CHAPTER TEN
“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly.
—Mary Howitt
San Antonio, Texas
Tuesday, November 28, 1:00 p.m.
Mazur and Dr. Hayden arrived at Lucky’s off exit 140 on I-35. He parked at the far end of the lot and took a moment to study the scene. The station had four pumps and a small convenience store. Midday, there were cars at each of the pumps, and he suspected they did a steady stream of business.
“This is very typical of the other gas stations targeted by the Samaritan,” Kate said.
Mazur nodded toward a small lot across a narrow side street. “Easy to park over there.”
Once out of his car, they walked to the vacant lot. Kate studied the vantage point of the convenience store. “Anyone parked here late at night would have a clear view of the pumps,” she said.
The gravel in the lot was fine and prone to tire impressions. Because the spot was well used, it had multiple tire tracks.
Kate knelt down. “The killer didn’t find this place by happenstance. Send a uniform to the area businesses and see who has cameras. Pull the footage from the last two weeks. See if there was anyone who returned to the spot more than once. My guess is he scoped this place out first and got comfortable with the location as he studied potential complications and victims.”
“Will do.”
Mazur and Kate returned to the Lucky’s lot and pushed through the front door of the convenience store. Bells jingled above his head as he paused and allowed her to pass him. The place was small. A silver Christmas holiday garland draped the wall of cigarettes behind the cash register at the front of the store. Beer and soda coolers were along the wall near a unisex bathroom.
A young, thin Hispanic man turned from the register toward the door. His name badge read Tomas.
Mazur removed his badge from his pocket and identified himself. “I’m trying to retrace the steps of a woman who passed through here on Sunday night. Do you know who was working that night?”
“It was me,” Tomas said. “I own the place. Is this about the woman shot nearby?”
“It is.”
“I’ve seen her before. She stopped here whenever she drove to Laredo. She was always nice.”
“How often did Mrs. Sanchez come into your store?” Kate asked.
“About once a week. Travelers like this place because we offer easy access on and off the interstate.”
“Do you have security footage of her last visit?” Mazur asked.
“Sure. I keep the recordings for a month. Not everyone keeps ’em that long, but I’m a magnet for trouble this close to the interstate. You’re not the first cops who’ve come looking.” He rubbed his nose. “What time are you looking for?”
“About twelve thirty at night on the twenty-sixth,” Mazur said.
Tomas turned to his right and squatted to inspect a computer attached to a small television screen located under the counter. Mazur leaned over and saw that the screen showed four black-and-white angles: two focused on the gas pumps, another on the register, and the last on the lot behind the store. Tomas typed in the time, and the screens blinked back to early Sunday morning.
For several minutes the camera caught no activity, and then at 12:32 a.m. Gloria Sanchez’s four door pulled up to the outside pump. Out of her car, she ran a credit card through the gas pump, lifted the handle, and stuck the nozzle in the tank. Grabbing her purse, she hurried inside.
“I was dozing that night. It had been a long day because the kid opening for me didn’t show,” Tomas said. “You can see I was startled when she comes inside.”
Mazur watched the view of the gas pumps and her car. Seconds pass, and then a man wearing a black hoodie walked up to her car and jabbed something into the rear tire. The man glanced toward the store and slowly walked off screen, careful to keep his face hidden from view.
The next camera caught Gloria moving toward the bathroom, and minutes later, appearing with her makeup refreshed and her hair brushed. She stopped at a rack of candy and chose a packet of chocolate before heading to the coffee station and then the front counter. After speaking with Tomas for a moment, she shoved several bills in the tip jar and left the store. Outside, she replaced the gas nozzle and sat in her car eating chocolate before she drove off down the access road and onto I-35 south.
Mazur kept watching, and fifteen seconds after Gloria drove off, headlights appeared from the parking lot where he and Kate had just stood. A blue van with Texas license plates pulled out. He leaned in but could only make out part of the plate. IVR . . . He knew enhancement of the image by his computer guys was possible. He might get a full license plate.
“Can I get a copy?” Mazur asked.
“That was the killer?” Tomas asked.
Kate ignored the question, her expression again giving no hint of what she was thinking. “I’m going to need copies of all you have.”
Detective Mazur called headquarters as they were pulling out of the gas station and followed up on an early query about blue vans reported stolen. He supplied the partial plate. Five minutes later he received a callback. “We have a hit. The van was found in the parking lot of a strip mall.”
“Excellent.” Kate looked impressed.
He plugged in the location of the mall in the GPS. “Bear with me.”
“Take a left up ahead. I know the mall. I went there as a teenager.”
“Lead the way.” He followed her instructions, even trying a shortcut she suggested that saved them from hitting interstate traffic. Fifteen minutes later they pulled into a lot where a uniformed officer was parked by a blue van.
Mazur retrieved latex gloves from the trunk, where he kept an assortment of supplies that included MREs, basic forensic testing kits, winter boots that he wondered if he’d ever use again, and extra ammunition.
Kate pulled on the gloves that all but swallowed up her hands as he made introductions to the officer who walked them over to the 2010 light-blue Dodge van. “Your timing is perfect,” the officer said. “It was on the list given out at the briefing this morning and reported as stolen. Owners were out of town. Husband is a long-haul trucker, and he took the family with him on the last run. When they arrived home early this morning, they realized the van was gone. Car’s registered to Bob and Lynda Thompson of Bexar County.”
“Do you have their home address?” Kate asked.
The officer rattled it off, and Mazur scribbled it down on a small notebook he carried. “I actually know that area.”
Mazur looked in the driver’s side window and saw the keys lying on the front seat. He tried the door handle. It was locked. “Locked the keys in the car.”
“This is consistent with the Samaritan,” Kate said. “Again, he sees himself as a good guy and doesn’t want to destroy property if he can avoid it.”
Mazur shook his head as he reached for his phone. He called Calhoun, and after a quick exchange they agreed she or one of her technicians would come straight away. “Did any of the people who reported stolen cars used in the Samaritan killings have any kind of trouble with the law?”
“No. I investigated them all. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk to the Thompsons.”
“Long-haul trucker would know his way around the interstates.”
“Yes, he would.”
Mazur and Kate drove to the home of Bob and Lynda Thompson. The house was a one-story brick home that looked no bigger than fifteen hundred square feet. There were toys in the front yard and a dog sitting on the front steps.
They walked to the front door. Kate stood to the right of the door while Mazur rang the bell. He moved to the left side. Both had heard of too many cops who had been killed making routine calls.
The front door opened to a plump redhead with a toddler on her hip. “You must be cops. You here about my van?”
“We are,” Mazur said, holding up his badge. “We found it. Are you Mrs. Thompson?”
“Yeah, that’s me.” She grinned and stepped out onto the porch. “Thank God. If I have to bum one more ride with my mother today I might go nuts. When can I get it back?”
“We have a forensic team going over it now,” Mazur said.
“That’s kind of intense for a stolen van, isn’t it?”
“We think the car was used in a murder,” Kate said.
“Murder?” Lynda shook her head, her eyes wide. For a moment she stared at them, like she expected a punch line. When one didn’t come, she asked, “Who would use a minivan for that?”
“Someone who didn’t want to look dangerous,” Kate said. “Is your husband home?”
“No, he’s traveling. He dropped us off this morning and then had to leave again when the boss called and had a last-minute load for him to deliver. Won’t be back until Friday.” The toddler grabbed her hair and pulled hard, making the woman frown and push his hand away.
“Where is he now?”
“Five hours from here. I never know where he is half the time. He works a lot. We’re saving for a bigger house with another baby on the way.” She set the toddler down. “Why’re you asking all these questions about us?”
“We’re just trying to determine who shot the victim,” Kate said.
“Well, if you need to blame anybody for that van being stolen, it’s me. I was distracted right before we took off, and I left the keys in the unlocked car. Bob wasn’t thrilled, but he knows I get spacey when I’m pregnant.” She patted her gently rounded tummy. “We headed out of town and didn’t realize it was gone until this morning.”
“Do you have security cameras around here?” Mazur asked.
“We don’t, but the guy across the street does. But you can save your breath. Bob already asked him for the tape, but the guy said his machine wasn’t working.”
Mazur looked over his shoulder at the brown stucco home with weeds and overgrown bushes in a front yard covered in scrub and red dirt.
The toddler tried to get around Mazur, but he laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder without a second thought. The boy looked up at Mazur, smiling.
“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. We’re just trying to cover all the angles.” The edges of his lips lifted as he stared at the boy.
“When can I get my van back?” Lynda asked again.
“It’ll be a few days,” Mazur said.
“A few days?”
“Our forensic team may come by here and roll your prints.” Taking her prints was routine procedure, and given her open and relaxed demeanor, she wasn’t involved.
“Why?”
“To eliminate all the people who were normally in the van. Same goes for your husband.”
“All right,” Lynda said.
Mazur and Kate crossed the street, and he knocked on the neighbor’s door. As they waited, he stared up at the camera. No one came to the door, so he tucked a business card in the crease where the door pressed against the jamb.
After they settled back in his car, he stared at the small house for a long moment as Lynda walked her son inside.
His breath stilled.
“You okay?” Kate asked.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, sure.”
She stared ahead at the house. “He reminds you of your son?”
“They all do.” He pulled on sunglasses and started the car.
He sat in front of the televisions searching the channels for any sign of Kate and her news conference, but so far, there was no sign of one. Surely she’d received his text by now?
He rose and paced the room. What was she waiting for? What . . .
The letter. She was waiting for the letter. This was a test to see if he knew about the Samaritan. He checked his watch. The letter would arrive within the hour, and then he’d get his press conference.
He keyed up a recording of her news conference in Oklahoma City. The briefing had begun with the local chief of police, who had turned the podium over to Kate. She stepped up, so assured and confident.
He leaned forward, and freezing the image on her face, traced the line of her jaw and her lips. At the time of this conference, there’d been three confirmed kills, and she’d been playing a game of give and take with the Samaritan for months.
Her goal then had been to piss off the killer. She wanted the shooter to question his manhood. React like a fool. And that’s exactly what Richardson had done. He knew better than anybody how easy it was to pull Richardson’s strings and make him dance.
If Kate thought she could goad him into acting rashly and making a rookie mistake, she was wrong. She was playing on his terms, and nothing she could say would change his plans.
“Okay, Kate, I’ll wait for you to get my letter. Then you’ll see you’re dealing with the real deal.”