Killer Heat
Going by her frown, he wasn’t sure the nap had improved her ability to decide.
“That depends on the relationship,” he said. “The people closest to you can also drive you crazy.”
“My best guess is female.”
“If you’re talking about the person driving me crazy, you’d be right,” he teased, purposely misunderstanding.
She laughed. “I was talking about this victim.” After making a notation, she set the pelvic bone aside. “Anyway, it’s not like that for me. My family is the reason I do what I do. I want to make the world a better place…for them.”
He wondered how eager she’d be to fall into another man’s arms if her husband unexpectedly announced that he’d been in love with his golfing buddy all along. Jonah’s experience with Lori had altered his outlook on relationships, made it difficult for him to trust. Not long after the divorce, he became good at spotting at least one fatal flaw in every woman he dated. That flaw insured his emotional safety, kept him from making any commitments.
He felt his lips twist into a humorless smile as he recalled the argument he’d once had with his mother. She’d told him he needed to stop trying to prove his desirability to every available woman he met, that he should quit thinking with his cock. Offended by her blunt assessment of his behavior and her language—she was his mother, after all—he’d snapped at her to stay out of his business, told her she didn’t know what she was talking about.
But now he could see that she’d been right all along. She usually was. Unfortunately, that didn’t make her any easier to put up with. No one could get on his nerves faster than she could, probably because they were too much alike. Although he wasn’t nearly as high-strung or brutally frank, he was stubborn to a fault and determined to live life on his own terms. That meant he was going to take a few hits, and he had.
“Do you think you’ll ever get married?” Dr. Price asked.
“Maybe someday.” He didn’t mention that he’d already been married. He never told anyone, hadn’t even told Francesca. Tying the knot when he was so young, and for such a short period of time, to a woman who claimed she’d never been attracted to him seemed better forgotten. Only his mother and sister knew he’d been married, and the friends who’d attended the wedding, of course. But even they had no idea of the real reason for the divorce. Terrified that word would leak back to her family, Lori had begged him to keep silent about her homosexuality. How her parents could continue to believe Miranda was her “roommate” he’d never understand. Except…he hadn’t seen it, either, had he? Lori just didn’t fit the stereotype.
“Marriage isn’t easy,” she said. “But if both people go into it with the proper attitude, with real dedication and loyalty, it can work.”
It hadn’t worked for his parents, but as dynamic and talented as his mother was, Jonah didn’t blame his father for bailing. He couldn’t imagine how Wesley had remained in the relationship as long as he had. He’d stayed until Connie, Jonah’s older sister, was in college and Jonah had nearly graduated from high school. That was admirable, considering it was difficult to put up with his mother for a weekend, let alone twenty years. “I’ll take your word for it.”
She’d started to say something else when his phone rang. Covering a yawn, he muttered, “Just a sec,” and dug it out of his pocket. “Hello?”
“Mr. Young?”
“Yes?”
“Sergeant Lowe here, from the Chandler Police Department.”
Immediately conjuring up the image of Francesca sitting in Investigator Finch’s cubicle, scratched and bruised from her confrontation with Vaughn, he stiffened. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, Ms. Moretti is fine, but…I thought you should know…someone cut her phone line tonight.”
Shoving his stool away from the table, Jonah got to his feet. “Someone?”
“I’m afraid we can’t say who. Ms. Moretti definitely has her suspicions, but we canvassed the yard and there wasn’t anyone lurking around. The good news is that we didn’t see any evidence that whoever cut the line tried to enter the house.”
There wouldn’t be evidence. Butch Vaughn had a key. “How’d you find out about the phone line?”
“Officer Burcell was sitting in front of the house when Ms. Moretti came running into the street, clearly upset. He checked out her claims and she was right.”
Jonah felt Dr. Price’s attention but ignored it. “Can I talk to her?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to go by the house. It’ll take some time for the telephone company to fix the line, and I’m calling from the station.”
“What about the officer who’s out there—Officer Burcell? He’s got to have a phone.”
“Burcell is currently responding to another call.”
Jonah curled his free hand into an agitated fist. “You’re telling me she’s all by herself?”
Taking exception to his tone, the sergeant grew brisk. “We’ll continue to drive by periodically, but we can’t camp out there all night. There was no apparent threat—”
“No threat? Her phone line was cut!”
“That could’ve been a prank by some teenage boy. We have a whole community to protect, Mr. Young, not just this one woman,” he said, and hung up.
As Jonah put away his phone, he gazed at all the cracked skulls and jawbones around him. Because teeth followed predictable maturation patterns, they were a fairly reliable indicator of certain biological characteristics, such as age. They could also help in identifying an unknown victim via dental records. Jonah couldn’t wait for these bones to be connected with names, which could then turn into leads pointing to Vaughn—or someone else. He wanted to keep pushing forward here with Dr. Price so he’d have something to run with. He hated to pull out until the job was done.
But he wasn’t about to leave Francesca vulnerable while he measured femurs. He’d seen the glitter in Vaughn’s eyes when he’d been questioned about April Bonner. Maybe Francesca had screwed up and called a mannequin a body, but she claimed Vaughn was the last man to see April alive. It was entirely possible that he’d killed her.
Picking up the tibia he’d recently measured, Jonah turned it over in his hands, noting a fine-line fracture. Maybe Butch was responsible for the death of this poor woman, too.
Purposely avoiding Dr. Price’s curious stare, he raised his eyes to take in the entire room full of bones. Maybe Butch was responsible for all of them. And now that Francesca had drawn his attention, she might be next on his list.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, and jogged out to the car he’d rented when he arrived in Arizona.
6
Jonah found Francesca sitting on her front porch with a butcher knife in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Judging by the weariness that hung on her like an oversize coat and her general dishevelment, she hadn’t slept—or showered. But it was early, only five-thirty. The sun was just creeping over the horizon. None of her neighbors were up, so the windows around them remained dark, the street quiet. The one other person Jonah had spotted so far was the newspaper man.
“You look like hell,” he said while he carried her paper across the lawn. That was a bit harsh as greetings went. But he had to compensate for the sudden jolt the sight of her, so skimpily dressed, gave his system. She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath that baggy T-shirt. He’d clued into that at first glance. Then there were the short cutoffs that made her legs look like they went on forever….
Her eyes narrowed as he reached her. He half expected her to use that knife to chase him off her property. Lord knew he deserved nothing less. But Finch and Hunsacker were so pissed off about the way everything had gone down yesterday, he was her only ally when it came to Vaughn, and she must’ve realized it because she dropped the knife on the round table beside her and took a sip of coffee.
“Rough night, huh?”
She swallowed before answering. “He thinks he can get away with terrorizing me.”
Sitting in the chair across from her, he examined the pepper spray on the table between them. “You’re sure it was Butch?”
“Who else would it be?”
The faint purple of a bruise blossomed on her right knee, and her lip was still swollen, but even at her worst Francesca was classically beautiful. That hadn’t changed. “Are you saying you did or didn’t get a glimpse of him?”
“It was dark and he wasn’t that close to the window. But I saw someone the same size and shape as Butch, no question. After he cut the phone line so I couldn’t call for help, he sat at the pool throwing rocks at my window.”
Stretching out his legs, Jonah crossed them at the ankle. “Not exactly the stealthy approach one might expect from a serial killer.”
“It wasn’t stealthy, but it was effective.” She ran a hand through her hair, combing it with her fingers. “He scared the shit out of me.”
“Ah, just the reaction he was looking for.” Picking up the knife, Jonah pressed his thumb to the blade, which wasn’t that sharp. “Is this your defense? What you use to chop tomatoes?”
“For your information, that’s a carving knife. And it’s the best weapon I’ve got, since I don’t own a gun.”
He knew why she was reluctant to own a firearm. Her father had gotten caught in the cross fire during a drug bust. Jonah might’ve urged her to buy one in spite of all that; he had no confidence that she’d be able to fight Butch off with a kitchen knife. But he didn’t want her to fight; he wanted her to run. “You could’ve stayed someplace else, like I told you to.”
She raised a hand. “Don’t start. I can’t hide out and hope this problem will take care of itself. If I do that, Butch will just be waiting for me when I return—if he doesn’t catch up with me sooner.”
“So how do you solve the problem?” He wanted to add without getting killed, but figured she was traumatized enough.
“By bringing him down, of course.”
He turned over the knife in his hands. “That might be better left to others, Fran.”
She blanched. “Don’t call me that.”
“Isn’t that your name?”
“That’s what my friends call me. It’s Francesca to you.”
“Not Ms. Moretti?”
“I’m feeling generous,” she said with a shrug.
Setting the knife aside, he considered his options and decided to tackle the past. It was the only way she might let him help her. “Look. I know I’m not your favorite person. I don’t blame you for hating me. If you want another apology, I’ll—”
“I don’t want anything from you,” she broke in. “I don’t even want to see you.”
Although he’d expected a harsh response, the vehemence behind her words lacerated some part of him he hadn’t realized was still vulnerable. “I get that, too,” he said. “But let’s not allow the mistakes of the past to make what’s going on now that much worse. If we’re both mixed up in this thing, we might as well pull together, get through it the best we can.”
“And how do you suggest we ‘pull together’?” She hugged her legs to her chest. “By pretending you didn’t do what you did?”
“You could forget about it.”
“What?”
He folded his arms. “Unless there’s some reason you can’t.”
He definitely had her attention now. “Like…”
“Like you’ve never gotten over me.” Knowing she’d rise to that bait, he arched his eyebrows in challenge, and she laughed without mirth.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Then why waste your time hating me? Let bygones be bygones so we can deal with the issue at hand.”
“You’re asking me to forgive you.”
“Nothing that generous. I’m merely asking you to pretend we’re work associates with no history.”
Her dark eyes flashed with emotion. “That won’t change who or what you are.”
The regret he’d suffered for his behavior suddenly felt so fresh it seemed as if he’d betrayed her only yesterday. But there was no taking it back, and if he was going to have any chance of protecting Francesca, they had to get beyond previous hurts and old anger. If Butch and April were connected to the Dead Mule Canyon slayings, they’d have a better shot if everyone cooperated.
“I’m not asking you to fall back into bed with me,” he said.
Her chin went up. “Good thing. You know how far you’d get with that.”
“I do,” he said softly, and the honesty in his admission seemed to defuse her anger.
Slumping in her seat, she stared down at her bare toes, the nails painted a sparkly gold. “Fine. I guess you’re all I’ve got to work with. So we’ll just—” she took a deep breath “—keep it professional until this case is solved.”
“Great. Now that we’ve called a truce—” he indicated the house “—why not go in and get some rest? I’ll keep the big bad wolf from the door while you’re out of commission. And when you get up, you can show me everything you’ve collected on April Bonner. That’s probably the best place to start. At least we know her identity and that she had a connection to Vaughn.”
“You mean…you’re going to stay?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. You’re about to keel over. You need sleep.” He needed sleep, too, but he hoped his fatigue wasn’t quite as apparent. At least he hadn’t been stalked and scared half to death during the night.
She was tempted to accept the offer; he could tell by the way she nibbled at her swollen lip. “If you stay, that doesn’t make us friends.”
“I thought we just established that we’re work associates.”
“Temporary work associates.”
“So…what do you have to lose? Want to get some sleep or not?”
Fatigue won out. “That’d be nice,” she admitted. “For a few hours. But don’t let me sleep too long. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Check out while you can. If this goes the way I think it might, you’re going to need it,” he said, and opened the newspaper.
Reluctant to see evidence of her life, everything he’d missed in the past ten years, Jonah remained on the porch. But all the little things he’d wondered about since he’d last seen her ran through his mind until he gave up and went inside, where he could study the photographs on her walls and tables and guess at the people in those photographs as well as their significance to her.
One showed her and her mother skiing. In another, she stood in front of the Lincoln Memorial. She had a guy with her, someone important judging by the way they held each other, eyes dancing as they laughed into the camera.
Frowning, Jonah decided the guy looked too…oily for her. But the two of them appeared to be having a great time. Was the mystery man a politician? A lobbyist? What had taken them to Washington, D.C.? And was this person still in her life? If so, why hadn’t she asked him to stay with her last night? For that matter, why hadn’t she gone to his place? Even more curious, where was he this morning, when she really needed him?
Jonah’s eyes flicked to the next picture, which showed the same dude. He must’ve been special to Francesca. Maybe he still was. Maybe he traveled a lot and was out of town….
A photograph of Francesca with her brother and her folks sat on the wet bar. They were in a little bistro that made him think they’d gone to Italy as they’d always wanted. There was a second picture of a younger Francesca with another guy—not the politician; before the politician—posing at the Grand Canyon. All of this suggested she’d spent the past ten years dating and traveling, not just working. She seemed to have gotten along fine without him.
That made him feel slightly better. It also made him feel slightly worse. But he didn’t want to consider why.
He noticed some other photographs on the fireplace mantel, turned to examine them and froze. The first one was of Adriana. It’d been years since he could remember what she looked like. Now that he was reminded, he realized that Summer showed a marked resemblance to her mother. She had the same dark blond hair and blue eyes, the same shape to her nose and face. But even at the age of nine, Summer was tall, and she was rail-thin, like he’d been growing up.
His throat so dry he could hardly swallow, he shifted his gaze to the other people in the picture. A man stood behind and to the right of Adriana, and there were kids—two boys. Obviously, she was married and had a family. In gold embossing along the bottom, it said, “The Covington Family, Adriana, Stan, Levi and Tyler—Merry Christmas, 2009.” Stan was her husband. Only five foot eight or so, he was still quite a bit taller than she was. With a severely receding hairline, he appeared to be a few years older, too. Truth be told, he wasn’t the handsomest guy in the world, but the kids were cute. Jonah hoped Adriana was happy. He hadn’t meant to affect her life to the degree that he had. He’d been so busy self-destructing he hadn’t worried about what the splatter might mean for those around him. And the way she’d always watched him, with those hungry eyes…. She’d thought she hid her feelings well. As far as anyone else was concerned, maybe that was true. But he could sense that she had a crush on him.
Would he have exploited her feelings if he hadn’t been drunk that night? He wanted to believe he wouldn’t have. But who could say? Maybe he really was that big an asshole.
Pulling his eyes away, he forced himself to stop looking at Francesca’s pictures. His past weighed heavily enough on him. Every month, when he wrote a check to the Williamses, he wished he’d been a better person. Not because he begrudged his daughter the money. Paying for items Burt and Sylvia might not be able to afford had been his idea, his way of trying to shoulder the responsibility for his choices. Although Summer’s adoptive parents had at first refused his help, they’d changed their minds once they realized he meant well and would keep his word not to interfere in their lives or try to contact her. So far he’d sent her to band camp, bought her a flute, covered some of her school clothes and paid the hospital bill when she broke her ankle in soccer. He guessed the Williamses pocketed the extra, because he’d sent a lot more than that, but he didn’t care. Every once in a while they rewarded him for his financial support by sending him photographs, copies of her report cards or a picture she’d drawn in school. And that meant a lot to him. He knew the money didn’t make up for what he’d done, but at least he was doing everything he could to compensate.
He wasted too much time mulling over his mistakes, wondering about Summer, how things might’ve been different with Francesca if he’d met her later in life, once he’d gotten his feet firmly underneath him again….
“I need some coffee.” Helping himself to the grounds stored in a kitchen cupboard, he started a pot. He was just getting out a frying pan to cook some eggs when his phone buzzed to tell him he’d received a text message. Hoping it was Investigator Finch or Hunsacker sending word that they had a break in the Dead Mule Canyon case, he pulled it from his pocket. But this text wasn’t about work. It came from Lori.
What a bastard you are! Why won’t you answer me?
Beyond tired, he rubbed a hand over his face. He needed to respond so she’d leave him alone. He understood that it was often difficult for same-sex couples to adopt, which was why she was trying to do it as a single person instead. But, either way, he couldn’t see how his reference would make any difference. It was just so typical of Lori to get some idea in her head she couldn’t shake. Because she worked for her family, she felt her father’s reference would be discounted due to bias and, since Jonah was essentially a cop, his word would make her look particularly appealing. If your ex-husband will recommend you, that’s saying something.
How she expected to continue keeping her lesbianism a secret from her parents once she adopted a baby and that child started growing up and telling everyone he or she had two “moms,” he didn’t know. Lori insisted the child would call Miranda by her first name. Jonah doubted that would work, but he’d already expressed his opinion and she wouldn’t listen to him.
There was no time to go into this again. A quick I’ll get it to you soon would have to suffice for now. He was too busy to mess with writing a letter he wasn’t convinced would have the slightest impact.
Good thing she didn’t know he was in Arizona. She lived in Mesa, which he’d passed through on his way to Chandler. She’d insist on seeing him and wouldn’t be happy when he refused.
The sound of a car door made him pause before he could finish typing in his reply. Someone had pulled into the driveway.
Slipping his phone in his pocket, he went to the window, where he could see the front grille of a blue van. He had his hand on the 9 mm in his shoulder holster when a woman came into view carrying two foam cups.
Not Butch. Adriana. She’d put on a little weight since that Christmas photograph had been taken, but there was no mistaking her identity.
Jonah wondered how she was going to feel about seeing him again and couldn’t imagine she’d be too pleased. But he had to intercept her or she’d wake Francesca.
“Why’d I have to come back to Arizona?” he grumbled, and met her at the door.
At first, she didn’t notice him. She was preoccupied with fixing the lid on one of the drinks she carried. But when she glanced up to reach for the door handle and found it already open, with him standing there, her jaw dropped and so did the hand holding the cups in their cardboard container. The whipped mochas she’d brought would’ve spilled all over the stoop if he hadn’t grabbed them.
“Jonah,” she breathed, and stepped back as if any kind of contact might burn her.
“Adriana.” He offered her a smile but his effort to be friendly did little to calm her.
She gave a shake of her head and self-consciously shoved the strands of hair that’d fallen from her messy ponytail back into place. Not only was she surprised, she didn’t like that he’d caught her at her worst. He knew because that was exactly how his sister would’ve reacted to the same situation.
“I—I didn’t realize Francesca had company. But that’s okay. I can come back later,” she said, and left the drinks behind as she fled to her van.
Jonah hadn’t meant to scare her off. But he let her go. Francesca needed to get some sleep. And he wasn’t eager to entertain Adriana on his own. He’d never expected to see her again. Francesca, either, for that matter.
Francesca could call her later, he decided. The fact that Adriana’s picture was on the mantel and she could walk up to the house as casually as she had indicated the two were still friends. No thanks to him, of course. But that gave him one less thing to feel guilty about.
His phone vibrated with another text message. “Damn it, Lori. When you ask someone for a favor, you’re not allowed to be so demanding.”
He went inside to put down the cups so he could check his phone, but this time it wasn’t Lori. It was Investigator Finch.
If you’re up, call me.
Going into the laundry room, he closed the door so the sound of his voice wouldn’t carry to the bedroom and dialed Finch’s cell.
It rang twice before transferring to voice mail.
Jonah didn’t leave a message. He was about to redial when the lingerie on a small rack above the dryer caught his eye. A see-through lacy black bra and matching thong hung inches from his face. They had to belong to Francesca. But who was she wearing underwear like that for? The man in the D.C. photograph?
The ringing of his phone dragged his attention away from the underwear. It was Finch. “What’s up?”
“We’ve got a body on our hands. A real one this time.”
He gripped the phone tighter. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Call came in less than five minutes ago. The owner of Skull Valley Chocolate and Handmade Gifts found a corpse slumped against her door when she arrived for work.”
“No one else spotted it?”
“This isn’t your usual downtown. It’s basically four corners with a handful of businesses that are spread out. Not a lot of people out here.”
“I see. Is the victim a man or woman?”
“Woman.”
“Any chance she could’ve died of natural causes?”