Killing Fear

“What about him?” Carina asked.

“Chief Causey called him after Glenn’s escape, then again after he made that big spectacle in front of the press. He’s retired, but still has a confidential address.”

“Glenn couldn’t get it.”

“He shouldn’t have been able to get Julia’s, either, but he did. And how did he find Frank Sturgeon? What about Trinity Lange?”

“Followed her,” Carina guessed.

“That’s the only thing that makes sense.” Will glanced at Hans. “Theodore Glenn is making all of us look like fools.”

“I think he has an accomplice,” Hans said. “Someone who is helping him. Someone nondescript or nonthreatening.”

Will had a patrol watching Ms. Plummer. Some of her answers had bothered him. “He must be using a woman like Jane Plummer or the elusive Sara Lorenz.”

“Exactly.”

Will called the crime scene techs and ordered the uniforms to stand guard until someone from Gage’s staff arrived to process the scene.

“We need to talk to Descario, make sure he’s covered,” Will said as he, Carina, and Hans left. “Want to ride with us?” he asked the Fed.

“Thanks.”

Hans got in the back and Will made a call to Mario.

“Medina Security.”

“Mario, it’s Will Hooper.”

“Whatcha need?”

“Is she okay?”

“Locked up tight. I’m right outside her door. No other way in or out, except the fire escape, and I checked it top and bottom. No way for it to be lowered except from her loft, and it’s secured. What happened?”

Will told him about the dead robin at Julia’s house. “Don’t tell Robin. I’ll come by later. We have a stop to make first.”

The hot shower burned the tension from Robin’s muscles. It distracted her from the gnawing fear that was eating her alive. She might as well have been a prisoner, bolted in her loft, a guard at her door. Her home had never felt so small. But finally, she stretched and relaxed and after days of jumping at the slightest sound, Robin almost felt normal.

She heated some leftover minestrone soup and sat down at the kitchen counter for a late supper. When her grandmother had been alive, the two of them would cook together. Robin missed that time with her grandma. It had been the only real stability in her life. Robin didn’t cook much anymore-why when she lived alone and had few friends? — but cooking brought her back to her roots, to her grandmother, the one person in the world who had unconditionally loved her.

Robin shook off her frustration and regret and ate more from habit than because she was hungry. She noticed the mail she’d picked up when Mario brought her home earlier. Absently she went through it, tossing the junk right into the trash can at the end of the counter. Junk, junk, junk, bill, junk, ju-

She stared at the envelope. It was blank. No return address, no stamp, no postal insignia whatsoever.

The handwriting made her hands shake. Sweat broke out on her forehead. It was Theodore Glenn, no doubt about it. She’d burned dozens of unopened letters he’d sent her from prison. But they’d all been sent to the Sin. She’d always taken some comfort that he didn’t know where she lived.

Not anymore.

How had Theodore Glenn gotten past security? How had he put a letter in her box with no one seeing him?

She pushed the soup away, bile rising up her throat. In the back of her mind, she knew she should call 911 right now, not even open the letter. But what if she was wrong? What if it wasn’t Theodore Glenn’s handwriting? What if she was overreacting out of lack of sleep and fear?

Holding the envelope only with her fingernails, she carefully slit it open with a sharp knife from the butcher block next to the stove. Hands shaking, she extracted a single sheet of paper. In small, perfect handwriting, it read:

Robin:

You are even more beautiful now than you were removing your clothes for me at RJ’s. But beauty doesn’t buy you a life.

I know you’re working with the police. I could threaten anyone, and you would still go to them. Your mother? Pathetic woman. But it appears she’s not home. Another vacation? I know you drained your savings account to get her house out of foreclosure because she spends all her money shopping on television. You’d have been better off without her.

Maybe you still would be.

Your father? You never met him, but I did some research. It’s amazing what kind of access I had in prison. But if I killed him, you wouldn’t care. You have no attachment to him, he’s only a name on your birth certificate.

And your friends, well, we all know what happens to people you care about, don’t we? Have you considered that your affection is toxic? That perhaps your tainted love kills? No matter, really, because I have been keeping tabs on you. I know you live alone with Anna’s cat. I know you have no friends. I know you still sleep with the lights on.

But we both know that you’re a coldhearted bitch. You lied to put me in prison, and for that I will never forgive you. For that I will make you pay.

I have always marveled at the word love. What does it mean? Truly, how can anyone care for anyone other than themselves? The pain, the betrayal, the suffering. For what? To live as a prisoner to another’s emotions?

I would free you, but somehow I think your death would cause William far more anguish than his death would cause you. You lied. William was just doing his job.

It’s a pity, because all you had to do was be nice to me and no one would be dead. How does it feel to know you’re culpable, Robin? How does it feel to know you could have stopped all of this if you’d simply fucked me?

TWENTY-TWO

Bryce Descario’s house was dark. The calls to both his cell phone and house phone had gone unanswered for the thirty minutes Will had been trying. A patrol sat out front, having arrived before Hooper.

“Did you knock on the door?” Will asked.

“Yes, sir, and walked the perimeter. No signs of forced entry. I don’t think he’s home.”

Will wasn’t so sure.

Perhaps Descario had left San Diego. Chief Causey had told him to inform the department if he was leaving town, but that didn’t mean squat. Someone as arrogant and bitter as the former D.A. wouldn’t feel he had to report into the lowly police department, especially since the police union supported his opponent over him in the election he lost. Chief Causey had been the head of that cause.

Will glanced at Carina. “I have a feeling.”

“Me, too. Bad.”

He nodded, pulled his gun. He rarely pulled his weapon, relying on his ability to talk his way out of virtually any situation. He’d gone through hostage negotiation training and was often called in to handle sensitive situations. But here, now, he sensed something was amiss.

Was Theodore Glenn watching? Was he waiting to see how Will would react to whatever was inside