CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I have chosen the queen, the rook, and of course the bishop. When this match is finished the king will have nothing left.
San Antonio, Texas
Wednesday, November 29, 8:00 p.m.
Mazur and Kate arrived at the coffee shop where Rebecca Kendrick had worked for the last sixteen months. A uniformed officer Mazur recognized from the Sanchez crime scene approached them as they got out of Mazur’s vehicle.
“I’ve interviewed the owner and am going to canvas the area businesses for surveillance tapes,” the uniform said.
“Good,” Mazur said. “I’d like to talk to the owner.”
The uniform shrugged. “Emma Gibson. She doesn’t know much.”
“Right.”
A tall, thin woman with gray hair twisted into a bun greeted them at the front door. She wore a peasant skirt and a white top. Bracelets jangled from her wrists. She was talking to another uniformed officer, who seemed relieved to see Mazur.
“Emma Gibson,” he said as he showed her his badge.
She lifted her chin a fraction. “Yes.”
“I understand you own this café?” he asked.
“That’s right, for fifteen years now.”
“And you hired Rebecca Kendrick,” Mazur said.
“That’s right.” She steadied a quivering bottom lip, but her tone shook. “A little over a year ago.”
“What can you tell me about her?” Kate asked.
She blinked back tears. “Great gal. Had a few hard knocks as a teenager, but she was pulling herself up and making progress.”
“What kind of hard knocks?” Kate asked.
“She didn’t talk much about it. Health issues, which led to too much drinking and ultimately arrests. She was released on parole early last year.”
“Not everyone hires ex-cons,” Mazur said.
“She had solid references from a work-release program. I called her sponsor, and she vouched for her personally.”
“Who sponsored the program?” Mazur asked.
“Sanchez Motors.”
“Gloria Sanchez?” Kate asked.
The woman frowned. “Yeah. Jesus, do you think the cases are related?”
“We don’t know,” Kate said. “Did Mrs. Sanchez ever visit your shop?”
“She came in for coffee a few weeks ago. Rebecca took her break, and she and Gloria sat at a corner table and talked. It looked intense, but when they were finished Gloria hugged Rebecca.”
“That the only time you saw the two together?” Kate asked.
“Yes.” She leaned in. “Look, Rebecca worked hard and was talking about going back to school. The girl was smart, and if she could keep her head screwed on straight, she was going places.” She bit her lower lip. “Did her past catch up to her?”
“We’re still trying to figure it all out,” Mazur said. “You said she locked up as expected?”
“She clocked out of the register at 11:01 just like she was supposed to do.”
“Anything unusual about her last few days?”
“No. There was nothing that caught my attention.”
“Did she have friends?” Mazur asked.
“Sure. A few guys and gals in her age group. They came in sometimes to see her.”
“Do you have names?” he asked.
“Only a couple of first names. Steve and Patsy. The others, I don’t know. They seemed like a nice group of kids. I do know they all attended that drug-addict support group. ‘One day at a time,’ Rebecca always said.” Ms. Gibson frowned. “I did see a guy lingering outside a few times while she was working. He never came in or did anything. But him watching the place made me notice.”
“What guy?” Kate asked.
“Tall, thin, dark hair. Well dressed.”
“How old?” Kate asked.”
“Midthirties, maybe. I didn’t know him, so I asked Rebecca if he was a friend of hers. She said no.”
“Did you believe her?” Kate asked.
“Funny you should ask,” Emma said. “I never caught her in a lie, but that time I got an odd feeling.”
“You think she knew the man?” Kate said.
“I asked her later again, but she shrugged it off. Said for me not to worry.”
“Did you ever see the guy again?” Kate asked.
“No. Not after that day.” Her brow knotted. “Do you think he killed her?”
“He could have just been a guy standing on the street corner,” Kate said.
Mazur scrolled through his phone and found Bauldry’s picture. “Is this the guy?”
Emma studied the phone a long moment. “It’s an older picture of him, but yeah, I’d say so.”
“You’re sure?”
“Ninety percent.” Emma was frowning when she looked up at him. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Did he kill her?”
Mazur knew in his gut he was on the right track but kept his voice even and his expression blank. “He’s a person of interest.”
A sad smile tipped the edge of Emma’s lips. “I still can’t believe she’s gone. She had so much life ahead of her.”
“Do you have security cameras?” Mazur asked as he tucked the phone back in his pocket.
“I don’t. But the restaurant across the street does.”
He texted the information to Palmer. “I’ll have my partner check.”
“She had a locker in the back if you want to look inside it,” Emma said.
“Lead the way,” Mazur said.
They followed Emma to the back, where she pointed to a locker with a combination lock. She rattled off the numbers before she returned to the front. “That was one of my rules. I needed access, seeing as she’d been an addict. I didn’t ever look in the locker, but I could if I wanted.”
Kate opened the locker and gazed at the contents, which included postcards featuring Hawaii, colored beads that looked as if they had been tossed from a Mardi Gras float, a small mirror, a hoodie, a hairbrush, and lipstick.
“She doesn’t exactly fit the profile,” Kate said softly. “The Soothsayer’s other victims were all prostitutes and drug abusers.”
“How did you catch the Soothsayer?”
“I sensed he stalked his victims before the kill. Anticipation is just as strong for males like this as the murder itself. The local cops dug through hundreds of credit card receipts from each of the businesses near where the girls worked. His card appeared multiple times at one store nearby. With that same card, Carter also bought a carving knife at a cooking store and duct tape at the hardware store. An identical knife matched the nick marks found on the victims’ rib cages.”
“And you’re certain you have the right guy?”
“His DNA matched hair fibers we found on victims two and three. We also matched his thumbprint to the steering wheel of the first victim. We had evidence to connect him to all three victims.”
“Solid work.”
She sighed, rebuffing the compliment with a shake of her head. “We need to know what William was doing outside this store and learn more about his relationships with Rebecca Kendrick and Gloria Sanchez. The fact he crossed their paths is not a coincidence.”
“William right now is in the wind. Let’s check out Ms. Kendrick’s apartment and see if she left anything behind. I want to know what Bauldry’s connection is to her.”
“Agreed.”
Rebecca Kendrick lived in an efficiency in the Ridgefield Manor Apartments. Located in central San Antonio, the apartment units occupied the second level, and the first level was an open deck for resident parking. The building was covered in a dull-gray synthetic paneling, and the units’ front doors were painted red.
Mazur located the manager’s unit and showed the old man his badge. With little fanfare, the man took him to Unit 1C and unlocked it. Mazur thanked him and promised to let him know when he and Kate had finished.
Mazur moved inside the room while Kate held her position. Moments like this were always tense for cops. These apparently routine situations could just as quickly result in an ambush.
He checked the closet and the bathroom before he holstered his weapon. “It’s clear.”
Kendrick’s place was six hundred square feet and included a small kitchenette. Next to the small sink was a dish rack filled with neatly stacked blue dishes. The dishtowel was neatly folded over the edge of the clean sink. The countertop had a coffeemaker, a sugar bowl, and a small ceramic utensil holder with several wooden spoons and a spatula. Inside the fridge was a head of still-crisp lettuce, a box of cookies and muffins from Emma’s café, and a carton of milk that still had a week to go before expiration. The cabinets held more dishes and several boxes of sugar-coated cereals.
The brown tiled floor of the foyer led into a small living room covered in faded brown carpet. A bright indigo cotton rug added a spark of color. The avocado-green couch was draped with an American Indian blanket that tied in well with the carpet. The vertical blinds looked standard issue, and a standing lamp provided secondary light. The television that sat on a bookcase in the corner was several generations old. Stacked on top of the television were three books that dealt with sobriety, living with addiction, and positive affirmations, respectively. On top of the table a collection of sobriety chips was lined up in a neat row. One month, two months, and up to over a year’s worth. The table was free of dust, and the few fashion magazines were arranged in a crisp stack.
“Sobriety meant something to her,” Mazur said.
“So did order and control. But that is common in recovering addicts who are focused on the program.”
Mazur removed the sofa cushions. “There’s a pullout sofa, and judging by the smell, the sheets covering this lumpy mattress are fresh.”
Kate picked up one of the magazines. “A couple of dozen pages are dog-eared. The articles she’s marked feature makeup tips.” She selected another magazine. “All about brides and exotic travel locations. I wonder who she was dreaming of marrying.”
“Marrying?”
“Makeup, bridal gowns, honeymoon locations. She was dreaming big.”
“Her boss said she didn’t mention a boyfriend.”
“She might not have spoken about him to her boss, but she’d set her sights on someone.”
“Like Martin Sanchez?”
Kate entered the bathroom. “Expensive lacy undergarments hanging on the shower curtain rod to dry, and in the drawers there’s pricey makeup, feminine products, and a nearly full box of condoms.” He moved to the threshold to see her open the medicine cabinet. “Empty except for a bottle of aspirin, a razor, and a small can of men’s shaving cream.”
The trash can was filled with piles of tissues. He gingerly lifted several. “And below these tissues is a used condom and a DNA sample for Ms. Calhoun.”
“It might tell us who the boyfriend was.”
Mazur replaced the tissues and in the bedroom found a small dresser with an empty flower vase on top, with more expensive undergarments neatly folded in the top drawer. The second drawer held shorts and T-shirts, and the last, socks. All organized. The lone closet contained one navy-blue peasant dress, a black skirt and white shirt draped on the same hanger, a collection of a half dozen tops, and three pairs of jeans. One pair of boots, one pair of sneakers, and flip-flops.
Back out in the living room, he opened the small side table’s drawer by the couch and removed more condoms, a fresh pack of chewing gum, and a collection of pictures. “She’s worried about getting pregnant. Not just cautious but very careful.”
Kate flipped through the pictures. The first featured a smiling Rebecca Kendrick, her arm wrapped around a young man with a haggard face and the toothless smile of a meth addict. Behind them was a circle of chairs and a cross on the wall. The next picture featured Rebecca and two young women. The smiling women were thin and pale, their eyes sunken. And the next picture captured Rebecca with Gloria Sanchez.
Mazur studied the picture. “I get the sense these two liked each other.”
“Relaxed posture, close proximity, and the slightly arched brows certainly indicate that. Gloria’s smile reminds me of the one I see in her car ads. Big, bold, as if she’s selling something.”
“No pictures of Mr. Sanchez.”
“No. The background appears to be the basement of a church. No windows, and a cross on the wall. Also, there’s a large coffeepot in the background and a plate of doughnuts. Ms. Kendrick was working the program.”
“What was Gloria doing at the meeting? Checking up on her?” Mazur asked.
“Gloria’s hair and makeup are completely done. She’s dressed in a high-end pantsuit. Nails polished. Jewelry. She wasn’t sneaking around and trying to hide. She expected to be photographed. Maybe this is part of her charity outreach to ex-cons. Publicity, no doubt.”
“That fits. Take away the hair and makeup, and they look very much alike. They could be sisters.” He pulled the small notebook from his breast pocket. “But they’re not. Ms. Kendrick moved to Texas five years ago from California. She bounced around the state, living in Houston and Austin before settling here. And she did serve nine months in the Travis County jail for possession early last year.” He flipped the pages of his notebook.
“Gloria is wearing fall colors and a light blazer. And if you compare this image to the commercials made last summer, Gloria’s hair is longer. If I had to guess, I’d say the picture was taken very recently.”
“The crucifix hanging on the wall behind them suggests a church.”
“Check a three- to five-mile radius of this apartment. Recovering addicts like to stay close to their meeting sites, especially in the beginning. She would want to know she could get to a meeting quickly if she had to.”
He typed the information into his phone. “There’s one church within two miles of this apartment. Saint Anthony’s.”
“Let’s pay them a visit. Maybe they’ve also seen Bauldry.”
The drive to the parish in the modest neighborhood took less than ten minutes. The parking lot had about a dozen cars. The brown adobe exterior had arched doorways and windows with leaded glass, and a cornerstone marker dated the church to 1899. The landscape was neatly trimmed and the trash picked up.
Inside, they moved down the dim hallway following the signs that read “Office.” Beside the church office hung a sign-up sheet for altar flowers. A flyer requesting volunteers for Sunday school was next to a notice that the first meeting for the Christmas pageant would be held in two days.
They entered and faced a small desk where an elderly Hispanic woman with salt-and-pepper hair sat at a computer. Her round spectacles magnified her dark eyes when she looked up and smiled.
“Police?” she asked.
Mazur reached in his pocket as Kate pulled out her badge. “You’ve seen the police before?”
The woman rose, pulling off her glasses. “In this neighborhood? Father Jimenez counsels many at-risk youth, so we get our share of visits from the police.” She extended her hand. “I’m Maria Lawrence. I’m the church secretary. Father Jimenez is making a hospital visit now, but maybe I can help. Who are you here for?”
“Rebecca Kendrick.”
“Rebecca?” The woman shook her head. “Don’t tell me that Rebecca is in trouble. She’s worked so hard to straighten out her life.”
“You know Rebecca?” Kate asked.
“Yes. She came to us after she was released from jail and joined our sobriety group last year. She just received her eighteen-month chip.”
“What do you know about her past?” Kate asked.
“She came from a very bad family situation. She lived on the streets many times growing up in Los Angeles. She’s proud of her new apartment and her job at the coffee shop. She was saying they were talking about making her manager.”
Mazur showed the picture of Gloria and Rebecca. “Was this taken here?”
She slid her glasses back on. “Yes. In the basement. We have meetings several times a week. And, oh my, that’s Mrs. Sanchez with Rebecca. I was so sorry to hear about her. Such a lovely woman.”
“How was Mrs. Sanchez affiliated with the church?” Mazur asked.
“She’s a very generous contributor. She grew up in this parish, and she and her husband were married here. In fact, Mr. Sanchez called me this morning about the funeral. He doesn’t have a date yet. I understand the medical examiner hasn’t released the body.”
“Were Mrs. Sanchez and Ms. Kendrick friends?”
“They did get along. Mrs. Sanchez liked Rebecca’s fire and ambition. She even stopped by a few times for meetings, especially in the last month.”
“You know why?” Mazur asked.
“Mrs. Sanchez seemed troubled. I know she wasn’t feeling well, and Rebecca helped Mrs. Sanchez when she stumbled a few weeks ago.”
“She fell?” Kate asked.
“They didn’t think anyone saw, but I did. Mrs. Sanchez tripped, and Rebecca helped her into the ladies’ room. They were in there for a few minutes, and when they emerged Mrs. Sanchez looked pale, but better.”
“Did they say anything about what had happened?” Kate asked.
“Neither one of them said a word. Rebecca valued her privacy and everyone else’s as well. Are you trying to figure out who shot Mrs. Sanchez?”
“We are,” Mazur said. “And we’re now trying to find out who killed Rebecca Kendrick.”
“Rebecca.” The word came out on a strangled whisper. “She’s dead?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mazur said. “She was killed last night.”
“How?”
“We aren’t able to say right now,” Mazur said. “Is there anyone in this church who might have had an issue with either of these women?”
“I know we’re in a rough neighborhood, but the people who come here are good.”
“But you minister to all walks of life. Did anyone seem to focus on either one of these women?”
“Not that I ever saw.”
Kate pulled up a picture of William Bauldry on her phone. “Have you ever seen this man in the parish?”
“William, yes. He never misses confession and comes to Wednesday and Sunday services. He’s a nice young man. Joined us about ten months ago. Keeps to himself. But is always happy to lend a hand when asked.”
Kate was silent for a moment. “Would he have run into either of these women here?”
“I’m sure it’s very possible.”
“Did he say or do anything that would give you pause?” Kate asked.
“Why would he?” The woman’s face hardened with a frown. “I’ve seen cops zero in on a suspect and then search for anything that will prop up their theory.”
“That is not my intent,” Kate said. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“Of course not, he never did anything to worry me. Just last week he arrived early for one of our meetings and helped set up the chairs and tables. Saved me an hour’s worth of work. A good, solid man. And yes, before you say it, I know he has a prison record. But God believes in second chances, and so do I.”
Mazur knew how clever these monsters could be. They hid in plain sight and either went unnoticed or were pillars of the community until they were arrested. “Do you know where we could find William Bauldry?”
“If he’s not here, he’s working or at home.”
“Where does he work?” Kate asked.
“At Sanchez Motors. He has a job in their body shop. Gloria sponsored him when he got out of prison, and I suppose she referred him to our church.”
“That job lasted only six months,” Kate said. “It ended over the summer.”
Mrs. Lawrence shook her head. “That’s not what he told us. He said he was still working there.”
“Was William close to Ms. Kendrick?” Mazur asked, shifting the conversation.
“Friendly. Nothing romantic.”
“And Gloria?” Kate asked. “What was her relationship like with William?”
“They got along very well. Seemed to get each other’s jokes when no one else did.”
“Did they talk about anything in particular?” Mazur asked.
“They were always quiet. I could never hear.”
“And was Ms. Kendrick seeing anyone?” Mazur asked.
“She was, but don’t ask me who. I heard her on the phone a couple of times. I could tell by her voice it was a romantic partner.”
Mazur thanked Mrs. Lawrence and left his card. Outside with Kate, he stared up at the cloudless night sky filled with bright stars.
“I need to get my car back at the station,” Kate said.
“Finding a new hotel?”
“I’m going to see my mother.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. “I can take you straight there.”
“Just drop me at my car.”
“Sure.”
They were on the road before he commented, “Mrs. Lawrence had pretty nice things to say about Bauldry.”
“The William I remember was a very clever, charismatic man,” Kate said. “And now he is out of prison, once again charming everyone around him.”
“With what end in mind?”
“Self-serving. If Church Lady only knew what was walking among her flock. If anything, guys like him get more dangerous in prison. They learn from other prisoners to hide their thoughts and to become the person they need to be to get what they want.”
“What else do you remember about William?” Mazur asked.
“I’m remembering how it was when I was in high school. After I broke up with him, he followed me everywhere. He called me all the time. He turned our family inside out. He enjoyed the harassment, the toying. So killing me today would be too easy. He doesn’t want the game to end.”
Scowling, he shook his head as he stared at her. “Jesus, Kate. How can you be so calm?”
“Between you and me, I am not calm. I’m scared. But I don’t have the luxury of hiding. If I don’t catch this guy, he will kill again.”
His phone chimed with a text. “Palmer has footage from multiple security cameras that shoot directly on Rebecca Kendrick’s coffee shop,” he said. “She says William appears on yesterday’s footage.”
“We need to find William,” she said.
“But in the meantime.”
“Keep doing what you’re doing. You’re a good cop.”
They were less than a foot apart, and he couldn’t deny his need to protect her. He wanted her to know she wasn’t really alone.
They made the ten-mile drive back to headquarters in silence. His gaze was locked on the road and hers focused on the passing buildings. When they reached the lot, she stared at the cars, as if trying to remember where she’d parked.
“I’ve been in so many cities, so many hotels rooms. It’s all becoming a blur.” She raised her key fob. “It’s here somewhere.”
Mazur shook his head and grinned. “You can track a serial killer, but you can’t find your car.”
“Distraction is an occupational hazard.” She hit the “Unlock” button on the fob and waited for taillights to flash. There was a distant beep and a flicker of light. “Did you see it?”
“Yes.”
He drove her to the red car. “Agent, I’m astonished. Fire-engine red?”
“My walk on the wild side.” She thanked him as she got out of his car, and slid behind the wheel of her rental. He saw her glance in her rearview mirror as the headlights of a marked car switched on. She might not like it, but he was going to have eyes on her while she was in his city.
Kate pulled out of the lot, accepting that Mazur or one of his cops would be with her while she was in San Antonio. Oddly, she didn’t mind. As she drove toward her mother’s house, she’d barely reached the end of the block when her phone rang. She recognized the number. It belonged to Taylor North.
She raised the phone to her ear. “Mr. North.”
“I want to talk.”
“You’re in luck. So do I.”
Kate distanced herself from strong emotions. It wasn’t that she didn’t have them—she simply steered clear of them. They only created confusion and were a distraction. But when it came to Taylor North, she had a hard time remaining civil. He was a bottom-feeder. He was willing to exploit people, and even the truth, for personal gain. She’d heard from her boss that there was talk of a book, and this murder was simply another notch on his belt regardless of whom he hurt.
She parked in front of a small café and stared at the blue neon “Open” sign. As she got out of the car, she noticed the marked police car and walked over to the vehicle.
The officer rolled down the window. “Agent Hayden.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“Mazur’s orders are to shadow you until you reach your mother’s.”
“Fine, thank you.”
Kate entered the shop and spotted North sitting in the corner. A stoneware mug in front of him, he leaned over a legal pad.
As she approached his table he glanced up, made an anemic move to stand, but she waved him back down. She pulled her chair around and sat with her back to the wall. “Mr. North.”
“Agent Hayden.”
He’d been covering the Samaritan case more than any other reporter and knew the details better than most of the cops. This killer was getting his information from someone. “So what questions would you like to ask me?”
“Did you arrest the right man? Is Dr. Richardson guilty?”
“He’s guilty. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
“So he has an accomplice?”
“Still working on that one.”
“The Gloria Sanchez murder stinks of the Samaritan killings. Whoever did this must have been working with Richardson,” he countered.
“Why do you say that?”
North shook his head as he leaned forward. “We’re jumping the gun. My hope was that we’d use this meeting to get to know each other. To learn a little about trust.”
A dark intensity shadowed his gaze. She leaned forward. “You’ve gathered a great deal of information on this case.”
“I’m a very good reporter.”
She shook her head as she traced a small nick on the table. “You’ve done a hell of a job of researching this killer. You have an inside track on details only the cops would know. In fact, you could have pulled off a good imitation of his murders.”
A frown wrinkled his brow. “I’m one hell of a reporter, not a killer.”
“Maybe too good.” She let the word hang. “It’s almost as if you know the killer.”
He pulled off his glasses and let them dangle between his fingers. “Do you think I’m the killer?”
“I’ve read your articles. Your ability to climb into his mind is astonishing.”
He sat back. “How am I supposed to react to a statement like that?”
“Take it however you like. Denial. Outrage. I would be upset if someone thought I was involved.”
Entertained, he sipped his coffee. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“You interviewed Richardson several times in prison. Did he whisper sweet secrets in your ear?”
“No. He was quite evasive. He was using me to get his message of innocence out.”
She shook her head. “I think he gave you key details so you could stage this whole show. It’s the why that I can’t figure out.”
“You’re running down the wrong rabbit hole, Agent Hayden.” He smiled. “Can I call you Kate?”
“No.”
“Keep it formal. Maybe for the better. I reported the facts, and yes, I dug deep into a lot of facts on the Samaritan. Maybe I danced close to the line a couple of times as far as revealing too much information, but if I don’t sell my articles, then I don’t eat.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“I live and die by the numbers.”
His demeanor suggested confidence that bordered on arrogance. He gladly took shortcuts, believing the ends justified the means. One cop had said Taylor would push his own mother off a cliff for a solid lead on a story.
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“We’ve reached the end of this journey. You have nothing for me, and I’ve nothing for you.”
He looked disappointed. “Just like that? I don’t see you as the type that gives up so easily.”
“I don’t. I haven’t. I’m just finished with this conversation.”
Eyes narrowed, he shifted topics. “Gloria Sanchez doesn’t fit the profile of the first victims.”
“Really?”
“She’s a business success and well known. Not the random low-income woman that no one would miss right away.”
Kate didn’t respond.
“Have you tested ballistics? Did the same gun kill Gloria and the others? You can tell me. This is strictly off the record.”
She smiled. “No such thing as off the record. Didn’t you learn that in PR 101?”
He drew circles on his notepad. “The killer must have crossed paths with Richardson.”
She studied him, knowing he was fishing. “What other cases like the Samaritan have you covered?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Humor me.”
“At least a half dozen.”
“List ’em.”
He drew in an impatient breath. “I’ve written about several cases in the last few years. The Dollmaker. The Hangman. The San Francisco Strangler. The Soothsayer.”
The Soothsayer. Her mind grew very still even as her heart skipped a beat. “Which of the cases did you find the most fascinating?”
“All of ’em. They’re all unique in so many ways.”
“Arrests were made in each of the cases.”
“What are you getting at?” he asked.
Serial killers were addicted not just to the murder but also to recreating it over and over in their memories. Who better to share information with than a reporter?
“Just trying to figure out how much you know. You would tell me if this killer contacted you, correct?”
“Are you asking if we should work together?”
She wondered how many people he’d drawn in with that boy-next-door tone. “I work alone, Mr. North. I just want to make sure you aren’t withholding important information.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Really?”
“You’re working closely with Detective Mazur.”
North’s not-so-subtle deflection told her he was paying close attention to her. “He’s law enforcement. You’re not.”
Instead of being annoyed or put off, he grinned. “Help me and I’ll help you.”
This was a game to him. The victims were inconsequential. Simply pieces to be moved about as he saw fit.
She nodded to his cell. “Record this.”
Arching a brow, he quickly unlocked the phone and hit the “Record” button.
She leaned in and in a clear voice said, “Whoever shot Gloria Sanchez thinks he’s very clever. He thinks he can throw me off, make me guess. But he’s not that smart. He’s an amateur who gets his one rock off killing women. I’m going to enjoy locking him away.”
“Strong words.”
She rose. “Let’s see what he has to say when I arrest him. Bet he cries like a baby.”
“I’m going to use this.”
“I’m counting on it.” Kate rose, knowing the quote would win her some flak from Mazur and her boss. Fine. Playing safe rarely scored big points.
A car pulled into the driveway across the street from his house. He watched as Mrs. Hayden got out and walked with a clipped, urgent pace toward the house. She was in her late sixties now, but she had kept herself in great shape. He’d watched her long enough to know she took daily walks and often had friends over for book club or a girls night out.
He’d had surveillance cameras positioned in his yard, and they all pointed at her house. And when she’d been on vacation six months ago, he’d gotten into her home and posted more cameras. Living room. Kitchen. The bedrooms. All the bathrooms.
Surveillance told him she lived a clean and simple life. She played by the rules. She was the least likely person to be murdered by anyone.
And yet that was why she was so perfect. Her death wouldn’t be ignored. Kate Hayden would certainly notice.
As easy as it would have been to kill Sylvia Hayden, he wasn’t interested in her death. Her home was simply the bait. The one place that Kate would return to once she came back to San Antonio. Once she was in that house, he could watch her while she slept, showered, or ate.
As he sat and watched tonight, he noticed a car drive by the house. It was a beat-up truck with Utah plates. Utah. Kate had been in Utah. She’d been chasing that man who put girls in boxes. What was his name? The name danced on the tip of his tongue before it came to mind. Raymond Drexler.
Frowning, he leaned closer and watched the truck as it crept past. It circled the block, its red taillights vanishing. He sat back, wondering if he’d worried for nothing. He checked his watch. Waited.
A couple of minutes later the vehicle returned, slowing in front of Sylvia’s house almost to the point of stopping, but not quite. The driver wore a hoodie, so he couldn’t make out his face. When the truck vanished again around the block, he grabbed his keys and ran to his car. He leaned low in the seat, watching, betting and hoping that this interloper doubled back.
Sure enough, he came back for a third time. Not smart to watch so closely, but some people were amateurs.
He started his car, backed out of the driveway, and followed. When the vehicle drove back toward the center of town, he was glad for the increased traffic that allowed him to go unnoticed.
Maintaining a few car lengths, he followed the truck, and when it pulled into the parking lot of a Best Texan motel, he kept driving far enough to make it look good before he doubled back on foot.
The man was large, well over six foot five, and he had a freshly shaved head. He pushed open the door to Room 304, glanced both ways, and vanished inside.
“There’s a new player in the game,” he said.
He didn’t appreciate poachers, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to share Kate with Raymond or anyone.
But as the old adage went, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.