Killer Heat (25 page)

D
ue to the fallout from his confrontation with Dean, Butch had changed his plans. Instead of driving to Chandler, he'd spent the better part of the afternoon and early evening at the Pour House. He'd had a shitload of soda water and only two beers, which wasn't enough, but he didn't dare drink more. As distasteful as it was, he had a job to do.

Sitting in his truck, he let the engine idle while searching, one more time, for a viable alternative. But he couldn't see one. If Francesca took those panties, she hadn't given them to the sheriff's office or Hunsacker would've mentioned it when he called earlier. Instead, the investigator had said that Francesca Moretti had been kicked off the case and Jonah Young had been fired at the same time. That was good, overall. Butch was damn sick of them and their constant scrutiny. But it didn't mean he could relax. What if Francesca went ahead and did some more digging? Found out who Julia was and that she'd gone missing? It wouldn't be hard. She'd lived with them for several months. Been seen. And what if Francesca had those panties analyzed? If the lab managed to get a DNA sample and the police were able to match it, via relatives or whatever, to Julia, they'd have grounds to
get a search warrant. Then they'd come into the salvage yard and discover her body in the freezer….

No matter how many ways he looked at the problem, he always came up with the same solution.

“Quit wasting time, you dumb bastard,” he grumbled to himself. Then he shifted into Reverse, backed out of the parking space and headed for the highway.

 

Francesca sat in her living room, staring at the TV. She'd just watched the news, which showed footage from the grave site at Dead Mule Canyon while a voice-over stated that seven bodies had been found “in this remote location near the ranching community of Skull Valley.” Next, a correspondent interviewed Dr. Price, “the forensic anthropologist who's working day and night at a makeshift lab in the community center to gather as much information from the remains as possible.” The same reporter then spoke with Investigator Finch, who was on hand with a smarmy smile to assure the public that the Yavapai County Sheriff's Office was forming a task force to look into these murders and would do everything they could to keep the community safe.

“I feel better already.” Rolling her eyes, she turned off the TV and shut Investigator Finch out of her house. She needed to get some rest, but there was no way she could sleep. She kept wondering if she should've listened to Jonah when he tried to apologize all those years ago, if, with enough forgiveness, they could've made their relationship work in spite of his betrayal. What was
his
side of the story? What was the
real
reason behind what he'd done? He hadn't blamed Adriana for his infidelity. She knew that much. He'd taken full responsibility. But maybe Francesca's own lack of trust—of men, of love, of the happiness she felt whenever
she was with Jonah—had tainted her willingness to understand, as well as her ability to overcome.

Both
Adriana and Jonah were to blame. It took two to make love. And yet…certain nuances affected her understanding of the situation, the full impact of which she hadn't realized until now. All the time they were growing up, Adriana had been such a good person, so kind and supportive, that Francesca had been far more willing to give her rather than Jonah the benefit of the doubt.

Or was she more generous with Adriana because she'd always felt guilty about the way her best friend was so often overlooked or pushed into the background when it came to men? Adriana had seemed content to let Francesca have the spotlight. It wasn't as if Francesca had ever
tried
to upstage her. The response they got was the response they got. But what if Adriana secretly resented her? What if, deep inside, she'd wanted Jonah for herself all along?

She'd just admitted she'd been in love with him….

And what about Jonah? Had he been dealing with issues she should've been aware of but wasn't? He'd never mentioned having been married or divorced. Had it been such a painful experience he didn't want to look back? Was it an embarrassment to him? What had gone wrong? He didn't love lightly, so she couldn't imagine he'd jump into that kind of commitment without real depth of feeling. She also found it a little curious that Jonah had started acting up—drinking, becoming less reliable and picking fights for no reason—only after their relationship grew serious.

When he'd cheated, she'd assumed he was shallow and disloyal. She'd made herself believe it so she'd never get sucker-punched like that again. But maybe there was more to it….

I wish I'd married her, okay? Is that what you want to hear? God knows you won't believe anything else, so there you have it. I was an asshole with no heart, out to hurt anyone I could, and I tried to destroy your life and hers just for the hell of it. I used you both, like I use all women.

He didn't use women. She had to be honest enough to admit that. And it wasn't as if he'd go to bed with just anyone. She'd seen him gently deflect unwanted female attention plenty of times. Heck, she'd even given him the chance to “use” her the other night, and he hadn't taken it, although she could tell he wanted to. Why?

She glanced at her cell phone, lying on the couch beside her. A direct flight to California took less than two hours. Jonah would be home by now. Should she call him? If she did, would he believe she was calling to talk about what she'd just seen on TV? Finch hadn't divulged any new information. As usual, the police had kept what they released purposely sketchy….

Why did she even need a reason? So what if he realized she wanted to talk to him? What was so bad about that? Did she really have to insulate her heart to such a degree? Or was it her pride she was protecting?

Probably both. But at this point, she had nothing to lose.

Except everything she'd guarded so fiercely for the past ten years…

She remembered their kiss at the motel and how quickly it had brought back all the desire she'd ever felt for him. “You scare me,” she said, but she picked up her phone, anyway, and punched in his number.

 

Jonah was just drifting off to sleep when his phone rang. He almost let it go to voice mail. He wasn't feeling
quite as sanguine about getting fired as he'd tried to convince himself before leaving Phoenix. The more he thought about that meeting in the conference room, the angrier he became that Hunsacker and Finch hadn't stood by him or Francesca.

But in case the call was important, he checked to see who was trying to reach him. And when he recognized the number, he answered. It was Francesca. Had Butch tried to contact her again? Was she frightened? Hurt?

“Are you okay?” he asked without so much as a hello.

“I'm fine. Sort of.”

She didn't sound fine.
Something
was wrong. “What's the ‘sort of' all about? You haven't heard from Butch, have you?”

“No.”

“But you have your pepper spray ready?”

“It's on my nightstand.”

“Where are you?”

“In the living room.”

Just seeing her number had spooked him, made him realize he wasn't as sure as he wanted to be that she'd be safe without him. Denial could hit anyone, especially someone so eager to get back on stable ground, and it had hit him.

He already regretted letting that happen. What had seemed reasonable in the light of day no longer seemed that way in the dark of night. “Go get it. Right away. Then you can tell me what's wrong.”

She seemed to be moving when she spoke again. “When Adriana came by earlier, she had a few things to say about you that were a little different than anything she's told me before.”

If he never heard Adriana's name again it would be too soon.

Rolling over, he gazed at his daughter's picture in the moonlight coming through the windows overlooking the cityscape. What could've changed? And did he even want to know? He'd hurt so many people…. “What'd she say?” he finally said.

“You seem reluctant to ask.”

He
was
reluctant. But he was also resigned. “You're entitled to your pound of flesh, remember?”

She didn't laugh. She was too serious for jokes tonight. “Adriana told me she was in love with you when she slept with you ten years ago.”

He said nothing, didn't know what to say. Hearing that made him feel even worse, because, for the most part, she'd been both nameless and faceless to him. He'd only been reacting to the desperate panic he experienced whenever he realized how much he loved Francesca. It made him feel too out of control, too vulnerable—placed him right where he'd been when he was married, and he couldn't deal with that.

“This doesn't come as a surprise?” she asked.

“I guess I sort of knew she felt…something. Or thought she did.” He wasn't sure her emotions had ever been stronger than a crush. Until that night, he hadn't so much as flirted with her.

He would've explained that to Francesca, except he feared it would look as though he was minimizing his mistake or trying to excuse his own actions, and he refused to do either. Francesca had made the right decision when she cut him out of her life. She deserved better.

“Did you guess before you were, um, together?” she asked.

He pulled his eyes from Summer's smiling face and sat up. “Are you holding your pepper spray?”

“I am now. Yes.”

“Good.”

“Can we get back to the discussion?”

Massaging his left temple, he slumped onto his pillows. “Do we have to?”

“You'd rather not?”

He sighed. “I could sense some…interest. Why?”

“I don't know what to think about it. It's not every day you hear something like that from your best friend.”

Adriana had hurt Francesca all over again. Remembering how Francesca had thrown up during the drive to Prescott, he decided it was time to quit being so damned selfish and put a stop to her pain, if he could. “Listen, that night was entirely my fault, okay? Every bit of it. If I've ever claimed otherwise, I was just…passing the buck. I knew she had a thing for me, and I took advantage of it. Hate me, not her.”

There was a slight pause. He thought he heard the sniffle of tears. “What if I can't hate you?”

His chest suddenly tightened so much he couldn't have taken a deep breath if he'd wanted to. “You should. It would make everything easier for you,” he said gently. Then he hung up and turned off his phone so he wouldn't be tempted to call her back. If he accepted all the blame for what he and Adriana had done ten years ago, the two women would patch up their friendship and move on, just as they had before. In another few months, Francesca would probably have new pictures sitting on her wet bar and mantel, pictures of her with another man similar to Roland Perenski.

She'd be happy, smiling, maybe even thinking about getting married….

 

When the phone rang, Francesca couldn't help hoping it was Jonah. She wasn't sure what was left to say, but somehow it didn't feel as if their conversation was over.

As she grabbed her phone, however, she saw her father's name on caller ID.

Trying to rein in her disappointment, she made an effort to put some life into her voice. “Hi, Dad.”

“Francesca? I didn't wake you, did I?”

She glanced at the alarm clock on her nightstand. “It's not quite eleven, Dad. What's going on? Are you and Mom okay?”

“We're fine.”

“Good. What's up?”

“I've been doing those background checks for you.”

With everything else that'd been going on, Francesca had almost forgotten she'd asked him to do some research. Now that he was calling to report, she didn't have the heart to tell him she'd been kicked off the case. It wouldn't hurt to hear him out. If what he had to say seemed significant, she'd pass it along to the task force—anyone other than Finch or Hunsacker—just like she planned to do with the DNA results on the panties. If Walt's contribution didn't seem significant, at least she could thank him and make him feel she appreciated the time he'd spent. “Right. On Butch Vaughn,” she said.

“And that other fellow, Dean Wheeler.”

She pulled back the covers on her bed so she could wriggle beneath them. “What have you found?”

She heard the shuffle of papers on his end of the line.

“Butch Vaughn was born and raised in Queen Creek, first by his mother, and then by a friend's family.”

“What happened to his parents?”

“His real father took off before he was born, never paid any child support, and Butch didn't get along with his stepfather—or his younger half siblings, for that matter. When his stepfather was laid off, Butch's mother had to go to work, and the situation became untenable. According to one of Butch's school counselors, who agreed to chat with me off the record, he had severe behavioral problems, anger-management issues and he was failing most of his classes. He improved once he went to live with the Stathams.”

Francesca immediately noted the name. “Was the father Harry?”

“No, but Butch's friend was. Why?”

“He's used ‘Harry Statham' as an alias. Now I know where he got it.”

“His half sister, a Marcie Reed, told me he never forgave their mother for turning him out, for choosing her husband over him. He still has no contact with his siblings. His brother refused to talk to me, said as far as he was concerned Butch died the day his mother did.”

She whistled. “That's harsh. How did the mother die?”

“Drowned in the bathtub.”

“Any evidence of foul play?”

“There was an investigation, but it was an open-and-shut case. Her blood-alcohol level was sky-high, suggesting she passed out. Her death was ruled an accident.”