The Man Behind the Cop

Not that his own mother was dead, although she seemed more ghostlike than real to Bruce.

He had barely time for a quick evaluation of the Lopez murder scene before the warrant for a search of the Escobar house came through. Wishing Molly were with him, he snagged a uniformed officer to accompany him to the Escobars’.

They turned off headlights and coasted to a stop at the curb in front of the small place, but the minute Bruce saw that it was dark he knew they’d find it empty. The front door, he discovered after one hard knock, wasn’t even locked. No, Escobar hadn’t worried about protecting his possessions.

Walking through, Bruce tried to decide whether the place had an air of abandonment because Lenora had moved out with the kids, or Roberto Escobar, too, had departed with no intention of returning.

Near the telephone in the kitchen, a fist-size hole was punched in the wall. Plaster dust littered the otherwise clean countertop. Had Lenora laid the note here, by the phone, telling her husband she’d left him? One of the kitchen chairs was also smashed, and lay in the corner behind the table. Roberto had read the note, thrown a temper tantrum and sworn he’d find his wife and punish her.

It was hard to tell in the small master bedroom whether he’d packed. Lenora hadn’t taken all her clothes, and some of his hung in the closet, as well. But Bruce found no coats and, more tellingly, no shaving kit or toothbrush in the bathroom. The tiny bedroom the children had apparently shared looked as though a burglar had ransacked it. Maybe Escobar had been trying to find a few toys and clothes for his kids.

Bruce poked into the single, detached garage and down in the dank, unfinished basement just in case, before finally sealing the property with tape. He’d come back tomorrow, in better light, to see what else he could learn. Right now, he was glad to have found the place deserted. That gave him hope that Escobar intended to run with the children, not murder them out of spite.

But there was no guarantee they wouldn’t find the bodies in his car, parked in some alley, or…It was the “or” that stopped Bruce. He hated knowing so little. He couldn’t even speculate on where Escobar might go to hide or to commit suicide.

Because he couldn’t resist the temptation, Bruce called to let Karin Jorgensen know they hadn’t located Escobar and to find out whether she’d gotten any word on the wife’s condition.

“She’s out of surgery, but in a coma. They…don’t sound hopeful.”

He wasn’t hopeful, either. He’d seen Lenora Escobar’s head, and the blood, bone splinters and other tissue on the tire iron. He wondered whether they ought to be hoping she didn’t survive. He, for one, wouldn’t want to wake up at all if it meant living in a vegetative state or anything approaching one. He wasn’t sure it would be much better if she woke up clear and present to be told that her aunt had been murdered and her children taken by the violent man Lenora had fled.

“Do me a favor and think back to anything Lenora ever told you that would suggest a place Escobar might go to ground. Does he have family in this country? In Mexico? Did she talk about friends? Hell, I don’t suppose they have a summer cabin.”

“No, I’m pretty sure they weren’t in that economic stratum. Uh…” She sounded muzzy, not surprising given that it was—Bruce glanced at his watch—3:00 a.m. Likely her adrenaline hadn’t yet allowed her to curl up in the waiting room and conk out.

“She didn’t talk about friends,” Karin continued. “I don’t think he encouraged them, at least not for her. Maybe not for him, either. He was jealous, of course. He’d imagine any other man would be coveting her, I’m afraid. As for family—his mother used to live with them, but she decided to go back to Mexico last year.” Silence suggested Karin was thinking. “Chiapas. That’s what Lenora said. Roberto was mad that she went.”

“Chiapas.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “So I suppose it’s reasonable that he might run for Mexico.”

“Maybe. But how would even a mother take the news that he’d killed his wife—tried to kill his wife,” she corrected herself, a hitch in her voice, “and murdered his wife’s aunt?”

“Depends on the mother. I’ve met some crazy ones.”

“You mean, the ones who pay a hit man to knock off the judge or prosecutor?”

“Or a rival cheerleader,” he noted dryly.

“Well…yes. But I had the impression Mama had thrown up her hands over Roberto. There was another son, if I remember right, still in Chiapas. But Roberto was the elder, so of course he thought she should stay here.”

“What—to babysit and keep a stern eye on his wife?” Bruce loosed a tired sigh. “No sign he’s bought airline, Amtrak or bus tickets, and we’ve got the state patrol here and in Oregon watching for his car. Sounds like it’s a beater, though. I doubt he’d make it all the way to the border, never mind damn near to Guatemala. I think you’re right about the economic stratum.” He paused. “How’d she pay for the sessions with you?”

“Department of Social and Health Services program. When a woman or child needs us, we find funding.”

“Ah.” He softened his voice. “You should get some sleep, Ms. Jorgensen.”

“Karin.”

“Karin. The night’s not done.”

“No.” Her breathing told him she hadn’t hung up. “I just keep thinking…”

Understanding stabbed him. “You’ve never been assaulted?”

“No. And now I’m thinking how—how glib I must have sounded to women who have. Ugh.”

God. Here he’d considered her as a colleague, in a sense, who’d seen it all. Of course she hadn’t. She’d only heard it all.

“I’ve been told by people who know that you and your colleagues at A Woman’s Hand are the best. I doubt you’ve been glib.”

Even through the phone line, her exhalation sounded ragged. “Thank you for that. And for calling. Oh. Have you talked to Lenora’s sister yet?”

“Sorry. I meant to say that first. They’re in Walla Walla. Asparagus harvest. No phone—I had to send an officer around. But they’re on their way. What is it—a three-, four-hour drive? They should be at the hospital by dawn.”

“Thank goodness. When Lenora wakes up…”

An optimist. He’d guessed she would be. He was well aware that he’d be wasting his breath to suggest she go home and go to bed. She felt responsible, justly or not, and wouldn’t let herself off the hook. Lenora wouldn’t know Karin was holding vigil, but Karin did, and would think less of herself if she didn’t.

There wasn’t much more he could do tonight. He’d sent officers out to canvass near neighbors to Julia and Mateo Lopez shortly after the body was found. None had heard a thing. Evidence techs had taken over the house and were still working. He wouldn’t get results from the crime lab on exactly whose blood was on the tire iron until tomorrow at best. He knew damn well what the results would be, given that no weapon had been located in or near the Lopez home.

There was a limit to how much he could do before morning to find Escobar’s rat hole, either. He’d put out the description of the vehicle and the license number, but not until tomorrow would he be able to access bank records or speak to co-workers and—if any existed—friends. Mateo was so distraught he’d had to be sedated. Bruce hadn’t gotten much out of him, not once he’d been told about his wife.

Resisting the temptation to drive to Harborview and keep Karin Jorgensen company in the waiting room, Bruce went home. Tomorrow would be a long day. He’d done what he could tonight to set a manhunt in motion. Now he needed a few hours of downtime.

Funny thing, how he fell asleep picturing Karin Jorgensen. Not with her face distraught, but from earlier in the evening, when she’d still been able to smile.

CHAPTER THREE

BRUCE SLEPT for four hours and awoke Tuesday morning feeling like crap. He grunted at the sight of his face in the mirror and concentrated after that on the path of the electric razor, not on the overall picture. Coffee helped enough that he realized the ring of the telephone had awakened him. He checked voice mail, and found a message from Molly.

“Houston, we have a launch. Baby Elizabeth Molly—yes, named for me—was born at 5:25 this morning. While you were no doubt sleeping, ah, like a baby.”

Ha! He grinned.

“Since I didn’t have an indolent eight hours of beauty sleep,” she continued, “I’m taking Fiona and baby home and crashing—Elizabeth Molly permitting—in Fiona’s guest room.” As an obvious afterthought, she added, “Hope the self-defense workshop went well.” Beep.

Oh, if only you knew.

He skipped breakfast, figuring to get something out of the vending machine at the hospital.

Karin had gone home, he found, and was surprised at his disappointment. Instead, the waiting room was filled with Lenora Escobar’s extended family. The sister and husband and their brood of five children, and one of the Lopez’s four grown children with his wife. Lenora, he was told, was still unresponsive in ICU.

He asked to speak privately with Lenora’s sister and her husband, and took them to a smaller room likely saved by hospital officials for the grave business of telling family a loved one hadn’t made it. Tending to claustrophobia, Bruce left the door open.

Yolanda spoke English well, her husband less so. They switched to Spanish, in which Bruce had become fluent on the job. He’d started with Seattle PD on a beat in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood, building on his high-school Spanish.

Both told him that they had always thought Roberto was scum. “Pah!” Alvaro Muñoz declared. “You could see the bruises, how frightened she was of him. But she lied to make us believe everything was fine. Only recently…” A lean, mustachioed man, he hesitated, glancing at his wife.

“She told me she was going to leave him. She said so on the phone. She lowered her voice, so I think maybe he was home. She said she’d call when she got to the safe house.” She bit her lip in distress. “Did he hear when she told me?”