Killing Fear (10 page)

“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 fiancé, 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 cliché, 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.

NINE

A body fell on top of her, a hand over her mouth. Trinity Lange struggled to pull herself from deep sleep, flailing about.

“Don’t move or I’ll slice your throat.”

Grogginess disappeared as Trinity recognized that voice.

“Good girl. Nice place you have here. I checked out your neighbors next door. They’re on vacation, and since you back up to the golf course and there’s no one on the other side of you, I don’t think your screams will be heard. What do you think?” Theodore Glenn’s low voice was gleeful.

Through the fear, she processed his words. He would kill her. Rape her and kill her. No, he hadn’t raped the other victims. He’d tortured them, cut them repeatedly with an X-ACTO knife. Their faces. Their bodies. When he tired of the game, he had slit their throats. As described by the shrink who had testified for the prosecution, it was
a game
.

She tried to shake her head for no reason except maybe to wake herself from this nightmare, but his grip on her was firm. Theodore Glenn was over six feet of solid muscle, and prison had made him harder and stronger. She’d researched his background extensively during the trial. He’d been into extreme sports, like bungee jumping and skydiving and white-water river rafting. He was handsome and smart and rich, and had many girlfriends, some of whom had testified that he was the most considerate boyfriend they’d ever had. Others had testified that he was cruel and played mind games with them. Even one of the former strippers from RJ’s had testified on his behalf.

“I’m not going to kill you, Trinity. Relax.”

Right. Relax.

“I need your help,” he said.

Did he actually think she would
help
him escape? But right now she would do or say anything to live one more day.

“You covered my trial. You sat in that courtroom every day. You heard the testimony. You talked to the cops. You were fair and you asked good questions.”

Did he want her thanks?

“I didn’t kill Anna Clark.”

“Hmm!” she mumbled against his hand.

“I think you know, in the back of your mind, that there was something wrong with the trial. And you’re going to find out exactly what it was. I want to know who framed me. I think I know, but I want proof.”

She squirmed.

“I will let you go so you can ask me questions. We’re a team, Trinity. Partners. Help me, and I will let you live. I think that’s fair.”

Pinning her body with his, he reached down and grabbed her right wrist and, with duct tape, taped her to the bedpost. Then he eased off her, pulling the blankets off her body.

Oh God, he’s going to rape me.

As if reading her thoughts or body language, he chuckled. “Women give themselves to me voluntarily. Happily. If I wanted to force a woman, it wouldn’t be you. I need to make sure you don’t do something stupid. You’re the only one who can help me, and I don’t want to have to kill you. That would make me unhappy.”

He crossed her ankles and wound the duct tape around them several times. She wore a long T-shirt. He pulled it down past her panties.

It was dark and she could only make out his shape, not his exact features. His hair looked dark, but was that because he dyed it or a trick of the light?

He handed her the notepad from her briefcase and a pen. He knew she was left-handed. He’d been watching her. Or had he remembered after all these years?

The only light came through the blinds. Her night vision was strong, but she could barely make out the paper which seemed almost blue in the odd, filtered light. Glenn sat in the corner, in the shadows.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

A crime reporter’s wet dream. A killer willing to talk. To say anything. Though she knew she had a rare opportunity, not knowing what Glenn would do to her terrified her. How could she trust a convicted murderer? How could she trust a man who tortured his victims, then poured bleach into their open wounds?

“Trinity, I’m talking to you. I know you want to ask me questions. You’re going to die if you don’t.”

She swallowed, sputtered. “I-I—”

“Calm down, Trinity.” He paused. “What an odd name. What were your parents thinking?”

She didn’t know if he wanted her to answer, but she did automatically, since she’d been asked that question so many times in her life. “I was supposed to be triplets, but my two sisters died in the womb. They thought the name was a way of paying homage to the two who didn’t make it.”

Why had she said that to this man? Because it was comfortable. Almost
normal.
To answer a common question with her pat answer.

“Now your turn, Trinity. Ask.” He paused, and when she didn’t answer, he said,
“Ask me a fucking question!”

She nodded, cleared her throat. “F-for the record, you said you didn’t kill Anna Clark?”

“Correct. I did not kill Anna Clark.”

To buy time she wrote down his exact quote.
I did not kill Anna Clark.

“Did you kill Bethany Coleman?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Brandi Bell?”

“Yes.”

“Jessica Suarez?”

“Yes.”

He shuffled, and Trinity flinched. He laughed. “I have a present for you. Something that should look good on the evening news, in the newspapers, and it will definitely get you some attention.” He put an envelope on her bed, just out of her reach.

She stared at it, thinking, and asked, “But you didn’t kill Anna.”

“I’m not going to answer the same question twice.”

She took a deep breath. He didn’t seem as dangerous now. Maybe he was telling her the truth, that he wasn’t going to kill her. “You think someone framed you for Anna’s murder?”