The Last Move
Page 60
Martin sighed. “I asked, of course. She said she never really knew her father. She was born out of wedlock and was deeply troubled by that.” He dropped his head into his hands. “It’s not what you think about Rebecca and me.”
Kate softened her voice. “How was it?”
When he looked up at them, tears glistened in his eyes. “I loved Rebecca. I wanted to marry her. But she was worried about hurting Gloria. She actually liked Gloria and appreciated all that she’d done for her.” He wiped away a tear. “Who would kill her?”
“We’re still trying to figure that out. Have you made funeral arrangements for your wife?” Kate asked.
“Yes.” He lifted his chin a notch. “The service will be on Saturday afternoon.”
It wasn’t her place to judge Sanchez, but given that he’d lost two women he’d loved in a matter of days, it was hard not to acknowledge his pain. “If we learn anything new, I’ll call.”
Martin sank back into his chair looking lost and broken.
“Should I call your daughter, Isabella?” Kate asked.
“Isabella,” he whispered. “Thank God I still have her.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she said.
Kate and Mazur left him, neither speaking as they made their way to his car. Twenty minutes later, they arrived in their precinct conference room. Her father’s murder files were waiting for them. “You sure you don’t want me to go through them first?” he asked.
“No.”
He angled his head. “But this is very personal.”
Her backpack slid from her shoulder to a chair. She traced her finger over the murder book. “I’ll be fine.”
He jabbed his thumb toward the door. “I’ll be right back with coffee. And if I can score a doughnut or two, I’ll grab them.”
“Thank you.”
When the door closed behind him, she sat in front of the book. Carefully she smoothed her hand over the vinyl top. She drew in a breath and opened it.
The first page was a form that detailed the basics of the case. If she didn’t look at her father’s name, then she could distance herself from the facts as she had done so many times before.
When she turned the page, there was a series of sketches done by the investigators. The crude drawings showed the parking lot, the position of their car in relation to the two others in the lot, and the buildings that ringed the area. And, of course, the alley where the shooter had been waiting.
The next page was the autopsy report, and this time she could not control the rush of emotion that burned through her body. Unshed tears stung her eyes and her hands trembled as she skimmed over the autopsy pages to the notes she hoped were still there.
When she saw the two handwritten letters addressed to her, she could only stare. It took several deep breaths before her heart steadied.
She read the first note:
Katie;
I love you. You’re my Angel of Mrcy. Please call me. I’m not bad. I am good. Without you, I am weak and broken.
William
Clearing her throat, she read the second:
Katie;
Your enduring silence left me in darkness; but now it makes me angry. I know now everything you told me was a lie. Everything we shared was an illusion. You don’t deserve to live.
William
She wasn’t sure how long she stared at the precise lettering written in blue ink on white linen paper. She didn’t even hear the conference door open and close.
“Kate.”
She flinched at the sound of Mazur’s voice. She looked up as he set down the brown to-go cup holder nestling two coffees and two glazed doughnuts.
“Sorry, I was lost in thought.”
Mazur looked toward the open book and the letters. “Bauldry wrote those to you?”
“Yes.”
“When did you give them to the cops?”
“Not until after my father was shot.”
“Why did you keep them a secret?”
“I was embarrassed. I had thought William was so good and wonderful, and then to find out I had been so wrong. What a fool.”
“Nothing in those letters said he planned to hurt you?”
“No. He never said outright that he wanted me dead.”
“So you’ve made a career out of finding the meaning in words.”
“More or less.”
He pulled out a chair beside her and handed her a cup of coffee and a doughnut. “So what does the note tell you now?”
“William Bauldry sent this latest Samaritan note to the police.”
“How do you know that?”
“He uses the term Angel of Mrcy in his letters. And just like the letter he wrote to me all those years ago, misspelled it. The use of the semicolon after my name, which isn’t a common punctuation mark to use, is consistent with the letters to me. And look at the use of the contractions. He doesn’t contract pronoun and verb when he speaks about himself in the positive, and when he speaks in the negative it is contracted.”
“He tried to fool us.”
“Or he’s simply testing me. He knows this is my job. This is what I do. He’s playing a game. He has now maneuvered me into this room, and I have relived the worst moment of my life.”
Mazur closed the book. “I’m going to enjoy seeing this asshole behind bars.”
“Not the descriptor I’d use, but I agree.”
When Drexler pushed through the motel room door, it was two o’clock in the afternoon and he was dog-ass tired. He’d had enough energy to find the Hayden house, and as much as he’d wanted to park and wait for her, he knew that was a sure way to get caught.
He’d slept in New Mexico, but the handful of hours hadn’t been enough to chase away the fatigue that had been dogging him for weeks. And now that he was in the city and around so many young girls, it would be even harder to slow down and rest.
All he could think about was making a box and locking one of the women inside. At first, they always screamed and pounded against the wood. They’d beg, plead. And finally, the pounding would soften to scratching, and then there’d be silence.
And when he finally opened the box and peered inside after a couple of days, none of ’em had much fight left in them. Instead, they were all so damn grateful for the scraps of food and the sips of water. Of course, he did put them back. Usually by the third time he took them out to play, he didn’t have to ask for their compliance. They gave it willingly.
Grateful.
That’s what he liked. The pure gratitude for each and every kind act he granted. And when he pulled the girls out of the box and asked them to spread their legs, they didn’t fight or fuss. They were willing to do anything so that he didn’t put them back in the box.
Of course, he always did. He let them out and played with them when it suited, and when they were no longer of interest to him, he just left them in the box and let nature take its course.
He sat on the edge of the bed and reclined back, releasing a sigh. As tired as he was, he was also hungry. There was a diner right across the street, but he needed to be careful. He looked different enough, but that didn’t mean he was safe.
His motel phone rang and he jumped. He’d ditched his cell in Utah, and no one knew he was here. He let the phone ring eight or nine times before it stopped. He moved to the side of the bed and sat down, staring at the phone, still afraid to pick it up.
As the seconds passed and the tension ebbed, the phone rang again. Tensing, he picked up the receiver. “Yeah.”
Kate softened her voice. “How was it?”
When he looked up at them, tears glistened in his eyes. “I loved Rebecca. I wanted to marry her. But she was worried about hurting Gloria. She actually liked Gloria and appreciated all that she’d done for her.” He wiped away a tear. “Who would kill her?”
“We’re still trying to figure that out. Have you made funeral arrangements for your wife?” Kate asked.
“Yes.” He lifted his chin a notch. “The service will be on Saturday afternoon.”
It wasn’t her place to judge Sanchez, but given that he’d lost two women he’d loved in a matter of days, it was hard not to acknowledge his pain. “If we learn anything new, I’ll call.”
Martin sank back into his chair looking lost and broken.
“Should I call your daughter, Isabella?” Kate asked.
“Isabella,” he whispered. “Thank God I still have her.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she said.
Kate and Mazur left him, neither speaking as they made their way to his car. Twenty minutes later, they arrived in their precinct conference room. Her father’s murder files were waiting for them. “You sure you don’t want me to go through them first?” he asked.
“No.”
He angled his head. “But this is very personal.”
Her backpack slid from her shoulder to a chair. She traced her finger over the murder book. “I’ll be fine.”
He jabbed his thumb toward the door. “I’ll be right back with coffee. And if I can score a doughnut or two, I’ll grab them.”
“Thank you.”
When the door closed behind him, she sat in front of the book. Carefully she smoothed her hand over the vinyl top. She drew in a breath and opened it.
The first page was a form that detailed the basics of the case. If she didn’t look at her father’s name, then she could distance herself from the facts as she had done so many times before.
When she turned the page, there was a series of sketches done by the investigators. The crude drawings showed the parking lot, the position of their car in relation to the two others in the lot, and the buildings that ringed the area. And, of course, the alley where the shooter had been waiting.
The next page was the autopsy report, and this time she could not control the rush of emotion that burned through her body. Unshed tears stung her eyes and her hands trembled as she skimmed over the autopsy pages to the notes she hoped were still there.
When she saw the two handwritten letters addressed to her, she could only stare. It took several deep breaths before her heart steadied.
She read the first note:
Katie;
I love you. You’re my Angel of Mrcy. Please call me. I’m not bad. I am good. Without you, I am weak and broken.
William
Clearing her throat, she read the second:
Katie;
Your enduring silence left me in darkness; but now it makes me angry. I know now everything you told me was a lie. Everything we shared was an illusion. You don’t deserve to live.
William
She wasn’t sure how long she stared at the precise lettering written in blue ink on white linen paper. She didn’t even hear the conference door open and close.
“Kate.”
She flinched at the sound of Mazur’s voice. She looked up as he set down the brown to-go cup holder nestling two coffees and two glazed doughnuts.
“Sorry, I was lost in thought.”
Mazur looked toward the open book and the letters. “Bauldry wrote those to you?”
“Yes.”
“When did you give them to the cops?”
“Not until after my father was shot.”
“Why did you keep them a secret?”
“I was embarrassed. I had thought William was so good and wonderful, and then to find out I had been so wrong. What a fool.”
“Nothing in those letters said he planned to hurt you?”
“No. He never said outright that he wanted me dead.”
“So you’ve made a career out of finding the meaning in words.”
“More or less.”
He pulled out a chair beside her and handed her a cup of coffee and a doughnut. “So what does the note tell you now?”
“William Bauldry sent this latest Samaritan note to the police.”
“How do you know that?”
“He uses the term Angel of Mrcy in his letters. And just like the letter he wrote to me all those years ago, misspelled it. The use of the semicolon after my name, which isn’t a common punctuation mark to use, is consistent with the letters to me. And look at the use of the contractions. He doesn’t contract pronoun and verb when he speaks about himself in the positive, and when he speaks in the negative it is contracted.”
“He tried to fool us.”
“Or he’s simply testing me. He knows this is my job. This is what I do. He’s playing a game. He has now maneuvered me into this room, and I have relived the worst moment of my life.”
Mazur closed the book. “I’m going to enjoy seeing this asshole behind bars.”
“Not the descriptor I’d use, but I agree.”
When Drexler pushed through the motel room door, it was two o’clock in the afternoon and he was dog-ass tired. He’d had enough energy to find the Hayden house, and as much as he’d wanted to park and wait for her, he knew that was a sure way to get caught.
He’d slept in New Mexico, but the handful of hours hadn’t been enough to chase away the fatigue that had been dogging him for weeks. And now that he was in the city and around so many young girls, it would be even harder to slow down and rest.
All he could think about was making a box and locking one of the women inside. At first, they always screamed and pounded against the wood. They’d beg, plead. And finally, the pounding would soften to scratching, and then there’d be silence.
And when he finally opened the box and peered inside after a couple of days, none of ’em had much fight left in them. Instead, they were all so damn grateful for the scraps of food and the sips of water. Of course, he did put them back. Usually by the third time he took them out to play, he didn’t have to ask for their compliance. They gave it willingly.
Grateful.
That’s what he liked. The pure gratitude for each and every kind act he granted. And when he pulled the girls out of the box and asked them to spread their legs, they didn’t fight or fuss. They were willing to do anything so that he didn’t put them back in the box.
Of course, he always did. He let them out and played with them when it suited, and when they were no longer of interest to him, he just left them in the box and let nature take its course.
He sat on the edge of the bed and reclined back, releasing a sigh. As tired as he was, he was also hungry. There was a diner right across the street, but he needed to be careful. He looked different enough, but that didn’t mean he was safe.
His motel phone rang and he jumped. He’d ditched his cell in Utah, and no one knew he was here. He let the phone ring eight or nine times before it stopped. He moved to the side of the bed and sat down, staring at the phone, still afraid to pick it up.
As the seconds passed and the tension ebbed, the phone rang again. Tensing, he picked up the receiver. “Yeah.”
