“Of course.” Within minutes, they were on the interstate headed south.
As Mazur raced down the highway, Kate’s phone rang. “My partner. I’ve got to take this.” She hit “Receive.” “Mike. Do you have Raymond Drexler?”
As she listened, the color faded from her face. “Thanks. Keep me posted.” She ended the call clutching the phone in her hand.
“What’s going on?” Mazur asked.
“Nevada received a call from a truck stop in southern New Mexico. The manager saw Drexler’s picture in the news, and he swore Drexler came into his store. Said he bought a razor and shaving cream. Nevada checked the store security-camera footage, and it offered a clear shot of Drexler’s face. My partner was calling me from a shower room reserved for the truckers at the site. There was hair in one of the shower stalls. Color fits Drexler. Plenty of samples for DNA testing.”
“New Mexico. He could go any number of places from there. Any idea where he’s headed?”
“My partner thinks he’s coming south. I’ve been in the news, and I ruined Drexler’s horror show at his farm.”
He glanced toward her as she stared out the window. “Cool as a cucumber.”
“Getting upset is a waste of time.”
He gripped the wheel. “I’ve seen some bad stuff, but this guy is really twisted. I don’t think I could be as calm as you.”
“You would do whatever you had to do to catch him, yes?”
“Then if you needed to be calm, you would be.”
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
San Antonio, Texas
Wednesday, November 29, 3:00 p.m.
Kate struggled to stay relaxed as Mazur wove in and out of traffic. Mazur was silent as he punched the accelerator, and they traveled down the interstate at eighty-plus miles an hour with dash lights flashing.
Ahead she saw the lights and the police cars lined up along the side of an access road that ran parallel to the interstate. Dust kicked up as Mazur nosed his car behind the forensic van. They got out of the car and met by the hood as Mazur surveyed the area.
“A woman has been stabbed and dumped in this field,” Palmer said as she moved toward them. She’d removed her jacket and rolled up her sleeves. Sunglasses tossed back the sun’s reflection. Her black boots were covered with red dust.
Mazur accepted a set of rubber gloves from Palmer. “Do you have an ID on the victim?”
“We found her purse in the car. Driver’s license identifies her as Rebecca Kendrick, age twenty-six.”
“Rebecca?” Mazur asked.
Palmer nodded. “Yeah, what are the chances that Martin’s alleged girlfriend would also be named Rebecca?”
Mazur rested his hands on his hips. “What can you tell me about this Rebecca?”