Allison Brennan - Killing Fear

Jim Gage stepped into the kitchen. “Carina, Will. Are we set?”

“He appeared to have spent the most time in the bedroom,” Will told Gage. “He left this for Trinity. She’s touched it.”

Trinity said, “You can print me, no problem. I pulled off the duct tape and left it upstairs. I changed, but didn’t touch anything except my dresser, and haven’t been back in there.”

“I’m not holding out hope that he dropped a motel receipt, but you never know,” Will said, still disturbed by the photograph and trying to figure out what Glenn’s game was this time.

Carina spoke up. “How did he know where Trinity lives?”

No one spoke. Then Will said, “Trinity is a public figure. She works at a television studio, he could easily look up the address, follow her home, come back whenever he wanted.”

“Which means he could be following anyone and they might not know.”

Jim turned around and motioned for his team to come in as he asked Will, “Do we know how he entered?”

Carina answered. “The responding officer said the door was jimmied.”

“You don’t have security?” Will asked Trinity.

“I didn’t think I needed it.”

“Maybe you should rethink that,” Will admonished.

Diana Cresson and Stu Hansen stepped into the modest kitchen, crowded now with six adults standing around the four-seat table.

“You brought the A-team with you,” Will said with a nod to the two crime techs Jim had with him. Diana was the assistant lab director under Gage, and Stu was a trace evidence specialist who’d done his training in New York City. Both had been in the lab for more than ten years. Will often wondered why Stu hadn’t moved on-he was more than capable of running his own lab, as Gage once told him. But Stu simply said he never wanted to be in charge. Diana, however, was definitely on a career-focused path. Will wouldn’t be surprised if she soon announced she was leaving for a lead position in another jurisdiction-Jim Gage wasn’t yet forty and didn’t look like he’d be retiring anytime soon.

“I have clearance for any overtime necessary,” Gage said, “which isn’t surprising. This won’t take long, Ms. Lange.”

Trinity rolled her eyes. “God, Jim, we’ve known each other for a gazillion years and you call me Ms. Lange ?”

He shrugged. “You’ve never been a victim before.”

“And I’m not a victim now,” she insisted. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me, and I’m going to be careful.”

Everyone turned to stare at her.

“I promise,” she said, forcing the confidence into her voice. “I’m going to be very careful.”

Theodore Glenn started visiting RJ’s a year before he killed Bethany.

He’d hit a low point in his life. The thrill of killing Dirk Lofton wore off after the investigators ruled that it was an accident caused by a poorly packed chute. No one even considered that someone might have messed with Lofton’s equipment. Why would they? There had been no threats on his life, there was no money at stake, and Lofton had always been arrogant about his jumps. He would have laughed at anyone who wanted to double-check his equipment.

Theodore went home after that week, the elation waning, completely gone by the time his plane hit the tarmac- his plane, because he’d obtained his pilot’s license a few years back. He still enjoyed flying, but not as much as he used to. There was no challenge in it, unless he was battling the elements, and no one cleared him for takeoff if a storm was expected.

One of the managers at the megacorporation where he served as the staff attorney had a bachelor’s party at RJ’s, a strip club in the gaslight district. Back then, it was still an area where hookers walked the streets and drugs could easily be bought, usually in the open. The police presence was nominal, or focused on encroaching gang activity, not streetwalkers and low-level drug dealers.

That first night, he’d watched the strippers with both fascination and disdain. What decent woman would remove her clothes, gyrate in front of horny men, all for a few bucks in tips?

But Theodore appreciated their beautiful, firm bodies and slick moves. He wondered what the women thought while onstage sending come-hither looks at the patrons. Did they get a thrill in turning men on and not giving them relief? Perhaps they were all a bunch of lesbians who got off bringing men to the brink and leaving them hot and bothered.

Theodore soon learned that some of the strippers were easier than others. Like Bethany. She latched onto bachelor boy Paul for the night, accepting his money in her teeth, with her toes, between her legs. Paul didn’t drink enough to cheat on his fiancee, and suggested Bethany move on to Theodore. They both tipped her very well.

That night Theodore went home with Bethany. He almost killed her then. He pictured himself wrapping his hands around her neck, squeezing, watching her face as she died. Watching her eyes lose focus. Would she be scared? Would she know what he was doing? What was the fun in killing her if she didn’t know she was going to die?

Instead, he just fucked her. Too many people had seen him leave with Bethany. It would be stupid to kill her now as he would most certainly be caught.

But the idea of killing her appealed to him. More, the idea of her knowing she was going to die appealed to him. Unlike Dirk Lofton at the Royal Gorge, who didn’t suspect he was going to die when he jumped, Theodore figured it would be much more thrilling to kill someone who knew he was going to steal their last breath. And better, know that he would enjoy every minute of their anguish.

The following week he drove to Los Angeles, picked a woman at random. Followed her home. Watched the house. Her husband came home at six. An hour later he left.

Theodore put on gloves, entered the house, and shot the stranger in the back while she stood over the stove.

Then he walked out and didn’t look back.

He’d listened to the news reports of the murder with growing fascination. Bought copies of the L.A. Times to make sure he didn’t miss anything. He even called the public information officer for LAPD and pretended he was a college criminology student doing a project on crimes of passion. The husband had been the primary suspect, but he had an alibi and there was no evidence that he’d killed his wife. No gun, no biological evidence on the husband, nothing.

While Theodore received a thrill from the initial kill-aiming the gun, pulling the trigger, watching the body fall and the blood spread-it was short-lived. He had more fun watching the investigation and knowing that the cops would never in a million years connect him with the crime. That was a heady experience.

But what if he had told the woman she would die? What would she have done? Would she have stared at him, disbelieving? Screamed? Tried to run?

He would never know.

Tonight, he did the same thing as he had with that housewife in Los Angeles. Only this victim was no stranger, he wasn’t cooking in the kitchen, and Theodore wasn’t killing for the thrill. Frank Sturgeon was passed out at the kitchen table, and killing him was too easy to be fun.

Will and Carina parked in the lot at the same time and walked toward the police station. Dawn barely crept over the eastern skyline.

Carina’s mouth was in a tight line and she stopped walking. Will turned. “What?”

“Did you have an affair with Trinity Lange?”

Will shifted. “We went out for a few weeks.”

“Dammit, Will, why didn’t you tell me?”

“When? When we became partners? Was I supposed to give you a list of all the women I’ve slept with?” Will didn’t like his ethics being questioned.