Authorities had recaptured one of the convicts, one had drowned in the San Francisco Bay, but more were still at large. Including Theodore Glenn.
Seven years ago her life exploded. No longer was she anonymous. Her name, photograph, and entire life history had been splashed across the local papers after the murders and during the trial. Two years later she’d bought a building in the gaslamp district-the business owners had worked to change the image by also changing the name from “gaslight” to “gaslamp,” which she didn’t completely understand but went along with it anyway. When she opened The Eighth Sin, the press had done a feature on her.
“FORMER STRIPPER OPENS SEXY NIGHTCLUB.”
It didn’t matter that her girls didn’t strip. It didn’t matter that she had just as many beautiful men on staff as women, or that she was trying something new and innovative, or that she’d gone into the black after two years. All the press cared about was the past. That Robin had been a stripper, that the notorious Theodore Alan Glenn had killed four exotic dancers-her friends, women she cared about-and was given the death penalty.
Glenn’s M.O. was that he had consensual sex with his victims, then later, months after the relationship was over, broke into their homes, tortured, and killed them. Anna had never slept with Glenn, but he killed her anyway.
Justice was too slow, too painful. But in the end, justice had been served, hadn’t it? Bethany and Brandi, Jessica and Anna avenged. Glenn would be dead sooner or later. In prison, he couldn’t hurt her. In prison, she could almost forget he existed.
At least until forty hours ago when she learned he’d escaped from prison during an earthquake.
“God,” Robin muttered, glancing up at the roof of her car. “What did I do to deserve this?”
She rubbed her face with her hands, taking a deep breath. Why would Glenn risk returning to San Diego? Everyone was looking for him here. Did he think Robin wouldn’t shoot him on sight?
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid now. For years, she had been living in fear. Sleeping with the lights on. Waking with nightmares nearly every damn night. Waking with the iron scent of Anna’s bloody death on her hands. She hadn’t had a full day of peace since that terrible night.
The past would come full circle. Already the media was talking about the murders of her four friends. It was only a matter of time before Robin’s name and photograph were again plastered all over the papers and television. Before the press tantalized the public with unproven rumors that the old club called RJ’s had been a haven for prostitutes.
Shaking her head, she looked across the parking lot and watched as Hank unlocked the doors from the inside. He saw her car, watched her through the glass. Did he recognize Robin? Of course he did. Once a cop always a cop, he’d told her.
A beat cop in L.A., Hank had been shot as a test of gang loyalty. He’d nearly died on the street. He now walked with a limp and was missing three fingers on his left hand, but he could still load a magazine faster than she could with all ten fingers.
He stared as she stepped out of her car. She tried to keep her pace light, her face calm, but the truth was she could hardly wait to hit the range and see if she’d lost her eye.
Hank opened the door for her. “It’s been awhile.”
She nodded, her smile genuine. For all the crap that had happened back then, she’d made a few good friends. A silver lining on a very dark cloud. “You’re looking good, Hank.”
He pulled her into a hug, slapped her on the back, then stood back and looked at her critically. “You sure you’re good?”
“I’m ready.”
“Think shooting a gun is like riding a bike?”
She smirked. “Sure do.”
“Twenty bucks says you miss a perfect score.”
“You’re on.”
Hank pulled several boxes of ammo out of the cabinet and went with her into the range, leaving his assistant to man the front. Robin ran through all the safety checks, forgetting nothing.
“When was the last time you cleaned your gun?” Hank asked.
“The first Saturday of the month. I’ve never forgotten.”
“Hmm.”
“You heard?” she asked.
“Who the hell didn’t?”
Robin set up the target, and pushed the button to send it back. Fired. Again. Rapidly.
She missed one.
“Shit,” she mumbled, handing Hank a twenty.
“You done good, girl. I didn’t think you’d still have it in you.”
“I scored perfect last time.”
“You’re still a great shot.”
“Because you taught me. I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing. I have some work to do. Why don’t you work on your technique?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my technique,” she teased.
He grinned, his brown eyes twinkling. “I know. I just like watching pretty women shoot guns. Stay as long as you like.”
When Will learned Diaz had left a message on Robin’s machine but hadn’t spoken with her personally, he couldn’t help but worry. Will should have gone to her immediately, face-to-face. She deserved to hear about the investigation and what they knew-no matter how minimal-from him, not from someone he assigned to the task.
He couldn’t find Robin at her new loft so he went to her club. It was closed, but when Will showed his identification, the assistant manager who was setting up for a retirement lunch told him that she was at the Solano Gun Mart. The girl scrunched up her nose in distaste, and Will wondered if she had a problem with Robin, a problem with guns, or both.
Will glanced around the modern dance club. Minimalist with lots of sleek metal and high-end acrylic, lots of black, white, and silver. The recessed lighting appeared colorful-which would add dimension to the place when it was on. The only splashes of color were large murals hanging here and there, scenes hinting at the vibrancy of nature-bolder greens and blues in a mountain stream; vivid reds and oranges of a sunset. Deceptively simple paintings that drew the eye and the imagination.
Robin had done well for herself. He’d followed her career from the periphery, both her business and her art. He couldn’t help himself, he wanted to make sure she was doing all right. And she was. She was living her dream: owning her own business, and next week she had her first major art show.
Last year he had bought one of her paintings. At first glance it looked like the ocean on a hot summer day. Simple but vibrant. The few people populating the beach were like an afterthought. But he saw the detail from a distance, and realized she’d painted them, holding hands, watching a dolphin leap in the distance.
He’d hung the painting in his living room. Every time he looked at the picture he saw something different, felt something more. And remembered his failings.
The Solano Gun Mart was only a few minutes from downtown. When Will stepped through the doors, the scent of gunpowder and cleaning solvent mixed with metal was pervasive. Turning to the right, he looked through the windows and saw Robin at the far end of the range, her back to him. An older man-trim, six foot, graying dark hair-was also watching her. She was running through a standard target-near, close, and far-and doing a damn fine job of hitting the bull’s-eye.
His chest tightened, but he didn’t want to examine his feelings too closely. To say Robin was a good-looking woman was an understatement. Tall, curvy, with legs that went up and up, she could dress in a burlap sack and still stop traffic. She’d pulled her long, thick, dark red hair into a wavy ponytail, her high cheekbones cut sharply across her face. Long, elegant nose; full, lush lips; a slender, delicate neck.
But Robin McKenna was not delicate. She had a core of steel and an attitude to match. Everything she did, she did with passion. She loved passionately and hated passionately.
Will knew. He’d been on the receiving end of both.
Seeing her now, he knew he wasn’t ready to talk. His mouth was dry and all he wanted to do was drop to his
