Killing Fear (9 page)

Theodore pushed the memories back. Thinking about that first kill had satisfied him for a long, long time. But he’d known then, as he knew now, that faded memories had nothing on the here and now.

He watched William Hooper leave the police station with some hot Latina chick. A cop. Partners? When Hooper arrested Theodore, his partner was a fat slob named Frank Sturgeon. Perhaps he had retired? Been reassigned?

Theodore followed Hooper in the little Honda Acura he’d borrowed from his “friend” Jenny with the overused La-Z-Boy. She’d been more than happy to help him, and he’d kept the act up for her. “They’re going to kill me. They framed me and are going to kill me. I need to leave the country.”

She’d bought it, asked to go with him.

He’d looked into her idiotic eyes. “For your safety, sweetheart, you need to stay.”

She had nodded solemnly.
A piece of cake.

Stealing money had been easy. His parents had always kept their emergency money in his father’s desk. Two thousand dollars in cash. And Sherry was just like them. She had five hundred dollars in an envelope with her panties.

So predictable.

He only needed the cash to get by for the next few days, until he could access his own money. He had plenty of money set aside to disappear. Before he started his little game with the strippers, he’d put money in a bank account he controlled under a shell corporation. Setting it up was easy as sin, and he’d quietly put money in, pulling it out for “legal fees.” Legal fees he’d paid one of his many “groupies.”

The system thought he was without friends while locked in prison? On the contrary, he had hundreds of fan letters like the ones from Jenny Olsen. He had letters from Bible-thumpers insisting he had been on a religious mission to rid the world of promiscuity, and they were praying for him.

Maybe their prayers brought the earthquake that freed him. Theodore laughed out loud at the thought.

He’d gotten letters from women who watched the trial on television. Women who thought he had been wrongly convicted, or who thought he was misunderstood, or who wanted to “stand by his side.” They sent pictures of themselves. Most were homely, overweight slobs, but one was quite attractive.

Sara Lorenz.

Dear Theodore:

I watched your trial and saw something in your face that told me you needed someone to listen. To listen and understand and not judge you. I am that person. I don’t know if you are guilty or not, and I don’t care. The system is unfair. I thought it was noble of you to represent yourself.

If you want to talk, about anything, call me. They let you make calls from prison, right? On television they do, but I don’t know if I can believe that. I’m giving you my phone number and my address so write me if you can’t call.

I’m a legal secretary. If you need me to do anything for you, let me know. Please. I’m happy to help.

I think they’re wrong about you. You have such pretty eyes.

Sincerely,
Sara

Sara, legal secretary, became his “attorney.” Theodore taught her how to forge the documents. And over the last few years they’d regularly corresponded and he had her discreetly funnel money out of his account for “legal fees,” paid to a legal corporation he controlled. Most of his legit money was tied up by a trustee for restitution to his victims’ families. Like they deserved his hard-earned wealth. But he was entitled to legal representation, and he used that loophole to hide cash.

He’d never planned on staying in prison forever. He had a plan for his last appeal. No matter what the judge decided, he would not be going back to prison.

The earthquake beat him to it.

He now had well over a quarter million dollars he could access easily, and even more he could extract with time and patience. Money would ensure his freedom, and after he finished taking care of those who had screwed him seven years ago, he would disappear.

He didn’t trust anyone, and he wasn’t going to start with some woman who contacted him in prison, regardless of how well she had been jumping through his hoops. He’d never given her control over all his resources. Just enough to get her to trust him and do what he needed. And so far, she’d performed beautifully. He might not even kill her.

He had doubts about going to Sara’s house. Though all correspondence was in the name of the corporation, he didn’t trust the system. If the police started digging, they could learn who Sara was and where she lived.

But he wanted to see her in person. Touch her. He hadn’t had sex in years, and Jenny Olsen up in Anaheim was a pig. The fags in prison had stayed the hell away from him after he nearly bit the dick off one who tried to force him. Sex wasn’t that important in the whole scheme of things. BASE jumping gave him a greater thrill than screwing. But now, after being celibate for so long, he suspected the thrill would be worth the risk.

The police probably didn’t even know about Sara, not this quickly.

But he would be careful. He’d fucked up before; he wouldn’t this time. He needed to dump Jenny’s car, and Sara would have one for him.

He followed William Hooper to a quiet little middle-class neighborhood. He stopped in front of a weed-choked yard framing a dilapidated house. Theodore drove on by. He didn’t need to know who lived there. He would find out soon enough.

He went back to the motel he was staying in. A little dive near the police station where he paid cash for a week and the fat broad behind the counter barely looked up from her soap operas except to count his money. It had taken him an hour to find the perfect place. He had done some shopping earlier, and now took the time to ready his room. The sheets on the bed had to go. He would not sleep on sheets others had used. He made the bed with new linens. Topped it with a new blanket. The sheets and filthy spread were folded and put in the closet.

Using the industrial-strength cleansers he’d purchased, he scoured every surface of the motel room. Adequate. The carpet he could do nothing about, but he would simply wear his shoes at all times, even when he slept. He sanitized the toilet and shower, then stripped and took a hot shower.

Better.

He drove back to the police station just as a news crew began to set up. It was dark and he blended in well.

Trinity Lange was talking to her cameraman. She had covered his trial and asked the tough questions. She was a sexy little thing, with blonde hair and dark eyes, a hint of Latina in her skin tone. Theodore didn’t particularly like mixed-race women, but this reporter could pull it off.

He didn’t plan on fucking her, anyway. He had other plans.

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. His blood flowed hot, his mind was sharp. The world glowed bright.

He pulled an envelope out of his back pocket. He’d retrieved it from under a shelf in the medieval history section of the downtown San Diego Public Library, where he’d secured it more than seven years ago. He’d made the right guess that no one would find it while he was incarcerated, and if they had, oh well. He’d put the photos there on the spur of the moment, the day after he killed Jessica.

There were two pictures. The first was that fat slob of a cop, Detective Sturgeon, sleeping in his car while supposedly staking out Theodore’s house to make sure he didn’t leave and kill anyone.

Theodore laughed, remembering that night. He’d been prepared to kill William Hooper, but it had been Sturgeon watching him instead. Having the cop as an alibi was more fun, but he’d taken the picture spontaneously, still unsure what he would do with it.

The other picture was of William and Robin. Naked. Theodore had been standing right outside William’s sliding glass doors, contemplating killing both of them. Or tying William up and fucking Robin in front of him. Rape held no allure for Theodore, but watching the look on William’s face while he screwed Robin would have given him intense satisfaction.

Instead, he took a picture and wondered what he would do with it. Considered sending it to William’s superiors, but there wasn’t a crime in screwing a witness. Someday it would come in handy. He almost used it at the trial, but feared he would have given the police too much evidence—that he had been stalking Robin or some such nonsense. That he was obsessed with her, as William tried to get him to admit during that farce called an interview after Anna Clark died.

The photograph brought back other memories, though. It was that night he had left William and Robin having sex in the kitchen and gone to kill Brandi.

The memories were nothing like the surge of adrenaline during the hour he’d had Brandi under his blade. He couldn’t bring back the same emotions, and he squirmed in his seat, uncomfortable and irritated.

He watched Trinity Lange talk to the cameraman while he packed up. The past brought nothing but frustration.

Focus on the future.

He waited for the pretty reporter to leave in her bright little Volkswagen Beetle.

He followed.

EIGHT

Will hadn’t been to Frank Sturgeon’s house in years. The cover of darkness couldn’t hide the dead lawn or trash accumulating on the small porch, and he expected no better inside. Whenever they’d gotten together for lunch, Frank met him at Bob’s Burgers or another cop hangout. Occasionally, Will had seen him in the bar around the corner from the station, reliving war stories. Will didn’t go to the bar often, but he’d heard Frank was still a regular.

Frank Sturgeon had been forced to retire two years ago when he turned fifty-five. He was lucky to get that. After the Jessica Suarez homicide, he’d been put on desk duty; officially because he had a bum knee, privately because he’d been drinking on the job—seven years ago, in the middle of the Theodore Glenn investigation.

Truth was, Frank should have been put on the desk years before, his weight and his drinking a huge problem after his wife left him. It only got worse with time, and Will had inherited the problem when they’d been assigned to work together.

Frank opened the door, smiled widely at Will and Carina. “Kincaid, right?” he said, gesturing for them to enter. “How’s your brother doing? I heard he was laid up in the hospital.”

“He’s okay,” Carina lied. She glanced at Will, her face and posture telling him she didn’t quite know what to make of Frank. Will wasn’t surprised. He’d kept Frank’s problems to himself whenever he spoke to Carina about his former partner.

“Patrick’s still in a coma,” Will said, “but the doctors are optimistic.” After eight months, Will was losing his optimism, but he knew the subject was sensitive to the Kincaids and he didn’t want to talk about it in front of Carina.

Will glanced around Frank’s bachelor pad, trying to keep the disgust off his face. It was the proverbial pigsty, with empty beer and whiskey bottles, overflowing ashtrays, and a layer of filth so thick Will wasn’t certain what color the carpets were supposed to be. A foul odor saturated the furniture, drapes, and walls, indicating that the place hadn’t been cleaned in months. A police scanner sat on a cluttered desk, its volume low, lights blinking hypnotically.

Like Will, Frank had divorced years ago. Unlike Will, Frank had two children and the divorce had been brutal.

“Do you have a minute?” Will asked.

“Must be business.” Frank grabbed a half-full beer bottle from the end table. He snorted heavily, his bulbous nose twitching. He reached into his pocket for a stained handkerchief, blew his nose, and stuffed it back into his pocket without a second glance.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” Frank said and led the way. He’d always been overweight but until being put on the desk he’d been in moderately good physical shape. Now, his beer belly sagged over his belt and he sported a solid double chin. He hadn’t shaved in at least two days.

Frank gathered bottles and empty pizza boxes off the round table and slapped them onto the counter, unmindful of anything he knocked over. The scent of grilled onions and stale bread hung heavy in the air.

Why didn’t I just call him on the phone?
Will knew Frank had been resentful at forced retirement, but to sink this low?

Is this how I’m going to end up in fifteen years?

The thought angered and depressed Will. He didn’t want to be Frank, then or now. But he had no wife, no close family—his dad died of a heart attack five years ago, his mother lived in a South Florida retirement community and traveled half the year, and his brother was even more of a workaholic than he was. While he was a neat person (Carina often said bordering on obsessive), Will could picture himself sitting in a tidy version of Frank’s house, drinking Scotch, listening to the police scanner, and watching twenty-four-hour news and sports, yelling at bad football calls. Existing, not living.

He sat and said, “Frank, it’s about Theodore Glenn.”

Frank snorted. “I watch the news, got the message from some cop who sounded younger than my son. I know he escaped. Probably halfway to Costa Rica.”

“I’m taking his threats seriously. He killed his sister this afternoon.”

Frank stared at him blankly, then laughed. “You mean you’re thinking about what he said back then? At his trial?” He laughed again, drained his beer, coughed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shit, Will, I trained you better than that. Glenn’s not that stupid. He’s going to get out of the country as fast as he can. Staying in San Diego would be suicide. He probably had a score to settle with his sis and did her on his way out of town.”

Will clenched his teeth. “I disagree, Frank. I went to his appeal hearing last year. I looked him in the eye. He wants revenge.”

“Who wouldn’t? We put the scumbag behind bars. Now that he’s free, he’s not going to waltz around town taunting us.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“He comes for me, I’ll take him down before he blinks.”

The idea of Frank with a loaded gun terrified Will. He’d probably shoot himself in the foot before he killed an intruder.

There was no getting through to Frank. It had been the Glenn investigation that soured Will’s relationship with his partner, and nothing had changed since.