by Mary Burton
“They do.”
“Then tell me where you are. We can talk about your life, Gloria, and Dr. Richardson. I’d like to see you.”
“I see you all the time.”
A jolt shot through her nerves as she looked around the car’s interior. “What does that mean?” She checked her watch. Could he see her now, or was he bluffing? “I want to talk to you in person.”
“We’re talking now. What do you want to know?”
Directness was a technique she used in interviews, but she understood revealing some of what she knew came with a risk. “Why kill Gloria Sanchez if she was your half sister and she stood by you all these years?”
“That’s a bold question.”
“Did you turn on her like you turned on me?”
He was silent for a moment. “Blue eyes laughin’,” he said, quoting the Elton John song. “Remember how we used to sing it? It was our silly song.”
“Why did you gun down Gloria?” She was now operating on an educated guess, doing her best to make him miscalculate.
A heavy silence lingered as she glanced down at her watch. Either give me something or just hang up.
“Blue eyes ain’t laughing now, Katie. You’re trying to get under my skin, just as you did in high school. I’m not bad. I am good.”
The line went dead, and Mazur shook his head. He held a GPS tracking device in his hand. “Found this under the back bumper.”
“He’s monitoring us.”
“We need to check your rental car.”
“Right. What about the trace?”
“The trace wasn’t successful. We have him narrowed to a few hundred miles, but that’s not going to help.”
“He’s already on the move again.” She ran her hand over her head.
“Think of this as a chess game, and you’re letting him have the small pieces while you keep your eye on winning the game.”
“I want to talk to Martin Sanchez again and see if he knows anything about these visits, then take another look at my father’s murder file.”
“Why?”
“There’re notes in the files that William wrote to me. I’d like to read them again.”
“Why?”
“Something he just said.”
Kate’s nerves were on edge from her earlier conversation with William when she and Mazur arrived at Sanchez Motors, where they found Martin in the back office. He was alone, sitting behind his wife’s desk, staring blankly at stacks of papers that had grown since their last visit.
Martin rose. “Detectives. I’ve said all I’m going to say to you. You need to leave.”
“I’m not here to talk about Rebecca. But I do have questions about Gloria’s life before she married you. What do you know about her family?” Mazur asked.
The question caught him by surprise. “Not much. She lived with her mother.”
“Did you ever visit their home?” Mazur asked.
“No. She said her mother was a domestic, and it embarrassed her. I met her mother, of course, but it was never at the house where she worked.”
“Do you remember the name of the people Nina Hernandez worked for?”
“I did some asking around because Gloria was so evasive. Nina worked for the Bauldry family. They were good people.”
“Gloria ever talk about the family?” Mazur asked.
“Never.” He tugged on his shirt cuffs.
“What about her father? Did she ever talk about him?” Mazur pressed.
“How does this have anything to do with her death?”
“It might be critical,” Kate said.
Martin sighed. “I asked, of course. She said she never really knew her father. She was born out of wedlock and was deeply troubled by that.” He dropped his head into his hands. “It’s not what you think about Rebecca and me.”
Kate softened her voice. “How was it?”
When he looked up at them, tears glistened in his eyes. “I loved Rebecca. I wanted to marry her. But she was worried about hurting Gloria. She actually liked Gloria and appreciated all that she’d done for her.” He wiped away a tear. “Who would kill her?”
“We’re still trying to figure that out. Have you made funeral arrangements for your wife?” Kate asked.
“Yes.” He lifted his chin a notch. “The service will be on Saturday afternoon.”
It wasn’t her place to judge Sanchez, but given that he’d lost two women he’d loved in a matter of days, it was hard not to acknowledge his pain. “If we learn anything new, I’ll call.”
Martin sank back into his chair looking lost and broken.
“Should I call your daughter, Isabella?” Kate asked.
“Isabella,” he whispered. “Thank God I still have her.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she said.
Kate and Mazur left him, neither speaking as they made their way to his car. Twenty minutes later, they arrived in their precinct conference room. Her father’s murder files were waiting for them. “You sure you don’t want me to go through them first?” he asked.
“No.”
He angled his head. “But this is very personal.”
Her backpack slid from her shoulder to a chair. She traced her finger over the murder book. “I’ll be fine.”
He jabbed his thumb toward the door. “I’ll be right back with coffee. And if I can score a doughnut or two, I’ll grab them.”
“Thank you.”
When the door closed behind him, she sat in front of the book. Carefully she smoothed her hand over the vinyl top. She drew in a breath and opened it.
The first page was a form that detailed the basics of the case. If she didn’t look at her father’s name, then she could distance herself from the facts as she had done so many times before.
When she turned the page, there was a series of sketches done by the investigators. The crude drawings showed the parking lot, the position of their car in relation to the two others in the lot, and the buildings that ringed the area. And, of course, the alley where the shooter had been waiting.
The next page was the autopsy report, and this time she could not control the rush of emotion that burned through her body. Unshed tears stung her eyes and her hands trembled as she skimmed over the autopsy pages to the notes she hoped were still there.
When she saw the two handwritten letters addressed to her, she could only stare. It took several deep breaths before her heart steadied.
She read the first note:
Katie;
I love you. You’re my Angel of Mrcy. Please call me. I’m not bad. I am good. Without you, I am weak and broken.
William
Clearing her throat, she read the second:
Katie;
Your enduring silence left me in darkness; but now it makes me angry. I know now everything you told me was a lie. Everything we shared was an illusion. You don’t deserve to live.
William
She wasn’t sure how long she stared at the precise lettering written in blue ink on white linen paper. She didn’t even hear the conference door open and close.
“Kate.”
She flinched at the sound of Mazur’s voice. She looked up as he set down the brown to-go cup holder nestling two coffees and two glazed doughnuts.
“Sorry, I was lost in thought.”
Mazur looked toward the open book and the letters. “Bauldry wrote those to you?”
“Yes.”
“When did you give them to the cops?”
“Not until after my father was shot.”
“Why did you keep them a secret?”
“I was embarrassed. I had thought William was so good and wonderful, and then to find out I had been so wrong. What a fool.”
“Nothing in those letters said he planned to hurt you?”
“No. He never said outright that he wanted me dead.”
“So you’ve made a career out of finding the meaning in words.”
“More or less.”
He pulled out a chair bes
ide her and handed her a cup of coffee and a doughnut. “So what does the note tell you now?”
“William Bauldry sent this latest Samaritan note to the police.”
“How do you know that?”
“He uses the term Angel of Mrcy in his letters. And just like the letter he wrote to me all those years ago, misspelled it. The use of the semicolon after my name, which isn’t a common punctuation mark to use, is consistent with the letters to me. And look at the use of the contractions. He doesn’t contract pronoun and verb when he speaks about himself in the positive, and when he speaks in the negative it is contracted.”
“He tried to fool us.”
“Or he’s simply testing me. He knows this is my job. This is what I do. He’s playing a game. He has now maneuvered me into this room, and I have relived the worst moment of my life.”
Mazur closed the book. “I’m going to enjoy seeing this asshole behind bars.”
“Not the descriptor I’d use, but I agree.”
When Drexler pushed through the motel room door, it was two o’clock in the afternoon and he was dog-ass tired. He’d had enough energy to find the Hayden house, and as much as he’d wanted to park and wait for her, he knew that was a sure way to get caught.
He’d slept in New Mexico, but the handful of hours hadn’t been enough to chase away the fatigue that had been dogging him for weeks. And now that he was in the city and around so many young girls, it would be even harder to slow down and rest.
All he could think about was making a box and locking one of the women inside. At first, they always screamed and pounded against the wood. They’d beg, plead. And finally, the pounding would soften to scratching, and then there’d be silence.
And when he finally opened the box and peered inside after a couple of days, none of ’em had much fight left in them. Instead, they were all so damn grateful for the scraps of food and the sips of water. Of course, he did put them back. Usually by the third time he took them out to play, he didn’t have to ask for their compliance. They gave it willingly.
Grateful.
That’s what he liked. The pure gratitude for each and every kind act he granted. And when he pulled the girls out of the box and asked them to spread their legs, they didn’t fight or fuss. They were willing to do anything so that he didn’t put them back in the box.
Of course, he always did. He let them out and played with them when it suited, and when they were no longer of interest to him, he just left them in the box and let nature take its course.
He sat on the edge of the bed and reclined back, releasing a sigh. As tired as he was, he was also hungry. There was a diner right across the street, but he needed to be careful. He looked different enough, but that didn’t mean he was safe.
His motel phone rang and he jumped. He’d ditched his cell in Utah, and no one knew he was here. He let the phone ring eight or nine times before it stopped. He moved to the side of the bed and sat down, staring at the phone, still afraid to pick it up.
As the seconds passed and the tension ebbed, the phone rang again. Tensing, he picked up the receiver. “Yeah.”
“We need to talk.”
Drexler didn’t recognize the voice. “Who the hell is this?”
“Someone who knows you like to watch Kate Hayden.”
A jolt of fear and adrenaline cut through him. “Who the fuck is this?”
“I bet you’re hungry for food and a woman.”
Drexler drew in a breath but said nothing.
“And a box to put her in, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You can’t have Kate, but I’ve another girl for you. A very pretty blonde.”
Drexler didn’t speak. Cops were smart. Those bastards were everywhere. “I’m not stupid.”
“You are if you drive by Kate Hayden’s house again. She’s off limits. But the lovely Isabella is ripe for the taking.”
Isabella. A pretty name. He closed his eyes. Temptation begged him to accept, but caution kept him quiet.
“We can work together, or I can call the cops.”
Drexler rose, the receiver pressed to his ear as he glanced toward his locked door.
“I have food. And I can tell you how to find the girl. And you just told me you’re not stupid.”
If he were real smart, he’d hang up. He moistened his lips. But the need to control was too strong. “What do you have in mind?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The greater the suffering, the more powerful the lesson.
San Antonio, Texas
Thursday, November 30, 8:00 p.m.
Mazur parked in front of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice offices on Guadalupe Street. He’d placed a call to Bauldry’s parole officer and asked him to meet Mazur and Kate at his offices. The parole officer had yet to cross paths with Mazur and at first had not been anxious to drive back for the meeting. Mazur had done his best to cajole, but when that didn’t seem to work, he’d threatened to send a uniform by his house and have him brought in.
“Let’s see if his parole officer has any insights into where this son of a bitch is hiding.”
Moonlight mingled with the lights from streetlamps illuminating the one-level building with the red clay mission tiles. “My guess is this man will have only nice things to say about William, who would not mess up his shot at freedom.”
“We shall see.”
Out of the car, the two walked to the central entrance. Mazur twisted the handle and opened the door. There was an empty reception desk and beyond it a long hallway. “Mr. Dickerson!” Mazur shouted.
A tall, burly Texan wearing jeans and a flannel shirt appeared out of the back office. He had short hair, wide-set eyes, and a dark mustache that made an otherwise forgettable face memorable. “You Theo Mazur?”
“That’s right. And this is Dr. Hayden with the FBI.”
“I pulled William Bauldry’s file after we spoke.” He motioned them into a small plain office decorated only with a metal desk, a couple of chairs, and diplomas from the University of Texas. “Honestly, I was surprised when you called, Detective Mazur.” He motioned for the two to take the seats in front of his desk before he settled his large frame in his chair.
“Why’s that?”
“I just saw William last Tuesday. We had a good visit.”
“How so?” Kate asked.
“He mentioned he was excited about the future. He said his life was coming together.” Dickerson pulled readers from his front pocket and put them on before flipping open the thin file centered on his desk. “He’s been out of prison eleven months now and so far has not missed one meeting with me. He’s never been late, and every time I do a spot drug test, he’s clean. I wish all my parolees were like him.”
Kate shifted. “He can be quite charming.”
Dickerson leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and clasping his hands. “There’s no crime in that.”
“No, but he uses his charm to manipulate people.”
“I recognize your name,” Dickerson said. “From William’s file.”
She sat ramrod straight with no emotion changing her features.
“He spoke about you several times,” Dickerson said. “He expressed tremendous guilt over shooting you and your father.”
“Did he?”
“He had mental-health issues. But the right meds have balanced him out.”
“I don’t agree,” she said. “I think he might have brutally killed two women in the last week.”
Dickerson yanked off his glasses. “You sure we’re talking about the same man?”
Mazur shook his head. “Where do you think William would go?”
“I can give you his current address. He also has a brother in town.”
“We’ve been to both places,” Mazur said. “Anywhere else?”
Dickerson scratched the side of his head. “He’s from a wealthy family. Hell, he could be anywhere.”
“Did he mention anypl
ace that he liked to visit?” Kate asked. “Anyplace that brought back good memories?”
“He’s a smart man,” Dickerson said. “Why would he tell me?”
“Sometimes the truth slips out. Profilers call it leakage,” she said.
Dickerson sat back, expelling a breath. “He liked to talk about fishing. He said he loved to fish.”
“Did he say where?” Mazur asked.
“Never said where, but once he said he had to hustle if he wanted to make it to his pond before sunset. It was spring and about six in the evening. There couldn’t have been more than an hour or hour and a half of daylight left.”
Mazur flexed his fingers. “Anything else?”
“Not like we had a lot of time to chat. I’ve one hell of a caseload, and when I realized he was doing well, I never held him long.”
Mazur handed him his card. “When is he due in next?”
“Five days.”
Kate shook her head. “He’s not coming back.”
“How do you know that?” Dickerson said. “He never missed once.”
“He’s finished with the charade,” Kate said. “He’s doing now what he’s been planning to do for a long time. Dickerson, call me if you think of anything else or if he contacts you?”
Mazur heard the trepidation in her voice, and it tore at him that he couldn’t find this son of a bitch for her. She protected people from the monsters, but who protected her?
He dialed Detective Santos as they stepped out of Dickerson’s office. Santos picked up on the fourth ring. “Santos? This is Mazur.”
“Yep.”
“You know this area of Texas well, correct?”
“I do.”
“Good. Palmer is doing a record search of properties owned by William Bauldry. Have a look at the list and tell her which properties might have ponds suitable for fishing.”
“She doesn’t need my help.”
Mazur gripped the phone. “Help Palmer, or I swear I’ll do more to you than piss in your coffee mug.”
Kate couldn’t shake the image of William sitting calmly by a pond, fishing, while she scrambled to find him. As they were walking back to Mazur’s car, his cell rang. “Calhoun, what do you have?” He put it on speaker so Kate could hear.
