Killer Heat (30 page)

“What kind of evidence?”

“That's what I need to find out.”

“What's the number for the Yavapai County Sheriff's Office?”

Was this a test? He pulled up the directory on his phone so he could read it to her. “Ask for Investigator Hunsacker or Investigator Finch,” he said.

Although she didn't open the door, she must've been satisfied because she didn't actually make the call. “The cabin you want is owned by Doug Schultz. Go back to the highway, turn left and drive another mile and a half. Take a right at Liberty Bell Road. Cabin's on the corner.”

They hadn't gone quite far enough. “Thanks,” he said, and hurried over to the SUV.

Ray watched him as he settled behind the wheel. “Any luck?”

“It's another mile and a half down the highway.”

“Really? I could've sworn we'd gone too far already.”

Jonah checked the clock on the dash as he popped the car into reverse. It was past five. He'd hoped to be back in Prescott by now but, with the way things were going, he wouldn't get to Francesca's until seven or eight.

As long as he made it by dark…

 

Shortly after ten, Butch sat at the kitchen table with a bottle of Jack Daniel's and a half-filled glass. Every one else in the house had gone to sleep, but he was looking to finish what he'd set in motion. It was almost over. All he had to do now was wait.

Sliding back in his chair, he stared up at the ceiling
and wished he felt bad about what he was doing. He knew he should. But Dean had caused this mess. If the dumb bastard hadn't put those panties in his jockey box, none of it would've happened. Butch wouldn't have had to send him to Francesca's, the police wouldn't have shown up with that damn search warrant and Hunsacker and Finch wouldn't have found the freezer.

It was Hunsacker who'd come to tell him about the blood. The detective had gazed at the ground as he explained that Luminol reacts to the iron in hemoglobin. There were traces of blood in the freezer. He'd quickly added that it could be from an animal. But Butch knew the drill. All they had to do was test it.

Holding his glass up to the light, he swirled the amber liquid around the sides. Finch had walked up right after to say he'd received a call from Francesca. She already knew what Julia looked like, that she'd lived with them, the time of year she'd gone missing and that she was from California. With such a start, she'd be able to gather more information, and if he let that play out, the investigation might not take the direction he'd like.

So…since he couldn't get the panties back and Dean had failed to subdue Francesca, he'd told them Dean was the last person to see Julia alive. That she'd disappeared soon after, but he'd trusted Dean when he said she'd run away because he'd had no reason not to. She wasn't all that stable an individual.

Finishing his drink, he smiled at how smoothly it had all come together. The investigators had bought every word, just as Butch had known they would, because it matched the scenario they'd created in their minds. It was so easy to lie to someone who was already prepared to believe….

Turning the bottle of Jack Daniel's, Butch peeled the
corner of the label. Elaine had given him hell when she learned that he'd set Dean up to take the fall for Julia's death, but as he'd explained to her, if they wanted to save their normal daughter, they had to sacrifice their mentally ill son. Dean wasn't living in the real world half the time, anyway. He
should
be institutionalized.

Shoving his glass closer to the bottle, he poured himself another splash and used it to toast his brother-in-law. “Excellent job,” he said. “Very convincing.”

Once the investigators connected the panties to the blood in the freezer and the missing Julia Cummings, they'd have an airtight case. Even Dean's corny love letters would work against him. He'd go to prison for the rest of his life, the police would stop their surveillance on the salvage yard and life could go on as before.
Better
than before because Dean wouldn't be part of it anymore.

Somehow everything was working out perfectly. And, ironically, it was Dean who'd made it all possible.

Butch's cell phone rang. Peering at caller ID, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was a number he didn't recognize, most likely a payphone. Dean had left his cell at home, just as Butch had directed. This was what he'd been waiting for.

“Dean? What happened?” he said, feigning concern.

“I tried, Butch. I tried to do what you told me. But she…she sprayed me with some…stuff. Right in the eyes! I couldn't see. I couldn't breathe. It burned so bad! And—and then she ran. I had to get out of there. That was all I could do.”

He was crying, gasping for breath like a child. It sickened Butch to hear it. A man should never cry like that. But Dean hadn't taken his medication.

“It'll be okay,” Butch said.

“Tell Mom I—I tried to tie her up so I could call you, but…you should've come with me. She's stronger than she looks.”

“I understand.”

At that, there was a slight pause, a gap in the hysteria during which he sounded quite calm. “You're not mad at me?”

“Of course not. You did your best, didn't you?”

“I did. I did everything I could.”

“So where are you now?”

“Phoenix? Glendale? I don't know. I've been riding the buses, riding and riding, all over, everywhere. I don't know what else to do. You said I couldn't come home unless I tied up Francesca, and that didn't go so good.”

“Calm down, Dean. I'm going to help you.”

He sniffed. “You are? Does that mean I can come home? I want to see Mom.”

“Soon. But for now, it's too dangerous. The police are watching the yard.”

“The
police?
Oh, God! What should I do?” His voice crescendoed in a wail.

“You'll go to the Schultzes' cabin.”

“I will?”

“Yes. Right away. You remember it, don't you?”

“Yeah, sure. That place we rented last Christmas? Where we taught Champ to shoot a pellet gun?”

“That's the one.”

“That was so fun,” he said. “But won't the cabin be locked?”

“Since when is any lock a problem for you?” Butch asked.

“It's not. But I thought… I mean, you want me to
break in?
”

“If that's the only way.”

“Then what, Butch? How long do I stay?”

Standing, Butch set his glass in the sink and put the Jack Daniel's back in the cupboard. “Once you get there, sit tight, Dean. Someone will be coming for you shortly,” he said. Then he hung up and called Hunsacker. “It's me.”

“Butch? What's up?”

Judging by the thickness of Hunsacker's voice, he'd been sleeping. Butch gave him time to collect his wits before continuing. “I know where you'll be able to find Dean.”

“You do?”

“Yes. He just called here, looking for our help.”

Hunsacker's next words sounded much more alert. “You were smart to contact me. Turning him in is for the best, Butch. The only way.”

He was right about that. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

“I— Yeah, sure. Go ahead,” Hunsacker said, and Butch gave him directions.

“I
can't believe we haven't been able to get hold of Finch,” Francesca complained. “It's been
hours
since we heard from him.”

Jonah hovered over her fax machine. After his un-productive attempt to find whatever Butch had left at or near the Schultzes' cabin, he'd spoken to Winona Green, the profiler who was studying the Dead Mule Canyon case for him. She'd indicated that she was finished with her research and would e-mail her notes in the morning, once she'd had a chance to type them up. Unwilling to wait, and knowing he'd be going to Chandler—he refused to let Francesca spend another night alone—he'd asked Winona to fax her handwritten version to Francesca's office. But there was nothing in the bin when they arrived, and they'd already been there twenty minutes. “Let's hope it's because he's had a major break in the case.”

“I'm dying to know what that might be. What else did he discover at the salvage yard?” She'd spent the early evening at the sheriff's station, trying to determine Julia's last name, but he and Hunsacker hadn't returned.

“They must've found something interesting, or we
would've heard from them, if only to ask whether or not you'd obtained more information on Julia.”

“I'm frustrated that I haven't been able to come up with a name,” she said.

He was aware of that. They'd spent the two-hour drive to Chandler on the phone together. They'd started out discussing the garbage bag Butch had removed from the salvage yard, the farmer who'd helped Francesca figure out that Julia had once lived with Butch and the many police departments in California she'd called looking for a runaway who matched Julia's first name and description. But it hadn't been long before they'd ventured on to other subjects—her parents, his parents, Department 6, his condo in L.A. The comfortable companionship that had developed over the course of that call made him feel closer to her than was probably wise. He'd be a fool to allow himself to fall back in love with her. But it seemed to be happening, anyway….

“Did she say she'd send the fax right away?” Francesca asked.

“She certainly gave me the impression it'd be tonight,” he replied. “But…maybe she dozed off.” He was about to do the same. It wasn't very late—only eleven o'clock—but it'd been weeks since he'd had a decent night's sleep.

Francesca didn't appear to be any fresher. She sagged onto the edge of her assistant's desk, tired but prettier than ever. He wished he didn't find her so damn attractive, but every time he looked at her he felt a strong reaction. The years they'd been separated hadn't changed anything.

“This isn't a bad place to work,” he said, glancing around. He'd complimented her on it before, when she first showed him through, but small talk distracted him
from the condoms in his suitcase, which seemed to be screaming his name from the trunk of his car.

She put back the picture she held of her assistant, Heather, and Heather's little boy. “I like it.”

A renovated old house fronting Chandler Boulevard, it contained a reception room, a small kitchen, two bathrooms, a storage area and Francesca's private office. Decorated in burgundy and blue, the place had expensive-looking black shutters, hardwood floors covered with traditional area rugs and mahogany bookcases. He couldn't resist feeling a sense of pride at what she'd accomplished. It wasn't easy for an independent P.I. to make a living, but she'd created a situation that was very different from the “barely making ends meet” stereotype so often portrayed in the media. Francesca had done very well for herself.

“You've built your business working missing persons?”

“Background checks are still our bread and butter and probably always will be—that and helping one spouse prove the other's cheating. But missing persons is the challenge that keeps me interested.”

Outside, the wind picked up, and he wondered if they were about to experience an early monsoon. The weather in Arizona didn't usually change much this time of year, vacillating between hot, dry and sunny, and hotter, drier, sunnier. Until August. Then a series of giant dust storms swept through the area, breaking up the monotony of “perfect” weather by bringing visibility to zero, uprooting trees or breaking off limbs and dumping leaves, twigs and dirt into the swimming pools in the valley. Occasionally, these storms also brought thunder, lightning and rain.

“How long is your lease?” he asked.

“I don't have a lease,” she replied. “I own it.”

He nodded, impressed. “Nice. Good investment.”

Silence fell. He consulted his watch. If the fax didn't come in the next ten minutes, he'd call Winona again.

He scrambled to come up with more small talk, something he could say that was safe and far from what was really on his mind. But before he could utter a word, he caught Francesca watching him—and the expression on her face made the blood rush straight to his groin. “I love it when you're this tired,” he said.

Clearing her throat, she sat up straighter. “Why?”

“Because then your guard is down.”

“And when my guard goes down…”

He drew a deep breath. “I can tell you want me as badly as I want you.”

Caution quickly masked the longing so apparent a moment earlier. “Why would that excite you? You turned me down last time, remember?”

Closing the gap between them, he lifted her fully onto Heather's desk, shoved up her skirt and stepped between her spread knees without making physical contact. “You weren't offering me a deal I could accept.”

Her fingers lightly traced the swelling in his jeans. “And you think something's different now?”

Removing her hand, he brought their lower bodies together. “I hope so.”

Her eyes slid closed as he clasped her bottom and pressed into her. “I already offered you sex,” she said. “What more do you want?”

Bending his head, he kissed her neck, her jawbone, her cheek. He craved what he'd been craving since they broke up. The word for it sat on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't dare speak it because he knew he had no right to ask.

“Jonah?” Her legs went around his hips, holding him in place.

The idea of having her right here, right now, became a possibility. That meant he
had
to say it. He couldn't go any further without making his needs plain. It wouldn't be fair to either of them. Maybe he didn't deserve a second chance, but as much as he wanted her body, he wanted her heart more, and he couldn't settle for less.

Cradling her face between his hands, he summoned his courage. “Forgiveness,” he murmured. “I'm sorry, Francesca. I can't even tell you how sorry I am.”

She released him. He'd made a mistake, asked for too much, just as he'd known he would before the words even left his mouth.

“It's okay. I understand why you can't forgive me,” he said before she could respond. His voice sounded harsh to his own ears, but he couldn't control the raw emotion pouring through it. He felt as if he'd dropped his weapon and begged for mercy, and she'd thrust a knife in his chest. It was a wound she had every right to inflict, but that didn't ease the pain.

Eager to hide what he could of his reaction, so she wouldn't have to take any of the blame for what was essentially his fault, he tried to go back to the fax machine, but she caught hold of his arm.

“Hey, look at me.”

Prepared for the worst, for some explanation telling him she'd never be able to believe in him again, he set his jaw. But when their eyes met, she smiled. “I forgive you.”

Jonah almost couldn't believe his ears. He'd carried the burden of his mistake for ten long years, had regretted his actions every minute of every day. Even now he hated what the past said about his character. But if
she
could forgive him, maybe someday he could forgive himself….

“Do you mean it?” he asked.

“I mean it,” she said. “I promise.”

Tears welled up in Jonah's eyes, tears he seemed powerless to stop. He hoped she wouldn't notice. Revealing his sensitive side terrified him. But she didn't exploit his vulnerability. Tears streamed down her own cheeks as she kissed him—again and again and again.

And then their clothes came off.

 

The fax machine hummed. The profile they'd been waiting for was finally coming in, but Francesca wasn't sure she cared. And Jonah didn't seem to be aware of it. He'd taken a minute to run out to his car, said he had some condoms in his bag, but since his return he was too eager for her to pay attention to anything else.

“That's it. Let's get rid of these,” he breathed when she began to wiggle out of her panties.

The lights were on, which meant she was completely exposed to him, but Francesca didn't mind. She liked watching the intensity on his face, felt exultant when he closed his eyes and gasped as she took him in her hand. This was it. She was making love with Jonah again, just like she'd always dreamed. There were times, lots of them, when she'd thought the prospect—if it ever came to pass—might frighten her. He was the only man who could really hurt her. And he had. But his hands on her body didn't scare her now. He was bringing her home. They were
both
coming home.

“Your body's changed,” he murmured. “It's even more beautiful.”

She smiled up at him. His had changed, too. He felt thicker, stronger. He was just sliding his leg between hers
when she caught sight of a tattoo on his thigh. He hadn't had any ink when they were together before. And, as far as she could tell, he didn't have any now, other than this.

Holding him back long enough to get a better look, she raised curious eyes to his. “That's the Chinese symbol for ‘forever in my heart,' the one I was planning to have tattooed on
my
hip,” she said. “But then we broke up and…” And she'd never returned to the parlor they'd visited the day she'd selected it. “You went back?”

He rested his forehead against hers. “It was all I had left of you,” he whispered. Then he kissed her tenderly and what had started out as a frenetic, driving need ended with a powerful reverence she'd never experienced before, even with him.

“You love me,” she said in awe as he threaded his fingers through hers and pinned them above her head.

They were on the floor, spent, exhausted, but happy, as they listened to the storm rage. Slowly rolling to one side, he propped his head up with his fist and lifted a sweaty tendril of hair from her cheek. “I always have.”

 

Jonah got the fax while Francesca finished dressing.

“That looks like a lot of pages,” she said, coming up behind him. “What's she sending? An entire encyclopedia on criminal behavior?”

Heedless of the papers he was crushing, Jonah pulled her close. “Winona likes to back up her opinions with case histories and various theories on human behavior developed by psychologists, criminologists—even other forensics specialists, if they're reliable. Since profiling includes a lot of guesswork and stereotyping, she
provides as much research as possible to bolster her conclusions.”

Just looking at Jonah made Francesca smile. “She seems very thorough.”

“Oh, yes.”

The desire to head home and get into bed, with Jonah curled securely around her, made it difficult to concentrate. But they had a job to do, a responsibility to the people they were trying to help, so she tried to shake off her fatigue. “What does she have to say?”

He released her so he could flip through the pages. “Not surprisingly, she says the killer is filled with rage.”

Francesca leaned against him. “What killer isn't? Anything else?”

He began to read aloud. “‘As you know, rape is about anger, not lust. And beating someone to death is intensely personal. I believe the man you're looking for has reason to hate his victims and feels justified in violence. That's why he left April Bonner on the street. Maybe she caused him extra trouble or threatened him in some way. He responded by humiliating her, not necessarily to show off his deeds but to make a statement that those who cross him will get what they deserve. I draw this conclusion from the pictures you sent, in which the victim is nude and posed with her legs splayed and her arms akimbo. It's almost as if he's calling her a whore.'”

“That's so unfair,” Francesca interjected. “April wasn't even close to being a whore.”

“A killer's perception is hardly ever the reality,” Jonah responded.

“So do you think it's Butch, with his threats and cutting my telephone line and hiding a black garbage bag in the middle of the night? He could be punishing the
women who threaten his marriage, even though he's really the one who's to blame. Or is it Dean, acting out because he hates the women who reject him?”

“Nothing I've seen so far rules out one
or
the other,” he said. “If you haven't worked with forensic profiles before, I should warn you that they're pretty general. If profilers get too ambitious, too specific, and they're wrong, they can throw off an investigation, and I know Winona's very careful not to do that.”

“I didn't expect her to
name
the killer, but it would've been nice if she'd been able to recognize some detail or signature that would point to one rather than the other. Even if Finch and Hunsacker managed to dig up a body at the salvage yard, our two main suspects live in the same house. How will we know which one put it there?”

Jonah shifted so he could slip his arm around her again. “Trace evidence, I hope—a hair or a footprint. But…there's something else troubling me about this case.”

“What's that?”

“I don't get the feeling any of the victims were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, you know? I think Winona is right about the perpetrator seeking vengeance against specific individuals.”