Killer Heat (24 page)

Filled with the adrenaline of being more daring than he'd ever thought he could be, Dean considered the scrap of fabric he'd taken from the metal box buried beneath the train car. “Where you keep all the others,” he said. “I found your little stash. You recognize them, don't you? Or have you collected so many you can't tell them apart anymore?”

Butch didn't yell, didn't holler at him to get the hell out of the way or to crawl back under whatever rock he'd crawled out from, like he normally did when they crossed paths. His brother-in-law approached this situation with some caution, maybe even a touch of respect. “How did you find my box?” he asked, dropping his voice so they couldn't be heard inside the house. “I didn't
find
it, exactly. It was more a matter of…stumbling across it,” he said, although he'd been searching for it or something like it ever since Butch and Paris had married. Even with his extensive knowledge of the yard—and the abundance of time he spent in it—it'd taken years to unearth Butch's precious trophies. He could hardly believe he'd done it. “Imagine my shock when I opened it,” he went on. “There have to be…what? Fifty pairs of panties in there?” He whistled. “I'm impressed, Butch. How many women have you slept with?”

“That's none of your business.” His initial flash of surprise now over, Butch wasn't messing around any longer. His hands curled into fists and the veins stood out in his neck. He wanted to kill Dean as brutally as he'd killed Julia. That wasn't hard to tell.

Fortunately, Butch wouldn't go that far. He cared too
much about Paris and Champ, was already close to losing them. And he had his home and job to consider; all of it came through Paris.

“Paris might consider it
her
business,” he mused.

Butch spat at the ground. “You think she doesn't know?”

“If she does, she has no clue about the magnitude. Or what you do to the women after you get their panties.”

“Shut up!” His voice turned into more of a rasp as he struggled to control his temper. “You don't know what you're talking about. Have you taken your meds today?”

“Forget my meds.” Finally feeling safe enough to reveal the irritation and anger that welled up inside him so often, Dean grimaced. “My medication is
my
affair. And I'm tired of you and everyone else around here getting involved in it.”

“You need those pills. You act crazy when you're not on them. Because of that, I'm going to forget this little…incident.”

Butch was discounting him again. Refusing to let that happen, Dean stepped forward. “Collecting proof of your conquests may not be
crazy,
but I'm pretty sure everyone would agree that murder is a serious problem.”

After shooting a wary glance at the front door, Butch moved closer to him.

Fear tempted Dean to back away. He'd witnessed how drastically his brother-in-law's moods could shift. Today, he'd given Butch a reason to be upset. But he stood his ground. That stash of women's underwear supplied him with leverage he'd never had before. That was why he'd wanted to find it so badly.

“I haven't murdered
anyone,
Dean.” Butch towered
over him like a giant redwood. “Francesca Moretti is wrong.
You're
wrong.”

Pursing his lips, Dean studied his treasure as a way to avoid the malevolence in Butch's eyes. “Good to hear. So…you can probably explain why Julia's body is in the old freezer?” He finally looked up. “Had to get there somehow.”

The dark stubble on Butch's chin contrasted sharply with the sudden white of his face. Putting his brother-in-law in such a compromising position made Dean feel powerful. He was glad he'd found those panties. Butch would never dare mistreat him again.

“Are these hers?” Dean asked. “Julia's?” Bringing the panties to his nose, he sniffed. “Nope. Couldn't be. They still have the distinctive scent of the wearer, which means they came into your possession too recently. Could it be that they're April Bonner's?”

Butch's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You're the one who put that other pair of panties in my jockey box.”

Widening his eyes, Dean played dumb. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The underwear your sister came across. That's what you hoped would happen. Are you the one who called her, too? The hang-up she thought was Kelly?”

“That must've been someone else,” he lied, but his chuckle gave him away, as he intended.

“What did you hope to accomplish, Dean? Did you think she'd leave me? That it would get me out of your life once and for all?”

Dean would've liked nothing more. He'd hated Butch since the day they'd met. Butch was every bully he'd ever known. But he had to be careful. At the moment, Butch was the only one capable of taking care of them all, and
Dean would never do anything to harm his family, especially his mother.

“You're jumping to some terrible conclusions, Butch.”

“Where are those panties? Did you pick them up after Paris dropped them? Are you hiding them somewhere, trying to scare me?”

“No.” This time Dean wasn't lying. He had no idea where those panties had gone; neither had he realized, until now, that they were missing.

“Tell me the truth!” Butch lunged forward, and Dean screamed.

“Mom! Help! He's going to hit me!”

Butch grabbed him as if he'd strike, but then the door opened and his mother came out.

Dean wondered if Paris had summoned her. His sister would've been much more likely to hear his cries, and although Paris generally sided with Butch, she understood how easily her husband's temper could upset the delicate equilibrium that kept them all sheltered, fed and safe.

“What's going on here? What's the matter with you two?” Elaine asked.

Butch let him go. “Your son hasn't taken his medication today, that's all. He's coming up with all kinds of ridiculous accusations against me.”

Elaine scratched under the wig she'd taken to wearing ever since her hair became thin enough to show her scalp. “Like what?”

“He claims I murdered Julia and put her in a freezer.”

Dean couldn't believe Butch had just blurted it out. He'd thought he was the only one privy to that terrible secret. But his mother's response surprised him even more. She grabbed his arm so fiercely it hurt, then jerked
him toward her so she could put her mouth next to his ear. “What are you doing, Dean? Do you want to ruin the whole family?” Ruin the
family?
This had nothing to do with the family. Dean was trying to help them by curbing Butch's power. “I can prove it,” he cried. “We—we thought she ran away, but she didn't. I can show you where she is right now. She's in back, in the freezer. I cut off the padlock, but I put on another one just like it, and I've got the key.”

“Where?”

“Here.” He retrieved it from his pocket.

“Give it to me. And don't ever open it again. Forget what you've seen,” Mother hissed.

“But…I'm telling you.” He pointed at Butch. “He murdered Julia! He's dangerous!”

She shook her head. “Butch didn't kill Julia.”

Dean felt his mouth drop open. “Then…who did?”

“As far as you're concerned, no one.” She checked the key he'd given her, seemed satisfied with it. “Forget whatever you saw, like I said, and stay away from that freezer. Do you hear?
Never breathe a word of this again!
”

Searching for some sense in what he heard, Dean sifted through his fractured thoughts.
“You know what happened to her?”

“Of course I know. I helped hide her body. You don't want me to go to prison, do you?”

“No! Of course not.” But how could she go along with this? She'd always liked Julia, tried to give her a chance in life….

“Then we have to keep it in the family. If what happened to Julia gets out, we'll all be in trouble.”

He couldn't imagine losing his mother to prison or anything else. She was the only person in the world who
understood him, who truly loved him. Paris had always viewed him as a cross to bear, and his father tolerated him for his mother's sake. “But…” Was it because he hadn't taken his medication that this all seemed surreal? Butch appeared to be fine with it, almost…smug. “What about the panties? What about the women they belonged to?”

“Forget them, too.” Snatching the underwear from his hands, she threw them at Butch. “Get rid of those once and for all.”

“T
his is Butch?”

Francesca turned from hanging up the clothes she hadn't worn, left from what Heather had packed in her overnight case, to find Adriana going through the file she'd created on Butch.

“Yep, that's him.”

Adriana, who'd been lounging on the bed, sat up to examine the personal information he'd submitted to the dating service. “Is he really six foot six?”

“And two hundred and fifty pounds.”

“Wow.”

“He works outside, and it shows. You definitely wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley.”

Adriana continued to stare at his picture. “He looks like he'd be hell in a boxing ring, but he doesn't look like a murderer.”

Even though she'd already memorized every aspect of the photograph, including the laughter in Butch's eyes, Francesca crossed the floor to get another glimpse of it. She'd never seen him that happy in real life. But their dealings hadn't been positive. “They rarely look the part. Anyway, it's not his physical strength that scares me.” She bit her lip, trying to identify what made her so uneasy
about Butch—other than her suspicion of what he'd done. “He has no humanity.” Aside from lending Hunsacker the money he needed to save his house, anyway. But Francesca didn't mention that incident to Adriana. She couldn't reconcile such generosity with the man she believed Butch Vaughn to be, so she preferred to classify it as an anomaly. For all she knew, it was Paris who'd asked him to help the Hunsackers, and he'd acquiesced to keep peace in the family.

“What's his wife like?” Adriana asked.

Francesca didn't know nearly enough about Paris. Or anyone else close to Butch. But filling in the blanks was no longer her job. She had to leave it in the hands of the task force the Yavapai County Sheriff's Office was in the process of creating. “Her name's Paris.”

“What does she look like?”

Her overnight case empty, Francesca slid it under the bed. “She's thin, almost bony, with long, stringy blond hair. Not outrageously attractive, but not bad, either.” Francesca shrugged. “She's just a young mother living on a junkyard at the edge of Prescott.”

“How'd she get involved with Butch?” Adriana asked.

Francesca removed her earrings and dropped them in her jewelry box before climbing onto the bed. “No idea. But she married young, probably too young to know any better. She has a five-year-old child but she can't be more than twenty-three or twenty-four.”

Shoving a pillow behind her back, Adriana leaned against the headboard. “How old is Butch?”

Francesca motioned toward the file. “Isn't it in there?”

“Let's see…” She perused the document. “Thirty-one? That's correct?”

“That's got to be about right. Except for the bogus name he used when he created ‘Harry Statham,' it seems he was mostly honest about himself.”

Adriana looked skeptical as she scanned his profile. “If you were a serial killer, wouldn't you be more…clan-destine than to post a profile?”

“It's the appearance of innocence that makes it effective.”

“So he's trolling for women on the Internet.”

“Right. He has to overcome the limitations of being married and living in a remote area, and a computer gives him far more possibilities than he'd have without it. Not only that, it enables him to remain anonymous.”

“Wow, when you put it like that, dating sites are ideal. So, from his perspective, where'd he go wrong?”

“He should've met April somewhere farther away, where he was less likely to be recognized. Instead, he had her come to a bar he frequents, and the bartender saw her getting into his truck. Otherwise, I never would've been able to trace Harry to Butch.”

“Besides providing an abundant supply of women, these dating services allow for some serious foreplay,” Adriana mused.

Francesca winked. “Now you're thinking like a sociopath. That might be part of his ritual, part of the fun.”

“So he's kind of like a fisherman who gets a bite, then plays with his catch as he slowly reels it in.”

“That seems accurate.”

“It's disturbing!”

“The reality
is
disturbing,” Francesca said.

Adriana tapped the page as she continued to read. “Where do you think he got the name Harry Statham?”

“I don't know. But I'd like to find out.”

Adriana dropped the sheet into the space between them. “I thought you were off the case.”

“I am.”

“You're not going to accept that?”

If she pursued the investigation, she could be charged with a crime. Finch had made that clear. But if she walked away, she'd feel she was letting Jillian and Vince—and April—down. “Maybe.”

“This Butch guy is scary, Fran,” Adriana said. “So's his weird brother-in-law. I say you leave it alone. And what about your other cases? Don't you have enough to keep you busy?”

“I have plenty to do. I haven't made it through my voice mail in days.” She hadn't been running or doing anything else she normally did, either. “But—”

“But nothing,” Adriana broke in. “Play it safe.” She held up Butch's picture. “Why provoke him? He's already shown up here once.”

Reminded of Butch's last visit, Francesca rolled over to check the phone. Still dead. But she had her iPhone; she wasn't cut off, like before. “He could come after me again.”

Jonah had considered it unlikely, and Francesca wanted to believe him. But she knew the animosity Butch felt toward her might not disappear so quickly. What if making her look bad with that interview on TV didn't satisfy his desire for revenge? What if it had only whetted his appetite for more? He'd tried to hurt her, if not kill her, last night when he turned Demon loose….

Adriana sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. “Do you want me to stay with you tonight?”

Francesca thought about the panties she'd passed on to Jonah. Would Butch realize they were gone? Would he suspect that she'd taken them? If so, what would he do
about it? If he responded violently, she didn't want Adriana to be at risk, too. “You can't stay with me. You have a family. Stan leaves at, what…six-thirty every morning? Who'll be there with the boys after he goes?”

“He can go in late.”

“He wouldn't like it. He uses that time to go over his patients' files.”

“One morning won't set him too far behind.”

“One night might not make any difference, either, so there's no need to put him out.”

“Then…what will you do? I don't want you to be here alone. Or…is Jonah coming back?” She started reassembling Butch's file as if she'd never performed such an interesting task.

Francesca wasn't sure what it was, exactly, that gave Adriana away. She'd waited long enough before mentioning Jonah, and she'd kept the reference casual. Over the years, they'd had similar discussions about any number of men.
Are you going to see him again…? Don't tell me he's spending the night…! So, how was it…? Is it serious?

And yet this conversation felt different. If Francesca hadn't been able to read Adriana quite so well, maybe she could go on pretending Adriana was no more interested in Jonah than in all the other men Francesca had dated over the years. But Francesca had been through this with Adriana once before. She couldn't be fooled a second time.

Suddenly doubting everything she'd ever believed about what had happened between Adriana and Jonah, other than the fact that a baby had been created, she clasped her hands in her lap. “You're in love with your husband, aren't you, Adriana?”

Adriana shifted uncomfortably. “Of course. You know Stan and I are happy. Why do you ask?”

Why?
Because there was love, and then there was
love.
Regardless of Adriana's denials and protests, did she still care for Jonah?

Although Francesca had been reluctant to discuss him with Adriana for fear the truth would ruin their friendship, she felt compelled to finally broach the subject. She wanted to hear what Adriana had to say about Jonah
and
Stan, needed to know why what'd happened ten years ago had happened—probably because it no longer seemed fair to place so much of the blame on Jonah. She supposed she'd originally done it because his betrayal hurt more. And doing so made it possible for her to save at least one of the two relationships that meant so much to her. But the time she'd spent with him this week had convinced her that he couldn't be defined by that incident alone.

In order to be fair—to Jonah, to Adriana and to herself—Francesca felt she needed to look at the past a little more objectively.

Realizing the answers to the questions she had to ask wouldn't be easy to hear, she took Adriana's hand as if physical contact might thwart an emotional separation. “What happened that night?”

Adriana's fingers remained limp in her grasp but she didn't pull away. “I—I told you. We've gone over this.”

“You told me you made a mistake. That because of the alcohol you'd both consumed, things got out of control. You said you were sorry and never meant for it to happen.”

“That's true.”

“
How
did things get out of control?
Why?
What part did
you
play in sleeping with my boyfriend? Did you two
care about each other? Was I keeping you apart? Did you give him up for my sake?
What?
”

Adriana stared at their joined hands but didn't speak.

“Are you going to tell me?” Francesca prodded.

When Adriana lifted her eyes again, they were filled with misery. “He never cared about me. You were everything to him—”

Francesca let go of her hand. “Don't you dare do this again!”

“What?”

“Say he loved me just because it's what you think I want to hear!”

“I wish that's what I was doing, but…you're giving me too much credit.”

Because her best friend had always been such a Goody Two-shoes, Francesca had assumed Jonah must have been the aggressor, but… “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying it's true. He loved
you.
”

She struggled to accept that.
“Then why'd he do it?”

“Who knows? He never responded to me before.”

Francesca caught her breath. “What do you mean by ‘before'?”

Adriana's shoulders rose in a weak shrug.

“Addy?”

Tears rolled unheeded down Adriana's cheeks. “I don't have all the answers. What he was going through. Whether or not he was as drunk as he seemed. I believed what I wanted to believe, okay?”

“Which was…”

She jumped off the bed. “Do I have to spell it out? There's only
one
thing that could make me betray you, Fran.”

The truth hit with surprising clarity. “You were in love with him. It wasn't an ‘accident.' It was an opportunity.”

She managed a pitiful smile. “In a way, I'm still in love with him.”

All the excuses she'd received—the apologies, too—passed through Francesca's mind. None of it was sincere? And now Adriana claimed she still had feelings for him? “You're married! You have kids!”

Adriana closed her eyes. “Have you ever read
The Bridges of Madison County?
”

Francesca hadn't read it, but she'd heard enough about it from her mother to know that the story revolved around a woman, married to a good man, who unexpectedly met a photographer traveling through the area while her family was away. The photographer was far more exciting than her plodding, dependable husband, and she fell in love with him. They had a torrid affair, but knowing her husband would soon be back, the woman chose to tell the photographer goodbye and stay with her family. Her brief relationship with this man was a secret she kept hidden until she died and the truth came out via a journal and some clippings found by her children.

Adriana identified with this character? She saw Jonah as the photographer and herself as the tragic figure who chose to sacrifice her true love to stay with her family?

Dropping her head in her hands, Francesca laughed bitterly. “Get out,” she said, and thankfully, when she looked up, Adriana was gone.