The Last Move (Criminal Profiler 1)

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.

He started his car, backed out of the driveway, and followed. When the vehicle drove back toward the center of town, he was glad for the increased traffic that allowed him to go unnoticed.

Maintaining a few car lengths, he followed the truck, and when it pulled into the parking lot of a Best Texan motel, he kept driving far enough to make it look good before he doubled back on foot.

The man was large, well over six foot five, and he had a freshly shaved head. He pushed open the door to Room 304, glanced both ways, and vanished inside.

“There’s a new player in the game,” he said.

He didn’t appreciate poachers, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to share Kate with Raymond or anyone.

But as the old adage went, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

My brother is anxious to get started. But I have cautioned him to wait. None of it matters unless we have a clean sweep of the board. Patience is a virtue.

San Antonio, Texas

Wednesday, November 29, 11:00 p.m.

Kate parked in front of her mother’s home. She sat for a moment, hating that her heart was racing and her thoughts would not calm. Her mother had prepared the yard in what she had called xeriscaping. She’d switched to rocks and succulents, declaring she was done with the constant yard work. She’d had the house repainted and a new roof put on, but the one-story rancher was almost as she remembered it.

Kate continued to sit and think. Her father had been dead seventeen years, but his mark on this land hadn’t been erased. The swing he’d hung for her still dangled under the large cypress tree. The front aggregate sidewalk was still the one laid by her brother and father. And she had helped her father build the side screened porch when she was fourteen.

The memories rushed and surrounded her. They reminded her of all that had been lost and told her to run. So easy to find a hotel room. So easy to keep running. She glanced back at the waiting officer and waved before she shut off the engine.

The front porch light clicked on, and she saw the curtains move. Her mother was up and waiting, as she’d expected, and had seen her. No escape now.

She grabbed her bag and walked up the sidewalk. Her brother was good at taking care of their mother. He wore the mantle their father had left as best he could. Whereas Kate had been frozen with grief and done everything she could to avoid this place, he’d stood fast. As cold and distant as he’d been to her, he had loved their mother. She understood his anger toward her had been born in grief and fear. But, as a sister, it stung deeply.

She reached for the front door handle as she’d done every day of her childhood. She wrapped her fingers around the cool metal and hesitated. This wasn’t her home anymore. Not really. She rang the bell and stepped back.

Footsteps sounded inside, and the screened door fluttered as the door behind it opened. She tightened her hand on her strap and raised her gaze to her mother.

She’d last seen her mother in May in Chicago. Kate had flown her up to the Windy City, and they’d spent several days visiting sites and eating out. It had been nice. Until her mother had invited her home for Christmas.

Her mother was tall and kept her frame trim. She wore her thick salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a ponytail and wore jeans, a loose sweater, and boots. Her mother beamed on the other side of the screened door.

“Kate. It’s so good to see you.” She pushed open the door and wrapped her arms around Kate. Her mother still smelled of Chanel, and her arms still held her tight when she hugged. With effort, Kate relaxed her body and raised a hand to pat her mother on her back. Her mother’s grip tightened for a moment, and then she released Kate.

“You still don’t like to be hugged,” her mother said.

“When it’s you, I don’t mind.” She smiled.

The marked car slowly pulled away.

“You can kid the rest of the world, but not me.” She squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Come inside. Your room is ready.”

“I didn’t mean to surprise you like this. I can go to a hotel if I’m putting you out.”

“Kate, this is your home. You’re not putting me out. I’m glad you came. And don’t you ever ring that front bell again. Come inside!” She grinned. “When I saw you on the television, I thought you were going to sneak in and out of town without seeing me.”

“I almost did.”

Her mother laughed. “I do love your honesty. Are you hungry?”

“I am.”

“Skipping meals isn’t good for you, Kate.”

“You sound like the local cop I’m working with. He’s always trying to feed me.”

“I like the man already.” Her mother arched a brow. “Change clothes and I’ll make you scrambled eggs and a bagel, no butter, light on the cream cheese.”

The knot inside her eased a little. “Thanks, Mom.”

She moved toward her room, passing a family picture that hung in the hallway. It was the last family picture with her father. She was smiling, but like all her smiles, it was a bit flat. The others were grinning. She remembered the day the photo was taken. Her brother had been tugging on the end of her hair, doing his best to stoke her temper. She’d yelled. Her father had said something about putting his foot up asses if they didn’t settle down.

“Mitchell and Kate, knock it off.”

“They’re too much alike,” her mother had said.

“They’re night and day,” her father countered.

Her brother had glanced at her but hadn’t said a word. She knew he was glad they weren’t alike. She’d been about sixteen with no friends or a social life outside of chess club.

Her room was exactly as it had been when she was a teenager. A simple blush quilt lay on the double bed with the wrought-iron frame. No stuffed animals, dolls, or even extra pillows. A painting of mountains she’d done in art class. Her wooden desk with a clean blotter, pencils still sharp, notebook centered as it had been in college. Her chess set remained on an end table, the pieces still in midplay.

She c

arefully unpacked, hung up her clothes, and plugged her phone in by the nightstand. She laid out running shorts, top, and shoes in anticipation of rising early and going out in the morning. And she set out the clothes she’d wear tomorrow. Some things never changed.

After putting on sweats and a T-shirt, she slipped on flip-flops and moved down the hallway into the kitchen. Her mother was standing at the stove scrambling three eggs. Bagel slices warmed in the toaster.

Kate sat at the table and resisted the urge to dab at a couple of stray crumbs. There’d been lots of family dinners at this table. They’d been wild, raucous affairs with her brother, and though she’d always been quiet, she could always hold her own. She glanced toward the seat at the head of the table that had been her father’s. Her chest tightened. Guilt tugged at her.

“Why haven’t you redone my room?”

“Don’t know. Maybe I always held out hope you’d come back and would want something from it.”

She’d never wanted to come back, but now that she was here, she found an odd comfort that her room had remained the same. “You should remodel it, Mom. Or better, find a new place to live. Don’t you want to get out of the suburbs and live where there’s more to do?”

“There’s plenty to do here.”

“Mom, is it really good for you to stay here?”

“I like being around my memories. Maybe that isn’t the most ideal, but I like it. It’s peaceful. Lots of friends.”

Her mother set the eggs and bagel in front of her and sat at the table, sipping coffee and allowing her daughter to eat. Kate had loved these moments when she was a kid. Her mother understood her need for silence and yet was still content to be with her daughter.

“I saw you on the news,” her mother said. “You were front and center at this conference.”

“San Antonio had a shooting that was identical to the Samaritan killings. The local jurisdiction contacted me, and I’ve been investigating the case with a local detective.”

“You arrested the Samaritan months ago.”

“This killer knows intimate details of the other Samaritan murders.”

Her mother studied her, shaking her head. “I was married to a prosecutor for twenty-eight years and have given birth to two cops. I know when one of you is holding back. What aren’t you telling me?”