Nothing to Hide Page 25

  At least Jerry wasn’t so angry about yesterday that he iced her out completely.

  “One week,” he said. “One week, not three. He’s escalating.”

  “Could be,” Lucy said. “But this is different.”

  “Want to bet the slug is fired from the same gun?”

  “I’m not saying a different killer. The victim is older—fifteen years older than the next oldest victim. The first three victims were in their car. This one was walking his dog. If he walked his dog the same time every night, the killer had to have known that—and in this remote area, the neighbors would notice a stranger, wouldn’t you think?”

  She remembered what Dillon had said.

  “The only thing I’m certain about is that the next victim will be a male and killed on a Friday night.”

  “We need to talk to the neighbor who found the dog. Others in the area.”

  “Is he single?”

  “Don’t know—no one mentioned a wife. But someone could have seen something—the victim was found only a thousand yards from his house.”

  “Can we get the body to our morgue?” Lucy asked. “Julie and Ash have worked on all three victims, they should have this.”

  “Yeah—my boss already worked it out with Comal County. Ash is on his way, and their coroner will transport to our morgue. It’s nice when the two sheriffs are friends, makes my job a lot easier.”

  They walked to King’s house. A deputy was standing on the small deck.

  “Where’s the dog?” Jerry asked. “We want to check him for evidence.”

  “My partner took him to the vet, sir. He was injured.”

  “How so?”

  “He was limping, and the neighbor noticed he wouldn’t put his paw down. Thinks his leg might be broken or sprained. There was some blood around his ears. Who would hurt a dog?”

  The same person who would bludgeon a middle-aged man.

  “Deputy, make sure that the vet knows to collect and preserve any evidence from the animal,” Jerry said.

  “He’s aware the dog was at a crime scene,” the deputy said.

  “Where’s the neighbor?”

  “It’s the couple to the west—Mr. and Mrs. Brown. A victim counselor is sitting with them, they were shaken when they learned their neighbor had been murdered.”

  “Thank you.” Jerry led the way to the neighbors’ house—the houses were set far apart from one another, with trees and shrubs giving more privacy. It was actually nice up here, Lucy thought—a good place to live. Half the area was privately owned, the other half a state park. Wasn’t Leo camping someplace near here? She thought it was farther to the west, where the Guadalupe River comes into the lake.

  The counselor was Rebecca Guiterrez, a petite psychologist with a soothing voice and comforting manner. She asked to speak to them before they came into the house.

  “The Browns are in their seventies, both retired, and they’ve known the victim for more than thirty years—since Mr. King moved here with his wife. They aren’t taking this well, so please consider what information you share.”

  “We’ll be sensitive,” Jerry said.

  “I’d like to sit in as well—I work with the sheriff’s department here, as well as the smaller police departments. They’ll need someone when you all leave and they don’t know what’s going on. I can be their conduit for information.”

  “Fine with us,” Jerry said.

  “Thank you.”

  She led them into the living room. The Browns sat on their couch together, holding hands. There was iced tea and coffee on the table.

  Mrs. Brown started to get up. “May I get you something? Fresh coffee?”

  “I’ll get it, Mrs. Brown,” Rebecca said. “You sit down, okay?”

  “Thank you, sweetheart. You have been so kind.”

  Rebecca went into the kitchen. Jerry said, “Rebecca said you’ve known Mr. King for a long time.”

  Mr. Brown nodded. “We’ve lived here since we built this house in the ’seventies. Victor and Margaret—Margie died three years ago, cancer. They moved in when they were married. Our kids were a bit older, our daughter babysat for them for years. We became friends. When Margie died, we had Victor over at least twice a week for dinner. Found him a new bridge partner, another widower. We’d played bridge with Victor and Margie every Thursday for as long as I can remember.”

  “I can’t believe someone would hurt him,” Mrs. Brown said.

  Rebecca came in with fresh coffee, and Lucy was immensely grateful. She accepted the mug and sipped. Strong. Just what she needed.

  “I’m from the Bexar County Sheriff’s Office, and Agent Kincaid is from the FBI. We believe that Mr. King was killed by a suspect who has taken the lives of three other men over the last two months. Have you seen or heard anything in the neighborhood that made you suspicious? An unfamiliar car? A stranger walking by?”

  They both shook their heads. “People don’t come up here much—the state park is too far, and there’s no thoroughfare. One way in, one way out,” Mr. Brown said.

  Mrs. Brown looked up at him. She was trying to say something with her expression.

  Lucy needed to know exactly what she was thinking. “Mrs. Brown? Do you know of someone who may have wanted to hurt Mr. King? Has anyone threatened him lately?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, but didn’t look Lucy in the eye.

  Mr. Brown rubbed his eyes. “This is so difficult for us right now.”

  “We understand that,” Lucy said. “Victor was your friend.”

  “He was like family,” Mrs. Brown said, her voice cracking.

  “It’s very important that we know everything about his life. Was he still working?”

  “He was only fifty-five. That’s why losing Margie was so hard on him, he expected to have her into his retirement.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He and Margie were both teachers at the high school. Margie taught advanced math, but had to leave because of cancer treatment a few years before she passed, and he teaches American history and government. I don’t think he was even thinking about retirement, he enjoyed his job and loves working with teenagers.”

  “Does he have children? Brothers or sisters?” Jerry asked.

  Again, that look.

  “Natalie is thirty, also a teacher, married to a doctor. They live in the Dallas–Fort Worth area, visit at least once a month. They have a beautiful baby girl, Maggie—Margaret, after her mother, who was born on Margie’s birthday the year after she died.” Mrs. Brown’s voice cracked.

  Rebecca said, “Can I get something, Mrs. Brown?”

  She shook her head.

  “Natalie is the only child?”

  “No,” Mr. Brown said, then nothing more.

  “Was Victor estranged from his other children?”

  “He has a son, Garrett. A year younger than Natalie. He’s not a bad kid.”

  Most adults didn’t call twenty-nine a “kid,” or lead with “He’s not a bad kid.”

  “Is he local?”

  “Garrett has had a difficult time holding down a job,” Mr. Brown said. “Victor would have been happy having his son live here, but Garrett didn’t want to do anything, just thought he could live here rent-free and not lift a finger to help.”

  “Now, he has his issues, but hear what you’re saying, honey—Garrett wouldn’t hurt his father.”

  Mr. Brown didn’t look as confident as his wife. “All I’m saying is, Garrett was really angry when Victor told him to move out. This was after Garrett lied about losing his job, then stole from him—stole from his own father.”

  “When was this?” Lucy asked.

  “Two, three months ago. End of the school year, so I would guess mid- to late June.”

  “Thank you,” Jerry said with a glance at Lucy. It was clear that he was thinking exactly what Lucy was thinking, which is what Dillon had said yesterday:

  “Something happened in the weeks or months before the fir
st murder that triggered the killer. Something where he went from anger and frustration with his life to murder.”

  * * *

  “You’re thinking, and I don’t know what,” Jerry said. They were in Victor King’s house searching for any evidence that would give them a motive, as well as where they could find his son, Garrett. “It’s clear as day that everything your shrink brother said is pretty accurate. And the evidence supports it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We find Garrett King and talk to him.”

  “Would he kick a dog? Hit a dog with a sledgehammer?”

  “I’ve seen worse.” Jerry glanced over at her. “So have you, I reckon.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Lucy hated this case. The victims were all good men who worked hard and had people who loved them.

  “Why kill Standish, James, and Garcia?” Lucy said. “It’s so … senseless.” And the theatrics. The cold-blooded murders.

  Jerry went down the hall and Lucy started looking through Victor’s desk, which was in a small open den off the family room. He had pictures of his students all over the place, and a prominent picture of his wife on his desk, where he could always see it. She was lovely, even as she aged. A framed picture of the family on vacation when the kids were teenagers showed the four at a happier time.

  A son, killing his father. It made her stomach churn. Families could love passionately—and they could hate just as passionately.

  She looked through his well-used desk calendar. The corners were frayed as if he stuffed it in a briefcase or backpack every day. In small, perfect block letters he kept a detailed accounting of his time. Doctor’s appointments, school holidays. The first day of school the last week of August was boxed in red with a star. He had staff meetings and after-school appointments; a plumber came out the week before school started. Bridge with the Browns and a guy named Eric Lopez, every other Thursday night. He had tickets to see the Astros for their last home game of the season—next week. Three months ago a contractor came for “deck replacement.” One week was marked off.

  The week after that he had an appointment with “James @ Allied” and indicated he needed to bring “tax, retirement, insurance.”

  That couldn’t be a coincidence.

  King had an old computer, but it wasn’t turned on. He was pretty old-school about his desk—such as the physical calendar—so she searched for an address book. She found it in the top right-hand drawer. Everything was organized. Some pages had business cards stapled to them. She flipped through slowly and found Steven James’s business card.

  There was nothing for Julio Garcia or Sun Tower, but she nearly jumped out of her seat when she saw the name Bill Standish, contractor—deck with his contractor’s license number written below.

  “Jerry,” she called out.

  A minute later he walked into the small den. “No sign of forced entry,” Jerry said when he entered, “though his son probably had a key. I found where Garrett has been living. Downstairs has its own entrance, a bathroom and family room. Pullout couch. A bunch of his stuff is there. I called in for a warrant. I think we have cause, the house isn’t in his name and the neighbors said he wasn’t living here, but I don’t want that bastard getting away with this if he finds himself a slimy lawyer who can twist around what’s what.”

  “I agree,” she said. “I found a connection.”

  She showed him both the desk calendar and the address book. “Nothing this year about him going to Sun Tower and Julio Garcia isn’t in his address book, but both James and Standish are—it appears James was his accountant and Standish rebuilt his deck.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Still doesn’t explain why.”

  “Does there have to be a reason? Maybe the guy has a screw loose. Maybe he’s off his meds. I had a case a few years back where this kid, twenties, was the sweetest girl you could ever meet—until she thought she was cured and stopped taking her pills. She attacked her sister with a baseball bat.”

  “These murders were well planned, not the spontaneous act of someone who is mentally unbalanced.”

  “Maybe he has a reason,” Jerry said. “Like your brother said—if the victims aren’t connected, the killer is connected in them in some way. And right now, we have three of four after just a few hours. I already put out a BOLO for Garrett King.”

  “We should call William Peterson and see what exactly Steven James did for Victor King—what kind of motive there might be for Garrett to target him.”

  “Maybe he cut him out of his will or something.” Jerry looked at his watch. “It’s still early, not even seven in the morning. I’m famished. Want to get breakfast and then we can call on Peterson?”

  “There’s one more thing in this address book we should follow up on—before he slips away.” She turned a page to face Jerry. It listed Garrett King and his current address—which had been written over a space with multiple white-outs.

  “Well, dammit, I’m going to be grouchy without food.”

  “I have energy bars in my glove compartment.”

  “Not helping.”

  * * *

  Unfortunately for the case, but fortunately for Jerry’s stomach, Garrett King wasn’t at his apartment in downtown San Antonio. Jerry called in a deputy to sit on the place and he and Lucy met at a chain diner down the street. After coffee, pancakes, and bacon, Jerry said, “I owe you an apology.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I jumped down your throat yesterday when you called me on the carpet for letting the Barton case cloud my judgment on this case. So far, everything you and your shrink brother have said has made sense. It’s common sense, but yeah, I can see the benefit of understanding the psychology behind a crime. And for a case like this—if King is guilty, the jury is going to have a hard time connecting the victims. His father, sure—wouldn’t be the first time family turned on each other. But why the others? We have to make sure the DA has a solid case to take to court. Your brother talks smart, but also in plainspeak. He must be good as an expert witness.”

  “The best,” she agreed. “I’d like to interview Garrett King. Dual interrogation.”

  “Because you’re psychic or something now? Tell if he’s guilty by looking at him?”

  “Not psychic, but interrogation is something I’m good at. Dillon says the killer won’t break—he’ll be cold, calculating, uninterested in the proceedings. Arrogant and confident that he will get off. That may be the case. We need to figure out before we go in whether he’ll respond better to a female being the good cop or the bad cop.”

  “Like George Andres and Susan Standish.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m good on the fly. Tag team it is.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Would you mind if I took a couple of hours?”

  “Family?”

  “My stepson’s soccer game. It starts at nine, and I should be able to make it before halftime.”

  “There’s not much we can do. We have people looking for King, someone sitting on his apartment, we don’t know where he works. I’ll call you when we bring him in. Plus I like to keep my suspects on ice for a while before the interview, so no need to rush back.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Saturday Mid-Morning

  Sean didn’t know how to talk to Jesse. He’d gone to school Friday, come home, and disappeared into his room. Was he avoiding Sean because he felt guilty about lying? Or was there something more going on?

  On Saturday morning Jesse had a soccer game. He was benched, but he needed to be there to support his team. He looked miserable as they drove over to a field across town.

  “Lucy might not be able to make it,” Sean said. “She was called out early this morning because there’s another victim, but she said she might be able to slip away.”

  “Same guy?”

  “They think so. She just texted me and said they have a suspect, so let’s hope they can wrap it up this weekend.” Sean didn’t like that two of
their weekends had now been taken over by this investigation. He didn’t fault Lucy for working so hard—she loved her job, and she was good at it—but he found himself relying more and more on her advice and wisdom about how to raise Jesse.

  Parenting—especially when you came into it when the kid was already half grown—was damn hard.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Jesse said quietly when they pulled into the parking lot.

  He was going to come clean. Tell him what was going on.

  “I know.”

  He waited.

  Jesse sighed. “You’re disappointed. That I can’t play.”

  What?

  “No,” he said. “I’m sorry because I know you want to play. And it’s good for you to be here and support your team. But don’t apologize for getting hurt. That wasn’t your fault, right?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Right.”

  Dammit, he wasn’t talking. He was sticking with his original story. Maybe Sean should have confronted him earlier with what he knew.

  His cell phone rang. It was Brad Donnelly. “Hey, I gotta take this. Go join your team, I’ll be out there before the game starts.”

  Jesse left the car as Sean answered.

  “Hey, Donnelly. What’s up?”

  “I need to talk to Michael Rodriguez today. I tried calling Saint Catherine’s but there’s no answer.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m pretty sure he called in an anonymous tip yesterday related to the Saints’ new distribution network. I had a team that followed up on the tip with SAPD and damn, shut it down. Missed a few people, and now I’m really worried about Michael. Did you know that Jose Torres is out of prison?”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Yeah you do. He’s Brian’s brother.”

  In the far reaches of his mind, he remembered that Brian had a brother, but he didn’t know much about him. “Aren’t you supposed to be notified when family is released?”