Killer Heat

5

Someone was out late.

Smiling at the fact that he’d caught Butch yet again, Dean stood at the back of the house, scuffing his shoe against the hard patch of dirt where his brother-in-law usually parked his big red truck under a metal carport. He could still smell the exhaust of the diesel fuel, could make out a dark spot on the ground where the engine had leaked oil. In the moonlight, it looked like blood….

So where was Butch this time? The way he’d pawed through Francesca Moretti’s purse after Paris went to bed made it all too easy to guess. He was going to pay the private investigator a visit. Paris had to know he was going, too, but she was turning a blind eye. Again.

The fact that she refused to see what Butch really was drove Dean crazy. Well, crazier than he already was, he thought, and chuckled at his own joke.

“You’re a bad boy, Butch,” he whispered into the darkness. “Such a bad, bad boy.” But Butch definitely made life interesting. Dean had to give him that.

Feeling safer than when his brother-in-law was stalking around the place acting like the king of all he surveyed—his sister’s husband was such a Neanderthal—Dean walked around the front of the house to the gate, took the key from his pocket and let himself into the salvage yard. Ever since he was a child and his parents took him to see a magic act where the magician could escape anything, no matter the lock, he’d been fascinated by the concept and spent hours on the Internet, learning to pick locks himself. But it was trial and error that had made him good. He could’ve picked this lock instead of using a key. He did it all the time, just to keep his skills well-honed. But he wasn’t in the mood for a challenge. It was tougher than any house lock he’d ever encountered.

Demon barked, but only to say hello. The noise wasn’t anything that would rouse the fam. He barked worse than that at a squirrel or a lizard.

“Hey, boy. How are you tonight?” Dean stopped long enough to give the dog a scratch. As friendly as Demon was to him, the sheer power in his body reminded Dean too much of Butch. He didn’t want to think about the damage either of them could cause if they really wanted.

Inhaling the warm night air, he closed his eyes to savor the unique scent of the yard—desert, metal, animals, residual cigarette smoke, motor oil. He liked all those smells. This was where he felt the best. These acres were more exciting to him than Disneyland to a kid, especially when it was late and Butch was gone. Then Dean had the run of the place.

Mentally skimming through the list of the various hidey-holes he’d created over the years, he tried to decide where he wanted to spend his time tonight. But he immediately chose the same thing he’d been doing every night, at least lately—searching for Butch’s cache of women’s underwear. There had to be one here somewhere. He’d seen several pairs under the seat of Butch’s truck or hidden in his office, where Paris was less likely to come across them. If Dean had his guess, they were trophies and went into some sort of collection. And he was dying to see how many there actually were.

So where should he start? The old boxcar? The cellarlike space he’d dug beneath the shed? The cavity he’d tunneled out of the junk heap along the back fence? That pile of oil barrels had been there since Dean was three or four years old….

The yard had so many titillating secrets, didn’t it? And, like the underwear cache he hoped to find, the best of those secrets were thanks to Butch.

Take the body in that old freezer. Julia. The young runaway who’d lived with them for a few months. Dean hated that she was dead. He’d liked her when she was alive. But there was some comfort in knowing she’d never leave him.

He figured he’d keep her company while he waited for Butch to return. The exact time of his brother-in-law’s arrival might be of interest.

Francesca held the knife and the pepper spray in one hand while she closed and locked her bedroom door. Such a flimsy barrier might not stop an intruder, especially an intruder who looked as powerful as Butch. But if he tried to reach her through the hall, he’d have to deal with that locked door and she’d definitely know he was coming.

Every bit as jittery as she’d been in the salvage yard, she drew a steadying breath. She’d been on edge since her last encounter with Mr. Vaughn, which made it all too easy to fly into a panic now. But panicking wouldn’t help. She had to be able to think clearly.

What next? What more could she do?

Setting her weapons aside, she shoved the dresser across the hardwood floor toward the door she’d just locked. Maybe her actions would be pointless—maybe he’d break the slider leading from the porch overlooking her pool. But she had to seal off as many points of entry as possible so she could monitor those that were left. Doing something was better than doing nothing.

After wrestling the dresser over to the door, she crouched against the wall where she could keep an eye on the windows as well as the slider. Now that she’d blocked out the light that had been filtering in from the hall, the darkness felt thick and palpable. She would’ve liked to throw the switch in her bedroom, but she didn’t want to make it any easier for Butch to see in. As counterintuitive as it seemed, darkness was safer.

What a bastard, she thought. Did he really believe he could get away with coming after her?

Apparently, he did. And maybe it was true. As long as he didn’t leave any evidence behind, he could do whatever he wanted without fear of punishment. Clever killers often escaped the consequences of their crimes, didn’t they? Of course they did. But whether or not she came out of this alive, Francesca was determined to make sure he left some proof of his identity.

His blood would work nicely.

A thump outside her window made her heart seize. Was that him?

Trying to differentiate one shadow from another, she studied the murky shapes beyond the glass until they began to blur. She was straining too hard. Blinking to give her eyes a rest, she peered out again.

This time she thought she spotted a man….

No. It was the tree that provided shade for the deck. Fear was causing her imagination to play tricks on her.

Breathe. Briefly letting go of the pepper spray, she wiped her damp palm on her bare leg, then did the same with the other hand, the one holding the knife. She wore a T-shirt and panties, nothing in which she felt comfortable confronting anyone who might try to overpower her.

She considered dressing so she’d feel less exposed, less vulnerable. But then she’d have to set her weapons aside for longer than a millisecond, and she was afraid he’d strike as soon as she did. It felt as if he was watching her already, waiting for the perfect opportunity….

Was he looking in while she was trying to look out? The idea that he could be so close raised the hair on the back of her neck. Had he brought his bat? Would he come crashing through the slider? Or would he bide his time—until the unrelenting tension took its toll on her nerves—and use her key?

As the minutes stretched out and nothing happened, she crept to the closest window and raised her head above the pane. The yard appeared empty. The gardener had been by earlier today. She could smell the fresh-mown grass, see the meticulously trimmed plants in the side yard.

The gate stood open. She remembered closing it when she’d locked up for the night, but the latch didn’t always hold….

She needed to see more.

Through the next window, she could make out the area around the deck and pool. Moonlight glimmered off the water and bathed the lounge chairs in pearly white. But she saw nothing that might—

Wait! At the shallow end. A dark shape sat in one of the chairs. No, he was lying down. She was sure of it. His hands were propped behind his head and he was staring up at her room as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

She jerked her head back. Had he seen her? What was he doing just…lying there?

Heart thumping erratically, she crawled to the slider, which afforded her the best view of all. Sure enough, she had a visitor—a visitor who was doing very little to hide his presence. She got the impression Butch wanted to be seen. While she watched, he leaned over to pick up a small rock and threw it at her window. It missed the glass but hit the side of the house with a crack.

He wasn’t sneaking around, as she’d expected. Clearly he wanted to frighten her.

And he did. Far bolder than she’d thought he’d be, he seemed completely unafraid of the consequences. He was flaunting that lack of fear, letting her know he enjoyed the game he was playing.

What should she do?

She didn’t get the chance to decide. Before she could respond in any way, he rose into a sitting position and cocked his head as if he’d heard a noise that put him on alert.

What was he reacting to? Possibly nothing. He didn’t seem overly concerned. He came to his feet and stood there, gazing at her room from beyond the patio. Then he offered her a mocking salute, as though he knew she could see him, and strode calmly to the fence, which he jumped.

A few seconds later she heard what must’ve chased him off—the crackling of a police radio—and rushed to the front of the house. A cruiser sat at the curb.

Suddenly far less concerned about her state of undress, she unlocked the door and charged through it, down the driveway and right up to the officer’s lowered window.

“How did you know to come?” she asked the cop who sat behind the wheel, writing a report.

He put aside his clipboard. “Professional courtesy. Gentleman by the name of Jonah Young called in, said you were being harassed and asked if we could drive by every once in a while. I’ve been by twice already. Why? Somethin’ wrong?” He glanced around.

Heedless of the tears streaking down her cheeks, she sank onto the blacktop. It was over. For tonight.

But what about the next time? Butch would be back. His brazen behavior made it a certainty.

So? Are you going to answer? Will you do it?

Jonah rubbed his tired eyes, then reread Lori’s text message for probably the fifteenth time in three days. He needed to respond to her at some point. Ex-wife or no, he should be civil. But he wasn’t ready to address the issues her request dredged up. The clock on the wall showed three in the morning. He’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours and was in no frame of mind to formulate an answer that sounded halfway polite. Considering how things had gone down when they were briefly married, which seemed like another life since it was before he’d ever become a cop, he didn’t feel he owed her any special consideration.

On the other hand, he couldn’t see a lot of reason to deny her what she was asking for. It wasn’t that big a sacrifice. And he’d made his own share of mistakes in life. Francesca was proof. Besides, he was over Lori. He believed she’d be a good mother. So why not write the letter? Why not support her attempt to adopt a baby?

Resentment had to be the answer. It’d been more than a decade since he’d learned the truth, yet he still cringed whenever he pictured her sleeping with the partner she’d left him for. All those days and nights when Lori had said she needed some “girl time” he’d thought she and Miranda were seeing a movie or shopping. He’d never dreamed they might be romantically intimate—because he’d been operating under the mistaken belief that he and Lori were, on the whole, happily married. That they had a normal sex life and would someday start a family. Lori had always seemed eager enough to make love. There’d even been times, plenty of them, when she’d initiated it.

But that was before she decided he never had and never would be able to fulfill her needs. It wasn’t until she asked him to move out that she claimed she’d never been turned on by him, that all the moaning and writhing had been for his benefit.

Just the memory of those words made him wince. During that final argument he’d realized she’d been involved with Miranda before she ever met him. If she’d been confused about her sexuality it would’ve been so much easier to forgive her. But, according to her, she’d known since she was a girl. Which meant their whole relationship had been a front, a lie. She hadn’t told him the truth because her family was absolutely opposed to same-sex relationships. She knew they’d never accept her lifestyle or respect her choice, and she was afraid she’d lose her position in the family business as well as her inheritance if they found out. She’d also wanted to have her own children and knew only a man could give her that.

Apparently, she’d seen him as some kind of sperm donor. But that was before she’d learned she couldn’t have children. Jonah was sure that news had made it a whole lot easier to toss him aside.

“Hey, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to your motel.”

Startled, he glanced up to see Dr. Leslie Price, the forensic anthropologist he’d been working with since he’d signed on to help with the Dead Mule Canyon murders. Diminutive and soft-spoken, the doctor was in her early sixties. Her white hair reminded him of his mother. So did her confidence and dedication to her craft. But the similarities ended there. As a successful corporate attorney, Rita Young dressed in bold colors with designer labels and took no time to nurture anyone or anything. She could be combative, even with him, and threw her support behind one worthy cause after another. Dr. Price, on the other hand, settled for plain white lab coats and nurses’ shoes and refused to argue with anyone. She also limited her devotion to one cause—making the dead speak through the evidence left in their bones.

“I could ask the same of you,” he said. “You told me you were going to lie down in the back.”

She offered him a sheepish grin. “I did. For a while. That couch isn’t the most comfortable.”

Lack of comfort wasn’t the real problem. Jonah was willing to bet she was so exhausted she could sleep in a closet standing up. The fine lines age had etched around her eyes and mouth were growing more prominent as the week wore on. She couldn’t rest because she knew they had work to do. The bones lying on the tables that’d been set up for her in this makeshift lab weren’t just bones to her—or to him. They represented victims, victims who deserved justice for what they’d suffered.

Jonah had spent a lot of hours here, trying to help. Without the information only she could provide, he didn’t even have a good place to start the investigation. But that should be changing very soon. Now that they’d arrived at an approximate victim count, which hadn’t been easy due to the number of bones that’d been scattered or broken in two or more pieces, they were busy establishing the biological characteristics, the time since death and the cause and manner of death for each set of remains. The more quickly they learned what these bones could tell them, the more information he’d have with which to direct the investigation.

“I hope you’re letting your girlfriend know that the woman you’ve been spending your nights with is old enough to be your mother.” She nodded toward the phone in his hand. “Handsome guy like you…she’s got to be wondering.”

He grinned. “Fortunately, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Fortunately?” She settled at the next table, where she’d been piecing together pelvic bones most of the evening.

“My job can be tough on close personal relationships. The travel. The hours. You know.” He shoved his phone into his pocket and went back to measuring those femurs and tibias that weren’t broken. Dr. Price would use his allometry measurements to determine the general height of each victim. She’d also examine the thickness of the bones to suggest a body type.

There was a great deal of work to be done yet, and soon she’d be doing it exclusively with the help of the trained assistants who came in during the day. His strength lay on the investigative end, using the information she provided. That information just hadn’t been coming quickly enough, so she’d trained him to do some of the simpler measuring.

“Close personal relationships are what will keep you sane in all this.” She ran her finger over the sciatic notch of a pelvic bone. A broader notch indicated a woman; a narrower notch indicated a man. But some didn’t seem particularly wide or narrow. She’d told him these final few were the tricky ones. That was why she’d taken a short nap. She’d hoped to come back refreshed.