“We’ve never been robbed,” Mrs. Glenn stated emphatically.
Only robbed of your daughter.
Will gave his condolences and received permission to take the key and address book. He went back to the Jeffries crime scene and handed the evidence off to Jim Gage, who was talking with the El Cajon technician.
“You’ll find Theodore Glenn’s prints on these,” Will said.
“He’d probably wear gloves,” Jim said.
“He doesn’t care. He knows we know it’s him. He’s already on death row. It’s a game with him, don’t forget that for a minute. His parents are both borderline deaf. He could have walked into the house while they sat watching television at ten thousand decibels, found Sherry’s address, and left without them suspecting a thing.”
“How’d he get down here so fast?” Jim asked.
“The Feds are tracking stolen cars. Glenn stole a Dodge Ram truck on Point San Pedro Road, which is on the bay north of San Quentin, dumped it in Fresno and nabbed a Honda. It was nearly out of gas in Frazier Park at the top of the Grapevine and he grabbed another truck, this time a Ford Ranger, but it was hot because the owner saw him, so he dumped it near Disneyland. The Feds aren’t so sure after that. There were six cars stolen within a two-mile radius of where the Ford was found at nine a.m. this morning.”
“So in the five hours after he dumps the truck in Anaheim, he arrives in San Diego, locates his sister, kills her, and is still at large.”
“For the time being, that just about sums it up.”
SEVEN
“An anonymous tip has led to the capture of Robert Gregory Cortez, one of the twelve convicts who escaped from San Quentin during the San Quentin earthquake forty-eight hours ago,” the newscaster said.
“Turn it up!” Will called, crossing to the stand where the break room television had been brought into the task force command center.
A cop punched the remote and the San Francisco–based newscaster said louder, “…and authorities have not released the identification of the caller, though a source close to the investigation spoke on condition of anonymity that it was in fact another escapee who detained the convict. Drew?”
“What?” Will leaned forward, temporarily forgetting his confrontation with Robin that afternoon, the murder of Sherry Jeffries, and the fact that Theodore Glenn was in his city.
The shot turned to a reporter standing outside of San Quentin State Prison where smoke still rose from the recent fire on the far side of the compound.
“Sources close to the investigation have stated that Robert Gregory Cortez was found tied to a lamppost in Vallejo, about seventeen miles northeast of San Quentin. An anonymous 911 call gave police the location of the suspect and when they arrived on the scene, they discovered Cortez beaten and naked.”
“Drew, do the police speculate as to who the tipster was?”
“No, Joan, the police are being tight-lipped not only about the tip and the capture of Cortez, but also his condition.”
“Any similarities between Cortez and the apprehension of Porter and Douglas Parks?”
“Yes, and the police refuse to comment. However, both Parks and Cortez were beaten and tied in a very public location, followed by an anonymous call to 911.”
“Vigilante?”
“The police refuse to speculate at this point, but now three of the twelve escaped convicts have been recaptured and are being processed in Alameda County, across the bay from San Quentin.”
The camera turned back to the studio and Joan said, “Cortez was sentenced to die by lethal injection for the 1998 kidnapping and murder of six young boys in the quiet community of Laguna Niguel in southern California…”
Will said, “That’s two of them captured by the same guy.”
“Could be coincidence.” The cop shrugged.
Will shook his head. “I don’t buy that.”
Carina walked into the room talking on her cell phone. “Connor, chill. She has the best security system money can buy.” She sighed. “I gotta go.”
“What’s his problem?” Will asked when she hung up. Connor was Carina’s brother and engaged to the deputy district attorney who had prosecuted Glenn, Julia Chandler.
“He’s worried about Julia. She won’t let him move in, even temporarily, until they’re married, because her niece is living with her. He now wants to elope. Mama would have a fit.”
“I’ve increased patrols in her neighborhood,” Will said. “And she’s getting a police escort to and from work every day. We have it covered, and Julia’s smart. She’s not going to do something irresponsible.”
“You know how protective Connor can be.” She glanced at the television. “What happened?”
“Another scumbag was caught. Tied to a lamppost.”
“Same as the first guy?”
“Seems like it,” Will said. “Makes you think they’re turning on each other, doesn’t it?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Carina said, flipping open her small notepad. “I finished researching the two Glenn jurors we couldn’t find this afternoon. One is now living in Arizona and one is overseas in Iraq.”
“I think that guy is safe. At least from Glenn. What about family?”
“He has none in town. His juror interview stated that he was a sophomore in college when he served and was also in the Reserves at the time. The desk sergeant is going to try to contact him and the Arizona juror, just as a heads-up.”
“Thanks.”
“You never told me how your talk with Robin McKenna went. Did you tell her about Glenn’s sister?”
Will kept his face impassive. “I was with her when I got the call.”
Carina stared at him. “You’re not telling me something. Does this have something to do with that message left at the Jeffries house?”
He didn’t answer. “I was just about to go talk to my old partner, Frank Sturgeon. Diaz couldn’t reach him yesterday, left a message.”
“I’ll join you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s already after eight. Why don’t you go home?”
“Now I know you’re hiding something from me.”
“Fine, come with me, what do I care?” He turned to the cop manning the hotline. “Any sighting, call me on my cell.”
Will drove his personal car, a black Porsche 911, over to Frank’s house, just a mile from Carina’s place. He’d bought the car five years ago at a government auction. It had been seized at a border drug raid and he’d had his eye on it the entire time it was in impound. Cost him a pretty penny, but far cheaper than on the retail market.
“You didn’t have to come,” he said to Carina.
“I know.” She paused. “You’ve been acting weird since Glenn escaped.”
“You read my case files. The guy’s a sick sociopath. He had not one ounce of remorse, not one shred of guilt. He’s the most arrogant criminal I ever met. The guy was so arrogant he
fired
Iris Jones.”
Carina turned to him. “Have you called her?”
“His defense attorney? Why would he go—” Will stopped. “Shit. I didn’t think. She wasn’t on Diaz’s list because she never actually went to trial with him.”
“I’m sure she knows, but—”
Will pulled out his cell phone, called dispatch, and got Jones’s mobile number.
“Iris Jones,” she answered in her crisp, formal style.
“It’s Detective Will Hooper with SDPD.”
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
“You heard about what happened at San Quentin.”
“Of course.”
“Theodore Glenn escaped and—”
“Detective,” Jones snapped, “if you think that I would harbor a fugitive, you are sorely mistaken. I can assure you that I have no ties to that man, nor would I harbor him, nor would I represent—”
“Iris,” Will interrupted. “I was just calling to tell you to watch your back. We have a task force here, but we’re contacting everyone involved in the case to make sure that they are taking precautions.”
Pause. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry I jumped down your throat. He fired me. I had nothing to do with his conviction.”
“He may blame you for something, we don’t know.”
“I doubt—” She paused. “Detective, I don’t scare easily, but Theodore Glenn scares me. I’ll keep an eye out.”
Theodore Glenn couldn’t help but feel superior. He’d been sitting right outside the police department for hours and they hadn’t spotted him. Either his disguise was more than adequate—he’d threaded his brown hair with gray and popped in over-the-counter contacts to change his blue eyes to brown—or the police were even dumber than he thought.
More likely, the police didn’t expect him to hang out in the middle of their own territory. They’d assume he would hide out in a motel or run for the border after taking care of Sherry. Now he needed information, but he wasn’t confident his disguise would pass intense scrutiny—if Hooper saw him, for example.
That made sitting here even more exciting.
Theodore craved adrenaline. He’d shoplifted as a child not because he needed anything, and certainly not for the attention, but for the punch of adrenaline when he staked out a shop, monitored the staff, avoided cameras, grabbed anything from candy to money in a change drawer. The activity bored him after a time, because no matter how many risks he took, he’d never been caught. He was that good.
Team sports held no allure for him. He’d tried, but he was better than everyone else and the idiot coaches would insist that everyone have a turn. Even the stupid fat-ass sissies who would run away from the ball instead of toward it. Theodore couldn’t fathom doing that for years before finally being old enough to make a team that would truly value talent.
He went for individual sports. He ran. When he came in first in any given race, it was over. Once he’d proved he was the best, there was no other place to go. He didn’t need twelve first place trophies.
He’d discovered skateboarding young, then dirt bikes, then motorbikes. His parents gave him whatever he asked for because they recognized that he was special. He could accomplish anything he set his mind to.
When he fell—and he often did at first—a rage came over him. Even when he had no injuries, his failure physically hurt, a knife twisting in his skull, telling him he
couldn’t
. Only in conquering that failure could he seize on the power that gave him the high and reward he needed.
But eventually, the adrenaline from personal achievement wasn’t enough. How many times could he sky-dive? How many times could he bungee jump off a bridge? He’d traveled all over the country seeking thrills that needed to be bigger, better, more dangerous just to get the same satisfaction.
Until he killed.
The strippers weren’t the first. The first time was two years before them. Spontaneous.
Theodore was still in law school the first time he BASE jumped, over the Royal Gorge in Colorado. The first time he jumped had been the most exhilarating experience of his life. Free-falling, before he pulled the parachute cord, Glenn felt a euphoric high that lasted for weeks. No subsequent jump gave him that intense thrill. He couldn’t go back to bungee jumping, which seemed so childish by that time, and instead tried a variety of other BASE jump locations. Nothing satisfied him, not the same way. The more he failed to get the rush, the more he craved it.
So he went back to the Royal Gorge one weekend, to regain the excitement that he was
the best
and jumped.
The thrill was gone. He might as well have been jumping off a two-story house. He’d done the Gorge once, he knew what it felt like, and the second time he felt nothing.
Nothing!
It was like being a kid again, watching the other kids laugh and play and smile and not know what the fuck they were finding so fun.
If Dirk Lofton, a prick he’d jumped with before, hadn’t walked up just then, after Theodore made a perfect landing in the Gorge, Lofton would still be alive.
“Nice landing,” Lofton said. “’Course you had perfect weather. No updrafts.”
Lofton had always been competitive. While others might have called it “friendly,” it twisted and festered in Theodore’s stomach. Churning until all he wanted to do was snap the asshole’s neck.
Picturing Lofton lying dead at his feet gave Theodore a rush. And an idea.
The next morning Lofton planned to jump. When Lofton went on his early morning run, Theodore broke into his hotel room and subtly rearranged his parachute. Lofton had packed it the night before and used his own, unique chute, so there was no way Theodore could swap it out. But moving the cords around, twisting one of the cables, that Theodore could easily manage without Lofton noticing anything amiss at a glance.
It might not work, but that was part of the thrill. The
unknown.
That Lofton might die, might live. Maybe he’d break his back and be paralyzed for the rest of his life. All because of Theodore.
He felt on top of the world. Anticipation fed his need for excitement.
Later that morning, Theodore watched Lofton from the bridge along with everyone else, a dozen or so bystanders and jumpers. The winds were whipping up, but Lofton said he could do it. Gave Theodore that dumbass smile. “You had perfect weather yesterday, Glenn. It takes
real
balls to jump today.”
Theodore grinned; pasted the
aw, shucks
look on his face. Lofton’s girlfriend Sandy patted Theodore on the back. “He’s just being a jerk. You were incredible yesterday.”
“It’s fine,” Theodore said. And it was: His heart was racing and his eyesight was clear. Everything was brighter, more brilliant. Lofton climbed onto the platform. Tested the wind. Climbed down. Checked his safety harness. He climbed back up. The wind died. Lofton jumped, perfect form. Soaring down, down, down…
“Fucking shit!” an observer shouted, though Theodore didn’t hear. He watched in ecstasy. The world stood still except for Lofton falling faster, faster, to the beat of Theodore’s raging pulse.
Lofton had pulled the chute and it tangled. He veered sharply south, falling too fast.
Sandy screamed.
Dirk Lofton hit the rocks 1,053 feet below.
Theodore bit back his smile. Pasted his look of
oh my God, I can’t believe what I saw
on his face. He was what he needed to be.
He turned to Sandy, who was in shock. Took her in his strong arms. “Don’t look,” he told her, his voice quivering—not from tears, not from fear—from intense satisfaction. The thrill!