The Man Behind the Cop

Through the glass doors, both women were aware of the blinding white flashes as a photographer worked, a counterpoint to the blue-and-white lights from the squad car. Why don’t they turn them off? Karin wondered, anger sparking. What good did they do?

Once inside, the detective walked straight to them and sank into a chair beside Karin. Turning his body so that he was facing them, he was so close to Karin his knee bumped hers and she could see the bristles on his jaw. Like most dark-haired men, he must need to shave twice a day to keep a smooth jaw. But then, this day had been longer than he could ever have anticipated.

Karin gave her head a shake. Did it matter how well groomed he was? No. Yet she couldn’t seem to discipline her thoughts. She wanted to think about something, anything, but that awful smash-squish and the sight of Lenora collapsing. Karin had never seen anyone fall like that, with no attempt to regain footing or fling out arms to break the impact. As if Lenora had already been dead, and it didn’t matter how she hit.

Detective Walker pulled a small notebook and pen from a pocket inside his leather jacket. With a few succinct questions, he extracted a bald description of events from Cecilia, then Karin.

“Thank the Lord the other women had gone,” Cecilia said with a sigh.

“Amen,” Karin breathed. Imagine if Olivia, recently raped and still emotionally fragile, had witnessed the brutal assault.

The shelter director asked, “Have you heard anything about the aunt?”

“Not yet.”

Was he worried? Karin scrutinized his face. She couldn’t be sure—she didn’t know him—but thought she saw tiny signs of tension beside his eyes, in muscles bunched in his jaw, in the way he reached up and squeezed his neck, grimacing.

“This was a bad idea,” Karin exclaimed. “To bring all these women here like…like sitting ducks! What was I thinking?”

He laid his hand over hers. “No, it was a good idea,” he reassured her quietly, those intense eyes refusing to let her look away from him. “Once Roberto knew where his wife was, it was a done deal.”

“It’s true,” Cecilia assured her. “Don’t you remember? Just last year, Janine’s boyfriend was waiting outside the shelter for her. He shot her, then himself, right there on the sidewalk. It was—” She stopped, sinking her teeth into her lip. “This could just as easily have happened at the shelter. Lenora had to go out eventually.”

Karin deliberately relaxed her hands, and he removed his. What was she doing, thinking about herself now? Her guilt could wait. Right now the children mattered; Lenora mattered. Karin was wasting this man’s time making him console her, when he should be doing something to catch Roberto.

“Do you know which hospital they took Lenora to?” she asked.

“Harborview. It’s tops for trauma.” His cell phone rang. “Excuse me.”

He stood and walked away, but not outside. Although his back was to them, Karin heard his sharp expletive. Her hand groped Cecilia’s.

Still talking, he faced them. His eyes sought out Karin’s, and she saw anger in them. It chilled her, and she gripped the director’s hand more tightly. He listened, talked and listened some more, never looking away from her.

Finally he ended the call and came back to them. Karin wasn’t sure she’d even blinked. She couldn’t tear her gaze from this man’s.

He dropped into the chair as if exhausted. “He’s already been there. The aunt’s dead. A neighbor says the uncle works a night shift. We’ll be tracking him down next. The kids are gone.”

“Oh, no,” Karin breathed, although his expression had told her what happened before he’d said a word. Cecilia exclaimed, too.

“I’m heading over there. I’m Homicide. This case—” his voice hardened “—I’m taking personally.”

“The children…” Horror seized Karin by the throat. “Does that mean they were in the car? Did they see him attack their mother?”

Detective Walker’s mouth twisted. “We don’t know yet. He had a headstart. He could have gotten there, killed the aunt and snatched the kids after leaving here.”

She heard the doubt in his voice. “But…?”

“The officers who found her haven’t found a weapon. She was battered in the head. She could be lying on it, or it might be tossed under a bush in the front yard.”

Something very close to a sob escaped Karin. “But he might have used the same tire iron.”

“Possibly.”

“I pray they didn’t see,” Cecilia whispered. “Enrico and Anna are the nicest, best-behaved children. Their faces shone for their mother.”

“Have…have you heard anything?” Karin asked. “About Lenora?”

“Nothing.” His hand lifted, as if he intended to touch her again, and then his fingers curled into a fist and he stood. Expression heavy with pity, he said, “There’s no need for you to stay.”

“I’m going to the hospital.” Karin rose to her feet, too, galvanized now by purpose, however little hovering in a hospital waiting room really served. She couldn’t save Lenora, but somebody should be there, and who else was there until family was located?

Cecilia nodded, rising, as well. “I have to go back to the shelter first and talk to the residents. I don’t want them to hear about this from anyone else. I asked staff to wait. I’ll join you as soon as I can, Karin.”

“Thank you.” Karin squeezed Cecilia’s hand one more time, then released it. She turned to the detective. “You’ll let us know?”

He nodded. “Do you have a cell phone?”

She told him her number and watched him write it down in his small, spiral notebook. And then he inclined his head, said, “Ladies,” and left.

Neither woman moved for a minute, both watching through the glass as he crossed the parking lot, spoke to officers still out there, then disappeared into the darkness.

“He’s…impressive,” Cecilia said at last.

“Yes.” Thank goodness Cecilia had no way of knowing how attracted she’d been to him from the moment she’d let him into the clinic. Embarrassed, she cleared her throat. “I hope…” She didn’t finish the thought.

Didn’t have to. Cecilia nodded and sighed. “What’s to become of those poor children?”

“Lenora has a sister in this country. She has children, too. I’m not sure whether they’re in the Seattle area.” Once they talked to Lenora’s uncle, he’d make calls.

Karin shut off lights and locked up. Activity in the parking lot had slowed and the tire iron had apparently been bagged and removed, but a uniformed officer asked that they exit carefully, pulling out so as not to drive over the crime scene. Somebody, Karin saw, was vacuuming around the bloodstain. Trace evidence could make or break a case, she knew, but how would they be able to sift out anything meaningful from the normal debris?

Following her gaze, Cecilia murmured, “What a terrible night,” and got into her van.

Karin hit the locks once she was in her car, inserted the key and started the engine, then began to shake again. She was shocked at her reaction. She’d always tended to stay levelheaded in minor emergencies, whereas other people panicked. Minor, she thought wryly, was the operative word. Bruce Walker had been angry, but utterly controlled, while here she was, falling apart.

She sat in the car for easily two minutes, until her hands were steady when she lifted them. Finally, she was able to back out, and followed the police officer’s gestures to reach the street.

At a red light, she checked to make sure her cell phone was on and the battery not exhausted. How long, she wondered, until she heard from Detective Bruce Walker? And why did it seem so important that he not delegate that call?

BRUCE HADN’T TOLD the women that what he most feared was finding Anna and Enrico Escobar dead at their father’s hand, next to his body.

Bruce had gone straight to the Lopez home, but on the way he made the necessary calls to get a warrant to go into the Escobar house. If the son of a bitch had intended to take his whole family out, it seemed logical that he’d have gone home with the kids. He might have feared being stopped in the parking lot before he finished the job.

God, Bruce hated domestic abuse cases. Every single one struck too close to home for him.

The woman who now lay dead just inside the front door looked disquietingly like her niece—unfortunately, down to the depressed skull and blood-soaked black hair. Unlike her niece, she had tried to defend herself, though. Her forearm was clearly broken.

Gazing down at her, he thought, So, Dad, what would you think of this? To keep order in his own house, does a man have the right to kill not just his wife, but her relatives, too?