The Last Move

by Mary Burton

  Clicking on the light, she reached for the bottle and took out one pill. Taking it felt like failure, but she knew she’d be good to no one if she were exhausted.

  Kate swallowed the pill whole and with a deep sense of resignation lay back on the pillows. It took another thirty minutes for her mind to slow and her eyes to close, and when sleep reached out a welcoming hand, she accepted it even as she promised herself that next time she would not need the pills.

  Mazur pushed through the front door of his house. The place was as he’d left it, fairly neat and tidy. There were a few pairs of Alyssa’s socks that she’d discarded without thought the last time she’d spent the night. He never could bring himself to pick up her shoes because when he saw them he thought of her.

  As he unclipped his gun, handcuffs, and badge and put them in the top drawer of his credenza by the front door, he studied the pictures always waiting for him in the entryway. There were pictures of his brothers and his mom in Chicago and another of him holding Caleb and Alyssa.

  As he moved down the hallway, his phone rang. It was Alyssa. “What are you still doing up, kiddo?”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  He shrugged off his coat, switching the phone to his other ear as he did. “Why’s that? Everything okay with Mom?”

  “She’s on a conference call to New York.”

  He checked his watch and frowned. The kid should be asleep. “How did the math test go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He sat on the edge of his bed and kicked off his shoes. “Sure you do.”

  “Easy.”

  “How easy?”

  “Like a ten out of ten.”

  “Good.”

  “Catch the bad guy yet?”

  “Not yet. But I’m working on it.”

  “Still working with the Fed?”

  He chuckled. “The Fed?”

  “I keep up with the lingo. What’s he like?”

  Since Alyssa was eight or nine, she’d asked questions about his work. At first she worried about his safety and the late-night hours. His answers were always honest, if not measured. In the last year or two, she’d become curious about the cases. “She’s interesting. Smart. Dedicated and a little quirky.”

  “Quirky in a good or bad way?”

  “Good way.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Dr. Kate Hayden.”

  “Let me check her out.” Alyssa typed on what he suspected was the laptop he’d given her last year. “Wow, she has dealt with some real bad guys.”

  “I know.”

  “She also plays chess.”

  “She mentioned that. Said she doesn’t play anymore.”

  “Wow. She was one of the best. Grand champion when she was in high school. Quit after her father died.”

  “She mentioned her father died when she was a teenager.”

  “She tell you he was shot in the street? So was she.”

  “Really?” Jesus, she’d been a victim of violence. What had she said to him earlier? This life chose me.

  “It’s on the Internet so it must be true,” she joked. “Can you tell me more about her?”

  When he’d searched Kate’s name, he’d focused on her career, cases, and education, not her past. The more he learned about her, the more he wanted to know. She was a survivor, professionally accomplished, and attractive. He loosened his tie and glanced at the clock. “You need to go to bed, kiddo.”

  She groaned into the phone. “See you this weekend?”

  “It’s a date.”

  When she’d been little, he’d kiss her good night. Since the divorce, most good nights happened over the phone. “Love you, kiddo.”

  “Me, too, Dad.”

  He ended the call and changed into jeans and a faded Bulls T-shirt. He grabbed a pizza box and went to the dining table that served as a makeshift office.

  A computer search of Kate Hayden revealed much of what Alyssa had just relayed. A young man who’d gone to school with Kate had gunned her and her father down in the parking lot of the civic center where she’d attended chess practice. Her father had died at the scene, and Kate’s injuries were critical. The shooter was sentenced to fifteen to twenty years in prison.

  The Internet search gave him the basics, but if he wanted the whole story, he’d have to pull the murder file. Her past was none of his business, but cops were nosy by nature. It kept them alive.

  He imagined Alyssa seeing him gunned down and then getting shot herself. The thought made him sick. “Shit,” he muttered.

  No wonder Kate was an odd duck. But though she was closed and guarded, she was direct. There were also traces of humor. And if she wore anything other than the severe black FBI suit that swallowed her whole, he could easily find her way too attractive.

  Amused by the train of thought, he switched his focus back to the real priority: solving the Gloria Sanchez murder.

  Martin Sanchez was hiding secrets, which led Mazur to focus on the man’s daughter, Isabella, who might know what had been happening in her father’s marriage. He searched the young woman’s name on the computer and quickly learned Isabella was accomplished in her own right. She’d graduated top of her class at Sacred Heart Catholic School, and she was now in her third year of prelaw. There was next to no information on Mr. Sanchez. He didn’t appear in any of the ads, nor was he at any of the charity events covered by the press. No scandals. However, two dead wives was more than enough for most people.

  By all accounts, Gloria Sanchez had a solid family life, and she had made a success of herself. She had everything to live for. The cancer must have been a real kick in the gut.

  “Could you have been killed at random?”

  Mazur checked his email and discovered a message from Palmer. The subject heading was Financials. As he sipped his beer, he opened Palmer’s email.

  Sanchez family and the car dealership were in real trouble. In the last year the company lost money steadily. In the last three months their bank accounts were on vapors. Checking on life insurance policy. JP

  He reread the email. The best way to murder a high-profile individual was to hide the murder in plain sight.

  Kate’s doubts about Sanchez might have hit their mark.

  Blame it on a faceless serial killer who hadn’t been caught and no one was the wiser.

  Raymond Drexler pulled into the gas station in southern Utah, knowing he’d have to ditch the truck he’d stolen a couple of hundred miles back. If it weren’t reported as stolen yet, it would just be a matter of time. He parked his truck in a spot hidden by the shadows. With luck no one would find it until morning.

  Using his shirtsleeve, he wiped the steering wheel clean as well as the knob on the radio. He grabbed a small go bag he always kept packed. Better safe than sorry.

  As he got out of the vehicle, the cold nipped at his face and the wind swept under his flannel shirt. He liked the cold. It, like death, energized him.

  He stretched, his body aching from the driving. Already he missed his home. His land. It was about this time of night when he’d open his box and take Sara out to play. She’d been a favorite of his. Pale, thin, and blond. Just as he liked. Drexler had decided not to starve her too quickly as he had the others. Still, withholding food had made her docile. And in the last weeks, she’d grown so easy to handle. She’d do anything for him or to him for a few extra french fries.

  Now she was gone. And he was on the run. Alone.

  He’d texted his cousin, Richie, who’d told him Hayden had left Utah. What the hell? She turned his life upside down and then she went on as if she’d done nothing wrong.

  News reports revealed his worst fear. They had found his Sara, and then they’d found his other girls. Beth. Cici. Debby. Naomi. They were all gone now.

  The idea that they’d dug up his girls made his stomach twist and turn. Angry. No respect for the dead.

  Last week he didn’t know Kate Hayden’s name. Now all he could think about was putting her in a box
that was a few inches too short for her little body. That would teach her some manners.

  In the convenience store, he nodded to the clerk but kept his gaze low as he moved to the coolers and pulled out a couple of energy drinks as well as a six-pack of beer.

  He spotted a man, who had parked by his vehicle, stagger toward the store and straight to the beer case.

  Drexler kept his gaze averted from the security camera and, tossing a pack of jerky on the counter by the drinks, dug twenty bucks out of his pocket. The clerk took the twenty and scooped his change out of the register.

  “Thanks,” Drexler muttered as he shoved the rumpled bills and coins in his pocket.

  He returned to his car and set his purchases on the ground. If the cops weren’t looking for this truck yet, they would be soon. Time to ditch it. He glanced back toward the store and watched the other lone customer pay for a twelve-pack of beer.

  Drexler looked around, making sure no one saw him, and dropped to his knee. He flicked open a switchblade. Taking the car parked next to his would fix at least one of his problems.

  After several minutes, the drunk staggered out of the store, the twelve-pack in hand. He was older, lean, and dressed in a mechanic’s jumpsuit. The man swerved when he walked across the lot. He sang some country song as he fumbled for his keys. Drexler’s heart beat faster, and his palms began to sweat. He wasn’t fond of using a knife.

  The other man didn’t see Drexler crouched by the front of the car until he all but tripped over him.

  “What the fuck?” the man asked, staggering back a step.

  Drexler rose up quickly and jabbed the stranger in the gut several times. Drexler found the sensation of metal cutting into flesh nauseating. He didn’t like blood or killing with his hands.

  Blood oozed out of the man’s gut as he stumbled and collapsed into Drexler’s arms. The beers dropped to the ground with a hard thunk.

  Drexler grabbed the man’s keys and patted him down for a wallet. He found a money clip securing a hundred dollars’ worth of bills and a phone. Drexler shoved his victim onto the passenger-side seat of his stolen truck. The man groaned. Drexler pulled the blade over the man’s neck, severing his carotid artery. Hot, sticky blood was slick between his fingers as it gushed down over the dead man’s white oval nameplate that read Jimmy.

  Drexler swung Jimmy’s legs in and turned his head away from the window. The dark seats and rug would hide the blood, at least until morning. And if anyone glanced in before sunrise, they’d see a drunk sleeping it off.

  Drexler checked Jimmy’s phone and discovered it was locked. He grabbed Jimmy’s right thumb and pressed it against the “Home” button. The phone opened.

  Drexler slammed the door closed to his truck, grabbed all the beer, and slid behind the wheel of the black Dodge truck. The truck was at least ten years old, and it smelled of old fast food and booze. But the engine cranked immediately, and the tank had enough gas to get him at least three hundred miles farther south.

  The cops would find Drexler’s vehicle and the man’s body, but he figured he had about eight to ten hours before anyone figured out what had happened. By then, he’d find a new vehicle.

  As he drove, he removed the security settings on the phone and searched for Kate Hayden. Immediately an article by Taylor North popped up. According to North, Kate Hayden was working a case in San Antonio.

  As he drove, he kept searching, learning that Kate had been raised in San Antonio where her mother still lived.

  When he’d first run from his property, he’d had no other plan than survival. Now he had a plan.

  “San Antonio, Texas, here I come.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  When dropping a trail of bread crumbs, it is important that the crumbs are the right size. Too small and they could be missed. Too large and they look obvious. But when they’re just right . . . it’s magic.

  San Antonio, Texas

  Tuesday, November 28, 7:00 a.m.

  When Mazur pulled up to the hotel, Kate was waiting for him in the lobby. She was dressed in the same shapeless black suit, and her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. However, her face had more color in it, and she’d put on a bit of makeup. When she shifted her stance and slung her backpack onto her shoulder, her jacket moved and he spotted the outline of nicely rounded breasts.

  Her pace was quick, determined, and restless. No mind reading necessary to know she was anxious to wrap up this case and return to Utah. She was a balled-up tangle of energy.

  She set her backpack in the backseat, then slid into the passenger seat. “Good morning.”

  The soft scent of soap mingled with a subtle perfume. “Get a good night’s sleep?”

  “I did. You?”

  “Enough.” Sliding on his sunglasses, he pulled into traffic. “Jenny Calhoun called me about five minutes ago. She wants us to stop by the lab.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No. Said it was important.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Curious.”

  “I’ve known Calhoun only a few months, but she’s a straight shooter. If she’s got something to say, she says it.”

  “Unlike Santos.”

  He grinned. “What do they say about revenge?”

  “It’s a dish best served cold.”

  “Damn right.” He signaled to change lanes. “I received a report on the Sanchez family’s financials. They’re in worse shape than Martin indicated. Land assets and brokerage assets have been liquidated. Second mortgage taken out last month on their home.”

  Her phone chimed with a text, and she glanced at it, her brow furrowing as she read.

  “That doesn’t look like good news.” Her business was none of his, but being around her kept piquing his interest.

  “My partner, Agent Nevada, thinks Drexler ditched his truck and stole another one.”

  “Where was Drexler last seen?”

  “Near the New Mexico border. That’s where he stole a truck and stabbed the vehicle’s owner, who was found in Drexler’s vehicle. There was a lot of blood at the scene, so the vehicle he’s driving is likely covered in it as well.”

  “Does he own any other properties or have friends in that part of the state?”

  “Parents are dead. No siblings. A cousin whom I interviewed. Though the cousin defended Drexler, I suspect he’s the one who called in the tip that led to the arrest. We’re still digging into extended family connections.”

  “Can you prove the cousin called it in?” Mazur asked.

  “No. It’s a hunch. I did a baseline interview with him. We didn’t talk about the case. His job. His house. Basic things so I could see how he reacted when there was no need to lie. When I asked him about the tip on Drexler, he leaned back as he spoke. He also crossed his legs and looked away or checked his watch. Several closed-posture gestures that deviated from the baseline suggested he was hiding secrets.”

  “He involved in his cousin’s deeds?”

  “I don’t think so. I think Drexler got drunk and talked more than he should. I also think the cousin, though he made the anonymous call to local police, is clearly troubled by the fact he turned in family.”

  “I know what it’s like to catch a guy that insidious. For me, it was Frankie Munroe. A piece of shit from the South Side of Chicago. Developed a taste for killing young prostitutes. One was thirteen. The way he cut them.” He paused, pushing the image from his mind. “Took me nine months of tracking. But putting him down was all I drank, ate, and slept.” Caleb had recently died, and the chase had been the only way to salvage his tattering sanity.

  “And you caught him.”

  He tightened his hands on the wheel. “A couple of uniforms rolled up on him while he was cutting a woman’s throat. Shot and killed him.” Later that day, he’d returned home and Sherry announced she and Alyssa were moving out.

  Kate didn’t press him for details, instead turning her gaze toward the highway and the faceless businesses.

  They finished the trip
in silence, each lost in thought. At the station, she moved beside him, hurrying to match his pace. Normally his pace was steady, but the telling of his story ginned up urgency.

  They stepped off the elevators and made their way to the forensic lab. They found Calhoun leaning against a counter, her arms folded over her chest as if she’d been waiting for them.

  “Have you found something in the backseat?” Kate asked.

  “I did find fresh stains on the seat, and preliminary tests suggest human bodily fluids, which I’ve sent for testing. And I can tell you the receipt in Gloria Sanchez’s car proved she was at a convenience store named Lucky’s shortly before she died.”

  “Good work,” Mazur said.

  Calhoun shook her head. “That’s not why I called.”

  She held up the plastic evidence bag containing the burner cell phone left behind by the killer. “I had barely sat down this morning when I noticed this.”

  When Kate and Mazur had both gloved up, Calhoun removed the cell phone from the evidence bag and handed it to Mazur.

  The new text read: When is Dr. Hayden going to make a statement to the media? Do I have to kill again?

  “Did you put a trace on it?” Mazur asked.

  “The message came through at 4:50 a.m., a couple of hours before I arrived. I called in the number right away, and tech support said they couldn’t get a ping on it. You were my first call after they notified me.”

  Mazur showed it to Kate. “Who knows you’re working this case?”

  “Mr. Sanchez and his attorney, your department, and my people.”

  “So if I’m Sanchez or his attorney, would it be smart of me to send a text like this?” Mazur asked. “Or is this Samaritan nut watching?”

  Kate studied the message. “His question implies knowledge. But I’ve been a background player on this case since I arrived in San Antonio. He’s either guessing I’m here or is watching this building. Did you have an officer taping the crime scene and the people watching it?”

  “Calhoun had a couple of squad cars with dash-cam videos running and aimed at the traffic passing by. She knows killers often return to the murder scenes.”