Killing Fear (13 page)

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 fiancée, 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.

Even though perhaps they should have been seven years ago.

“You know that’s not—”

“Carina, I don’t announce to the world who I’m involved with. It’s nobody’s business. For what it’s worth, Trinity and I dated after the Kessler trial three years ago. We split amicably. I like her. She’s smart and fun. But it didn’t work out, okay? And that’s that.”

“You know I don’t care about your love life, but—”

“You don’t? You constantly make snide comments about my dating. I’ve let it go because we’re partners and friends.”

Carina frowned. “I didn’t realize it bothered you.”

Will shrugged. “Water under the bridge.” He paused. He considered telling Carina about his relationship with Robin, but right now it wouldn’t matter. She already knew what was important. The records reflected that he’d been across the street in the bar with Robin after hours when Anna was killed. He just never told anyone that they were in there having sex.

“Let’s focus on Glenn,” Will said, pushing back the encroaching emotion. “He had a purpose in seeking out Trinity.”

“She said he wants her to prove he didn’t kill Anna Clark.”

“And the evidence—the biological evidence—points to him. It was a righteous conviction. Theodore Glenn is a cold, ruthless killer. I don’t know what his game is, but I’m sure he has one.”

But even as he said it, Will couldn’t figure out Glenn’s angle. Why admit to a reporter that he killed three of four women?

“You don’t think that there’s something just a little—weird in this?”

He sighed. “Yes, something is off. When Gage has a few minutes, maybe the three of us can look at the evidence again. But I still think Glenn is trying to divert our attention to this instead of focusing on his recapture.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“We can work through the facts after we get him back into custody. He’s dangerous, Carina. And he will continue to kill until we lock him up.”

“What do you think if we give my brother Dillon a call?”

“Dillon knows about Glenn,” Will said. Carina’s brother was a forensic psychiatrist who had consulted with the police department and served as an expert witness for the district attorney until he moved to Washington, D.C., last year. “He didn’t work the case, but he knows enough and we can bring him up to speed quickly.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s eight thirty on the East Coast. Why don’t you call him?”

Carina asked what Will had been thinking since leaving Trinity’s. “What if Glenn is telling the truth about Anna Clark? What if he didn’t kill her?”

“Then we have two killers at large.” He still believed Glenn was the only one who could have killed Anna, but at the same time he couldn’t figure out his game.

Carina was dialing Dillon’s number when Will’s cell phone rang. “Hooper,” he said as they entered the building.

“Shots fired at 1010 North Highland. Neighbor phoned it in, officers en route. But the address is flagged.”

“Frank.” Will slammed his phone shut and turned to Carina. “Tell your brother we’ll call him back. Shots fired at Frank’s house.”

TWELVE

Once Jim Gage and his two assistants left, Trinity felt alone and restless, even with a police car parked out front. She didn’t want to stay around the house, and finally showered—with the bathroom door locked and a chair propped against the knob—dressed, and went down to the television station. She’d put on an act around Will and the others. Truth was, she
was
scared. And she would be very,
very
careful. She didn’t want to end up dead.

But there was a story here, a potentially big story, and she didn’t want to get scooped. Theodore Glenn had given her
something
—she just had to figure out exactly what it was and how to use it.

As soon as she walked into the main offices of the television station where she’d worked for eight years, her direct supervisor, Charlie Boyd, rushed to her side. “Where’s the photo?”

“The police took it.”

“Damn, I told you not to give it to them.”

“I couldn’t withhold evidence, Charlie. You know that.”

He sighed, ran a hand through his thick hair. “I know, I know, but damn, I wish we had it as backup.”

“They’re not going to lie about it,” she said. “They may claim ‘no comment,’ but Will Hooper isn’t going to deny the picture exists. I scanned it high res, it should withstand scrutiny.”

“What else did he say?”

Trinity motioned for Charlie to follow her into her office. She had a small closet with a tiny window, just enough for a chair, desk, and computer, but it was all hers—she had earned the door.

Charlie put his hands up on either side of his head. “‘Award-winning reporter held captive by escaped convict,’” he said, dropping his hands. “How does that sound?”

“It would be bigger news if I were dead,” she said, trying to laugh it off, but her heart wasn’t in it. She kept replaying the conversation between her and Theodore over and over in her head.

“We have to get this on the air. ASAP.”

“The police don’t want to give him airtime. Detective Hooper thinks that will only encourage him. Charlie, he killed his own sister.”

Though Trinity pushed envelopes whenever and wherever she could, she also prided herself on maintaining a good working relationship with the police department since she specialized in reporting on crime and punishment. She’d covered every major trial, interviewed both killers and cops, and had an exclusive program with the district attorney himself, Andrew Stanton, which aired pre–prime time the first Wednesday of every month. That show alone had brought the attention of bigwigs in L.A., who’d offered her a show and more money if she’d sign a five-year contract. But she didn’t want to go to L.A. for five years, and they wouldn’t agree to a year-by-year, so she stayed put in a position where she could leave whenever an opportunity arose. And she was looking for one.

She wouldn’t go against Hooper’s orders to lay low on this, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to do
something.
She had reams of paperwork on this case, access to the files, and interviews she’d conducted with detectives Hooper and Sturgeon, the victims’ families, and the strippers who had worked with the dead women. Then there was the trial transcript itself.

The only thing she
didn’t
have were the sealed records of what had happened in the judge’s chambers. She couldn’t simply trust Theodore Glenn’s word that evidence was tossed out because of police or lab error. But there might be someone else she could go to.

“You sent me that photo—a cop sleeping on the job when he was supposed to be watching a suspect? That’s news. I’m not sitting on it.”

“Charlie, I need a few days to pursue this story.”

“Then why did you send me the picture?”

“Because I knew I had to turn it over and I’d never see it again. This way, we have it for when we go big.”

“This is television, baby. We go big now, and make it bigger.”

“Yes, there’s a story, but the cops aren’t going to talk about one of their own. You know that. We have to dig deeper and then hit them all hard.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I should never have sent it to you.”

“Don’t clam up on me now, Trinity.”

“I’m not. I need to do some research, some more interviews. No one else has this, Charlie. No one is going to scoop me.” She hoped.

“You’re not going to try and contact Glenn, are you? The man is insane.”

“He’s not insane. Dangerous, yes. A sociopath, probably. But he knows exactly what he’s doing. I’m going to be careful. The police are watching my place, and Glenn isn’t going to try anything in broad daylight. Not with the Feds, the CHP, and the San Diego Police Department all looking for him. He’ll probably lay low during the day. He’s smart.”

Charlie raised a brow. “Smart, yes, in that he’s having you do his work for him.”

“But what if he’s telling the truth? What if he didn’t kill Anna Clark? It doesn’t make him any less a murderer, but it
does
mean that someone else got away with murder. And that doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Not to mention it would be the story of the year if you uncovered it,” Charlie said quietly.

“There’s that,” she agreed. She loved San Diego, but Charlie knew she wanted a national gig. She was good enough. Smart enough. Pretty enough.

She just needed something to make her stand out. And this story would do it. She was as certain of that as anything.

“All right,” Charlie agreed, “but you check in with me twice a day, do not attempt to contact Glenn, and do
not
do anything stupid. If he contacts you again, call the police. Watch your back, kid.”

“I’ve already gotten the lecture from the detective in charge,” Trinity said. “I don’t have a death wish. I’m not going to antagonize Glenn, and I definitely don’t want to see him again, but I can’t get this out of my head. There’s no reason for him to admit to killing three women, and not the fourth. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe he wants to have the conviction overturned. If he was wrongfully convicted, that could happen.”

“But he
admitted
to me that he killed those three women.”

“I doubt it would hold up in court. Beyond that, you need to be doubly careful. You’re the only one he confessed to.”

Robin wanted to stay in bed all day, door bolted, gun under her pillow. Loaded. Or better yet, in her hand, with the safety off.

Fear ate at her. A real, physical, gnawing presence that started in her mind, slithered along her nerves, until she was nearly paralyzed.

Staying in bed felt safe, but it was also wrong. She couldn’t let Theodore Glenn destroy her independence. She couldn’t lock herself away until he was caught. What if the police didn’t catch him? What if he taunted them for years? Or he came to town for a few high-profile murders, and then went down to Mexico? He could be next door…or a thousand miles away.

For a year, she had danced for a killer, served him drinks, smiled and flirted, because it was her job. When she’d realized he’d killed her friends, she’d been physically sick. When she’d learned what he did to them, when she’d slipped in Anna’s blood and fallen on her body, she’d nearly lost her sanity.

One minute she had been safe in Will’s arms, the next minute she had walked into a waking nightmare.

Will had kissed her in the foyer of her apartment building. It was nearly three in the morning and they’d spent the last hour in the bar. She wanted him to come up, but at the same time she knew he had a job to do.