Killing Fear

by Allison Brennan

  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 Descario’s house?

  Descario was either dead inside the house, or not home. The message Glenn left for Will wasn’t the ravings of a lunatic, but a man with a purpose. He’d wanted Will to come here. Why?

  To show his power. That he could walk free when every law enforcement agency was looking for him.

  “Oh, yes, Theodore, you’re very, very smart,” Will whispered. “Is that what you want? Me to acknowledge your genius?”

  “Excuse me?” Carina said.

  “Nothing.” But Will was getting a far greater sense of his prey now, much better than he had seven years ago.

  They skirted the edge of the large, private house in Rancho Santa Margarita. The wealthy neighborhood was quiet, which wasn’t surprising. Will rarely came to this neighborhood. Crime was minimal. In fact, the last time he’d been here was ten months ago, when a prominent psychiatrist was thought to have committed suicide. Property crimes, occasional domestics, rarely anything violent. Nothing that would come to the attention of a homicide detective.

  It was when he and Carina met back up at the front that he realized exactly what was wrong.

  “Security.”

  “What?”

  “Where are the lights? Virtually every house in this neighborhood had security lights. A cat walks across the yard, and spotlights come on.”

  “If the power was cut, wouldn’t the alarm company have called? Checked it out?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “If the security system was activated.”

  Will hesitated. If he was wrong and Descario had left town or was out with his girlfriend tonight, he’d be putting the department in a bad light. Cops breaking into homes. Still, an escaped convict had threatened the former district attorney. What more probable cause did he need?

  “I’ll go around back. Count to thirty and then we both go in.”

  Carina nodded. Will motioned to the uniform to back his partner up. He went around to the back, counting. Two sets of French doors opened into the backyard off the breakfast nook. He was there at count twenty-four.

  Twenty-five.

  Twenty-six.

  Who was Glenn going after next? How could they stop him if he had help?

  Twenty-nine.

  Thirty.

  Simultaneously, Will and Carina broke down the doors of the house.

  No alarm went off.

  Will searched the rear half of the house. He met up with Carina in the foyer. She’d already covered the living and dining rooms. She shook her head and Will motioned to go upstairs. She nodded, covering his back.

  The master bedroom doors were closed. Will held up three fingers. One. Two. Three.

  They pushed open the doors.

  A
piercing alarm sounded. Spotlights went on all around the house.

  And no one was in the bed.

  “Shit,” Will said. “He played us.”

  “Human beings are so predictable,” Theodore told Sara, enjoying the spectacle down the street, a faint smile on his lips.

  “You’re so smart, Teddy.” Sara rested her hand on his arm, her fingers tracing his bicep.

  Not just humans in general, but William Hooper in particular was predictable. Theodore had, of course, imagined killing Bryce Descario. But in the end, when he had the chance, he let it go.

  Watching William’s reaction to the setup was far more fun than killing the pathetic former district attorney. His letter to William had done exactly what he expected—sent them to Descario’s house. So predictable, and that helped him know how to handle his next few moves.

  Through binoculars Theodore watched Descario drive up in his slick Mercedes. The fat little dictator started pointing fingers, yelling at William, threatening him. And the detective took it. Of course he did. He wouldn’t fight back, not like that. He didn’t have it in him.

  William Hooper would sacrifice his life for Robin McKenna. He wouldn’t fight back, he would give it. On Theodore’s word? Hmm, perhaps. That would be very interesting now, wouldn’t it?

  “William, allow me to kill you and I’ll let Robin go.”

  Would the cop agree? Would Theodore even give him the choice?

  There was nothing Theodore wanted more than to have William Hooper and Robin McKenna at the opposite ends of the same rope. He wanted both of them to know the other was dead. If this modern-day Romeo thought Juliet was dead, what would he do?

  That small feeling, a minimal emotion, which Theodore kept alive through sheer determination and constant thought about Robin McKenna, consumed him. This was no longer a simple game, where he would prove (again) that he was smarter than the police and everyone they put against him. This was bigger than winning or losing. It was destiny, as if everything he’d done, learned, tried, put him here, at this point in time, to destroy two people.

  It was heady, really, something few people had the capacity to understand. It was more than the game, more than the risk, and for the first time, it was more than the thrill.

  For the first time, he knew he would be sustained after everything played out. After pitting Romeo against Juliet.

  “Teddy?”

  Theodore faced Sara, held her face in his hands. He could snap her neck without a thought. He could slice her throat. But not now.

  Not yet.

  Sara had been productive during her excursion to the gaslamp district. Not only had she taken care of the letter to Robin, she’d learned that Robin was thinking about not opening the Sin tomorrow.

  “I think we need to wait until her art show,” Sara said.

  Theodore tensed. “Since when did I ask you to plan anything? I will make all the decisions.”

  “I just—”

  He slapped her. Not because he received any pleasure from hitting her, but because he wanted her to shut up.

  “You’ve been valuable to me for the past year. Don’t fuck with me now, Sara.”

  “I-I—Teddy, I love you.”

  He swallowed back a biting comment. He needed this woman, as much as he loathed to admit it.

  But he wouldn’t need her forever.

  He forced himself to soften his tone. “Sara, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” He touched her face softly, remembering how William had touched Robin the night Anna was killed.

  She melted into his hand, much like Robin had done to William. Was this a female response? Theodore closed his eyes, imagining Robin leaning into his caress. Parting her lips for him. Giving herself to him, only him.

  “Let me kill her for you,” she said.

  Theodore opened his eyes, genuinely surprised for the first time in his life. Sara looked at him, an earnest expression on her face.

  He hadn’t expected this. He looked at Sara with a renewed respect, and a touch of suspicion. Was she trying to pull something on him?

  “I have to do it myself.”

  Sara shook her head. “She’ll be the death of you, Teddy. They’re looking for you. You won’t get near her. But I have an in, I can get to her—”

  “You don’t know me, woman. You don’t know anything about me. I can and will kill Robin McKenna, right in front of that bastard cop.” But he was curious. “What is your plan?”

  She smiled like a schoolgirl who had the rapt attention of her favorite teacher. “If she closes the club, the only place you can get her is at her loft, or at the art gallery on Sunday. She won’t cancel it. It’s her first showing.”

  “If she’ll close her business, she’ll cancel the art show.”

  Sara shook her head. “I don’t think so. You don’t know how important this is. It’s in all the papers. And what if she thought you’d left town?”

  Something clicked. Theodore leaned forward. “I’m all ears.”

  Sara smiled, bit her lower lip. “This is my idea. Friday night we drive to Mexico…”

  Theodore listened. And for the first time was impressed with the intellect of another human being.

  He leaned over and kissed her. Spontaneously—an odd gesture for him.

  Her plan just might work.

  In fact, it was brilliant.

  What a shame he would have to kill the person who came up with it.

  “Can you drop me off at the hospice?” Carina asked Will. “Nick is there, he’ll take me home.”

  Will hit the steering wheel. “It’s Patrick’s birthday.”

  “You remembered.” Her smile was strained.

  Will glanced at the clock. “Barely. It’s ten minutes to midnight.”

  If Patrick were fully here, he’d have been part of their team. He would have used his extensive skills and easygoing manner to manage their overall security and track Glenn’s financial potential. Patrick didn’t need a committee, his mind was wired differently. He saw connections where few people saw them.

  But it wasn’t just his value as a cybercop, it was Patrick’s good nature that Will missed most of all. They’d been friends, and Patrick was one of the few people Will talked to about stuff. They’d kick back, drink a few beers, shoot the breeze. Patrick had been his best friend. Will missed him.

  Patrick’s life was in limbo—it had been eight months since an explosion put him in a coma—Carina was getting married, Dillon had moved to Washington…everything was changing, growing, dying, and he was just walking around doing a job.

  The job certainly couldn’t keep him warm at night.

  Will pulled up in front of the hospice. “I was thinking earlier that we could use Patrick about now.”

  “Well, think hard on that. Maybe it’ll bring him out of never-never land.” Carina gave Will a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks. You’re not just a great partner, but a good friend.” She started to get out of the car, then paused.

  “You love her.”

  He didn’t have to ask who Carina was talking about. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It certainly does.”

  “All that matters is that she’s safe. I said things—” he shook his head. “I was wrong.”

  “Tell her.”

  He laughed bitterly. “You think I haven’t tried? I’ve apologized so many times I sound like a broken record. I said I was sorry then, I said it now. Being sorry isn’t enough. I hurt her. Deeply, irrevocably hurt her.”

  “Will, we’ve known each other for more than a decade. You’ve never intentionally hurt someone. You’re one of the most compassionate men I’ve ever met. I’ve teased you about your women, but the truth is, you never hurt them.”

  “My track record sucks. I never—I just didn’t want to put my wife second. I couldn’t put any of them in that position again, not after Wendy.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “It was with my father.”

  “You’re n
ot your father.”

  “How do I convince her to forgive me?”

  “You can’t,” Carina said. “But honesty usually works.”

  “I’ve been honest.”

  “Have you?” Carina took his hand. “If there’s one thing that Patrick’s coma should have taught you is that life is too unpredictable to not fight for what you want. If you love her, Will, fight for her.”

  He didn’t say anything. Carina was more right than he wanted to admit.

  He closed his eyes and saw the dead bird again on Julia’s kitchen table. Heard Glenn’s courthouse threats. Thought about what Hans Vigo said, that Glenn would take Robin out even if it meant getting himself killed.

  If Robin died, he’d never forgive himself for not at least trying to make it work. He’d never put her out of his mind. Robin had been in his thoughts—or his dreams—every night for the last seven years.

  “Tell Patrick to get back to work. It’s an order,” Will said.

  She smiled thinly. “Yes, sir.”

  Will watched Carina walk into the hospice, the night guard letting her in. It was after hours, but being a cop opened many doors.

  He started for his house. He wanted to go to Robin. He wanted to see her, talk to her, touch her.

  Tell her one more time that he was sorry.

  He pictured Patrick in his coma. Life was too short, too unpredictable…he hung a U-turn at the same time his cell phone vibrated.

  Damn. He was off-duty, unless it was related to Glenn.

  “Hooper.”

  “Detective Hooper, Sergeant Fields here. There’s a 911 call at 101 Fifth Avenue, number 301.”

  Will’s heart quickened. Robin.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, exactly, but Robin McKenna—who’s on your Glenn list—called it in. Then hung up. We tried calling back, but no one answered.”

  “I’m on my way.” Will hung up and dialed Mario Medina’s cell. “What happened?”

  “What do you mean, what happened?”