Killer Heat (4 page)

No scent of decay filled her nostrils, only the astringent smell of desert scrub, which grew between the wrecked car bodies and other odds and ends. She told herself this might mean April Bonner was still alive. But she didn't really believe it.

Stepping forward, Butch pulled back the tarp, showing her exactly what he'd told her she'd see. A mannequin. “I keep it covered to protect it from the sun,” he explained.

Francesca had to squint against the glare of that sun, but now there was no mistaking what she was looking at. She'd jumped to the wrong conclusion earlier. Finding Janice Grey's remains a year ago had set her up, made
her think she'd solved April's case the same way. But, obviously, this was very different….

Finch fondled his goatee, then dropped his hand. “I'm terribly sorry for the trouble we've caused you and your family,” he told Butch. “We'll get out of here and let you return to whatever you'd be doing if you weren't entertaining us. Ms. Moretti, shall we go?”

“I told you he was innocent!” Butch's mother-in-law cried.

“And look what you did to his face!” his wife added. The dog braved a bark and, surrounded by so much animosity, Butch's son began to cry. But, once again, the slight blond man seemed oddly detached from the whole scene. Did he know something he wasn't saying? Possibly, but not necessarily. He attracted her attention simply because he was so…placid. “He attacked
me,
” she repeated, not taking a single step. Was she imagining it or was the color of the mannequin's hair a little different from what she'd seen earlier?

Squeezing her eyes closed, she quickly corralled that thought. The hair color
couldn't
be different. What were the chances that Butch had been able to trade out the real body so fast?
Very
small. She was grasping for any way to avoid the chagrin and embarrassment of having dragged the police out here with such a wild accusation; that was all. She'd never been in a situation like this, where the integrity of her work was called into question, didn't even know how to react to it.

“Ms. Moretti?” Finch again.

“Just a minute.”
I know you're there…. What are you doing trespassing on my property? Don't you have any manners…? Who are you…? What the hell's wrong with you, lady? I just want to talk….
Butch hadn't actually
threatened her with violence, hadn't said anything that suggested he might kill her. And yet she'd known she was in serious trouble. Or did her panic all stem from having mistaken this mannequin for a corpse?

Jonah came up beside her. Knowing that he'd had a front-row seat to what had to be her most embarrassing moment
ever
made her humiliation complete. She'd often dreamed of running into him again, but those fantasies had always included an element of satisfaction, of finding some proof that he'd lived to regret cheating on her. After what he'd witnessed here, he had to be glad they hadn't ended up together. “You okay?”

Lifting her eyes, she found Butch waiting for her reaction, a victorious smile on his lips. There was something twisted in his expression. Was she the only one who could see it? Dared she trust her own instincts after
this?

“I won't press charges if you'll give me an apology,” he said.

Part of her agreed she should be big enough to admit her mistake and say she was sorry so they could move on. But another part rebelled at the thought of making
any
concession. He was dangerous. She should know. She was the one who'd been alone with him. She'd seen what he'd been like, the sudden change that'd come over him when his wife and son returned. Maybe he hadn't
stated
his intent, but she'd felt it down to the marrow of her bones.

“You're still the last person to see April Bonner alive,” she said.

He blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“What did you do to her?”

“I don't believe this shit!” The veins stood out in his neck as he appealed to Finch. “I've been as cooperative
as I could possibly be. I've let your men parade around my property for almost two hours, treating me like I'm some kind of killer. I've proven that
all
her accusations are false—and you allow her to say
this?
Get off my property! Now! Every one of you! And don't ever come back!”

Finch took hold of Francesca's elbow. “Let's go.”

She refused to budge. “I'll leave as soon as he returns my purse.”

Butch's gaze locked with hers. He hadn't answered her question about April Bonner. Instead, he'd diverted attention away from the real issue by getting angry and playing the martyr. Why? She thought she knew, but he'd already won this round. There was no chance the police would believe her or act on her suspicions after this debacle.

He finally deigned to break the silence. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“My
purse.
” She spoke slowly, as if he didn't possess the IQ to understand regular speech. “You grabbed it when you were chasing me and broke the strap. It fell on the ground and spilled—right over there.” She pointed to a bare patch of dirt closer to the back of the house. “What did you do with it?”

“I didn't do anything with it. You must've lost it somewhere else, or had it stolen from your car, because you didn't leave it here.” He appealed to the uniformed policemen who were waiting to see what would happen next. “Did anyone see a purse lying around?”

Muttering and shaking their heads, they came to a consensus. No one had seen it. Francesca suspected Butch had collected her stuff before the police arrived. He'd hidden it, and now he was punishing her for defying him.

She turned to his wife. “You came home before he had a chance to gather it all up. You must've seen it. My iPhone was on the ground, too.”

Butch's wife had her lips pressed so tightly together she could barely speak. “I didn't see anything.”

The old lady—Elaine—chimed in, too. “Why are you doing this to us?”

They had no idea that the man they were trying so hard to protect had very likely killed a woman. They didn't want to believe he was capable of it.

“There will come a day when you'll be sorry you protected him,” she said.

“Now she's threatening my family!” Butch complained, and this time when Finch took hold of her arm, she could feel his fingers digging into her flesh. “We're leaving.
Now.
”

Again, she resisted his tug. “Not without my purse, my car keys and my phone.”

“You're
sure
you don't have her things?” It was Jonah who stepped in. “Because that could cause you some real problems down the road. And I, for one, would hate to see that happen. You being such a nice guy and all.”

Butch offered him a taunting smile. “The consultant speaks. How much are they paying you for this visit, anyway?”

“That's none of your business,” Jonah replied. “Just answer the question.”

“I don't have her purse or anything else that belongs to her.”

Francesca jerked away from Finch. “He's lying!”

Obviously deliberating, Jonah stared Butch down. But Francesca didn't like the decision he reached. “Forget it. For now,” he added, but she couldn't. She was afraid she'd never get that stuff back. And the thought of Butch
having her address book, her wallet and her credit cards sent chills down her spine.

“No! It was here. He's got it. I won't leave without my purse and phone.”

“He said he doesn't have it.” Grabbing her again, Finch began dragging her away and, when she fought him, Jonah took her other arm.

“You're a crazy bitch, you know that?” Butch yelled after her.

Fighting tears of frustration, Francesca twisted to get in one parting shot. “And you're a monster!” she yelled over the barking of the dog, which was suddenly frantic. “What happened to April Bonner? What did you do with her, huh? And if you're married, why were you submitting a profile to a dating service?”

“It was a joke,” he said. “My wife knows about it. And, last I heard, that wasn't illegal.”

“Damn it, Francesca, don't make things worse.”

Jonah's mouth moved close to her ear so only she could hear. “Live to fight another day,” he breathed. Then he and Finch shoved her into the car and slammed the door so she couldn't say anything else.

B
utch stood at the corner of his property, watching as the police drove away. He was in big trouble now, and he knew it. Maybe this time there'd be no way out.

Paris came up beside him. Fortunately, Elaine and Warren had taken their son inside. Although he lived with his in-laws, they usually minded their own business. It was Paris's freak of a brother, Dean, who got on his nerves. Dean hovered on the porch behind them, hoping to overhear what they had to say, but for his own safety he didn't venture any closer. Butch was almost sad about that. Angry as he was, he could've used a target.

“Did you go on a dating site?” Paris asked. “Did you submit a profile?”

There was no point in attempting to deceive her. If she wanted the truth, all she had to do was search dating sites. Or go to that Moretti woman, who probably had a copy of his profile. Why give Paris a reason to do that? They had to stick together at all costs.

When he didn't answer, Paris lowered her head. “That's what I thought.”

“I didn't kill her,” he insisted.

She shaded her face, apparently eyeing the little puffs
of dust that'd been kicked up by the police cars. “It says quite a bit about you that I'm relieved to hear it.”

The sarcasm bit deep, made him bristle. “It's not as if you're perfect, Paris.”

“At least I can be faithful.”

“I can't help it. Sex is all I think about.”

“And now you were the last person to see a woman who went missing. Don't you realize what that means? What if she's dead? What if they find her body and it has your DNA on it? They'll put you behind bars!”

“I
wasn't
the last one to see April Bonner alive. There's no way. Unless she killed herself, someone else had to be involved.”

When his wife didn't respond, he looked over and found her watching him carefully. “You believe me, don't you?” he said.

Sighing, she shook her head. “I don't know what to believe anymore. All I know is if this Moretti woman keeps digging, our son could lose his father.”

“Don't talk like that. Moretti's done here.” He could only hope that was true, that this wouldn't go in the direction Paris feared. When he was a boy, his stepfather used to punish him by locking him in a box the size of a coffin out in a metal shed. During the summer, he'd nearly suffocate. Small, confined spaces still terrified him. He already knew he could never bear living in a jail cell.

“How do you know she's done?” she asked.

“Because I'll make sure of it.”

“Who was she?”

He could tell by the change in her tone that she wasn't referring to the investigator. “Who are you talking about? April Bonner?”

“Who else?” She sounded weary, as if this incident
might get the best of her despite how hard she'd fought to keep their family together.

He could easily recall April's kind brown eyes, her timid but eager smile, her round cheeks, her body, soft from lack of exercise. They'd exchanged some intriguing e-mails, but she hadn't turned out to be his type at all. “No one. She was just a…a means to an end. You know that. That's all it ever is.”

“What happened with her that was so different from all the others?”

“Nothing. The night didn't end well, I'll admit that. You know how I get sometimes. But I didn't kill her.”

Paris shoved her hands in her pockets. “It has to stop, Butch.”

He slipped his arm through hers and was gratified when she leaned into him. He hadn't lost her yet. And he never would. “It will. I promise. Don't give up on me. We've come so far. We can get through this, too.”

 

Francesca had canceled her credit cards and cell service. She'd also left a message with a locksmith, asking him to contact her first thing in the morning. Now that she was finished with everything, at least everything she could do after hours, she was lying in bed, pretty sure she'd never had a more miserable afternoon. She'd been involved in some tragic cases—peripherally when she was with Phoenix P.D. and then the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office, and more directly after she'd started her own agency—but never had she experienced anything more enraging than having Butch Vaughn flat out lie to her. It was one thing to have him claim he hadn't meant to frighten her; she'd expected that. But she'd never dreamed he'd try to keep her purse, or that he'd take so much joy in making her feel powerless. Now he had her
iPhone, her car keys—and her house keys because they were on the same ring—her wallet and her ID, all of which he'd basically stolen from her right beneath the noses of ten police officers.

He thought he was clever. But she wasn't about to let him get away with what he'd done to her or to April Bonner. If he'd killed April, she'd find the proof she needed to put him away. The poor woman had to be somewhere. And what about those other bodies, the ones in the mass grave Finch had told her about? Was Butch responsible for those murders, as well?

It held the remains of seven women….

She believed Butch to be capable of extreme violence. She'd never met an individual who scared her as much.

This was what some of the people she took on as clients went through, she realized. Now she'd become a victim, too. She tried telling herself it was good experience to have, that in future she'd be better able to relate to their feelings of helplessness and frustration. But trying to find something positive in what she'd gone through didn't make these late-night hours tick by any faster.

Agitated and restless, she stared at the ceiling. Although she tried to avoid it, she kept picturing Butch sitting at his kitchen table going through her purse while the rest of his family slept. Was he holding her driver's license right now, memorizing her address? Had he checked MapQuest to determine the best route to take to her house?

Surely he wouldn't be
that
obvious. Besides, she lived two hours away, which meant he'd need a wide margin in which to be gone. But just knowing how easy tracking her down would be made every creak and rustle—normal noises on any other night—sound like someone
was attempting to break in. She was so wound up she could feel her pulse beating in her fingertips. Would morning
never
come?

Why hadn't she listened to Jonah? He'd asked her not to go back home tonight. He'd encouraged her to stay with a friend for a few days, give Butch time to cool down. But Butch wasn't the type to cool down. The way his muscles had contracted when she'd continued to challenge him for her purse made her believe she'd never be completely safe, not as long as he was free. And hiding wouldn't solve the problem, not when Butch could simply use one of her business cards, a stack of which could be found in her purse, to come up with her office address. He could attack her midday as easily as at night. Crimes took place at all hours. If he really wanted to hurt her, he'd find a way.

“Butch can go to hell as far as I'm concerned,” she muttered. And if he broke in and attacked her, maybe she'd send him there. She'd brought a large carving knife to bed with her. She also had a new can of pepper spray in the top drawer of her nightstand. She'd squirted a little on the sidewalk to make sure it worked—something she'd taken for granted with the old one that she wasn't willing to do again.

Were those precautions enough? Maybe not. She couldn't imagine actually having to stab someone. A gun would be a much more practical form of defense. Maybe she
should
get one…. She'd never been tempted before, but she'd never been so rattled, either.

Her hand was growing sweaty on the handle of the knife. She couldn't go on like this.

Forcing her fingers to unclench the weapon, she put it on the nightstand. If she did fall asleep, she didn't want to roll over on top of it. But there was little chance
of nodding off. She'd have to relax for that to happen. And she couldn't relax. When she wasn't thinking about Butch, she was thinking about Jonah. How ironic that he'd pop up on a day when she was so ill-equipped to deal with his reappearance in her life.

Talk about rotten luck and terrible timing….

Running a finger over each eyebrow as if she could smooth away the anxiety, she replayed the argument that had ensued after Finch had pulled away from the salvage yard.

Jonah: “What the hell's wrong with you, Francesca? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Francesca: “Weren't you listening? I was trying to get my purse. He has the keys to my house, my cell phone, my wallet, everything!”

Jonah: “I understand that. But you had no proof, no basis for accusing him. It was your word against his. Why provoke him?”

Francesca: “You think I should've let it all go without a fight?”

Jonah: “I think you don't take on a man like that unless you know in advance that you've got him by the balls. He'd already allowed Hunsacker and his men to search the whole place. It wasn't as if we could force him to let us look again. That would require a warrant.”

Finch: “And, in case you're wondering, there's no way we could get a warrant. You were the one who was trespassing. You're also the only one who inflicted bodily harm.”

Francesca: “He tackled me! These abrasions and burns don't mean anything?”

Finch: “They don't constitute an attack as obvious as the scratches you left on his face.”

Jonah: “He could easily make up an excuse for that,
say you flew into a panic when you thought that mannequin was a body and fell while you were running away. How would you prove otherwise?”

Finch: “I'm telling you, any judge I approach would act to protect Vaughn's rights, to stop a possible lawsuit if for no other reason.”

Francesca: “A lawsuit?”

Finch: “He could sue the city for ‘misconduct.'”

Francesca: “Since when is following up on a lead considered misconduct?”

At that point, the investigator had turned to face her for the first time since they'd left the salvage yard. “We descended on him like flies on shit because you're an investigator. I believed you when you told me there was a body in that junkyard.” Here, he'd smacked the steering wheel. “Damn it, you hadn't even looked at it!”

Francesca: “I made a mistake, okay? That doesn't mean he's not responsible for April's disappearance.”

Finch: “No, it doesn't. But we need proof before we go barging in there again. Solid proof. More than just your word.”

Francesca: “Fine. I'll get the proof!”

Finch had shot her a sullen look. “You do that.”

Jonah: “Considering what's happened, the smartest response is to cut your losses and stay out of it. Your life is worth far more than whatever you had in that purse. Let us take it from here.”

This comment had caused her to twist around in her seat. “So you
do
think he's dangerous.”

Jonah: “I plan to find out. That much I can promise.”

Francesca: “Well, for the record, I'm not worried about my perfume and my lipstick, okay? I'm worried about him having my personal information.”

Finch: “Cancel your credit cards and change your locks.”

Jonah: “And until you can do that, don't go home. Rekey your house and your car, put in a security system at your office, if you don't already have one, and stay with your parents.”

That wasn't an option. These days, her parents spent their summers in Montana, building their dream house near her brother, Samuel, who was older by six years and had a wife and three children.

Francesca: “In other words, leave my home unprotected.”

Jonah: “Your safety is more important than your house.”

Francesca: “But I can't leave the house to him. Who knows what he'd do? He could install video cameras in my attic, sabotage the window locks, drill peepholes.”

Jonah: “You can have it inspected before you go back.”

Or she could defend her turf, refuse to let him disrupt her life.

Francesca: “Thanks for the advice, but it never pays to run from a bully. That would only endanger whoever I chose to stay with. All he'd have to do is follow me from the office.”

Finch: “There's strength in numbers. It certainly beats staying alone.”

Francesca: “Giving him the upper hand won't make me any safer. I'm not going to run and hide.”

Jonah: “You haven't changed a bit. You had too much pride for your own good ten years ago, and you've got too much now. Don't you have a boyfriend you can stay with for a few weeks?”

Roland Perenski, her last love interest, had appeared
in her mind in that moment, but she hadn't been with him in two years. She hadn't even heard from him. She was pretty sure he'd married the woman he'd dated after her.

Francesca: “Just stop. I don't want to talk to you anymore, especially about my love life.”

Jonah hadn't spoken again, even to say goodbye when she got out of the car. She'd slammed the door, climbed into her BMW and headed directly home, but she was still thinking about him. Why, she couldn't say. So what if he looked better than ever? With that thick dark hair falling across his forehead, the slight cleft in his chin and the perennial five-o'clock shadow that was such a marked contrast to his light green eyes and wide sexy smile, he'd always turned heads.

No, it was never his looks she'd had a problem with.

A noise outside her window sent her heart pounding, so she threw off the covers and sat up. Forget trying to sleep; this was torture.

Grabbing the cordless phone from her nightstand, she called her best friend, Adriana Covington, and refused to feel the slightest bit guilty for disturbing her. If anyone deserved to be awakened in the middle of the night as a result of Jonah's reappearance, it was Adriana.

“Hello?” her friend mumbled.