Killing Fear

Inside was a single picture. Of Frank in the car he drove seven years ago, a large American sedan. Asleep at the wheel, his mouth open, his head back. Will could almost hear him snoring.

From the angle of the shot, Will could see a flask on the passenger seat.

He turned the picture over. In block letters:

APRIL 2 1:05 AM ASLEEP ON DUTY

Jessica Suarez had been murdered on April 2. Frank had sworn he’d watched the house all night. Will hadn’t believed him. When he confronted Frank, his partner had jumped all over him. Brought up his affair with Robin. That he, Frank Sturgeon, was a cop with over twenty-four years on the force, and who was Will Hooper? Ten years and change? Walking in his daddy’s footsteps?

Frank had always known how to rub Will the wrong way. And Will had no proof Frank had fallen asleep on the job.

Until now.

“I’m running with the story, Will,” Trinity said softly.

“What story? That a killer paid you a visit?”

She shook her head, looked at the photo.

“Don’t,” he said. “This is evidence.”

“I don’t care. I already scanned a copy and sent it to my boss. Glenn contacted me for a reason, Will. And you know what? I believe him.”

“He killed four women!”

“He killed three women. The jury’s still out on whether he killed Anna Clark.”

“Don’t-” He caught himself. Shit, he was only going to make it worse if he made ultimatums. He was going to have to trust Trinity that she would be smart. And he’d do what he could. Increase patrols in her neighborhood. He could probably even justify to Chief Causey that she needed a tail.

“You’re going to destroy Frank Sturgeon.”

“That should be the least of your concerns,” Trinity said. “Did you cover for him back then?”

“I didn’t know-” Again he caught himself. He was not going to be trapped into an interview with a reporter. He wanted to rail against her, threaten her, but instead he said, “Be careful, okay?”

“I promise.”

“You have no problem with the crime techs coming in and collecting evidence?”

She shook her head. “Anything they need. And-”

She stopped.

“What?”

She glanced at Carina. The look wasn’t lost on either Carina or Will.

“I’ll call you later if I remember anything else,” she said pointedly.

Jim Gage stepped into the kitchen. “Carina, Will. Are we set?”

“He appeared to have spent the most time in the bedroom,” Will told Gage. “He left this for Trinity. She’s touched it.”

Trinity said, “You can print me, no problem. I pulled off the duct tape and left it upstairs. I changed, but didn’t touch anything except my dresser, and haven’t been back in there.”

“I’m not holding out hope that he dropped a motel receipt, but you never know,” Will said, still disturbed by the photograph and trying to figure out what Glenn’s game was this time.

Carina spoke up. “How did he know where Trinity lives?”

No one spoke. Then Will said, “Trinity is a public figure. She works at a television studio, he could easily look up the address, follow her home, come back whenever he wanted.”

“Which means he could be following anyone and they might not know.”

Jim turned around and motioned for his team to come in as he asked Will, “Do we know how he entered?”

Carina answered. “The responding officer said the door was jimmied.”

“You don’t have security?” Will asked Trinity.

“I didn’t think I needed it.”

“Maybe you should rethink that,” Will admonished.

Diana Cresson and Stu Hansen stepped into the modest kitchen, crowded now with six adults standing around the four-seat table.

“You brought the A-team with you,” Will said with a nod to the two crime techs Jim had with him. Diana was the assistant lab director under Gage, and Stu was a trace evidence specialist who’d done his training in New York City. Both had been in the lab for more than ten years. Will often wondered why Stu hadn’t moved on-he was more than capable of running his own lab, as Gage once told him. But Stu simply said he never wanted to be in charge. Diana, however, was definitely on a career-focused path. Will wouldn’t be surprised if she soon announced she was leaving for a lead position in another jurisdiction-Jim Gage wasn’t yet forty and didn’t look like he’d be retiring anytime soon.

“I have clearance for any overtime necessary,” Gage said, “which isn’t surprising. This won’t take long, Ms. Lange.”

Trinity rolled her eyes. “God, Jim, we’ve known each other for a gazillion years and you call me Ms. Lange?”

He shrugged. “You’ve never been a victim before.”

“And I’m not a victim now,” she insisted. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me, and I’m going to be careful.”

Everyone turned to stare at her.

“I promise,” she said, forcing the confidence into her voice. “I’m going to be very careful.”

ELEVEN

Theodore Glenn started visiting RJ’s a year before he killed Bethany.

He’d hit a low point in his life. The thrill of killing Dirk Lofton wore off after the investigators ruled that it was an accident caused by a poorly packed chute. No one even considered that someone might have messed with Lofton’s equipment. Why would they? There had been no threats on his life, there was no money at stake, and Lofton had always been arrogant about his jumps. He would have laughed at anyone who wanted to double-check his equipment.

Theodore went home after that week, the elation waning, completely gone by the time his plane hit the tarmac-his plane, because he’d obtained his pilot’s license a few years back. He still enjoyed flying, but not as much as he used to. There was no challenge in it, unless he was battling the elements, and no one cleared him for takeoff if a storm was expected.

One of the managers at the megacorporation where he served as the staff attorney had a bachelor’s party at RJ’s, a strip club in the gaslight district. Back then, it was still an area where hookers walked the streets and drugs could easily be bought, usually in the open. The police presence was nominal, or focused on encroaching gang activity, not streetwalkers and low-level drug dealers.

That first night, he’d watched the strippers with both fascination and disdain. What decent woman would remove her clothes, gyrate in front of horny men, all for a few bucks in tips?

But Theodore appreciated their beautiful, firm bodies and slick moves. He wondered what the women thought while onstage sending come-hither looks at the patrons. Did they get a thrill in turning men on and not giving them relief? Perhaps they were all a bunch of lesbians who got off bringing men to the brink and leaving them hot and bothered.

Theodore soon learned that some of the strippers were easier than others. Like Bethany. She latched onto bachelor boy Paul for the night, accepting his money in her teeth, with her toes, between her legs. Paul didn’t drink enough to cheat on his fiancee, and suggested Bethany move on to Theodore. They both tipped her very well.

That night Theodore went home with Bethany. He almost killed her then. He pictured himself wrapping his