The Last Move

by Mary Burton

  “Uterine,” Mazur said.

  He cleared his throat. “No. She had the flu last month and a bad cold a couple of months before that, but not cancer. She would have told me.”

  “But she didn’t tell you?” Kate said. Why wouldn’t a woman share such grave news with her spouse?

  Sanchez shook his head slowly as he made the sign of the cross. “Gloria hated any kind of limitations. Cancer would have been no exception.”

  Bennett placed a comforting hand on his client’s shoulder. “My client can’t speak to the motives of his late wife.”

  “Were you having marital problems?” Kate asked.

  Sanchez looked as if he’d been struck. “Why do you ask that?”

  “You still aren’t wearing a wedding band,” Mazur said.

  He curled his fingers into fists. “After I found Gloria, I forgot to put it back on.”

  “Your fingers are perfectly tanned,” she pressed. “If you wore it even some of the time, there would be a tan line.” He certainly wouldn’t be the first married man who didn’t want to broadcast his status. Was he having an affair? Did Gloria know? Was that why she didn’t tell him about the cancer?

  Sanchez stiffened but didn’t answer.

  “Your wife was wearing a very expensive engagement ring,” Kate said.

  “Gloria’s ring is a five-carat yellow diamond. She loved the way the light caught it. I gave it to her three years ago for our twentieth wedding anniversary. It was very expensive.”

  “What worries me is that the killer didn’t take the ring or her wallet,” Mazur said. “Robbery wasn’t the motive.”

  Bennett shifted. “This certainly feeds into the serial killer theory. Which makes me wonder why a judge signed off on a warrant for the family financial records.”

  “I’m working all the angles,” Mazur said.

  “I did not kill my wife,” Sanchez said slowly for effect.

  “What was the financial state of your business?” Kate asked. “You said you closed the Laredo dealership.”

  Sanchez raised his chin. “The economy hasn’t been kind the last year.”

  “That’s not what you told me at the crime scene,” Mazur said.

  “Appearances were very important to Gloria. She wouldn’t have wanted you to know the truth.”

  “And perhaps why she didn’t want you knowing she was sick?”

  Sanchez mumbled a prayer. “Maybe.”

  “Why did you close the Laredo shop?” Mazur asked.

  “In the late spring, Gloria ran the numbers and said we might have to cut back on staff. Honestly, I was happy about cutbacks. I’m a simple man at heart. I like to work with my hands. Gloria was the one with big dreams.” He shook his head, and tears glistened bright in his eyes. “Why wouldn’t she tell me she was sick?”

  “I don’t know,” Kate said.

  He dropped his face to his hands and sobbed. “God, this is all too much.”

  “You told me yesterday that she called you from the road and said she was having car trouble,” Mazur said.

  “That’s right. Why do you ask?”

  Kate knew where Mazur was headed. In the killer’s tape, Gloria never mentioned having called her husband. Wouldn’t a frightened woman tell a strange man this, even if it weren’t true?

  “My client has had enough for today,” Bennett said. “I’m not going to stand here while you go on a fishing expedition.”

  “I understand you and your wife have a daughter,” Kate said.

  “Technically, Gloria was Isabella’s stepmother. But Gloria and Isabella were very close.” The shift to his child sharpened Sanchez’s tone.

  “How old is she?” Kate asked.

  “She’s twenty-two.”

  “Does she live here?”

  Sanchez closed his eyes. “She’s in prelaw at Georgetown. She comes home from time to time.”

  “Where is she now?” Kate asked.

  “She’s on her way home. I called her this morning. Her flight was delayed,” he said.

  “I’d like to talk to her when she arrives,” Kate said.

  “Why?” Sanchez challenged. “She wasn’t here when Gloria died. She’s coming home to grieve for her stepmother and to support me.”

  “My questions are strictly background,” Kate said. “And I’ll do my best not to upset her.”

  When Sanchez readied to speak again, Bennett laid a hand on his arm, silencing him. “I’ll want to be present when you speak to Miss Sanchez.”

  “Her first name is Isabella?” Kate asked.

  “Yes,” Sanchez said.

  “And her biological mother was your first wife, who died in a car accident?” Kate asked.

  “Selena’s death was a devastating blow.” Sanchez was clenching his jaw, an indicator of aggression. “And I don’t see how her death is relevant now.”

  “That’s enough with the questions,” Bennett interjected.

  Sanchez laid his hand on his lawyer’s arm. “Gloria’s death has torn me in half,” he said. “But Detective Mazur, I won’t let you traumatize my daughter.”

  As if the man had not spoken, Mazur glanced to Kate and in a pleasant voice asked, “You have any more questions? I’ll stay as long as you need to be here.”

  “I’ve no more immediate inquiries for Mr. Sanchez,” Kate said. “But I do want to talk to Isabella. I’ll return when she’s home.”

  Mazur nodded. “We’ll be back.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The first kill is a rush of adrenaline, fear, worry, and elation all in one.

  San Antonio, Texas

  Monday, November 27, 8:45 p.m.

  As Mazur pulled away from the Sanchez house, he was convinced Martin Sanchez had secrets. But being an adulterer didn’t make him a murderer. “The first Mrs. Sanchez died in a car accident,” Mazur said as he drove. “And Martin Sanchez is a car mechanic.”

  “And Gloria is much younger. It’s a cliché because it happens a lot.” Kate glanced at the clock on the dash and frowned. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

  “What’s your next move in this investigation?” she asked.

  “I’m going to check in with the forensic team and see what they’ve found out about Gloria Sanchez’s car. Jenny Calhoun said she’d have an update for me tonight.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “Sure.”

  Five minutes into the drive, her phone buzzed. “My boss,” she said as she studied the display. “I have to take this.”

  “Sure.”

  “Agent Ramsey,” she said. “I have yet to draw any conclusions on the case.”

  She listened, frowning. “I promise you, we’re moving as quickly as possible. Detective Mazur and I are returning to the forensic lab now to discuss the status of the victim’s car. I’ll call when I have information to report. You can do me a favor and check with the warden of Richardson’s jail. Has he received any kind of communication from anyone?” She nodded. “Good. Also, do you have an update on the Raymond Drexler case?” Absently she angled her head and rubbed the side of her neck with her hand. “All right. Keep me updated.”

  When the call ended, she gripped her phone and stared out at the dark horizon. He understood what it felt like to want an arrest so badly it hurt to breathe.

  “What’s the deal on Drexler?” he said.

  “He’s still at large. Nevada, my partner, is following a southwardly trail through Utah. Drexler was spotted at a Utah gas station seven hours ago.”

  “Pressure from above on our case?” Mazur asked.

  She leaned her head back against the headrest. “There’s always pressure from above when I work a case. When I show up in your local jurisdiction, it’s generally not a good day for anyone.”

  “You’ve worked a few high-profile cases, and from what I’ve read, solved several.”

  “Do you remember your solved cases or the ones you didn’t crack?”

&nb
sp; “Point taken.”

  She turned her head toward him. “I got the sense from the briefing today that you’re not in the inner circle of your office.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Body language is my thing. You received a few pointed stares during the brief.”

  “Par for the course with this crew. No one shoved a Chicago-style pizza in my hair or pissed in my Cubs mug today, so the way I see it, it’s a good day.”

  “How long were you with Chicago PD?” The light from the dash caught the sharp angle of her cheekbones.

  “Eighteen years.”

  “Most cops wouldn’t walk away from that.”

  He cocked a brow. “Is this shrink time now?”

  She shook her head. “I specialize in personality disorders, not family counseling. Just making conversation.”

  “Sounded like an interrogation.”

  She shrugged. “Interrogations are about the closest I get to conversations these days.”

  Silence settled for a moment, and there was only the rush of the wind past his window. “If you’re making conversation and not analyzing, then yeah, the move has been tough. Still haven’t sold the condo in Chicago, and if I have to use GPS one more time to find a crime scene, I might commit murder.”

  “Why did you move?”

  “Divorce. Ex moved our kid to San Antonio.” Despite his best effort, anger resonated behind the words.

  “Staying close to your child is good. My dad died when I was a teenager.”

  “Must have torn you up.”

  “Of course. Devastated. He loved me and I loved him, but we didn’t get each other. Lots of talking around each other.”

  “Alyssa is a little like you, Kate. She keeps it all inside. She hides her feelings. Makes jokes when she’s worried.”

  “What makes you so sure I have feelings?”

  That prompted a genuine laugh. “You’re right. The jury is still out on that one.”

  She seemed unable to resist a smile. “What does your daughter like to do?”

  “She’s the smartest kid in the school. Band club. Chess club. Theater.”

  “None of the activities you can relate to?”

  “No.”

  “Is she like her mother?”

  “Has her brains, thank God. And her looks. But not her polish. Kid can’t schmooze worth crap.”

  “A skill I’ve never mastered. Playing chess is a solid pastime. It teaches a great deal about strategy, but especially patience.”

  “You play the game?”

  “I did when I was Alyssa’s age. Not anymore.” She stared up at the night sky. “There’s too much light pollution in Washington to see the stars like I can out here.”

  “Why’d you give up the game?” He was more interested in her than the stars.

  “I suppose I never had enough time once I left for college.”

  He shook his head. “There’s always time for what you really want.”

  She smiled. “Nice, pivot. Should I start calling you doctor?”

  “I’m a detective. I can smell an evasion a mile away.”

  When she didn’t respond, he didn’t make an attempt to fill the silence or backtrack. If he’d thought a heartfelt confession was on its way, then he was wrong.

  “I believe Santos is the one who urinated in your cup,” she said.

  He shot her a sharp glance. “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s the brash move of a young man. He gestures with his right hand, the one holding his coffee cup. I suspect personal property—his territory—is important to him. Did he have a friend passed over for the team when you arrived?”

  “He did.”

  “He’d strike back at something he’d deem important—your personal territory.”

  “How sure are you?”

  “Ninety percent.”

  “Good to know.”

  The lights of San Antonio grew brighter as he steered the car toward the city, and the stars dimmed. He parked at police headquarters, and they made their way past the guard to the second floor. As she passed a vending machine, she dug her credit card from her pocket and bought two packets of Nabs.

  “You should buy stock in that vending company.”

  She unwrapped the package and offered him a cracker. He took one.

  “Keep the pack,” she said. “One is enough for me.”

  He held one up. “The next two packs are on me.”

  “Done.”

  They made their way into a large garage-style room with cabinets and polished gray counters outfitted with an array of equipment.

  A tall, trim woman dressed in a lab coat, blond hair pulled back, looked up from a microscope. “Detective. I wasn’t sure if you could make it.”

  “Visiting Mr. Sanchez. Jenny Calhoun, meet Agent Kate Hayden with the FBI.”

  Calhoun rose and extended her hand. “The profiler.”

  Kate shook her hand. “Correct. Tell us what you’ve found.”

  “Cut to the chase, I like it.” Calhoun led them through the lab to the forensic bay where Gloria Sanchez’s car was now parked. “I dusted the car for prints in key areas: trunk, driver’s side door handle, the radio buttons, gearshift, and the turn signal. I found prints in each spot, and 90 percent belonged to the victim.”

  “What about inside the trunk?” Kate asked. “I know we saw gloves on his hands in the tape, but we might get lucky.”

  “I did find two partial prints on the underside of the trunk.”

  “Have you taken Mr. Sanchez’s prints?” Kate asked.

  “I did, and they didn’t match. His DNA, which I obtained from a cheek swab at the crime scene, is also being processed. I’ve fed the prints into AFIS, so we’ll see if we get a hit. Also, the bloodstains on Sanchez’s shirt were his wife’s, but the smudge patterns aren’t consistent with a close-range shooting, which would have sprayed him with blood.”

  “He could have changed shirts,” Kate said.

  “If he did, I haven’t found it,” she said. “And I searched the ground all around the car.” And heading off the next question, Calhoun said, “Blood spatter on the windshield belonged to the victim.” She waved them toward the four door and stood by the driver’s side door. She pointed her finger as if it were a gun toward the window. “He was standing within a foot of the car. As I understand it, the medical examiner removed a slug from her chest. I found no other slugs in, on, or around the car. I did find one shell casing under the car. I’ve dusted the end of the shell for a print but came up with nothing.”

  “The fact that you found a casing is interesting,” Kate said. “That’s inconsistent with the other cases.”

  “He’s not left a casing before?” Mazur asked.

  “No.”

  “I found tire marks behind the victim’s car. I took casts and am trying to identify the manufacturer. I talked to robbery, and they reported two minivans and a Suburban with car seats stolen on Saturday night.”

  “What about the flat tire?” Kate asked.

  “One puncture to the tread,” Calhoun said.

  Kate knelt by the tailpipe and studied it. She traced a gloved finger around the pipe’s opening. “Was this the first time Gloria Sanchez checked out this car?”

  “I don’t know,” Mazur said.

  She opened the back car door. “Have you searched the back seat for DNA or fingerprints?”

  “No,” Calhoun said. “I focused on the exterior, front seat, and trunk.”

  “Check every inch of the interior and the trunk.”

  “What are you thinking?” Mazur asked.

  “People tend to be creatures of habit. If she checked out this car on Sunday, stands to reason she might have used it before. Maybe she likes not being noticed.”

  “She left a note for her husband that her Mercedes was being serviced.”

  “Be curious to know if that was the case,” she said.

  “Why did the killer key in on you?” Calhoun asked. “FBI is usually i
n the shadows.”

  “I gave press conferences and called the killer unemployed and impotent,” Kate said. “I wanted to get a rise out of him.”

  “No pun intended,” Mazur offered.

  Kate blinked. “Correct.”

  Mazur looked at her, and when she didn’t smile, shook his head. “You don’t do humor well either, do you?”

  “No,” she said. “This killer is expecting a response to his text, but I’m going to make him wait. It’s important he realize he is not in control.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With age comes wisdom. And sometimes with wisdom comes too much caution and fear. That is why it’s important to act no matter how much wisdom tells me not to.

  San Antonio, Texas

  Monday, November 27, 11:35 p.m.

  When Kate sank into the hotel bed, her entire body ached from fatigue. She’d been going nonstop for eleven days with little sleep. And yet, as exhausted as her body was, her mind buzzed with the details of the day. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about this case. She could feel it, sense it, but fatigue had hazed over her thoughts. One way or another, she would have to sleep so that she could remain effective.

  She checked her phone, hoping to see a picture of Drexler in cuffs from Nevada. There wasn’t. Part of her was disappointed, and another part was hopeful she could still personally see this monster caged.

  She fell back against the pillows. If the ballistics varied in the Sanchez case, then that would be enough for her to pull out and return to Utah. One more day in San Antonio to go. She’d not called her mother yet but could reasonably argue she’d been too busy. Still, to be this close, and not call, suggested personal issues bigger than a lack of time.

  The shadows played on the wall, swaying back and forth as if they’d come to life. For centuries, the civilized were taught to not believe in monsters, but she knew damn well they existed. The horror they wrought upon the innocent was unspeakable in sane company. Images of them always came home to roost at night when she was alone.

  Her chest tightened, and she looked toward the prescription bottle she always set out on her nightstand. The sleeping pills had been a big help when she couldn’t shut her brain off after a case, but until last week, she’d been trying to wean off them. But as the muscles in her body begged for sleep, her mind still ran wild. Her skin tingled as if the shadows watched.