Killing Fear (11 page)

“Correct.”

“Why?”

He laughed without humor. A chill settled in the pit of her stomach.

“Because the cops fucked up.”

“You must know that virtually every convicted murderer says that they were framed. Why should I—why should the public—believe that you’re telling the truth?”

“Because I don’t like being made a fool of. Someone is playing with me, and I don’t like it. I didn’t kill Anna, and I damn well want to know who did and who planted evidence against me.”

“I don’t know why you think I can help with this—”

“Because you’re an investigative journalist!” he exclaimed, and Trinity jumped. She saw then and there what this killer was capable of. “Wouldn’t you like to know what cop framed me? Wouldn’t you like a nice juicy story to propel you into the journalistic stratosphere? Don’t think that I haven’t followed your career while in prison. You’re on the cusp, and you like to get in people’s faces. Do it now. Do it for me.”

“H-how?”

“That’s what you need to figure out.”

Trinity changed tactics. “But does it really matter?” In asking the question, she realized it sounded stupid. “I mean, you still would have been convicted of murder. You killed the other three women. You still would have gotten the death penalty.”

In the darkness, Glenn remained silent. Trinity shifted uncomfortably on the bed, swallowed, her left hand shaking so hard she almost dropped the pen.

“Yes,” he finally said, as if he had only just thought about it. “It matters. You think that we’re all that different? Do you think that under the right conditions, you would not kill?”

“You didn’t kill in self-defense,” Trinity couldn’t stop herself from saying.

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Why did you kill them?”

He chuckled. “Because I could. To see if I could get away with it.”

Because I could.
The cold calmness in his words terrified her almost as much as knowing what he had done to those poor women.

“But you
didn’t
get away with it. Doesn’t your life mean something to you? You had everything—a high-paying job, a million dollar house, a nice family—and you killed for what? A game?”

“I
would
have gotten away with it!” His anger vibrated across the room. Trinity couldn’t help but think he was playing a game with her, right then, and that he would kill her if she asked the wrong questions.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” she mumbled.

He spoke, his voice tight and clipped. “Don’t you see? They couldn’t have convicted me. Not on the first three murders. The evidence from my first kill was thrown out by the judge. The jury wasn’t allowed to consider that evidence, they never even heard it! You didn’t report on it, and you probably didn’t even know that the cops fucked up! It was the evidence from
Anna’s
murder that they used, and tied the other three to that. But I didn’t kill Anna, and therefore I should never have been brought to trial! I
would
have walked away. I had only planned to kill three, unless—” He stopped.

Trinity had to ask. “Unless what?”

He didn’t answer, but stood. “You have what you need. Find out who killed Anna Clark. Exonerate me.”

“You’ll still go back to prison when they catch you.”

He laughed. “
If
they catch me.” He started for the door. He was going to let her live!

For now.

She shivered, her mind running through everything he’d said. “Mr. Glenn,” she said.

He stopped. In the faint light, she made out his shadow by her bedroom door. “More questions?” He sounded humored.

“Who? Who would frame you for Anna Clark’s murder?”

“Why don’t you ask William Hooper?”

“Hooper?” Will Hooper was a solid cop. Trinity couldn’t see him planting evidence.

“Something didn’t come out at trial, but is relevant to this case. While Anna Clark was murdered, Mr. Hooper was fucking Robin McKenna.”

Robin McKenna was the stripper who had been Anna’s roommate. She had testified against Glenn. Robin had since bought the strip joint where they worked, and The Eighth Sin was now one of the hottest nightclubs in San Diego. Trinity had been there a couple times. Urban, chic, with trendy music, lots of dancing, good drinks, and an attentive staff.

Robin McKenna herself was gorgeous, but Trinity sensed at the trial that she was also smart and savvy. It didn’t surprise her that she could turn a fledging strip joint into a high-class nightclub. Had she been involved with Will Hooper? Hooper was a stud. He had a long list of girlfriends. His reputation was no secret among cops and reporters.

Years ago, she’d slept with Will Hooper. He was cute, funny, attentive, and smart. What woman wouldn’t fall for him?

But the relationship had just…evaporated. That last date when he took her to a lovely restaurant on the coast outside Coronado, she thought they might be moving to the next level, then he kissed her good night on her porch and she never heard from him again. Every time she saw him he smiled and was polite, and not once had she heard from any cop that she’d slept with Hooper. He told no one. She doubted his partner Carina Kincaid knew, because Carina was an easy read and protective of Hooper. She’d have said
something,
even just a snide remark. Nothing.

Will Hooper did not kiss and tell.

She could picture how Will and Robin McKenna met over tragedy. Forging a relationship. How had it ended? Had he taken her to a nice restaurant and kissed her good night? A quiet good-bye…

“You
know
William, don’t you?” Glenn’s voice was mocking, almost a laugh.

“How do you know he was involved with Robin McKenna?” Trinity asked, gathering her thoughts.

The killer chuckled. “I followed every step of the police investigation.”

“No one is going to believe you didn’t kill Anna Clark.”

“That is
your
job. I don’t know how they did it, but I didn’t kill that bitch. The truth is in the evidence, but do you think they would show me? Do you think that they’ll just open their books, even when they have to? Go ask William Hooper, or the D.A., or the fucking crime scene investigator!”

He stepped away from the door and paced. She shouldn’t have set him off. She couldn’t see him except a darker shape in the shadows, but his movement was frantic. Fear ran over her, but she suppressed it. He said he wasn’t going to kill her.

Damn, was she going to believe him? After he admitted to killing three women?

“William didn’t kill her,” Glenn said as if thinking out loud. He stopped at the end of her bed and stared at her, the whites of his eyes almost glowing. Chills ran down her back and she shivered. “He was screwing Robin McKenna. I watched. Robin. She was supposed to be next, but she wouldn’t go out with me. All the other whores let me wine and dine them, but that bitch was cold. Liquid fire onstage, but in person…” his voice trailed off.

“I watched them. They were in the club. It was two in the morning. Robin sat in the bar. Crying. William Hooper walked in. ‘What’s wrong?’ And they were on each other like animals. Couldn’t even walk across the damn street to find a bed. If they had, maybe Anna would still be alive. But while they screwed, poor little Anna Louisa Clark died.”

It was after midnight when Will came home. He couldn’t sleep, so he lifted weights in the second bedroom, his iPod loud enough to drown out both thoughts and memories. An hour later, sore and drenched in sweat, he showered, then fell onto his bed wearing only boxers, the cold February night breeze coming in through his open windows. The last time he saw the digital clock it mockingly glowed red: 2:01.

Then he dreamed. Remembered.

Will watched Robin from the shadows. She picked up her glass—a martini, straight up—and sipped. The stress of the investigation was getting to her. Three of her friends had died and he knew who the killer was, had interrogated him twice, but that wily bastard gave nothing up. Even three days in prison hadn’t fazed Theodore Glenn.

Will didn’t know what was going on with him. He didn’t mess with victims. He didn’t get personally involved with witnesses. But Robin McKenna was no ordinary woman. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Every morning he woke with her in his thoughts, every night he wasn’t with her he was lonely, empty, incomplete.

Six weeks ago they’d acted on a mutual attraction that began when he first interviewed her after Bethany Coleman’s murder. He’d have forced her to stay in his bed to keep her safe, but Robin wasn’t a woman to run. She faced the fear. But he’d been watching her. Worried. They’d argued the night before. “Quit,” he’d said, knowing he had no right. It wasn’t that she was a stripper, it was that being a stripper put her on the killer’s hit list.

Though he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that her job bothered him on more than one level. Because he felt more for her than he could say out loud.

She’d shaken her head. “Someone else will die. You have to find him, Will. Stop him. Only then will I—we—be safe.”

Now watching her, he saw her fear and her beauty,
her vulnerability and her strength. He walked over to her. “Robin, honey, what’s wrong?”

His hand rested on her shoulder. She was crying without sound, her body tense and shaking, tears rolling down her pale cheeks.

“I’m scared, Will.”

“Come home with me.”

“I can’t. I’m not going to be chased away from my home.”

“Please—Anna did the sensible thing and went to visit her mom. I can’t stand the thought of you being here alone. Vulnerable.”

He kissed her. She was water to a dying man, all the woman he ever could want, ever need. He drank her greedily, his tongue searching for hers, finding it, pulling it in, taking everything he could.

In the back of his mind, he knew this would not last, yet he desperately prayed it would.

“Robin,” he murmured against her mouth, her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist. He kissed her mouth, her throat, his tongue moving down to her breasts, easily found through the loose-fitting blouse she wore. He tasted her tears on her skin.

Her tears ate at him. He stepped back. “Please don’t cry. I can’t stand it.” He wiped them off with his palms, trying to take away her anguish and hold it inside him.

“Hold me, Will. Hold me.”

“Always.”

“Nothing is forever.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Make love to me.”

She reached down and unbuttoned his fly. He was hard. He always was when in her arms. He didn’t want
it like this, in the bar, but he couldn’t let her go. He needed her, and she showed a rare vulnerability and need for him. He had to prove to her that he was real, that he loved her. Wanted her fully, not just like this.

But like this was heaven.

Entering Robin was like coming home, better each time. As they greedily took each other, he realized he didn’t want to live without her. Ever.

Will jolted awake as his cell phone rang. His cock was hard and he was on the verge of a wet dream. With Robin.

This was so screwed.

He glanced at the clock as he answered his phone. 4:14 a.m.

“Hooper.”

“Sergeant Fields here. That reporter, Trinity Lange, just called. Theodore Glenn paid her a visit tonight.”

TEN

Carina beat Will to Trinity Lange’s town house. She met him at the front door and, without preamble, said, “No sexual assault. He tied her to her bed and from what she told responding officers let her interview him. She specifically asked to talk to you, and they told her you had already been called.”

Carina’s tone was cool, still ticked off over their argument the night before, but ever the professional. Will didn’t know how to make it right with his partner. His strength was his people skills, yet right now he felt like he had none as far as Carina was concerned. She wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d spilled his guts, and he wasn’t ready to do that.

“How’s she holding up?” Will asked as they walked through the foyer. Trinity was smart and sassy, with the kind of self-possession that attracted Will to a woman.

Carina rolled her eyes. “Better than I would be after being in a room with a killer who likes to carve pictures on his victims with an X-ACTO knife.”

“Has the lab been called?”

“They’re on their way over.”

“Gage?”

“Probably, considering how high-profile this case is.” Since both Chief Causey and the current District Attorney Andrew Stanton had prioritized anything to do with Theodore Glenn, the crime lab would expedite the processing of evidence. If only they’d been able to prioritize Bethany Coleman’s murder seven years ago, maybe she’d have been the only one to die at the hands of Theodore Glenn. Maybe if they hadn’t been overworked and understaffed there’d have been no contamination of the DNA evidence in the first place.

Trinity sat at her kitchen table, a coffee mug at her side, writing frantically in a notepad. An officer stood behind her, trying to see what she was writing, but she shielded the page. She glanced over her shoulder to give the cop a dirty look, then spotted Will and Carina. Her eyes glowed. “Detectives. Coffee?”

She flipped the notepad over and stood, walking over to the steaming carafe on the counter.

Formal. Professional. She had indeed pulled herself together quickly.

“Thanks.” Carina sat down at the table. Will saw her staring at the notepad. He, too, was curious as to what Trinity was writing. More flies with honey, he thought, giving Trinity a friendly smile.

“That would be great, Trinity.” He watched her. She’d dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. Trinity was a hair over five foot three, and with her blonde hair loose she looked much younger than Will remembered her to be: thirty-two. But her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and he could practically see the gears in her head working.

“Cream? Sugar?” she asked.

“Black,” Carina said.

“Cream,” Will said, though he knew he didn’t have to. Trinity would have remembered.