Killing Fear

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.

“Fine. If you see him, call.” Will pushed back from the table. Carina followed suit.

Frank stumbled up. “Hey, you know, I can come back, help in the office. With the task force. I know this guy, you could use me.”

Will stared at him. The desperation and loneliness was clear, but all Will saw was his own future. “You know the rules, Frank.”

Frank reddened. “You know, I was a detective while you were a little brat living in Chicago. I know a thing or two about scumbags like Theodore Glenn.”

Will turned, not wanting to listen anymore. He shouldn’t have come; he should have called, but he thought Frank deserved the face-to-face.

Frank didn’t like being dismissed. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d never have caught that bastard!”

Will should have walked away. Instead, he stepped toward Frank. Why hadn’t he seen who this man was years ago? If he had only faced the truth, he would have gone to Chief Causey earlier. Will was just as responsible for Jessica’s death as Frank.

“If it weren’t for you, Jessica Suarez would still be alive.”

“Fuck you, Hooper. I knew it was you who fucking turned me in to Causey. Told him I was drinking on the job. Asshole.” He lunged for Will, who easily sidestepped him. Frank stumbled, then braced himself against the wall.

Will said, “The only thing I regret was not trusting my instincts earlier and getting you pulled off active duty.”

Frank reddened. “So, what you going to do now? Go protect that hot little whore you were fucking?”

Will didn’t know he was going to deck Frank until his fist connected with his jaw. Shit, that hurts.

Frank stumbled, and Will glared furiously, hand throbbing, blood burning. He didn’t lose his temper, not like that. He didn’t get in fights, he didn’t react with violence.

Frank called Robin a whore.

So did you, buddy.

“Hey!” Carina shouted, her hands outstretched, stepping between the two men.

“Glass houses, Hooper!” Frank pulled himself off the floor. A beer bottle fell from the table and broke. “I should have fucking told the chief that you were screwing a witness!”

Will swallowed uneasily and left, heading directly for his car.

“What the hell was that about?” Carina said as she slammed the passenger door closed behind her.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me. Again. This has to do with that Robin McKenna, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Should I arrest you for assault?”

“Leave it alone, Carina.”

“Don’t shut me out, Hooper. We’re partners. I need to know what’s going on. Did you have something going on with a witness?”

“This has nothing to do with you!”

“The hell it doesn’t. I’m your partner, Will. I thought I was also your friend.”

“Dammit, Carina-”

“Take me home. I’ve had it up to here with you. Do you think I’m so stupid that I don’t see that there’s something more going on? You slugged Frank Sturgeon, a cop. A drunken slob, but still your former partner. If I say something to piss you off, are you going to slug me, too?”

Will tried to interrupt, but Carina was on a roll. “What’s this all about, Will? I feel like I don’t even know you.”

“Carina, I-”

She put up her hand. “I don’t want excuses or lies. You have until tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred to decide if you trust me. And frankly, if you don’t trust me with this, how the hell do you trust me to cover your ass? And if I can’t trust you to tell me the truth, how can I trust you to cover mine?”

He pulled the vehicle in front of her house. Carina had the door open before he put on the brake. Without another word she stormed up the front walk. Her fiance, Nick Thomas, had the door open before she could retrieve her keys, and they kissed. Nick said something to her, she answered, and he looked at Will in the car, a frown on his face.

Will drove away. How could he tell Carina that he had screwed up seven years ago and had an affair with a witness?

Talking about it with Carina would bring it all to the surface. How hard he’d fallen for Robin, and how much he hurt her when he walked away. Because it was easier to walk away than admit his feelings.

“You’re an asshole, William Lawrence Hooper.”

Four days after Bethany died, when Robin still didn’t know Theodore Glenn was a killer, Robin had gone to visit Detective Hooper at the police station. She had to do something proactive. Not knowing what was going on in the investigation, or if the police even cared, gave her sleepless nights.

She couldn’t put Bethany from her mind.

“You wanted to see me?”

Robin stared at Detective Hooper, wanting to hate him, wanting to consider him part of the problem, but she couldn’t. He was a cop doing his job, trying to find out who killed her friend.

He slid a Diet Coke in front of her, turned around his chair, and sat across from her, arms casually draped over the back of the chair, stormy blue eyes full of compassion and intelligence. Faint laugh lines radiated along the edges. He was handsome and all that, but more than his good looks he looked at her as if she were a valuable person, someone who commanded respect, who should be treated well.

“You okay, Robin?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Bethany is dead. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared and mad and I want to quit and I want to fight all at the same time.”

“That’s normal,” he said.

“Is it?”

He nodded.

“Be honest with me,” she said. “Are you going to catch whoever killed Bethany?”

He looked at her for a long time. “I don’t know,” he admitted. She hated the answer, but appreciated that this man trusted her with the truth. “We have some evidence, but no solid suspect.”

“But you’re still working on it?”

“Absolutely. I’m not going to bury the case, Robin. That I promise you.”

“It’s just that-the press is talking about us like we’re hookers. Almost like”-Robin forced out the words-“like Bethany deserved to be killed.”

“Robin.” Will’s voice was firm. She looked up at him again. “The press is always looking for the sexy angle, something to sell papers or get people to watch the eleven o’clock news instead of reruns. Bethany has as much right to justice as any other victim in San Diego, and I promise you I’m not going to forget about her.”

“Thank you.” She stared at her Diet Coke, not knowing what to say, but not wanting to leave. Detective Hooper made her feel comfortable, safe.

He glanced at his watch. “I was supposed to clock out over an hour ago. Do you want to get a bite to eat?”

“I’d like that. Thanks.”

He held her chair out for her and their hands brushed. Robin glanced at Will, found herself drawn to his incredible blue eyes, his handsome face. He squeezed her hand and she felt butterflies. So cliche, she thought, but enjoyed the sensation. It had been a long time since a man made her feel important, and by the look on Will Hooper’s face, he was feeling the same thing.

He smiled. “Let’s go.”

Robin startled awake. The television was on, a rehash of Channel 10 reporter Trinity Lange’s earlier report, but only Will Hooper was on Robin’s mind.

She certainly hadn’t planned on going to bed with Will that night, or any night. She didn’t sleep around, and it had been a long time since she had let a man into her bed. But after a good meal, a few drinks, and hours of down-to-earth conversation, they ended up at his place.

Robin shoved the memories back where they belonged: in the past. Her relationship with Will was based on fear and safety, passion and lust. Nothing else had held it together. It certainly didn’t have trust.

She wished she could convince her unconscious mind as easily as she could convince her waking mind.

On-screen, Theodore Glenn’s mug shot appeared, reminding her that she had more important things to worry about than her failed love life. Hank was right: She had to protect her employees and business.

Though it was late, she called the number Hank had given her.

“Medina Security. Leave your name and phone number.” Beep.

An edge of panic crept into her voice. “My name is Robin McKenna. Hank Solano gave me this number and said to talk to Mario. I need security. As soon as possible.” She left her number and hung up.

Robin slept uneasily, lights on, gun at her side.