Killer Heat (12 page)

“Is that what it is?”

“What did you think?”

“I think you look…sleepy,” she said. “Relaxed. But
there's no need for you to be anything else.
You
won't be walking up to that door.
You
don't have to worry.”

He didn't? Did she believe he wouldn't care if what he heard over that radio turned out to be the sound of a bat cracking her skull? He and Finch had devised the best plan they could to protect her. The closest they could get to the salvage yard was to have some guys wearing coveralls pose as utility workers, but he was still uneasy. If Butch decided to hurt Francesca, there was no guarantee they'd be able to stop him in time. Murder could happen in seconds. “Right. I have nothing at stake.”

His BlackBerry went off before she could respond. Grateful for the distraction, he picked it up from the desk where he'd left it charging, and checked caller ID. It was Dr. Price. “Hello?”

“Jonah, it's Leslie.”

Leaning against the desk, he took another sip of his coffee. “How's my favorite forensic anthropologist?”

“How many forensic anthropologists do you know?”

“At least two.”

“That's what I thought. And yet I'm flattered. Go figure.”

He smiled at the humor in her voice. “I don't pick favorites lightly. What's going on?”

“I'm calling because I thought you'd want to know as soon as possible.”

“Want to know what?”

“The evidence techs digging at Dead Mule Canyon found something this morning, about a quarter mile from the original site.”

A group from the Yavapai County Sheriff's Office worked in that canyon from dawn until dark every day, going over the area inch by inch. They were using all the men they could spare. It was a huge job and would
probably take another two weeks, but in order to solve these murders, they needed every piece of evidence they could find. “Tell me it's not more human remains,” he said, and set his coffee down long enough to open the drapes. Another sunny day in Arizona. No surprise there. Monsoon season wouldn't hit until August.

“No. Thank goodness. This looks like something that might've belonged to the perpetrator.”

Although Jonah could sense Francesca watching him, he didn't glance over at her. She made him feel too many emotions he didn't want to feel, emotions that were better left undisturbed, especially now, when he was so determined to treat her like any other work associate. Maybe he'd been a shitty boyfriend, but he'd always been a good cop. He couldn't help hoping this case would give him the chance to right the past—as much as that was possible. No matter what, he wouldn't let her down again. “What is it?” he asked Leslie.

“A business card. It's tattered and torn, but it's legible.”

“And the name?”

“The Pour House. Have you ever heard of it?”

Almost of their own volition, his eyes jerked over to Francesca. She'd mentioned that bar. April had met Butch there on Saturday. “The Pour House has also popped up in relation to that other case I was telling you about yesterday,” he said to Leslie.

“The woman found murdered outside the Skull Valley gift shop? You think the two are related?”

“Sounds like it to me.”

“Finding this card would be awfully coincidental otherwise,” she agreed.

He scratched his bare chest. “No kidding. Thanks for letting me know.”

“You bet. You coming in today?”

“Probably not. I'm planning to work the April Bonner side of the equation, see how far I can get with that.”

“Makes sense. But before you go, I also wanted to tell you that we have a match on those veneers.”

Getting a little anxious due to the time—they were down to a mere twenty minutes before they were to report to the sheriff's office—he skirted Francesca on his way to the bathroom. “The teeth? Why didn't Pelusi call me?”

“He tried to about an hour ago. When you didn't pick up, he called me, thinking you might be here.”

Ernie Pelusi was the street cop assigned the task of going from dentist to dentist, looking for the man who'd performed the cosmetic dentistry they'd noticed on one of the victims. Jonah had taken to him immediately. Ernie reminded him of one of the guys he worked with at Department 6—Roderick Guerrero. “I had my phone off. Trying to grab a few hours' sleep.”

“You mean you don't work twenty-four hours
every
day?” she teased.

Relieved to have some privacy, he closed the bathroom door and leaned against it. “Not every day. So what about the veneers?”

“A dentist by the name of Greg Johnson recognized his own work. He said the woman for whom he created those veneers was Bianca Andersen, age thirty-three.”

“If she was reported missing she's not on any list I've seen.”

“As far as I know, she wasn't reported.”

“Why not?”

“No idea. But Ernie's got her dental file.”

Which would have her name and address. “Do we have
any
idea how long she's been missing?”

“From the condition of her jaw, I'd guess over a year.”

But now that he knew her name, chances were good he could learn more.

At the prospect of having even a few answers to their many questions, a surge of hope filled Jonah. He'd solve this case and head back to California, leaving Francesca better off—safer—than she would've been without him. Maybe that couldn't make up for his mistake, but at least he wouldn't be doing any more damage. “We're going to get this guy.”

“We don't have any choice,” she said. “This kind of killer won't quit on his own. You and I both know that.”

A
fter summoning her courage, Francesca followed Jonah into the sheriff's station. On the ride over, he'd told her about the Pour House card at Dead Mule Canyon, and Bianca Andersen and her veneers, which had done nothing to settle her nerves. It was bad enough thinking Butch was responsible for what she'd seen outside the gift shop in Skull Valley. Assuming he was the reason there'd been seven corpses buried in Dead Mule Canyon was simply…overwhelming, especially when Jonah kept warning her not to let Butch get her alone.

“Where the hell have you been?” Finch wanted to know as soon as he saw them striding down the corridor toward him. “I've been calling.”

Francesca checked her new phone. Neither county investigator had bothered to try her, but she didn't mention it. Jonah responded. “We can still make it by ten.”

“Only if we hurry.” Finch waved at Francesca. “Get her wired up.”

“You got everything else ready?” Jonah asked, leaning on the partition.

Finch had his hand on his phone. “I'm making sure of that this very second.”

Hunsacker came out of his cubicle a few feet away,
carrying a handful of wires, which he handed Jonah, along with some duct tape. “It's harder to conceal a wire when you're not wearing a jacket,” he said to her.

She glanced from him to Finch to Jonah. “You're kidding, right? I wear a jacket in the middle of the summer and I might as well announce on a blare horn—‘I'm doing this to hide a wire!'”

He shrugged. “Just sayin'. I mean, you're pretty thin. Any bump is gonna stand out.”

Compared to Hunsacker, everyone was thin. “Then maybe
you
should go in and wear the wire,” she said.

His lazy-dog eyes narrowed. “Funny. Almost as funny as sending us to the salvage yard in search of a dummy. Little did we know we were dealing with
two
dummies.”

She smiled sweetly. “And yet the woman I was looking for shows up dead on a street corner and now we're heading right back. Who's going to have the last laugh, Investigator?”

“Maybe Butch is.” He lowered his voice. “If he kills you today.”

“Cut it out,” Jonah growled.

Hunsacker shot him a sullen look for interfering but seemed to realize he'd gone too far. “Let's get moving,” he said, and walked away.

“I can't believe that guy's married,” Francesca grumbled. “His wife must be blind
and
stupid.”

Finch, who'd just finished dialing, was holding the phone to his ear, but jumped into the conversation, anyway. “Stop wasting time.”

Jonah passed the surveillance equipment to her. “There's a bathroom around the corner.”

Holding a hand over the receiver, Finch stopped her before she could go anywhere. “Whoa, wait. She won't
be able to get that on by herself. We're in a hurry here. Help her out, Jonah.”

Jonah raised his eyebrows as if asking Finch to take care of it, but Finch wanted it to happen right away, and he was clearly busy. “I'm trying to see where the hell our utility team is,” he said. “They were supposed to be out there at seven this morning. We can't all arrive at the same time.”

Slightly offended by Jonah's reluctance, Francesca walked toward the bathroom. “I'll figure it out.”

Muttering something under his breath, he caught up with her and took the device from her. “It's not a big deal. Lift your shirt.”

She did, and he taped the tiny recording device to the small of her back. Then his fingers trailed along her bare skin as he brought the wire around her body. He stopped every few seconds to secure it with pieces of tape she tore off for him, but he kept his head bowed and worked efficiently. Indifferently.

“You can take it from here,” he said when he reached her bra. “Feed it up and under.”

“Got it.” Relieved that he was finished, that she didn't have to smell the fabric softener on his clothes or endure the close proximity of his body anymore, she took the mic, and he turned away so fast it was as if he'd found it repulsive to touch her.

Why does it have to be Jonah who's involved in this case? Why can't it be someone else?
she thought as she situated the mic between her breasts and lowered her shirt.

They tested the equipment. When they were satisfied that it worked properly, they trooped downstairs and into the parking lot. She was to take her car and go alone; they were to follow in an unmarked police vehicle.

“You okay?” Jonah asked as he handed over her keys, which he'd pocketed after driving earlier.

She mustered a disinterested smile. “Sure. What's he gonna do? Kill me?”

Judging by his dark scowl, Jonah didn't appreciate the joke. “We'll be listening. If there's trouble, we'll be there right away.”

“What I won't do to avoid a trip to the DMV,” she said, but she knew—they all knew—she wasn't doing this for the articles she stood to recover. She was doing this to save lives. The sooner they could get some hard evidence on Butch, the sooner he'd go to prison. Then she wouldn't be afraid to return to her own home, and all the other women out there that might come into contact with him would be safe—including Adriana, Heather and Josephine.

All business, Jonah grabbed her arm. “Make sure you speak up, so we can hear what's going on. And, whatever you do,
don't go inside.
You go inside, no telling what might happen.”

“Don't scare her too much,” Hunsacker interrupted. “We're not even positive this is our guy.”

Francesca glanced back in time to see Jonah silence Hunsacker with a glare. “Better safe than sorry,” she heard him say, but what she was doing had very little to do with her safety. There was a reason Butch had asked his brother-in-law to invite her back to Prescott, and it sure as hell wasn't because he felt guilty for stealing her purse.

 

Surprisingly, everyone seemed to be home. Several vehicles, including Butch's wife's Impala, jammed up the driveway. His son, dressed in a baseball uniform, was tossing a ball out front.

Butch's brother-in-law answered the door almost before Francesca could ring the bell, as if he'd been watching for her. Although Francesca had braced herself for the worst—after seeing that body in Skull Valley, who wouldn't?—she was quickly losing her fear. Surely Butch wouldn't attack her in front of his whole family.

“You made it.” Dean offered her a pleasant smile. “Come on in.”

Jonah had warned her not to go inside, but Francesca was beginning to think that, once again, they'd put out a lot of effort that would prove wasted in the end. Whatever Butch had in mind when he asked Dean to call her—or gave permission for Dean to call her if that was how it'd happened—didn't seem to be nearly as diabolical as she'd believed.

Still, she made an attempt to remain on the stoop. “That's okay. I'll just get my purse and go.”

“You won't come in?” He sounded confused. “I think Butch wants to talk to you.”

Remembering how Butch had changed the second his family had come into view, Francesca cast a glance at his son. As long as that child remained in the vicinity, she'd be fine. She needed to push this a little further, had to walk away with
something.
For one thing, she didn't need Hunsacker and Finch making fun of her for crying wolf again. “Okay. Maybe for a few minutes.”

Obviously pleased, he moved out of the way and held the door.

She imagined Jonah cringing as she stepped into a middle-class home that smelled like hot dogs and could've been decorated by her grandmother. A purple sofa sat against flocked wallpaper on violet carpet. Tables with doilies and gold lamps completed the effect.

Butch's wife was too young to have a house like this; it had to belong to the old couple she'd met before. “Nice place.”

Dean laughed. “You think so?”

“You don't?”

“I guess. I quit seeing it ages ago. It's just…home.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“My whole life.”

She'd already guessed as much. “Your parents owned it before Butch?”

“They still own it. The house and the salvage yard. But when they retired, they turned everything over to Paris's husband. He runs it, and they live downstairs in their own apartment. Butch said a smaller place would be easier for them to take care of so they can travel. They can head out whenever they want, but they never go anywhere.”

“Why not?”

“If you ask them, they'll say they don't want to leave me. I've heard it a thousand times. My mother says she keeps me ‘grounded.'”

Apparently, Francesca had been right about the house. She'd also been right about Dean. He wasn't quite normal. “I see. Well, it's nice that Butch could take over. Your parents must really like him,” she said, just to see how he'd react.

He leaned close, as if he was about to confide a great secret. “It's Champ they're crazy about. It's Champ we're
all
crazy about.”

The name threw Francesca. “That's a…dog?”

“No. The boy!” he said with a laugh. “The dog's name is Demon.”

“Nice names on both counts.” She wondered if he
could tell she was being sarcastic, but he didn't seem to notice.

“Butch chose both.”

“I suppose Champ is better than Rover.”

“I'd rather have a cat than a dog,” Dean volunteered. “But Butch is allergic to cats. He shot the Persian I grew up with the day he moved in.”

It wasn't difficult to understand why he'd be unhappy with Butch's actions. “I hope you had a say in that decision.”

“Me?” He shook his head. “I don't have a say in
any
decision.”

“Why not?”

He studied her. “You can't tell?”

“I wouldn't have asked if I could.”

“I've got mental problems.”

Strange, he didn't mind admitting that. “Meaning…”

“Sometimes I can't think straight.” He tapped his head. “But it's okay because the pills keep me on track. I'm fine as long as I take my pills.”

Which would explain his detached behavior when she'd seen him before. He'd been doped up.

“Anyway, Princess was getting old,” he said. “It was time to put her down.”

“Most people take their pets to a vet.”

“Butch is his own vet. He's his own doctor, too. But you don't really care about that. What you want to find out is how I feel about what he did to my cat, because you know you'd feel like shit if you were me.” He cocked his head as if seeing her from a whole new angle. “I like you. You're smart.”

A voice came from the kitchen, and Francesca realized that Paris had been standing just inside the doorway, listening, the whole time. “I didn't know she was here to
visit
you,
” she said, entering the living room. “I thought she wanted to pick up her purse.”

“We're getting to that,” Dean said. “Jeez, can't you let me talk to a pretty girl now and then?”

With a grimace, Paris folded her arms. “Pick one who hasn't scratched up my husband's face. Pick one who isn't as crazy as you are.”

“Excuse me?”
Francesca said, but Dean interrupted.

“Isn't Champ supposed to be at his little league game about now? You know how angry Butch'll be if he's late. 'Cause if he's late, the coach won't let him play. And Butch doesn't like it when his little boy sits on the bench.”

“Like you used to do?” she said. “Game after game? That won't happen to Champ. My son's a
good
athlete. He takes after his daddy. He'll play.”

Dean motioned for his sister to butt out. “Ignore her,” he said to Francesca in a loud whisper. “She's not happy with me for inviting you over. She doesn't like it that you're better-looking than she is.”

“Get her purse, Dean, and get her out of here,” Paris said.

Before Dean could respond, the back door slammed. Someone else had just come in.

A flicker of fear replaced the anger in Paris's eyes. “I'll be right back,” she said, and pulled car keys out of her pocket as she hurried to the front door. “Champ, grab your bag!” Francesca heard her call as she went out.

“Seems Butch always gets his way around here,” Francesca said.

Dean whistled. “Like I said, you're smart.”

A shadow darkened the place where Paris had first entered the room, and Francesca glanced up to see Butch
filling the entire doorway. She'd thought he looked big
outside.
Inside was a whole other story. He had to duck beneath the door frame just to pass from room to room. Of course, the doors in this old house were lower than most, but still.

“I'd like to talk to you,” he said.

Francesca felt her eyebrows go up. “I'm all ears.”

“Not here. Not with this retard listening in. Let's go out to my office.”

Francesca wasn't feeling quite as safe as she had when she first went into the house. The people she'd considered insurance—Paris and Champ—were gone. Butch obviously had no respect for Dean, who might not have the sense to intercede if something went wrong, anyway. And she hadn't seen the old folks. Were they in their apartment? If so, there was a better chance they'd hear her scream if she stayed put.

“I'm not going anywhere with you.”

He gestured at Dean. “Get her purse.”

“Where is it?”

“Wherever you put it after playing with all her stuff.”

Dean squirmed uncomfortably. “I didn't play with your stuff,” he mumbled, his face red. “I was just…admiring it.” He slanted an accusing glare at Butch. “And Paris had it last.”

“Then it's probably in the bedroom. Get it, fruitcake. Now,” Butch snapped, and Dean scrambled to obey.