Killer Heat (9 page)

She arched a motherly eyebrow at him. “I hope you're going to leave, too.”

“Why's that?”

“Because a two-hour nap won't compensate for all the sleep you've lost in the past few days. We can't run ourselves into the ground, Jonah. We've got to be fresh in order to do our jobs.”

That was true, too. But in a situation where every minute counted, taking time off felt as if he was putting lives at risk. After this morning, he was more motivated than ever to remain vigilant. “Does that mean you'll be heading home after you babysit?”

A wry smile curved her lips. “We'll see what time the lovebirds get back.”

“Right.” He chuckled at her evasive reply, knew that if the “lovebirds” got home early she'd wind up here until midnight or after. “Have you heard from Finch or Hunsacker?” he asked before she could go.

“No.”

“Thanks. Enjoy your grandkids. And be safe.”

“I will. Get some dinner, okay?” She threw those parting words over her shoulder. Then he heard the main door close as she went out and checked his phone for a list of the calls he'd missed while he was asleep.

Nothing from the investigators. Had they heard from the pathologist? Had they been able to identify the body they'd removed from Skull Valley this morning? It was a bit early to hope they had, but Finch had said the M.E. planned to do the autopsy right away. That was exactly what Jonah thought should happen. Because they were looking at such a prolific killer, the wheels of justice needed to move a lot faster than usual.

With a yawn, he scrubbed his face with one hand and continued down the list of missed calls. He hadn't heard from Francesca, either. Other than leaving a message with her assistant, which he'd already done, he had no way of getting in touch with her.

He should've brought her here after their meeting so she could see what they were working with. But she'd left the sheriff's station rather suddenly, while he was speaking to Finch and Hunsacker about the woman who found the corpse. He hadn't gone after her because he'd known that what she'd seen had upset her. He'd felt she needed some space.

Now he regretted giving her that space. He had no idea where she was or where she planned to spend the
night. He hoped it wasn't at home again. Maybe Butch had only been playing with her when he showed up next to her pool last night, but a man like that could get serious very fast.

Taking a deep breath, he dialed Finch, who answered immediately.

“Investigator Finch.”

“Hey, where are you?”

“At the morgue with Dr. Jernigan. We're in the middle of the autopsy.”

“Anything useful?”

“Lacerations in the vaginal cavity suggest she was raped.”

“Before or after death?”

“Before.”

“And the cause of death?”

“Blunt-force trauma. Unless she was also poisoned, which we won't know until we get the tox screens back.”

Blunt-force trauma came as no surprise. Neither did the rape. “Is there any trace evidence that might help us identify her attacker?”

“No, but now we have a better chance of identifying the victim without having to resort to dental records, although we'll probably go that route just to confirm.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She has a tattoo on her inside right thigh—a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.”

Jonah rubbed the razor stubble on his chin, realized he hadn't shaved or showered today and decided to head over to his motel so he could clean up. “That seems pretty distinctive,” he said as he shut down the computer he'd been using. “Did April Bonner have a tattoo like that?”

“We're trying to find out. I've contacted Mesa P.D. but the detective in charge of the case is out on a family emergency and the guy who's stepping in for him hasn't even had time to look at the file. He said he'd dig it out and get back to me, but I'm guessing I won't hear from him until tomorrow.”

“Francesca might know whether April had a butterfly tattoo.” He took his car keys out of his pocket and turned off the lights in the office. “If she doesn't, she could always check with the sister who hired her.”

“I thought of that, but I can't reach her.”

“Her cell's gone and her home phone's out. I told you what happened last night.”

“I know. I was hoping the home line had been fixed, but whenever I call, it rings off the hook.”

Jonah's eyes skimmed over all the bones, broken and otherwise, lying on the tables in the main room as he let himself out. Two of Dr. Price's helpers were still working. They glanced up when they heard his voice and waved goodbye.

“That's probably not unusual,” he told Finch. “Depending on workload, it could take the phone company a week or two to get out there.” But being unable to reach Francesca made him uneasy all the same. “What about her office?”

“Tried that. Spoke to some receptionist who said she'd give her a message. Past few hours the receptionist hasn't even picked up. My call transfers directly to voice mail.”

The assistant, someone named Heather, had promised to relay a message for Jonah, too, but that was it. She wouldn't share any information on whether or not her boss was in, had been in or would be in. “Shit.”

“You seriously think Francesca might be next on
Butch's list?” Finch sounded skeptical. Or maybe he only wished the situation wasn't what it seemed.

Jonah's rented Volvo chirped as he pressed the unlock button on his key ring. “You don't?”

“That'd be pretty damn bold. He's got to know that if she gets hurt, he instantly becomes our number-one suspect. Would he really put himself right between our crosshairs?”

The heat of the day had blasted Jonah like a furnace the second he walked outside, but the inside of the car was even hotter. “No matter what we suspect, we'd still have the burden of proving it. And he thinks he can out-smart us.”

“You really believe he's that confident?”

Jonah slipped on his sunglasses, started the engine and cranked the air conditioner to high before taking off. Fortunately, his motel wasn't far. About the time the interior of the car grew comfortable, he'd be getting out again. But it would be insufferable without
some
air coming through those vents. “He outsmarted us yesterday, didn't he? We were forced to leave with our tails between our legs while he kept Francesca's personal belongings.”

“That wasn't
our
fault.”

“Maybe it was. Maybe there was something in that salvage yard Hunsacker should've seen or found or suspected. He couldn't have performed a very thorough search, not in the time they were there. They had ten acres to cover. And let's face it, he was probably shown that mannequin, thought he understood what had caused the problem and decided he was wasting his time, so he searched with half an eye. Either way, Butch Vaughn won. Easily. And I'm sure that only confirmed his belief that he can get away with anything.”

Silence. Then Finch said, “Hunsacker admits he
could've performed a more thorough search. I've discussed it with him. He was embarrassed when he saw the mannequin and started to backpedal in case he invited a lawsuit or some blight on his record.”

“There you go.”

“Stealing a purse is a far cry from murder, though.”

“He was the last person to see April Bonner alive. Even if the body at the morgue isn't April, she's still missing.
Something
happened to her after she met up with Butch Saturday night.”

“All right, all right,” he said. “I'll put Vaughn under surveillance until we can figure out what the hell is going on.”

“That should help.” If Finch had a couple of uniforms keep an eye on Butch, Francesca could go home tonight. She might even be able to begin rebuilding her sense of security. Jonah felt better already. “I'll see if I can get in touch with her, tell her what's going on and find out if she knows anything about a tattoo.”

“How are you gonna do that? Drive all the way out there?”

“If I have to,” he said, and hung up. But he knew he had one other option. Adriana would probably be able to tell him where to find Francesca or how to reach her. Maybe Francesca was even at her house. But contacting the woman with whom he'd made the biggest mistake of his life wasn't something he wanted to do.

A
driana had never expected to hear from Jonah again. After that night when she'd taken him home with her, they'd spoken only a few times. He'd apologized the following morning, as soon as he saw he was in her bed, even though what'd happened was more her fault than his, and he hadn't called her after that.

No doubt it would've ended there, but then she'd found out she was pregnant and arranged to meet him. When she broke the news about the baby, he'd responded calmly, politely. Except for the sudden tightening of his jaw, he'd been careful not to reveal how upset he was. To his credit, he'd assumed full responsibility and said he'd pay for whatever she chose to do. But when he asked her what that might be, she'd had to face the truth—he was offering her money to fix his mistake. He wasn't suddenly realizing that he'd loved her all along. Sleeping with him hadn't changed anything. Being pregnant didn't change anything, either. He'd never cared about her the way he cared about Francesca, and he never would.

Adriana couldn't remember anything else in her life ever hurting quite as much as his rejection. It wasn't that she'd meant to get pregnant. She hadn't. They'd used protection. But she couldn't deny that she'd harbored some
hope that the baby would bring them together. She'd wanted Jonah badly enough that she'd risked her relationship with Francesca, and would've done so again if he'd been the least bit receptive. Which made her feel like the worst person in the world. What kind of woman stabbed her best friend in the back over a guy? It didn't help to see how heartbroken and regretful
he
was because of what they'd done. She'd never forget his hollow-eyed, haggard appearance when he met her that night at Starbucks. She remembered thinking at the time that he must not have slept since they'd been together.

She still felt guilty about her role in what had occurred. Nothing would've happened if she hadn't chosen to believe his drunken advances actually meant he had feelings for her. So she was grateful when Francesca had managed to forgive her. Somehow, they'd repaired their friendship and put her actions behind them. She'd thought it was all over, at last.

And now this. Jonah was back. She'd seen him at Francesca's this morning, and he was on the phone with her right now.

“How'd you get my number?” She glanced into the living room where her two boys had been watching TV but were currently wrestling on the floor. Normally, she would've scolded them. She was afraid someone would get hurt or knock over a lamp. But today she let them go. At least they were occupied and didn't seem to notice that she was suddenly having difficulty breathing.

“You're listed under your husband's name,” he said, “which I saw on a picture at Francesca's.”

Had he felt a little tug when he'd seen that picture? Something had made him memorize her husband's name….

But that was exactly the type of thinking that'd gotten
her into trouble before. None of this meant what she wanted it to. “Why are you calling?”

“I'm sorry. I know this is unexpected and…awkward, at best. I wouldn't have bothered you, except…I'm looking for Francesca.”

Of course. Why else would he contact her? If she hadn't been so blinded by desire ten years ago—desire and selfishness—she would've been able to see the truth even then. “She's not here.”

“Have you heard from her today?”

“No.” The rumble of a car engine brought her to the kitchen window. Her husband had just come home from his office downtown, where he ran his medical practice. Hoping it would take him a few minutes to greet the kids before he came looking for her, she dashed up the stairs to their bedroom and closed the door. He knew about Jonah and the baby she'd given up. She'd told him all about it when they were dating. But she was sure he assumed, as she had until this morning, that if she ever met Jonah again he'd have no effect on her.

“Can I give you my number, in case she does get in touch with you?” Jonah asked.

That was it? They'd created a child together but he had nothing more to say to her than “please give my number to Francesca”? He hadn't asked about her husband, her kids, how she'd been…

She closed her eyes. “I— Sure. Why not?” She
had
to agree, didn't she? A refusal might inform him of how she felt—reveal her pounding heart and sweating palms. She loved all she had, but Jonah reminded her of old dreams and what it was like to be young, to experience the kind of bone-melting desire that could burn out of control.

“Thanks. You ready?”

“Yeah.” She jotted his number on the pad her husband
kept by the bedside for when he awoke with a thought he didn't want to forget. Then she ripped off that sheet, folded it into a tiny triangle and slipped it in her back pocket.

“What—what brought you back?” she asked before he could hang up.

She already knew about the cases in Prescott; she was really inquiring about finding him at Francesca's house, and he seemed to understand that.

“I don't know,” he said. “I guess the price we paid wasn't high enough.”

A click signaled that he'd disconnected just as she heard her husband coming up the stairs. “Adriana? Where are you, babe?”

 

“I put a clean towel on the back of the toilet, in case you get up before me and want a shower.”

Shifting her attention from her laptop, which was open on the kitchen table, Francesca conjured up a smile for Heather's sake. Nearly six feet tall and bone thin, her assistant had a pale face and long dark hair with streaks of blond that came from a bottle. “Thanks. I really appreciate your help.”

“No problem.
Mi casa es su casa.
Such as it is,” she added with a shrug. “You need anything else?”

“No, this is great.” Although she'd tried to infuse her voice with enthusiasm, Francesca considered those words a fairly transparent lie. She'd never felt so out of place, never dreamed it'd be necessary to spend the night with her twenty-two-year-old employee. For one thing, Heather lived in a small apartment and didn't have room for guests. For another, as a single mother caring for a three-year-old boy, she already had her hands full. Francesca didn't want to be an imposition.

But she couldn't face going home. Not tonight. So what if she was doing the exact opposite of what she'd told Jonah she'd do? And so what if a small part of her felt sheepish for wimping out? She was too emotionally and physically spent to deal with returning to the house. It didn't matter that Heather had met the locksmith and had the locks changed. Francesca no longer felt safe. She needed to get some sleep without having to worry that Butch might pay her another visit as soon as she closed her eyes. It wasn't as if she could go to a hotel. She'd ordered a new debit card and replacement credit cards before going to the Apple store to get another iPhone, but they were coming in the mail and wouldn't arrive for several days. Until then, she couldn't do anything that required a card.

She supposed she could've stayed with Adriana…. But she couldn't handle the complexity of their relationship right now. It was hard enough coping with the feelings Jonah had dredged up.

The unopened messages waiting in her in-box beckoned to her. Reading her e-mail brought a measure of relief because it felt normal. She could get lost in work and forget that she was sitting in an unfamiliar kitchen with cracked linoleum, secondhand furniture and a noisy dishwasher so old it hooked up to the sink. But she needed to be polite, didn't want to ignore Heather. “Sean down for the night?” she asked, making small talk.

Heather responded while gathering up her son's toys and piling them in a toy box shaped like a plastic turtle. “For the time being. Lately, he's been getting up a lot. The doctor said I shouldn't be too quick to respond when he calls out for me, so don't worry if I let him fuss a little. I'm trying to teach him to sleep through the night so I
won't have to go through my days feeling like the walking dead.”

“No problem. Do whatever you have to. I'm not here to get in the way.” Francesca wasn't even sure she'd be able to hear Sean. Her bed was in the living room, on the lumpy sofa.

As she bent to retrieve the last toy, Heather's shirt rose up, revealing a large tattoo on her back—Alberto, the name of Sean's father. In prison for armed robbery, he still had nearly two years, but Heather was determined to wait for him. He'd promised to marry her when he got out, make them a family, and each square of the calendar on her wall showed a number—the days left in his term. Six hundred and thirty as of today, which sounded like an eternity to Francesca. She often wondered how Heather tolerated having the man she loved locked up. But Heather never complained. She'd had a rough childhood and didn't seem to expect a lot out of life.

Finished with the toys, she stretched her back. “Okay, well, I know it's early for bed, but I'm going to turn in, if you don't mind.”

It was only ten after nine, but it felt much later than that. Francesca planned on following her example, just as soon as she'd downloaded all the information that'd been stored in the iPhone she'd lost. Fortunately, she had a copy of everything on her computer. God bless the iPhone and its syncing ability. “I don't mind a bit. Get some sleep while you can, huh?”

“You, too. You could use it.” She headed down the hall but turned back before reaching the bedroom. “I almost forgot—we were so busy this afternoon—but you got a ton of messages today. I brought them home, just in case you weren't coming in tomorrow.” Twisting her hair up and fanning her neck, she went to her purse, which was
sitting on the counter, and eventually handed Francesca a stack of messages fastened with a paper clip.

“You might want to check your voice mail, too, if you haven't already,” she said. “Some of the people who called wanted to be transferred. Others had me take a message.”

“Will do. 'Night.” Francesca listened to Heather's steps recede as she started through her messages. Jillian Abbatiello's name was at the top of the stack. No doubt she'd also left a message on voice mail. April's disappearance was so recent, they talked every day. Jill had to be wondering where Francesca had disappeared so suddenly. Francesca hadn't called her because she wasn't sure whether or not to tell Jill and Vince about the body in Skull Valley. Wouldn't it be better to wait until she knew whether or not that corpse was April?

But no word was agony, too. Which was worse for April's family?

Deciding to hold off until tomorrow morning, she set the message aside. Investigator Finch's name was on the next slip. The two after that came from Jonah. All three said the same thing. “Call ASAP.”

Did they have new information? If so, it might solve the dilemma of what to tell Jill and Vince.

Disregarding the rest of her messages, she called Jonah first. Finch hadn't fully forgiven her for embarrassing him. Jonah would be more forthcoming with any details the M.E. managed to find, anyway.

“Hello?”

She felt a flutter in her stomach the moment she heard his voice—and cursed her weakness. “It's me.”

“Jeez, it's about time you called. You scared the shit out of me, you know that? You can't go dropping off the
face of the earth and expect me not to think the worst, Francesca.”

Covering her eyes, she tried to rub away some of her fatigue—and wished she could ignore her appreciation of his voice. They used to talk for hours on the phone, whenever they couldn't be together in person. “Sorry. I've been busy putting my life back in order, as much as that's possible in one afternoon. I'm not used to anyone keeping tabs on me, so I wasn't aware I should check in.”

“After this morning? Are you
nuts?
”

“I understand why you might've thought the worst. But you can relax. I'm fine.”

“Where are you?”

Her eyes circled the room, taking in the old wooden cupboards, which had been repainted so many times they hardly closed, the chipped enamel sink, the 1960s table and chairs covered in lime-green vinyl upholstery, the ancient toaster. Did she really want to tell him? He might wonder why she hadn't chosen to stay with Adriana, and she'd rather he didn't realize he still had the power to tear them apart. “How do you know I'm not home?”

“Because
I'm
at your house.”

She sat up straighter. “Why?”

“When I couldn't find you anywhere else, I thought maybe you'd eventually come here.”

“But…it's locked. How'd you get in?”

“I didn't.” His yawn came through the phone. “I fell asleep on the porch while I was waiting for you.”

“You're kidding.”

“No. Why?” He'd obviously noted the sharp edge to her voice.

“Because Butch doesn't like you any better than he does me,” she snapped. “You're lucky he didn't decide
to stop by and bash your head in while you were taking your snooze.”

“I didn't fall asleep on purpose, Francesca.”

Pushing out of her chair, she began to pace. “It doesn't matter. Just leave. Get out of there now. Don't you have a—a wife or a girlfriend or something who'd be unhappy about you taking such risks?”

“I have neither. And I've got my gun. I'll use it if necessary.”

She imagined how easy it would've been to sneak up on him while he was unconscious. “Now that you're awake, shooting an assailant might be a possibility.”

“A distinct possibility. I have nothing to worry about.”

“Fine.” She wiped the image from her mind. She was so rattled she perceived danger lurking around every corner. Maybe she was overreacting, assuming Butch was a threat to everyone.

And maybe it was true…

Either way, Jonah was merely a work associate responsible for his own safety. She had to remember that.