The Last Move
Page 19
“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 in 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.
“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 in 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.
