Killing Fear

by Allison Brennan

  He hung up and stared at Robin with a pained expression. “Sherry Jeffries, Theodore’s sister, is dead.”

  SIX

  Sherry Glenn Jeffries had lived in El Cajon, a suburb north of San Diego. Technically out of the jurisdiction of SDPD, Police Chief Causey had been called when the arriving officers identified the victim.

  Will arrived before Carina. The Jeffries lived in a two-story house in an upper middle class neighborhood where similar two-story homes stood close together. Judging by the size of the trees, the neighborhood was less than five years old.

  Sherry and her family had a confidential address. How had Glenn found out where she lived?

  “Detective Hooper?” A uniformed cop approached. “I’m Lieutenant Ken Black.”

  Will nodded. “Thanks for calling us so quickly.”

  They stood on the driveway. The garage doors were open and Will saw the corpse lying on the floor right by the inside door. Glenn had waited for her in the garage. For how long?

  “What happened?” Will asked Black.

  “When Mrs. Jeffries didn’t pick up her daughter from school, the principal called the house and got no answer. Normally they wouldn’t do that, but Mrs. Jeffries had told the school that Ashley’s uncle was in town and might want to harm the girl. When Mrs. Jeffries didn’t pick up on the house or cell phone, the principal phoned Dr. Jeffries at the hospital.”

  Sherry Jeffries’s husband was a surgeon, Will recalled.

  The lieutenant continued. “Dr. Jeffries called police to check on the house, then went to pick up his daughter. He has a solid alibi. He was in surgery when the teacher called, had been since ten this morning.”

  It was common to immediately rule out the spouse or boyfriend whenever a woman was killed.

  “Police arrived on scene and when there was no answer, they walked the perimeter of the home. Looked in through the window of the garage door and saw the body. The officers called for backup, broke in to determine whether the victim was still alive. She wasn’t. When backup arrived, they searched the house and found no one. However, the killer left a message in the kitchen.”

  Carina drove up then and joined them. Will filled her in. He wanted to see the message, but said, “Let’s check out the body first.”

  Sherry Jeffries had died quickly. Her neck had been broken and she lay crumpled on the smooth concrete floor next to her minivan. Her purse and keys lay next to her body. A dead cat lay on top of her. Will vividly remembered Sherry’s testimony about her brother killing her kitten in front of her. This psychological torment practically screamed Theodore Glenn.

  Sherry Jeffries’s wallet had either fallen out of her purse, or was dropped there. “Has the body been photographed?” Will asked.

  “Yes.”

  Will pulled on gloves and picked up the wallet. Empty. Credit cards gone, no money.

  But this wasn’t a robbery. Glenn might have needed the money, but he didn’t kill his sister for it.

  He killed her for revenge.

  “Let’s see the message.”

  They walked through the house. In the kitchen, the crime scene techs were still working, so Will and Carina stood back.

  “Shit,” Carina murmured.

  Will stared at the message meant only for one person.

  On the wall of the breakfast nook, Theodore Glenn had written in black permanent marker:

  William, once again I killed right under your nose. I’m surprised they let you keep your badge seven years ago, but I suppose that professional ethics mean little to cops who plant evidence and fuck witnesses.

  If you think you can save her, think again.

  He was talking about Robin.

  “Will, what does he mean?”

  Will didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His entire body filled with a fear he’d never known before, a foreboding that told him Glenn’s sick games had just begun. If Will hadn’t just left Robin—with a marked car outside the Sin—he would have immediately gone to her.

  “Will?” Carina asked softly.

  He ignored her, gave her a glance that said, not here, not now.

  “Save who?” Carina asked, skeptical, still pushing for answers. “Who’s he talking about? The daughter?”

  “Robin McKenna.” Will cleared his voice. “Anna Clark’s roommate who testified against him. Or he could mean Julia Chandler or the old woman who saw him leaving Brandi Bell’s house.” But Will was just saying that. Glenn was talking about Robin, no doubt in his mind.

  “You talked to them today, right?”

  “I talked to Robin and Julia,” Will said. “I sent patrols to talk to the other witnesses who Diaz couldn’t reach on the phone.” And he’d just spoken to Sherry this morning. She of course had heard about the prison break. She’d been scared.

  “Connor is going to flip.”

  “Lieutenant, would you mind if I asked our criminalists to work with yours?”

  “No problem. We contract with the Sheriff’s Department for most crime scene work. Our lab is bare bones.”

  “Thanks. I’ll have them send a team immediately.”

  Will would never forget when Sherry Jeffries told him and Julia the story about her cat while they prepared her for testimony.

  “No one believed me. Theodore was a perfect kid. A straight-A student. Never raised his voice. Kind and polite. But with me he was different. Jekyll and Hyde. And he broke my kitty’s neck, looking at me the whole time. Watching my face, my reaction, my pain.

  “I buried Muffin. I cried and buried him. Theodore dug him up that night and put the body in my bed. I woke up in the morning with my dead cat at my feet.”

  Sherry hadn’t been a good witness. She’d fallen apart on the stand and she had no firsthand information about the murders. With her history of juvenile delinquency and drug use, it didn’t matter that she’d been clean for more than a decade before the trial. When on the stand, the judge sustained every one of Glenn’s objections. Nothing Sherry said was on the record. Only during the penalty phase did her testimony help.

  Now she was dead.

  “How did he get her address?” Carina asked the same question Will had been thinking. “I thought she’d moved since the trial.”

  Will’s stomach dropped as the only plausible answer sunk in. “Call a patrol immediately and send them over to Carl and Dorothy Glenn’s house.”

  The elder Glenns were alive and hadn’t seen their son. Will believed them.

  But Will’s instincts told him that the only way Glenn could have found out where Sherry lived so quickly was through their parents. He called Jim Gage, head of their crime lab, who’d just arrived at the Jeffries homicide. While the Glenns hadn’t seen their son, he could easily have walked inside, even with the unmarked unit watching the front of the house.

  The Glenns were distraught over the death of their daughter, yet didn’t believe their son had killed her. Will didn’t push it, not wanting to add to their anguish. They’d never believed their son capable of the heinous crimes of which he’d been convicted.

  Carina came back from her inspection of the house and motioned for him to follow her out. “There’s a key under the mat at the back door. Want to bet the Glenns have always had a key under their back mat?” Carina had also found an address book on the top of the Glenns’ neat desk. She had bagged it. “Sherry’s current address and phone number are in here.”

  Will confirmed the information with the Glenns. They’d lived in the same house for forty-two years, since they married. For all those years, they had a key under the mat.

  “We’ve never been robbed,” Mrs. Glenn stated emphatically.

  Only robbed of your daughter.

  Will gave his condolences and received permission to take the key and address book. He went back to the Jeffries crime scene and handed the evidence off to Jim Gage, who was talking with the El Cajon technician.

  “You’ll find Theodore Glenn’s prints on these,” Will said.

  “He’d probably w
ear gloves,” Jim said.

  “He doesn’t care. He knows we know it’s him. He’s already on death row. It’s a game with him, don’t forget that for a minute. His parents are both borderline deaf. He could have walked into the house while they sat watching television at ten thousand decibels, found Sherry’s address, and left without them suspecting a thing.”

  “How’d he get down here so fast?” Jim asked.

  “The Feds are tracking stolen cars. Glenn stole a Dodge Ram truck on Point San Pedro Road, which is on the bay north of San Quentin, dumped it in Fresno and nabbed a Honda. It was nearly out of gas in Frazier Park at the top of the Grapevine and he grabbed another truck, this time a Ford Ranger, but it was hot because the owner saw him, so he dumped it near Disneyland. The Feds aren’t so sure after that. There were six cars stolen within a two-mile radius of where the Ford was found at nine a.m. this morning.”

  “So in the five hours after he dumps the truck in Anaheim, he arrives in San Diego, locates his sister, kills her, and is still at large.”

  “For the time being, that just about sums it up.”

  SEVEN

  “An anonymous tip has led to the capture of Robert Gregory Cortez, one of the twelve convicts who escaped from San Quentin during the San Quentin earthquake forty-eight hours ago,” the newscaster said.

  “Turn it up!” Will called, crossing to the stand where the break room television had been brought into the task force command center.

  A cop punched the remote and the San Francisco–based newscaster said louder, “…and authorities have not released the identification of the caller, though a source close to the investigation spoke on condition of anonymity that it was in fact another escapee who detained the convict. Drew?”

  “What?” Will leaned forward, temporarily forgetting his confrontation with Robin that afternoon, the murder of Sherry Jeffries, and the fact that Theodore Glenn was in his city.

  The shot turned to a reporter standing outside of San Quentin State Prison where smoke still rose from the recent fire on the far side of the compound.

  “Sources close to the investigation have stated that Robert Gregory Cortez was found tied to a lamppost in Vallejo, about seventeen miles northeast of San Quentin. An anonymous 911 call gave police the location of the suspect and when they arrived on the scene, they discovered Cortez beaten and naked.”

  “Drew, do the police speculate as to who the tipster was?”

  “No, Joan, the police are being tight-lipped not only about the tip and the capture of Cortez, but also his condition.”

  “Any similarities between Cortez and the apprehension of Porter and Douglas Parks?”

  “Yes, and the police refuse to comment. However, both Parks and Cortez were beaten and tied in a very public location, followed by an anonymous call to 911.”

  “Vigilante?”

  “The police refuse to speculate at this point, but now three of the twelve escaped convicts have been recaptured and are being processed in Alameda County, across the bay from San Quentin.”

  The camera turned back to the studio and Joan said, “Cortez was sentenced to die by lethal injection for the 1998 kidnapping and murder of six young boys in the quiet community of Laguna Niguel in southern California…”

  Will said, “That’s two of them captured by the same guy.”

  “Could be coincidence.” The cop shrugged.

  Will shook his head. “I don’t buy that.”

  Carina walked into the room talking on her cell phone. “Connor, chill. She has the best security system money can buy.” She sighed. “I gotta go.”

  “What’s his problem?” Will asked when she hung up. Connor was Carina’s brother and engaged to the deputy district attorney who had prosecuted Glenn, Julia Chandler.

  “He’s worried about Julia. She won’t let him move in, even temporarily, until they’re married, because her niece is living with her. He now wants to elope. Mama would have a fit.”

  “I’ve increased patrols in her neighborhood,” Will said. “And she’s getting a police escort to and from work every day. We have it covered, and Julia’s smart. She’s not going to do something irresponsible.”

  “You know how protective Connor can be.” She glanced at the television. “What happened?”

  “Another scumbag was caught. Tied to a lamppost.”

  “Same as the first guy?”

  “Seems like it,” Will said. “Makes you think they’re turning on each other, doesn’t it?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Carina said, flipping open her small notepad. “I finished researching the two Glenn jurors we couldn’t find this afternoon. One is now living in Arizona and one is overseas in Iraq.”

  “I think that guy is safe. At least from Glenn. What about family?”

  “He has none in town. His juror interview stated that he was a sophomore in college when he served and was also in the Reserves at the time. The desk sergeant is going to try to contact him and the Arizona juror, just as a heads-up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You never told me how your talk with Robin McKenna went. Did you tell her about Glenn’s sister?”

  Will kept his face impassive. “I was with her when I got the call.”

  Carina stared at him. “You’re not telling me something. Does this have something to do with that message left at the Jeffries house?”

  He didn’t answer. “I was just about to go talk to my old partner, Frank Sturgeon. Diaz couldn’t reach him yesterday, left a message.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s already after eight. Why don’t you go home?”

  “Now I know you’re hiding something from me.”

  “Fine, come with me, what do I care?” He turned to the cop manning the hotline. “Any sighting, call me on my cell.”

  Will drove his personal car, a black Porsche 911, over to Frank’s house, just a mile from Carina’s place. He’d bought the car five years ago at a government auction. It had been seized at a border drug raid and he’d had his eye on it the entire time it was in impound. Cost him a pretty penny, but far cheaper than on the retail market.

  “You didn’t have to come,” he said to Carina.

  “I know.” She paused. “You’ve been acting weird since Glenn escaped.”

  “You read my case files. The guy’s a sick sociopath. He had not one ounce of remorse, not one shred of guilt. He’s the most arrogant criminal I ever met. The guy was so arrogant he fired Iris Jones.”

  Carina turned to him. “Have you called her?”

  “His defense attorney? Why would he go—” Will stopped. “Shit. I didn’t think. She wasn’t on Diaz’s list because she never actually went to trial with him.”

  “I’m sure she knows, but—”

  Will pulled out his cell phone, called dispatch, and got Jones’s mobile number.

  “Iris Jones,” she answered in her crisp, formal style.

  “It’s Detective Will Hooper with SDPD.”

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “You heard about what happened at San Quentin.”

  “Of course.”

  “Theodore Glenn escaped and—”

  “Detective,” Jones snapped, “if you think that I would harbor a fugitive, you are sorely mistaken. I can assure you that I have no ties to that man, nor would I harbor him, nor would I represent—”

  “Iris,” Will interrupted. “I was just calling to tell you to watch your back. We have a task force here, but we’re contacting everyone involved in the case to make sure that they are taking precautions.”

  Pause. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry I jumped down your throat. He fired me. I had nothing to do with his conviction.”

  “He may blame you for something, we don’t know.”

  “I doubt—” She paused. “Detective, I don’t scare easily, but Theodore Glenn scares me. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Theodore Glenn couldn’t help but feel
superior. He’d been sitting right outside the police department for hours and they hadn’t spotted him. Either his disguise was more than adequate—he’d threaded his brown hair with gray and popped in over-the-counter contacts to change his blue eyes to brown—or the police were even dumber than he thought.

  More likely, the police didn’t expect him to hang out in the middle of their own territory. They’d assume he would hide out in a motel or run for the border after taking care of Sherry. Now he needed information, but he wasn’t confident his disguise would pass intense scrutiny—if Hooper saw him, for example.

  That made sitting here even more exciting.

  Theodore craved adrenaline. He’d shoplifted as a child not because he needed anything, and certainly not for the attention, but for the punch of adrenaline when he staked out a shop, monitored the staff, avoided cameras, grabbed anything from candy to money in a change drawer. The activity bored him after a time, because no matter how many risks he took, he’d never been caught. He was that good.

  Team sports held no allure for him. He’d tried, but he was better than everyone else and the idiot coaches would insist that everyone have a turn. Even the stupid fat-ass sissies who would run away from the ball instead of toward it. Theodore couldn’t fathom doing that for years before finally being old enough to make a team that would truly value talent.

  He went for individual sports. He ran. When he came in first in any given race, it was over. Once he’d proved he was the best, there was no other place to go. He didn’t need twelve first place trophies.

  He’d discovered skateboarding young, then dirt bikes, then motorbikes. His parents gave him whatever he asked for because they recognized that he was special. He could accomplish anything he set his mind to.

  When he fell—and he often did at first—a rage came over him. Even when he had no injuries, his failure physically hurt, a knife twisting in his skull, telling him he couldn’t. Only in conquering that failure could he seize on the power that gave him the high and reward he needed.