-white long-haired something.

“Can I help you?”

Will identified himself and Carina. “Are you Sara Lorenz?”

She shook her head. “Stephanie Barr. Sara owns the house.”

“Is she here?”

“No.”

“You’re a friend?”

“No. Not really. I’m her tenant.”

“How long have you been renting from Ms. Lorenz?”

“A little over a year.”

“Do you have a way to contact her?”

Ms. Barr frowned, looked from Carina to Will. “What’s this about?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that, but she’s not in any trouble. We just want to talk to her about someone she used to know.”