Theodore despised Will Hooper. And listening to the press conference on the news, sitting safe in an old, worn La-Z-Boy, and having that asshole cop call him stupid pained him.
Hooper knew damn well he was a genius. It was only bad luck that a witness caught sight of him coming out of Brandi’s duplex. He should have gone in and killed that old biddy when he saw the curtains move. But he honestly hadn’t believed she could see that far away. How was he to know she regularly used binoculars to watch the comings and goings from all her neighbors’ houses?
He’d seen the sketch on the news. It didn’t look enough like him to have him concerned. It could have been anybody.
Then to have that high-and-mighty hypocrite Robin McKenna tell the cops that he was the man in the sketch. Bad luck. It should never have happened. How that slut was able to make the connection unnerved him, and pissed him off. It was a guess on her part, simply because she didn’t like him. She’d made that perfectly clear right from the beginning.
Robin. He closed his eyes and saw her perfect form take shape. The way she moved onstage. Liquid energy. Smooth, perfect, music in motion. He’d wanted her something fierce. He saw in her eyes something he’d never seen before. An intelligence and knowledge that mirrored his. She was better than this, better than a stripper, and she knew it. Her self-confidence rivaled his. Her poise and elegance. Everything about Robin McKenna was a dream dance, an act, an image she wanted to show. Just like him. All he wanted was for her to touch him. Why didn’t she see that they were the same?
But instead of joining him, she’d turned against him. Long before she identified his sketch for the police, she turned on him. Told Bethany he was dangerous. A year before he killed the girl, Robin was warning her.
Smart, cold bitch.
He’d been set up. He hadn’t killed Robin’s pathetic roommate, yet he’d been convicted for that murder as well.
How did he know the bitch herself hadn’t knocked off her roommate to frame him? She’d wanted him out of the picture so badly. And she was cold and heartless enough to kill, of that Theodore was certain. They were two of a kind, and before he was done with Robin McKenna, she would recognize that fact.
He had his list, and he would take care of each person on it in due time. Blood was thicker than water, and he had a score to settle.
His sister should never have testified against him. She would suffer for her betrayal. Robin could wait. Watch him take his revenge on others first. She’d know he was coming for her. She’d know and that fear would fester deliciously under her flawless skin.
He smiled at the thought of Robin cowering in the corner. Waiting for him to come and put her out of her misery. Because he would. And he would not be merciful.
Jenny Olsen slouched into the living room with a tray of food. She was a fat bitch, might have been pretty if she didn’t look like a cow. But she’d been faithfully writing to him in prison these last seven years and she’d told him she’d do anything for him.
He’d called her on it when he showed up on her porch early Sunday morning.
“I hope you like it,” Jenny said, beaming.
Stupid wench.
He tasted the meal. Chicken, rice, carrots, and broccoli. The best meal he’d had in years. Simple, flavorful, home-cooked.
“Delicious,” he said honestly, favoring her with a smile.
She beamed brighter, rubbing her chubby hands together. “Can I get you anything else? A beer maybe?”
“Do you have red wine?” Theodore detested beer, and he dreaded what sort of wine this white-trash female would have on hand, but he hadn’t had a drink in seven years.
Jenny looked worried. “N-no. But I have some Scotch, I think. It was my father’s, before he died.”
“Let’s see it.”
She walked over to the hutch in the dining room. Her small fifties cinderblock house was clean but full of clutter. Knickknacks. Glass figures. Her life, on show for everyone who walked through the door.
Pathetic.
She bent down, fumbled through bottles. She came up with something that actually looked good. “Is this okay?”
“Pour it,” he said.
She did, he sipped. “Not bad.”
He ate and drank, not caring that Jenny watched his every move. She adored him. He could see it in her doe eyes, in her obsequious manner. Wasn’t she the least bit scared? Wasn’t she the least bit concerned that he might kill her?
Theodore wasn’t surprised he’d gotten away yesterday. The only truly hazardous part of the escape was the hour he’d spent in the frigid water of the San Francisco Bay. He’d been victorious partly from luck, partly from intelligence. He’d immediately slipped away from the pack because those other fools were going to get themselves killed or captured. When he finally made it to shore, he’d lucked out that he emerged only yards from a convenience store. Before going to prison, he’d never known how to hot-wire a vehicle, but he’d learned a lot behind bars and it only took him two tries before he successfully stole a truck. He once again felt that familiar jolt of adrenaline, the high from being smart and on the edge.
More good luck was that there was a suitcase in the stolen truck. He pulled out a white T-shirt and wind-breaker. Enough to get rid of his prison duds and look like ordinary Joe Citizen.
Glenn had headed north, then east around the bay, then south down highway 99, because there were more places to stop and hide off the road if necessary. He swapped cars in Fresno, suspecting that the owner of this pickup he had stolen would have reported it missing by that time. Three hours later, he merged onto I-5 near the Grapevine and went over the hill toward L.A. There was no abnormal police presence that he noticed. He stayed just a few miles over the speed limit, drove through the night, and was now only an hour away from his hometown, in the home of Jenny Olsen, one of the many women who had written him in prison. Jenny had said she would do anything for him.
So far, she wasn’t lying.
FOUR
Monday morning Robin arrived at the gun range she’d frequented twice a week for nearly six years. Ten minutes before they opened, she sat in the parking lot, unloaded her weapon, and secured the ammo and gun in a carrying case. For so long, the range had practically been a second home to her. The owner, an ex-cop named Hank Solano, had taught her everything she now knew about guns.
Authorities had recaptured one of the convicts, one had drowned in the San Francisco Bay, but more were still at large. Including Theodore Glenn.
Seven years ago her life exploded. No longer was she anonymous. Her name, photograph, and entire life history had been splashed across the local papers after the murders and during the trial. Two years later she’d bought a building in the gaslamp district-the business owners had worked to change the image by also changing the name from “gaslight” to “gaslamp,” which she didn’t completely understand but went along with it anyway. When she opened The Eighth Sin, the press had done a feature on her.
“FORMER STRIPPER OPENS SEXY NIGHTCLUB.”
It didn’t matter that her girls didn’t strip. It didn’t matter that she had just as many beautiful men on staff as women, or that she was trying something new and innovative, or that she’d gone into the black after two years. All the press cared about was the past. That Robin had been a stripper, that the notorious Theodore Alan Glenn had killed four exotic dancers-her friends, women she cared about-and was given the death penalty.
Glenn’s M.O. was that he had consensual sex with his victims, then later, months after the relationship was over, broke into their homes, tortured, and killed them. Anna had never slept with Glenn, but he killed her anyway.
Justice was too slow, too painful. But in the end, justice had been served, hadn’t it? Bethany and Brandi, Jessica and Anna avenged. Glenn would be dead sooner or later. In prison, he couldn’t hurt her. In prison, she could almost forget he existed.
At least until forty hours ago when she learned he’d escaped from prison during an earthquake.
She rubbed her face with her hands, taking a deep breath. Why would Glenn risk returning to San Diego? Everyone was looking for him here. Did he think Robin wouldn’t shoot him on sight?
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid now. For years, she had been living in fear. Sleeping with the lights on. Waking with nightmares nearly every damn night. Waking with the iron scent of Anna’s bloody death on her hands. She hadn’t had a full day of peace since that terrible night.
The past would come full circle. Already the media was talking about the murders of her four friends. It was only a matter of time before Robin’s name and photograph were again plastered all over the papers and television. Before the press tantalized the public with unproven rumors that the old club called RJ’s had been a haven for prostitutes.
Shaking her head, she looked across the parking lot and watched as Hank unlocked the doors from the inside. He saw her car, watched her through the glass. Did he recognize Robin? Of course he did. Once a cop always a cop, he’d told her. “If it wasn’t for that gang initiation stunt, I’d still be a cop.”
A beat cop in L.A., Hank had been shot as a test of gang loyalty. He’d nearly died on the street. He now walked with a limp and was missing three fingers on his left hand, but he could still load a magazine faster than she could with all ten fingers.
He stared as she stepped out of her car. She tried to keep her pace light, her face calm, but the truth was she could hardly wait to hit the range and see if she’d lost her eye.
Hank opened the door for her. “It’s been awhile.”
She nodded, her smile genuine. For all the crap that had happened back then, she’d made a few good friends. A silver lining on a very dark cloud. “You’re looking good, Hank.”
He pulled her into a hug, slapped her on the back, then stood back and looked at her critically. “You sure you’re good?”
“I’m ready.”
“Think shooting a gun is like riding a bike?”
She smirked. “Sure do.”
“Twenty bucks says you miss a perfect score.”
“You’re on.”
Hank pulled several boxes of ammo out of the cabinet and went with her into the range, leaving his assistant to man the front. Robin ran through all the safety checks, forgetting nothing.
“When was the last time you cleaned your gun?” Hank asked.
“The first Saturday of the month. I’ve never forgotten.”
“Hmm.”
“You heard?” she asked.
“Who the hell didn’t?”
Robin set up the target, and pushed the button to send it back. Fired. Again. Rapidly.
She missed one.
“Shit,” she mumbled, handing Hank a twenty.
“You done good, girl. I didn’t think you’d still have it in you.”
“I scored perfect last time.”
“You’re still a great shot.”
“Because you taught me. I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing. I have some work to do. Why don’t you work on your technique?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my technique,” she teased.
He grinned, his brown eyes twinkling. “I know. I just like watching pretty women shoot guns. Stay as long as you like.”
When Will learned Diaz had left a message on Robin’s machine but hadn’t spoken with her personally, he couldn’t help but worry. Will should have gone to her immediately, face-to-face. She deserved to hear about the investigation and what they knew-no matter how minimal-from him, not from someone he assigned to the task.
He couldn’t find Robin at her new loft so he went to her club. It was closed, but when Will showed his identification, the assistant manager who was setting up for a retirement lunch told him that she was at the Solano Gun Mart. The girl scrunched up her nose in distaste, and Will wondered if she had a problem with Robin, a problem with guns, or both.
Will glanced around the modern dance club. Minimalist with lots of sleek metal and high-end acrylic, lots of black, white, and silver. The recessed lighting appeared colorful-which would add dimension to the place when it was on. The only splashes of color were large murals hanging here and there, scenes hinting at the vibrancy of nature-bolder greens and blues in a mountain stream; vivid reds and oranges of a sunset. Deceptively simple paintings that drew the eye and the imagination.
Robin had done well for herself. He’d followed her career from the periphery, both her business and her art. He couldn’t help himself, he wanted to make sure she was doing all right. And she was. She was living her dream: owning her own business, and next week she had her first major art show.
Last year he had bought one of her paintings. At first glance it looked like the ocean on a hot summer day. Simple but vibrant. The few people populating the beach were like an afterthought. But he saw the detail from a distance, and realized she’d painted them, holding hands, watching a dolphin leap in the distance.
He’d hung the painting in his living room. Every time he looked at the picture he saw something different, felt something more. And remembered his failings.
The Solano Gun Mart was only a few minutes from downtown. When Will stepped through the doors, the scent of gunpowder and cleaning solvent mixed with metal was pervasive. Turning to the right, he looked through the windows and saw Robin at the far end of the range, her back to him. An older man-trim, six foot, graying dark hair-was also watching her. She was running through a standard target-near, close, and far-and doing a damn fine job of hitting the bull’s-eye.
His chest tightened, but he didn’t want to examine his feelings too closely. To say Robin was a good-looking woman was an understatement. Tall, curvy, with legs that went up and up, she could dress in a burlap sack and still stop traffic. She’d pulled her long, thick, dark red hair into a wavy ponytail, her high cheekbones cut sharply across her face. Long, elegant nose; full, lush lips; a slender, delicate neck.
But Robin McKenna was not delicate. She had a core of steel and an attitude to match. Everything she did, she did with passion. She loved passionately and hated passionately.
Will knew. He’d been on the receiving end of both.
Seeing her now, he knew he wasn’t ready to talk. His mouth was dry and all he wanted to do was drop to his knees and apologize for how much he’d hurt her.
There was no going back.
Dear Lord, how he wanted to. He wanted to hold her, to take her back to his bed, to make love to her and be made love to. Seeing her brought back every memory and emotion and hope and fear.
The door opened and the rangemaster stepped out. “Can I help you?”
Will needed time to stamp out this reaction and put some distance between his feelings and his job. Just a few minutes. The assistant manager at her club had told Will that Robin would be back there at noon, he’d see her then.
“Just checking out this place. I haven’t been here before.”
The owner looked him up and down. “A lot of cops shoot here. I run a clean place. I had twelve years on the job before I went out on disability.”
His limp was slight but evident as he walked around the counter.
“I’m sure you do.” Will extended his hand. “Detective William Hooper, SDPD.”
“Hank Solano. Rampart Precinct, L.A.”
“What happened?”
“Six bullets in a gang shooting. Fortunately the kid was a lousy shot and missed all major organs. But my left knee’s all plastic and metal now.”
“Who’s the girl?”
Hank didn’t take his eyes off Will. “You tell me.” His casual stance as he eased onto a stool belied his probing stare.
Will gave a half smile. “I heard she was here. I need to give her some bad news.”
“You think she doesn’t know that bastard escaped from prison?”
“Good point.” He especially didn’t want to talk to Robin with
an audience. He needed to regroup, to harden his heart.
“Has he been spotted in town?” Hank asked. He didn’t have to say Glenn’s name for Will to know who he meant.
“Not yet.”
“I trained her myself. She’s a good shot.”
“I can see that.” And that saddened Will on many levels.
“Why don’t I introduce you to her? Might make any other news-or lack thereof-easier on the girl. She’s been through hell.”
“I know.” He stared at the man. “I arrested Theodore Glenn.”
Suddenly, Hank’s face hardened. What had Robin told him? Was Robin involved with this guy? Emotionally? Physically? A streak of jealousy ran through Will, and he squelched it. He had no claims on Robin. Not anymore. Maybe not even seven years ago.
“Why don’t we just pretend you never stopped by?” Hank Solano said, his voice low and vibrating with a restrained anger.
“Good idea.” Will started for the door.
Hank had the last word.
“Find that bastard, then stay the hell out of her life.”
FIVE
“Mom, please be careful,” Sherry said to her mother over the phone as she nervously glanced at the clock. It was one fifty. At two o’clock every afternoon, Sherry walked four blocks to her daughter’s school. The bell rang at two fifteen and Sherry never wanted six-year-old Ashley to have to wait, to wonder if her mother forgot.
Especially today.
“Sherry, sweetheart, Theodore would never hurt us. He couldn’t hurt anyone. It was just a big mistake.”
For nearly seven years, Carl and Dorothy Glenn had been saying the same thing. There was a mistake. Theodore wouldn’t hurt a fly. It was all just a big misunderstanding.
And for nearly seven years, Sherry had tried to convince them that yes, in fact, their son and her brother had killed four women, that the police had been right to arrest him, and she had been right to testify against him.
Her brother had shown a far darker side to her than to anyone else in their family.
Killing Fear pb-1 Page 4
