Killer Heat (13 page)

“Is it really necessary to treat him so badly?” Francesca asked.

“Live with him for a day, then see what you have to say about how he's treated.”

She refused to back down. “He's your wife's brother.”

“Are you sure you want to waste your time talking
about my crazy brother-in-law? Because he's my problem, not yours. And I thought you'd be more interested in hearing about April Bonner.”

At the mention of April's name, Francesca's heart skipped a beat. “What do you have to say about April?”

Footsteps indicated that Dean was already on his way back. “Not here. In my office. You coming?”

The opportunity was too good to pass up. She was wearing a wire and could get the whole conversation on tape—although she highly doubted he was about to confess. More likely he'd make up some story to cover being with April last Saturday night. But maybe in the midst of telling that story he'd slip up. Catching him in a lie could help break this case wide-open.

“Here.” As Dean handed over her purse, Francesca noticed that his mood had changed drastically. Gone was the friendly Dean, the childlike Dean, even the embarrassed Dean. Now he seemed angry—brooding and angry. But, considering how he'd been treated, she found those emotions justified.

“Go take your medication,” Butch said. “I can always tell when you try to skip.”

Dean glared at him again, then turned on his heel and left the room.

“So what's it gonna be?” Butch asked.

Francesca didn't bother to check her purse for her phone or her wallet. What was there was there. She had bigger concerns. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she raised her chin. “Where's your office?”

A
s she'd expected, Butch's office was the ramshackle building she'd hidden behind when she'd first spotted that mannequin and thought it was a corpse. About four hundred square feet, it had two doors, four windows, a large metal desk, a few office machines and an old air-conditioning unit, which sounded as if it was leaking water, hanging out the window closest to Butch's chair. A tiny apartment sat off to one side, an obvious addition. Francesca could see part of a bed through the open doorway, but she didn't have the impression the apartment was currently occupied.

The scent of cigar smoke clung to the cheap wooden paneling and brown shag carpet. Francesca could also smell dog, even though the Doberman was currently chained up outside. A pot of coffee sat on top of a makeshift minibar constructed of wooden planks and cinder blocks. Everything around her pronounced Butch king of the junk heap.

“Sit down.” Shoving a pile of newspapers off a chair of cracked vinyl, something he'd probably pulled in from the yard, he waved her into it. Then he helped himself to a cup of coffee without offering her one, took a seat across from her and propped his feet on the desk.

“What?” she said when he scowled at her without speaking. “You wanted me here for a reason.”

He gulped down some coffee. “We got off on the wrong foot the other day. But I won't apologize for that. You had no right to trespass on my property.” He touched his cheek as if remembering the moment she'd gouged him. “Or scratch my face like a damn hellcat.”

“Unlike what you told the police, you were chasing me!” she argued.

“I was just trying to figure out what you wanted.”

She couldn't believe he'd continue to lie when, as far as he knew, they were alone. “By tackling me? Come on. You already put on a circus for the police. I was there, remember? I
know
what happened. You were feeling a lot more than curiosity.”

Shifting so he could reach the desk while his feet remained on top of it, he put down his coffee cup and picked up a heavy crystal paperweight, which he tossed from hand to hand. “Maybe I was.”

“So now you're admitting it?”

“I'm admitting that I was trying to hide something. But not what you think. I had no intention of murdering you when you came here. I've never killed anyone.”

She watched that paperweight shift from hand to hand, thought how easy it would be for him to bash her head in before Jonah or Finch or anyone else could rescue her. “Then why did you react the way you did when you found me on your property?”

“Because I knew what you were. The last stranger who came snooping around here all dressed up was also a P.I.”

“Looking for yet another missing person with a connection to you, no doubt,” she said dryly.

A hint of malice passed over his face but was gone
almost as soon as it appeared. “Looking to catch me with a woman other than my wife,” he corrected.

Francesca brought her purse around so she could prop it in her lap. “You think Paris is collecting proof that you're unfaithful? Considering the profile you posted on that dating Web site where you met April, that shouldn't be too hard. A quick Internet search would do it. I'd be happy to help—for free.”

The animosity didn't reappear, as she'd thought it would. Instead, he laughed. “Paris would never leave me. It's not like I'm sneaking around on her, so you got nothing on me. As long as I'm discreet and my emotions don't get involved, she lets me do whatever I want. It's my girlfriend's husband who has a jealousy problem.”

His girlfriend? Francesca hadn't expected him to divulge another ongoing relationship. She hadn't even expected him to have one. Or maybe that was how he worked. Maybe he kept various women on the side as girlfriends until they became too demanding, or he tired of them, or the desire to kill grew too strong to resist. “What's your girlfriend's name?”

The paperweight landed on his desk with a thud. “None of your business. I won't drag her into this. She's got her hands full dealing with that husband of hers. She doesn't need any more trouble, especially from you.”

“Interesting. You seem to care about her—enough to protect her, to some extent—and yet it doesn't bother you that you're breaking up her marriage.”

“Why would it?” he said. “I don't owe her husband any more than I owe you. I never forced her to sleep with me. The way I look at it, she's breaking up her own marriage. That's her choice. But it doesn't mean I'll make it easy for the people her husband hires to document us so he can take away her kids.”

Francesca didn't conceal her smirk. “You're telling me that was all that had you worried when I showed up here, Butch? What your girlfriend's husband might do with proof of her infidelity?”

He spread his hands wide. “Believe it or not.”

Rocking back, she folded her arms on her purse. “What about April?”

“What about her?”

“They found her body yesterday.”

There was a brief hesitation. “She's dead?”

“You didn't know?”

“Was it on the news?”

“I can't say. I haven't watched the news.” She'd been too focused on basic survival, Jill and Vince, her phone line. She hadn't even turned on the TV last night at Heather's apartment. “When I got to where she was dumped, there were no reporters. But you're the last person to see her alive.”

He took another sip of coffee. “She was perfectly fine when I left her. If someone hurt her, it wasn't me.”

Did the news of April's death upset him? Not that Francesca could tell. He seemed agitated but not particularly upset. “I just told you that a woman you've been involved with is dead. You don't care?”

He smiled. “Of course. Can't you tell? I'm broken up inside.”

She hoped the sarcasm carried through to Jonah and the others. “Any chance you can prove she was alive when you went your separate ways?”

His chair creaked rhythmically as he swiveled from side to side. “No more than you can prove she wasn't.”

“Do you mind telling me what you two did Saturday night?”

“Not at all. We met at the Pour House at seven o'clock.
Then we drove out to a little Mexican place called the Rio Grande about fifteen miles from here. After dinner, we were anxious to be together, if you know what I mean, so I pulled off the road and we, uh, got busy in my truck.”

“You're saying you had sex with her.”

The swiveling and its attendant creaking stopped. “I'm saying it was consensual.”

Somehow, Francesca couldn't see a teacher like April being quite so easy. According to April's sister, and the e-mails she'd read on April's computer, this was the first time April had actually met Harry Statham, aka Butch. And everything else in her life revealed her as conservative, cautious. In Francesca's mind, Butch was only admitting he'd had intercourse with April to explain any foreign DNA they might find. He was smart, smarter than the average rapist, if that was the appropriate term. “And then?”

“After it was over, she wanted me to take her home with me. It was as if she thought fifteen minutes of sweaty sex committed us for life. I told her I couldn't do that. I was tired and had to work the next morning. I don't know how I could've made it any plainer that the date was over. But she was so insistent that I finally had to tell her I was married. That was when the shit really hit the fan. She freaked out. Started screaming and demanding I stop the truck.”

“On the highway?”

“That's right, on the highway. I didn't want to let her out. I knew it was a hike to get anywhere from that point. But she wouldn't listen. She was sobbing and hitting me, and we were weaving all over the road. When she opened her door and threatened to jump, I pulled over and let her out.” He steepled his fingers. “I'm not proud of how the night ended,” he added, “but I had no choice other than
to let her do as she wished. I've never seen a woman so worked up.”

“You sound surprised that she'd be unhappy, Butch.”

His smile dissolved and he dropped his hands. “I am. She was a stupid bitch. I bought her a meal and she gave me a quickie. As far as I'm concerned, it was an even trade. We both had a good time. She loved the buildup, the e-mails we exchanged, the idea that she was falling in love. I gave her that for weeks. And then she had to ruin it all by acting as if I'd cheated her. I mean, what did she expect?”

“Maybe she wanted more than fantasy. Maybe she wanted it to be real.”

“Give me a break,” he muttered.

“Was a little honesty too much to ask?”

“Everyone knows you can't believe half the shit you read on the Internet. She should've been more careful.”

“Sometimes hope makes you believe things you otherwise wouldn't.”

“Not if you're smart. How she could mistake a quick piece of ass for true love, I don't know, but once I realized, I knew I had to end it right there.”

“And telling her you were married was the fastest way.”

“Yeah.”

Francesca hated him even more for breaking April's heart before killing her. She was tempted to let him know it, to tell him how pathetic she thought he was. But she didn't. She figured she might get more out of him if she kept her opinions to herself. “When you left her on the highway, that's the last time you saw her?”

“That's the last time I saw her.”

If what he said was true, anyone could've picked her
up. Butch knew that, of course. He'd concocted his story to create doubt, to suggest that some mysterious killer might've come upon her after he'd driven off. The chance of that happening wasn't great, but it
was
a chance, and that was all he needed to create reasonable doubt. “Why are you so forthcoming with me, Butch?” she asked.

“Because I'll have to talk to the police, anyway, and you're making more out of Saturday night than it was. I'm an innocent man. I don't need you or anyone else causing me trouble. I have a family to support.”

She pinched her lips as she considered him. “An innocent man doesn't try to terrorize a woman.”

“I flirted with her online, took her out to dinner and had consensual sex with her. I didn't terrorize her.”

“I'm talking about
me,
” Francesca said.

Lines of frustration appeared on his forehead. “I already explained that. I thought you were hired by my—”

“No, at my house,” she broke in. “What were you doing
at my house?
”

His frustration gave way to confusion. “You've lost me. I've never been to your place.” Stretching to reach the air conditioner, he adjusted the knob to high, which started the fan spinning so loudly she was worried the police wouldn't be able to hear what was coming through her wire.

She raised her voice to compensate. “You came over and cut my phone line.”

He put his feet down one at a time and leaned halfway across the desk. “Maybe
someone
cut your line, but…It. Wasn't. Me.”

It was. Francesca was sure of it. Maybe she hadn't been able to make out the details of his face, but she'd seen his size and shape. And the timing couldn't be a
coincidence. Besides that, the person who'd come hadn't actually attempted to break in. Why would anyone cut her telephone line for no reason—unless it was an act of revenge, a message like the one she would've expected to receive from Butch?

He was playing with her. It was almost as if he knew she was wearing a wire.

She had to get him to say something that might make the police realize he was dangerous. Otherwise, his explanation of their encounter at the salvage yard, and his claim that he hadn't been to her house, could seem plausible. If Butch managed to convince Finch that he wouldn't hurt her or anyone else, Finch wouldn't waste the man-hours necessary to continue surveillance. “Stop it. I know better.”

“It
couldn't
have been me,” he protested.

“Why not?”

“Because I was here all night. Ask my wife.”

She gripped her purse with both hands. “I'm getting the impression your wife would say
anything
to protect you.”

“We stick together. But she's not lying, and neither am I.”

“What you're telling me doesn't make sense,” Francesca said. “Who else could it have been?”

He slapped the top of his desk. “How the hell should I know? It could've been anyone. A Peeping Tom. A meddlesome neighbor. A jilted lover.”

She shook her head. “It was you.”

Some of the anger slithering beneath the surface of his control was beginning to show. “Why would I waste my time?”

“Because you weren't happy when I left here. Because
you wanted me to feel vulnerable. Because you're sick in the head. Take your pick.”

He stood. “I shouldn't have tried to talk to you. You're not listening. You're too paranoid. I came after you when you were here because I'm sick of the investigators my girlfriend's husband keeps sending over. I wanted to make it clear I wouldn't put up with being spied on or harassed, especially on my own property. That's it. Nothing to do with murder.”

Francesca wasn't making any progress, so she decided to take the conversation in a different direction. “Have you ever heard of Bianca Andersen?”

“Who?” he said, but he'd jerked at the name as if he'd recognized it, as if she'd surprised him.

“Bianca Andersen.”

His expression darkened. “No.”

“Aren't you going to ask me who she is? Or why I'm mentioning her?”

“I'd like you to leave. Now.”

“Her remains were found in Dead Mule Canyon, Butch. That's not far from here, is it?”

“I wouldn't know. I've never been there.”