“That’s wonderful,” Robin said. She wished she could be more excited over the news.
“You don’t sound very happy about it. What’s wrong?”
“My life is completely falling apart.” She dropped on Isabelle virtually everything that had happened this week, from Theodore Glenn escaping—which the gallery owner knew—to closing the Sin.
“Oh, sweetie, that must have been such a hard decision.”
“I didn’t have a choice. And I don’t have a choice in this, either. You’re going to have to postpone—”
“No, I know exactly what you’re going to say. I’m not postponing the showing.”
“I can’t risk it.”
“I’ll hire extra security. I have some cops that work for me off-duty. Good guys.”
“It’s not about the security. I’ve hired my own, and the police are watching my business and home, but Theodore Glenn doesn’t care about that. He may decide to take out something big. Like your gallery. Holding everyone hostage or something. I don’t know how he thinks. But I can’t risk it.”
“Look, Robin, I understand your concern. But I’m not postponing the show. If you can’t come, I’ll work around it. In fact, I might be able to spin it. Yeah, that’s it, we’ll do a video feed. You say a few words, let people ask you questions. I can make a big deal about it, so if that guy is hanging around, he’ll know you’re not here. Okay?”
“I don’t know—”
“Robin, it’ll work. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but I’ll make it work. I promise. I’ll sell dozens of your paintings and make us both tons of money.” She laughed. The prices weren’t so extravagant that Robin could even think of closing her club and painting full-time, even if she wanted to, but they were high enough to warrant looks by serious investors.
“Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
“I’ll let the police know. If they think we should cancel, I’m going to agree with them.”
“Just think about it, okay? Call me Saturday. I have to go. Be careful, sweetie.”
She hung up before Robin could say anything else.
She’d met Isabelle two years ago when the gallery owner came into the Sin and spotted Robin’s paintings. She demanded to know who had done the work, and for two years they’d worked together to increase Robin’s exposure in the art community. Isabelle had sold several of her paintings already, keeping the allure by only having one piece for sale a month. Then three months ago Isabelle announced that Robin was ready for her own gallery show. Robin went along with it.
Isabelle was also one of the only women Robin had grown close to since Glenn killed her friends, and even now Robin kept her at arm’s length. As much as she could with Isabelle’s natural exuberance and enthusiasm.
Did Glenn know about Isabelle? That she was someone important to Robin? How much did he know about the art show? Could he really be planning something for Sunday?
She rubbed her forehead and opened her payroll. She clocked everyone in at their normal time.
The knock on her office door startled her. “Come in,” she said.
It was Will. Alone, though she heard voices in the bar. “I didn’t expect to see you until later,” she said.
Will closed the door, sat on the edge of her desk, his hand reaching for her face. Caressing her in a casually intimate gesture that gave her butterflies.
“I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to tell you straight.”
The butterflies turned to lead. “Wh-what?” she asked.
“Two hours ago a phone call was made to Sara Lorenz.”
“Is she one of the women you’re following who might be helping Glenn?”
Will nodded. “We haven’t been able to locate her. The call came from here.”
“Here?” she repeated. “The Sin?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not possible. I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Mario said that you called your staff this afternoon.”
“I closed the Sin until further notice.” Her head was swimming. “You’re not saying—I don’t know Sara Lorenz!”
“She may have changed her name or appearance or both. I need you to look at her picture. It’s not a very good image; it’s from her driver’s license about six years ago.”
Robin looked. The woman in the photo was a mousy blonde with brown eyes. She gave the camera a half smile. She looked normal. Not like someone who would help a killer.
“I don’t recognize her.”
“What if she went blonder? Darker? She’s five foot three, one hundred ten pounds on her license. Picture her with makeup.”
The picture swam in front of her, beginning to look familiar. She remembered the last time she’d identified someone off a picture—in that case, off a rough police sketch. She’d seen Theodore Glenn. Not because the sketch looked specifically like him, but the shape was his. She’d just known.
The shape of Sara Lorenz’s face was familiar. Her cheekbones. Her eyes.
Dear God, someone she trusted had been spying on her for a killer. Watching her. Talking to her. Her blood ran cold. She’d never suspected her assistant manager was working with Theodore Glenn. How could anyone help him? How could a woman trust him?
Robin frowned, the paper rustling in her shaking hands. “I—what if I’m wrong?”
“Who do you think Sara is?”
“She might be my assistant manager, Gina Clover. Gina runs banquets and special events during the week. You met her earlier this week.” She handed Will the picture and rubbed her temples.
This was not happening.
“Can you grab her personnel file?”
Robin crossed her office to the filing cabinet as if she were out of her body and watching the scene unfold in front of her. Detached. This was unreal. That Glenn had been watching her even while in prison. That a woman, knowing he was a killer, would help him.
Hands still shaking, she handed Will Gina’s folder.
He flipped it open to her original application. “Rock and roll.”
“What?”
“Same post office box as Sara Lorenz.”
“She’s supposed to put down a home address,” Robin said, grabbing the file. There was a notation. Moving. “I remember now,” she said. “She said she was living with her parents until she found a place of her own and would give me her address when she moved. But I never thought to follow up.”
Will pushed her chin up, forced her to look at him. His eyes gave her strength and confidence. “We’re going to get through this. We will find her, and she will lead us to Glenn. Don’t blame yourself. Carina and I both met her earlier this week and neither of us realized Gina Clover and Sara Lorenz were the same person.”
“How could she do this? To me? Why? I’ve never done anything to her. She was a good employee. I didn’t think he’d have someone spying on me! What about my neighbors? Are they spying on me, too? How many people are helping him, Will? When is this going to stop?”
Will wrapped his arms tightly around her while she shook with unshed tears. Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself together. She was tired of acting like a victim, tired of feeling like her life was spinning out of control and all she was doing was waiting for Glenn to come and kill her.
“What’s the next step?” she asked.
“You’re going home with Mario. Agent Vigo and I are going to continue trying to locate Sara Lorenz. Carina is overseeing the stakeout at the post office Lorenz uses.”
“I can’t sit around and do nothing.”
“I know this is hard, but—”
“You don’t know!” She forced herself to calm down. She shouldn’t take her frustration out on Will.
He ran a hand through her hair, held her at the neck, tilting her head to look at him. “I do know. I’ll come by later tonight, okay?”
He kissed her, then led her from the office. “Gina Clover,” he told the federal agent and Mario who were talking
in the bar. “Mario, please take Robin home until further notice.”
“Find them,” Robin told Will. “And please, be careful.”
Sara had stolen from him.
Theodore stared at the evidence right in front of him. Sara was smart, shrewd in fact, but even she couldn’t hide her tracks.
He’d suspected something funny when she got jumpy about the corporate funds. But since he had the quarter million sitting right there in his offshore account, and another seven or so million in his personal account, he wasn’t concerned. But when he checked his own funds, he realized she’d moved money from his account with the power of attorney he’d given her. Over the last year she’d moved nearly five million dollars to a variety of accounts both in and out of America.
And she hadn’t told him.
That meant she planned to leave. Leave with his money, but without him.
Or was this another one of her “good ideas,” like faking an identity and working for Robin McKenna? Something “smart” that she’d insist would be “just fine.” The bitch was crazy to play games with a master.
He noted all the accounts, but left them alone. If the Feds had figured any of this out, he didn’t want to alert them. He’d only have one chance to transfer the funds, and he had to make sure he had a clean account for the money to go into, an account he controlled and not Sara Lorenz.
Not that it would matter when she was dead.
He’d get the plans out of that bitch before he killed her. Take that to the bank.
TWENTY-NINE
“I can’t believe we’ve hit another dead end!”
Will slammed his fist on his desk. They were so close—they had Sara’s cell phone, two of her fake identities, the names of the two major corporations Theodore Glenn was using to funnel money, the P.O. boxes, and now nothing.
His phone rang and he snatched it up. “Hooper,” he snapped.
“Detective Hooper?” The voice was suspicious.
“Yes?”
“This is Brian Varadian with San Diego Bank and Trust. You spoke with my manager this morning about a corporate account.”
Will grabbed his notes. “Right, North Bay Law Offices.”
“I cannot give you any information without a warrant, you understand.”
“I have a warrant.” Or he would and made a note to call the D.A., Andrew Stanton.
“Then perhaps we can meet at the bank tomorrow morning?”
“How about now?” He glanced at the clock. Eight at night.
“The bank is closed, and the doors are on a time lock. No one can enter before eight a.m.”
“Eight tomorrow morning. I want everything—every transfer, deposit, withdrawal, safe-deposit boxes, whatever you have.”
“As long as it is specified in the warrant, I’ll give you what you need.”
Will hung up and called Stanton. The D.A. said he’d have the warrant ready.
“Okay, maybe we do have a break,” Will said. “Twelve hours, and perhaps we can figure out exactly where Glenn is hiding.”
“How do you figure that?” Carina asked.
“If the account is paying any bills, maybe a mortgage or property taxes, there’ll be some correlation between the payment and an address or account number,” Will said. “We’re close,” he said. “I feel it.”
Theodore wrote all account numbers in a small notepad, then destroyed the computer.
He could have been comfortable here in San Diego if he wasn’t a wanted man. A spread in France or Switzerland, or perhaps Argentina, would have to do for a time. He had several identities to choose from, but he could no longer trust Sara. As soon as he was settled, he’d create his own identity.
He hadn’t thought that running would hold excitement for him, but he felt that familiar surge of anticipation at the thought of eluding the police. It would eat at William Hooper.
That is if Theodore decided the cop would be more tortured living than dying.
Sara walked into the den and stared at the computer which lay in pieces all over the room. “What did you do?”
“What did you do, Sara?”
He stepped toward her.
She stepped backward. Good, she was scared. She should be.
“I don’t know what you mean, Teddy.”
“My name is Theodore.”
“I—you liked—”
“I humored you when I thought you were helping. Now I find out that you’ve been stealing from me.”
“No! That’s not true. I would never—I love you, Teddy!”
In two long strides he had her by the arms. He shook her, her head flopped back and forth. “You funneled money from my personal account into the law office account, then moved it all over the world. Millions of dollars.”
“So that wherever we go we’ll have money!” she pleaded.
“Or so you could run away without me.”
“No! No, no, that’s not it at all. Listen to me, please.”
“I’m listening.”
She nodded, brown eyes wide and full of fear and hope. “I knew as soon as you escaped that the cops would freeze your account. If all the money was gone, there’d be nothing to freeze, right? And by the time they figured it out, we’d have already transferred the money to other accounts. See? See how smart it was?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth! I swear, I was thinking about you.”
“You were thinking about yourself. That was my money and I told you exactly what to do. You aren’t smart enough to come up with your own ideas. You’re mine, and now I don’t want you.”
He grabbed her hair and held it tight, pulling her up the stairs. She stumbled, screamed, but he didn’t stop. He dragged her by her hair the last ten feet to the master bedroom, kicked her in the kidneys, and slammed the door shut.
“Teddy, please, I only—”
“Shut up!” He kicked her again. “I taught you how to hide money. I gave you access to my accounts. I trusted you, Sara, and you betrayed me.”
“I didn’t—”
He opened the nightstand where he had earlier put a knife—a sharp butcher knife from the kitchen. Without hesitation, he sliced her thigh. It was only a hair deep, but the cut stung. Sara screamed, tried to get up, but Theodore knocked her back down.
He grabbed her and tossed her on the bed. He sat on her, his left hand over her mouth, the knife in his right. She lay paralyzed with fear and he stared into her eyes. She looked back. When she saw her fate in his face, she started fighting.
He slammed the knife into her chest, over and over, a rage he’d never felt quite like this overtaking him. The surge of emotion, of adrenaline, seemed to stop time as he cut her chest open. She stopped fighting almost immediately, but he still sliced her, unable to stop.
Suddenly, he pushed himself off her, the knife still in his hands. The woman who had been Sara Lorenz was almost unrecognizable. He stabbed the knife into the blood-soaked mattress and walked to the bathroom where he showered in hot water.
He felt a million times better when he stepped out. He dressed, passing Sara’s dead body without a glance.
Time to leave the country.
But he’d be back.
“Sooner,” he said out loud, “than you think.”
THIRTY
Jim Gage spent all night reading and rereading the reports of all four crime scenes.
What had gone so wrong seven years ago? The politics of the time were such that lab priorities were directed from on high. And while the district attorney’s office didn’t oversee the crime lab, their priorities were the lab’s priorities. When a case was going to trial, everything else was pushed back so that the lab could focus on the immediate.
Overworked staff, limited resources, politicians directing priorities, everything conspired against him running a perfect lab. But it was still damn good and Jim couldn’t fathom that anyone on his team—people he worked with, socialized with, respected—cou
ld kill. Mistakes happened, more often than he wanted to admit, but killing to fix them?
He didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence, the facts, showed that someone other than Theodore Glenn had killed Anna Clark.
But if Robin McKenna was the intended victim, then it was personal and not because some ill, misguided cop or criminalist was trying to right wrongs.
They’d talked around the issue earlier when he, Will, and Agent Vigo first discussed the possibility, but they had a more immediate concern than finding Anna Clark’s killer. Theodore Glenn was still a threat and the major focus of their resources.
But now, at night, with nothing else on his mind, Jim couldn’t help but think about the Anna Clark case and what happened. If Robin was the intended victim, then why?
He made a list of all law enforcement they’d identified, even those who had left the jurisdiction. It only made sense that someone with access to evidence had planted the hair in Anna’s hand. That gave them six suspects. It was a reasonable conjecture, but right there Jim saw holes in the theory. A good defense lawyer would point out that someone else had been convicted, that the M.O. matched perfectly—except for the initials which no one had noticed for seven years. Maybe they’d intentionally connected the slash marks to make it appear they were in the form of initials? Why hadn’t it been brought out at trial?
Jim could play devil’s advocate with the best of them. And the truth was, there was no physical evidence that anyone other than Theodore Glenn had killed Anna. Even if they narrowed the list, without a confession they couldn’t put the killer behind bars.
Something tickled the back of Jim’s mind. It was that page from Anna’s apartment to Will.
Will was supposed to go up to the apartment.
Was he supposed to be the intended victim? Who would want to kill both Robin and Will?
It brought him right back to Theodore Glenn, who had obsessed over the two of them. What if he—but the time line put him in the bar at the time Anna was killed. He couldn’t have made the call.
Jim wasn’t a profiler. He looked at the evidence, and the evidence just wasn’t there. But the beginning of an idea began to take shape. He called Will, his voice mail picked up.
Killing Fear Page 26
