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 fiance, 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 cliche, 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 da
rk 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?”
“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 a
nd 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.
Killing Fear pb-1 Page 8
