Allison Brennan - Killing Fear

“If Glenn had called him to the stand, he was instructed by the chief to admit that he had fallen asleep. If Frank lied on the stand, Causey was willing to send him up for perjury if necessary. We didn’t put any of this in the final report. Only Causey, Frank, and I know what really happened that night. Was that right? No, but would it have been more right to drag the department through a scandal? It wouldn’t matter that we were on our own time. Frank’s drinking and other problems would have been exposed, the department put under a public microscope. Causey put Frank on a desk to keep his pension-we handled it internally. Glenn couldn’t have brought Frank to the stand because it would have proven he had the opportunity to kill Jessica, and we had nothing in writing that indicated Frank was watching Glenn.”

Will continued, heated, remembering how he’d felt when he realized his own partner-a man he should have been able to trust with his life-had let not only him down, but the victims. “If you let Glenn get close enough, he’ll identify your weakness with little effort. He waited until Frank had passed out and left his house. Probably whistling ‘Dixie’ right past Frank’s unmarked car. Snapped the picture for kicks. He killed Jessica, returned, and Frank hadn’t moved.”

“So even though there was no direct evidence pointing to Glenn as killing Jessica Suarez, because of the M.O. you got the conviction.”

“It was touch and go whether the D.A. was going to charge him for all four murders. We only had hard evidence on Anna Clark. But because forensics proved, and the coroner backed up, that the same knife was used in all four murders, Descario decided to go for it.” Will paused, swirled his Scotch around the glass. “Remember, we all knew he’d killed Bethany Coleman. We had hard DNA evidence that we couldn’t use in court, but we knew he was guilty. It was only a matter of time before he slipped up again. You don’t know how sorry I am that I let Frank surveil alone that night.”

“What were you supposed to do? Go without sleep 24/7? You may have fallen asleep without the aid of alcohol sitting in front of Glenn’s house.”

He shook his head. Frank had insisted, and Will didn’t argue even though he damn well knew about Frank’s drinking problem. Frank was the senior detective, after all. And Will wanted time with Robin.

Trinity’s voice was low. “Last night when Glenn told me he didn’t kill Anna Clark, he said to ask you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“He saw you and Robin. In the bar.”

Will clenched his glass, jaw tight, and said nothing.

“He said that you and Robin were, um, involved. It was two o’clock in the morning.”

“Fucking bastard !” He punched the bar, stood, and tossed money next to his empty glass. Glenn had watched them have sex. It put all his other cryptic comments into context. The kitchen table. Will’s entire relationship with Robin felt tainted and exploited, now that he knew that Theodore Glenn had watched their most passionate moments.

“Don’t you see what this means?” Will said. “He just put himself at the scene of the crime. RJ’s was across the street from Robin and Anna’s old apartment.”

“Why would he admit to killing three women, and not Anna? It doesn’t make sense.”

Glenn could have been watching him and Robin in the bar. Stalking them. Left them alone, went to Robin’s apartment to wait for her. Anna was home, surprised him, and he killed her instead. It fit.

But would he have had enough time to kill Anna and disappear? The wounds inflicted would have taken quite some time-they were methodical, cautious, not a frenzied attack. The cuts were to maximize her pain and suffering, both physical and emotional. If Glenn had in fact seen Will and Robin having sex in the bar, he’d only have had fifteen or twenty minutes to cross the street, break in, and kill Anna.

But there had been no break-in. Anna had either opened her door to the attacker, or the killer had a key. All the evidence pointed to the killer already being in the apartment when Anna arrived-her packed suitcase next to the door, for example.

Should he reopen Anna’s case? All on the word of an escaped convict to a glory-hungry reporter?

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed dispatch. “I need a car to pick up Ms. Trinity Lange from Bob’s Burgers and take her home. And sit on her. I’ll get the overtime authorized.” He slammed the phone shut.

“Do not move from this stool until a uniformed cop walks through that door and follows you home. Glenn is playing with you, and when he’s done he will kill you. That’s what cats do to mice, and Glenn has sharp teeth.”

Theodore staked out Sara Lorenz’s house in Rancho Santa Margarita.

His house, he should say. He’d bought it. In fact, he’d insisted that Sara buy a house in the corporation’s name and live there.

Ironically, he’d never seriously considered escaping from San Quentin. The prison was secure, and he didn’t like the idea of being shot in the back. He’d planned on finding another opportunity to escape-such as during one of his appeals. At the time of the earthquake, he still had one more appeal pending. Sara had planned to join him at the courthouse, fully prepared. He had the money to buy people and equipment. He’d been preparing her for this. She had been excited.

There was always the risk that she’d turn on him. That the police had figured out who she was and where she lived. He’d buried the money trail, but letters were still opened and read in prison. He was confident the corporation itself was protected, they’d worked out a code for all corporate business, but what if the cops had somehow traced Sara? What if after his escape she’d had second thoughts? She might think that as long as he was in prison, he was “safe.” On the outside, the stakes changed.

There was only one way to find out where Sara Lorenz stood. Confrontation.

Theodore was good at confrontation.

He watched the house he’d bought. He circled the neighborhood. All quiet. He parked behind the development and walked in, through the hills, into the backyard. He had told Sara no security on the perimeter of the house, but that the password to the security system must be robin. And the doors must open on a security code, not a key.

“After the bird?” she asked with humor during one of their weekly phone conversations. She knew all about Robin. She’d been keeping track of her for years.

“Of course. I’ve always liked robins,” he said.

“Not me. I’m always thrilled when my cat catches one.”

He watched from the slope in the backyard. Dark and silent. A night-light in one of the rooms glowed dimly.

He walked to the back door. The security panel was there, the numbers glowing faintly green.

76246.

Robin.

The red light turned green. He smiled and let himself in. Listened.

Nothing but the faint tick of a grandfather clock somewhere downstairs.

Sara hadn’t betrayed him, which was good because he’d been prepared to slit her throat.

He climbed upstairs without a sound. The double doors directly ahead at the top of the stairs were framed by recessed alcoves which held urns of fake flowers. That must be the master bedroom.

He crossed the upstairs foyer, the carpet plush against his ill-fitting shoes. Sara was supposed to have purchased a closet full of clothes for him.

He opened the doors.

There she was, sleeping. A thick white comforter covered her slim body. Six or more pillows piled around the head of the bed. Everywhere, white. Everywhere, clean. Neat. Orderly.

Just the way he liked it.

He crossed over to the bed, sat next to her.