Killing Fear

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.”

The tenant looked skeptical. “Just a minute,” she said and closed the door.

“Not very cooperative,” Carina said. “Why don’t the records have this house listed as a rental? If Sara Lorenz was living elsewhere, there should be another house with her name on it.”

“Unless she’s renting.”

“Why would she rent when she owns a house?”

“Maybe she moved out of the area,” Will suggested. “The Feds only pulled local records, and there’s no statewide database of property records.”

The door opened and Ms. Barr pushed open the screen far enough to slide over a card. “This is the address I send rent checks to, and the number she gave me for emergencies.”

The address was a P.O. box in downtown San Diego, the phone number a 619 area code. Also San Diego. Will recognized the prefix as a cellular carrier.

“Thank you, Ms. Barr,” Carina said.

“Do you know what she does for a living?” Will asked.

Ms. Barr shook her head. “I never asked. Sorry.”

“How did you learn about the rental in the first place?”

“An ad in the Tribune, nearly a year ago.”

“Thank you for your time.”

In the car, Will said, “So Sara Lorenz wrote to Theodore Glenn using an address of a house she no longer lived in. Why?”

“I hope Diaz and White had better luck with their three,” Carina mumbled.

Will dialed Sara Lorenz’s phone number from the car while Carina drove back to the station. “Voice mail,” he said, then right as he was about to speak, he hung up.

“What?” Carina asked.

“I don’t know. A feeling. Let’s try to find a physical address for Ms. Lorenz. We may be able to get one off the number.”

“Unless it’s a pay-as-you-go plan,” Carina said.

“Maybe she used a credit card. We need a break somewhere. And if she didn’t use a credit card, why? Why would she need a cash phone?”

“Got me there.”

“If she’s the one Glenn’s using,” Will said, “I don’t want to give her a warning that we’re coming. Let’s get this info to the Feds, see what Diaz learned, and regroup. No sign of Glenn for thirty-six hours. I’m getting antsy. He probably is, too.”

“So who’s next?”

“I wish I knew, but I’m sure as hell glad Julia Chandler is out of town. No doubt she’d be high up on Mr. Charming’s list.”

Theodore Glenn had parked down the hill from Julia Chandler’s pricey house on a cliff near the coast and walked, keeping to the shadows. He didn’t see a patrol car, nor any added security.

Something wasn’t right.

He approached her house from the back. The sun was setting, but the beauty of the moment was lost on him. No lights were on inside, the only illumination a porch light.

When he was confident no one was patrolling the grounds, he approached the house casually, in case anyone was watching. From a distance, his disguise would work, but close up D.D.A. Chandler would ID him.

The gun fit comfortably in his hand.

He walked up the porch steps, then around the outside of the house, looking in windows that were only partially draped. The blink of an alarm panel caught him off guard, but he watched it closely and it didn’t appear to change. Probably the doors and windows were wired.

It quickly became evident that no one was home. Had she run, scared he would come to kill her?

Smart woman, that was exactly what he’d planned to do. But why he wanted to kill her was completely different than she might think. As if her doing her job would have ranked her high on his list.

Sherry deserved to die because she betrayed him in court. The cop deserved to die because he was a fool, and Theodore despised fools. Theodore would have killed the judge who allowed Robin’s testimony to stand, except that he was already dead. Heart attack, he’d read in the online newspaper archives.

Theodore had considered blowing up the crime lab where those idiots who had gathered evidence claimed they had found his DNA on Anna’s body. They very well may have, but someone had planted it, and if they were so stupid not to see that, then they too deserved to die. Especially that arrogant director Jim Gage.

Blowing up the crime lab meant getting too close to the police department, since the buildings were attached. Glenn wasn’t confident he’d be able to pull it off, but he was thinking about it. He would most certainly be able to make the bomb, it was access he questioned.

William Hooper would die. For arresting him. For looking at him as if he were dog shit on his new Nikes. For screwing Robin.

And Robin let him. Robin had let that asshole cop touch her perfect body. Intimately. She stripped for him, came for him, let him fuck her.

The box in Theodore’s hand crunched and he looked down, blinking at the depth of his rage. He didn’t have emotions like this. He was always in control of them, because they were so few, so rare. But Robin brought them out, Robin brought out this passionate, all-consuming need to just see her.

He’d been thinking a lot about how to punish Robin for hating him. For testifying against him, for not liking him, for not letting him touch her. She was a fucking stripper! Yet she looked down her nose at him!

William and Robin may no longer be screwing each other, but there was still something there. Theodore read people very well. In the courtroom, William had definitely been protective of her. And he was a cop, someone who took pride in his job to “protect and serve.” Honorable. Dutiful.

William, William, William…Shakespeare.

Theodore smiled. Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed lovers. Romeo believed Juliet was dead and killed himself. Juliet awoke, saw Romeo dead, then stabbed herself.

If William thought Robin was dead, he would act irrationally. Perhaps recklessly.

Or maybe if Robin thought William were dead, or injured, Theodore could more easily get to her.

Oh, the possibilities! It made his present to William all that much more sweet.

Theodore kicked Julia Chandler’s door. He’d planned on shooting her and leaving the box on her body, but this would have to suffice. Her life didn’t hold much allure for him, she had never personally slighted him.

The alarm panel started blinking rapidly. A phone rang.

Someone would be here soon.

Theodore put the box on the kitchen table, then left, jogging down the winding hill, sticking to the ravine, watchful of cars on the road. He was nearly to his car when he heard sirens.

He stayed hidden until the police car passed, then sprinted the last two hundred yards and left the scene, the adrenaline rush making him smile.

He slammed his hand on the steering wheel and bounced in the driver’s seat, grinning, forcing himself to keep to the speed limit.

He wished he could see the look on William Hooper’s face when he saw the contents of that box.