Will and Carina split the list of six women with two other detectives. They started with Jane Plummer, the twenty-nine-year-old bank teller who had received probation for two drug offenses nearly ten years ago. She worked within walking distance from her downtown apartment. “Maybe that’s how Glenn plans on getting his money,” Carina commented.
“I think he already has it,” Will said. “But having someone inside a bank would be a benefit to him, perhaps to cover up a money trail? I hope the Feds can track it down, they have far more resources on that end than we do.”
“If Patrick were around, he’d be able to find the link,” Carina said sadly.
Will nodded, squeezed her arm. After eight months, Will thought Patrick’s coma would have been easier for the Kincaid family to deal with. Instead, it put them in a sort of emotional limbo. But Carina was right; Patrick would have been all over Glenn’s financials. Though the SDPD had other good e-crimes cops, Patrick had been the best.
Jane was just leaving for her lunch break when Will and Carina walked into the bank. “Ms. Plummer,” he said, showing his badge. “We’d like a minute of your time.”
She frowned. Jane was a large girl with stringy brown hair pulled back into a limp ponytail. Her skin was smooth and blemish free, but her three chins detracted from her pretty face. A simple gold cross necklace was her only jewelry. “Why?”
“We just have a couple questions.”
They had already attracted attention from the other bank tellers, and the manager was stepping out from his office. Will smiled at Jane, put a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t we go for coffee? There’s a Starbucks on the corner.”
She nodded, flustered. “Sure.” She went with them.
Will sprang for three coffees and they found a table outside, out of earshot from the other customers. “Jane, we have the letters you wrote to Theodore Glenn at San Quentin State Prison.”
She frowned. “Is that a crime? Are you going to arrest me?”
“No, it’s not a crime to write to convicted murderers. Did you know that he escaped from prison?”
“I watch the news.”
“Has he tried to contact you since Saturday night?”
She shook her head, looking confused. “We haven’t been pen pals in a long time.”
“A few. I wrote to Scott Peterson. And Cary Stayner. And Erik Menendez, in Coalinga. They all wrote back. I write letters every month. Some people never talk to them after they go to prison. I feel sorry for them.”
Will sent a warning glance at Carina, who looked like she wanted to shake sense into the girl. He put on his best game face and asked, “And when was the last time you heard from Theodore?”
“A year ago. He wrote me a lovely letter. He has beautiful penmanship, you know. He said he was preparing for his appeal and that he didn’t have time to write anymore, but asked me to keep him in my thoughts and prayers.”
“And he hasn’t tried to contact you?”
“I’m not lying, Detective.”
“I didn’t say that you were, Jane. Did Theodore Glenn ask you to do anything illegal? Perhaps in the bank?”
“Absolutely not! Why are you talking to me? Is it because I was arrested for drugs years and years ago? I’m clean, you know. I haven’t touched drugs since I found the Lord.”
“Did Glenn discuss his crimes with you? Did he-”
“I know what you think he did,” Jane interrupted. “And maybe he is guilty. But he deserves forgiveness just as much as anyone else. It’s not our place to decide who lives and who dies. Judgment is reserved for God alone.”
Will’s jaw tightened. “Jane, your pen pal has already killed three people since he escaped. A prison guard, his own sister, and a retired police detective. Glenn has no conscience, and he will continue to kill until he is stopped.”
Jane sighed. “That’s the problem with you people. All you see is the bad in others. Don’t you think it’s possible for someone to try to make amends for their sins?”
“Absolutely,” Will said. “Starting with giving their life for those they stole.”
“I haven’t seen or talked to Theodore,” Jane snapped. “Can I go now?”
“If you see him-if he contacts you in any way-call me.” Will handed her his card as he stood.
As he and Carina walked to their car, she said, “You told me to go easy on her, then you jumped down her throat. Since when do you lose your temper with a potential witness? I thought I always got to play bad cop.” She was trying to make light of Will’s reaction, but he was still angry.
“I just couldn’t take it, Carina. I’m all for forgiveness, but killers like Theodore Glenn don’t deserve to keep their life. It’s the only thing he values and dammit, I hope to be there when they fry him.”
“They stopped using the electric chair years ago,” Carina reminded him. “Cruel and unusual punishment.”
They drove ten minutes to a quiet community outside of downtown. The next name on the list was Sara Lorenz. Her well-maintained house was in a middle-class neighborhood.
Carina looked at her notes. “Sara Lorenz, thirty, bought the house five years ago. Nothing on her. No record, not even a parking ticket. She has a late-model Honda Civic registered to her name at this address.”
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Will said as they walked up the brick pathway.
They knocked, heard a small dog barking, but no one came to the door. Walking around the house they peered into the single-car garage; no vehicle.
“Where does she work?”
“The Feds didn’t have that information. It just says ‘pending.’” Will called Agent Hans Vigo on his cell phone. Voice mail picked up. “It’s Will Hooper. We’re at Sara Lorenz’s last known address. No one’s here, and there’s no place of employment. Can you look into that for us?” When he hung up, he asked Carina, “Who’s next on the list?”
“Dora Halverson. Lemon Grove. Time for a drive.”
Dora Halverson was a fifty-nine-year-old grandmother of seven whose primary hobby was collecting signatures from famous people-actors, politicians, killers.
“That was a waste of time,” Will mumbled as they drove back to San Diego. “Swing back by Sara Lorenz’s house. Maybe she’s home.”
Traffic was miserable, and it was after six when they pulled up in front of the Lorenz house. A ten-year-old Toyota was parked in the driveway. “All right,” said Carina. “Let’s put this wild-goose chase to rest and get back to real police work.”
“You’re in a foul mood,” Will said. “Besides, Lorenz drives a Civic.”
“I’ve been a cop for twelve years, a homicide detective for the last two, and never before have I confronted so many women with such a sick fascination with homicidal maniacs.”
“Grandma Halverson sure seemed pleased with her collection,” Will said, ribbing Carina. “Manson, Bundy, Schwarzenegger-”
“You’re not helping.”
They walked up the pathway and Will knocked on the door, then stepped back. The dog barked. It was a little dog, one that his former partner Frank used to call a dust mop.
The woman who opened the door was forty, trim, and wearing a business suit, minus shoes. She bent down to pick up the little yapper-a black-and-white long-haired something.
“Can I help you?”
Will identified himself and Carina. “Are you Sara Lorenz?”
She shook her head. “Stephanie Barr. Sara owns the house.”
“Is she here?”
“No.”
“You’re a friend?”
