The Last Move
“Richardson is in jail. He had nothing to do with this case.”
“The gun Richardson used is still missing. Where is it?”
Again Westin was silent, weighing his words. This man knew how to deal.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Take the death penalty off the table.”
She nodded as understanding dawned. He’d come here to offer her information, but he didn’t give anything for free. “You’ll be the high-priced lawyer that keeps a monster like Richardson alive. Granted, Richardson will spend the rest of his life in prison, but he will be alive.”
“It’s not a perfect victory but the best I can get.”
“The final sentencing is a promise I can’t make, but I would speak to the prosecutors about it.”
“That’s not much of a guarantee.”
She shook her head. “Best I got. Have you been in contact with Bauldry?”
“Not him.”
The added emphasis on the pronoun caught her attention. He’d not seen Bauldry, but he was opening the door for her to ask about others. She scrolled through the pictures on her phone to Gloria Sanchez. “What about this woman? Have you seen her?”
Westin looked at the picture. He shifted his stance, and his left hand flexed into a loose fist. “She was the woman shot.”
His tone changed just enough for her to know she was on the right path. “She was also William Bauldry’s half sister. And she visited him in prison quite often. Is she your client?”
“No.”
“So no privileges will be violated.”
He drew in another breath. “I was in possession of a key, most likely to some kind of locker. My client said if anyone came by asking for it to hand it over. She came by my office six months ago and asked for it.”
She thought about the missing gun. Richardson had stashed it somewhere. “What was in the locker?”
“I don’t know. I only gave her the key.”
She couldn’t prove it, but she could reasonably argue that Richardson had stashed the gun in the locker, told Bauldry about it, and Bauldry had sent Gloria to retrieve it.
“That’s it?” she asked.
“That’s all I have.”
“All right.”
“You’ll speak to the prosecutors?”
“I will.” She left him in the lobby, and as she climbed the stairs she glanced at her phone. One missed call from Nevada. She dialed his number.
Nevada answered on the first ring. “I think you’re right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I tracked Drexler to a motel room in San Antonio. We just got in the room, and I’m staring at what he left behind. You need to come see this,” Nevada said.
“Give me the address,” she said. “I’ll leave right now.”
Kate relayed what was happening to Mazur, and minutes later they were in his car headed across town. When they rolled up to the motel, there were three black FBI SUVs nosed in at the far end of the parking lot.
She stepped out of the car, headed toward the room that was now roped off with crime-scene tape. She hurried toward the yellow barrier and, flashing her badge at an agent, ducked under it.
Nevada’s tall frame and broad shoulders dominated the small seedy room furnished with a low double bed, a faded brown comforter, and a box television. Pizza boxes were scattered around the floor along with a dozen crushed beer cans.
“Nevada, what do you have?” she asked.
“He was here. No one seems to know when he left, but the clerk said he’s paid up for the motel room through tomorrow, so he might be back.”
Kate shook her head. “He’s not coming back.”
“The manager said he had a visitor yesterday. While he was inspecting the ice machine down the hall, he saw a Caucasian male, early thirties, dark hair, at Drexler’s door with a couple of pizzas and a twelve-pack of beer,” Nevada said.
“The description could be William,” she said. “But they don’t know each other. The description could be any one of a thousand other guys in this city.”
“If William has been watching you,” Mazur said, “he would notice if someone else was stalking you.”
Nevada nodded. “He spotted Drexler.”
“They’re both interested in the same woman,” Mazur said.
“There’s one way to find out,” Kate said. “Where’s the manager?”
“Over there.” Nevada nodded toward a slim man with graying hair and a full mustache.
She hurried toward the man and introduced herself. Not caring about small talk, she showed him a picture of Bauldry. “Have you seen this man?”
The manager sniffed as he studied the picture. “That’s the guy I saw.”
“You saw this man talking to Mr. Drexler?”
The manager shifted his stance. “I don’t know no names. I just know that’s the guy who brought the pizza and beer to the man the Feds are looking for.”
“Thanks.” She returned to Mazur and Nevada. “He just identified Bauldry.”
Mazur’s jaw tightened. “How the hell would they hook up?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But we need to assume they’re working together now.”
“I can call a forensic team and have them here ASAP,” Mazur said.
The forensic team could pull Drexler’s and possibly Bauldry’s DNA from the room. No one came into a room or left it without leaving trace evidence. But forensics took time. And in a hotel room there would be dozens of DNA samples from other guests as well as the maid service. Days to collect it and days to analyze it.
The hotel room telephone rang. Kate crossed the room and answered it. “Yes.”
“This is William.” His voice was soft, almost a little breathless.
“William,” she said, loudly enough to get Mazur’s attention.
Mazur moved toward her and had her tip the phone out a fraction so he could hear.
“Where are you?”
“I’m back in San Antonio, Katie. What’s the problem?”
“How did you get this number?”
“Is that the most burning question you have for me?”
Mazur moved out of the room, his cell pressed to his ear as he requested a trace on the call.
She hesitated. “Tell me where you are.”
“What’s the fun in that?”
“William,” she said, dropping her voice. “This has to stop. We have to meet. I want to see you. It’s important for me to be with you. There was a time when we loved each other.”
Silence crackled over the line.
“William, are you there?”
“You drive me crazy, Katie. You always have. If I could just put my problems in a box and bury them, I might feel like myself again.”
The words box and bury rattled in her head. She met Mazur’s gaze as he came into the room. “I need to be with you, William.”
“Maybe tomorrow, Katie,” he said. “Come by my house in the morning.”
“What’s wrong with now?” she pressed.
“I’m tired. And I have work to do. In the morning.”
The line went dead.
“What the hell does he have to do?” she whispered. Her gut tightened, and she could feel her core temperature drop. “He said he wished he could put his problems in a box and bury them.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”