The Last Move
“I’m a very good reporter.”
She shook her head as she traced a small nick on the table. “You’ve done a hell of a job of researching this killer. You have an inside track on details only the cops would know. In fact, you could have pulled off a good imitation of his murders.”
A frown wrinkled his brow. “I’m one hell of a reporter, not a killer.”
“Maybe too good.” She let the word hang. “It’s almost as if you know the killer.”
He pulled off his glasses and let them dangle between his fingers. “Do you think I’m the killer?”
“I’ve read your articles. Your ability to climb into his mind is astonishing.”
He sat back. “How am I supposed to react to a statement like that?”
“Take it however you like. Denial. Outrage. I would be upset if someone thought I was involved.”
Entertained, he sipped his coffee. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“You interviewed Richardson several times in prison. Did he whisper sweet secrets in your ear?”
“No. He was quite evasive. He was using me to get his message of innocence out.”
She shook her head. “I think he gave you key details so you could stage this whole show. It’s the why that I can’t figure out.”
“You’re running down the wrong rabbit hole, Agent Hayden.” He smiled. “Can I call you Kate?”
“No.”
“Keep it formal. Maybe for the better. I reported the facts, and yes, I dug deep into a lot of facts on the Samaritan. Maybe I danced close to the line a couple of times as far as revealing too much information, but if I don’t sell my articles, then I don’t eat.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“I live and die by the numbers.”
His demeanor suggested confidence that bordered on arrogance. He gladly took shortcuts, believing the ends justified the means. One cop had said Taylor would push his own mother off a cliff for a solid lead on a story.
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“We’ve reached the end of this journey. You have nothing for me, and I’ve nothing for you.”
He looked disappointed. “Just like that? I don’t see you as the type that gives up so easily.”
“I don’t. I haven’t. I’m just finished with this conversation.”
Eyes narrowed, he shifted topics. “Gloria Sanchez doesn’t fit the profile of the first victims.”
“Really?”
“She’s a business success and well known. Not the random low-income woman that no one would miss right away.”
Kate didn’t respond.
“Have you tested ballistics? Did the same gun kill Gloria and the others? You can tell me. This is strictly off the record.”
She smiled. “No such thing as off the record. Didn’t you learn that in PR 101?”
He drew circles on his notepad. “The killer must have crossed paths with Richardson.”
She studied him, knowing he was fishing. “What other cases like the Samaritan have you covered?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Humor me.”
“At least a half dozen.”
“List ’em.”
He drew in an impatient breath. “I’ve written about several cases in the last few years. The Dollmaker. The Hangman. The San Francisco Strangler. The Soothsayer.”
The Soothsayer. Her mind grew very still even as her heart skipped a beat. “Which of the cases did you find the most fascinating?”
“All of ’em. They’re all unique in so many ways.”
“Arrests were made in each of the cases.”
“What are you getting at?” he asked.
Serial killers were addicted not just to the murder but also to recreating it over and over in their memories. Who better to share information with than a reporter?
“Just trying to figure out how much you know. You would tell me if this killer contacted you, correct?”
“Are you asking if we should work together?”
She wondered how many people he’d drawn in with that boy-next-door tone. “I work alone, Mr. North. I just want to make sure you aren’t withholding important information.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Really?”
“You’re working closely with Detective Mazur.”
North’s not-so-subtle deflection told her he was paying close attention to her. “He’s law enforcement. You’re not.”
Instead of being annoyed or put off, he grinned. “Help me and I’ll help you.”
This was a game to him. The victims were inconsequential. Simply pieces to be moved about as he saw fit.
She nodded to his cell. “Record this.”
Arching a brow, he quickly unlocked the phone and hit the “Record” button.
She leaned in and in a clear voice said, “Whoever shot Gloria Sanchez thinks he’s very clever. He thinks he can throw me off, make me guess. But he’s not that smart. He’s an amateur who gets his one rock off killing women. I’m going to enjoy locking him away.”
“Strong words.”
She rose. “Let’s see what he has to say when I arrest him. Bet he cries like a baby.”
“I’m going to use this.”
“I’m counting on it.” Kate rose, knowing the quote would win her some flak from Mazur and her boss. Fine. Playing safe rarely scored big points.
A car pulled into the driveway across the street from his house. He watched as Mrs. Hayden got out and walked with a clipped, urgent pace toward the house. She was in her late sixties now, but she had kept herself in great shape. He’d watched her long enough to know she took daily walks and often had friends over for book club or a girls night out.
He’d had surveillance cameras positioned in his yard, and they all pointed at her house. And when she’d been on vacation six months ago, he’d gotten into her home and posted more cameras. Living room. Kitchen. The bedrooms. All the bathrooms.
Surveillance told him she lived a clean and simple life. She played by the rules. She was the least likely person to be murdered by anyone.
And yet that was why she was so perfect. Her death wouldn’t be ignored. Kate Hayden would certainly notice.
As easy as it would have been to kill Sylvia Hayden, he wasn’t interested in her death. Her home was simply the bait. The one place that Kate would return to once she came back to San Antonio. Once she was in that house, he could watch her while she slept, showered, or ate.
As he sat and watched tonight, he noticed a car drive by the house. It was a beat-up truck with Utah plates. Utah. Kate had been in Utah. She’d been chasing that man who put girls in boxes. What was his name? The name danced on the tip of his tongue before it came to mind. Raymond Drexler.
Frowning, he leaned closer and watched the truck as it crept past. It circled the block, its red taillights vanishing. He sat back, wondering if he’d worried for nothing. He checked his watch. Waited.
A couple of minutes later the vehicle returned, slowing in front of Sylvia’s house almost to the point of stopping, but not quite. The driver wore a hoodie, so he couldn’t make out his face. When the truck vanished again around the block, he grabbed his keys and ran to his car. He leaned low in the seat, watching, betting and hoping that this interloper doubled back.
Sure enough, he came back for a third time. Not smart to watch so closely, but some people were amateurs.