The Survivor (3 page)

4:30 P.M. WEDNESDAY

K
ariss left the coffee shop after agreeing to contact Amy in a few days. The novel idea fascinated her, but unanswered questions prevented her from moving forward. The writer in her needed to think about Amy’s insistence that the book include every detail of her traumatic experience. The world of story didn’t always mesh with fact. Some of the details might not be necessary and could drag the plot.

Unless a person was a prominent figure, most people who wanted their life story told usually had only one incident of reader interest. Amy had many accomplishments and women who valued her counseling, but the FOX News camera and local TV channels weren’t focused on her office door. Kariss hadn’t explained the raw truth to Amy about what she wanted, but at their next meeting, she had to be honest about the writing project. Amy wanted none of the proceeds. Why? Kariss liked Amy. That wasn’t a problem. And the woman’s dedication to counseling victimized women added stars in her eternal crown. But until they agreed on the novel contents and characters who responded to life according to their values, Kariss wouldn’t accept the project.

Since she had ended her relationship with Tigo at Thanksgiving, all Kariss did was write. Supposedly her workaholic nature would help her forget him. But it hadn’t helped at all. Book two in her suspense series was in the final draft stage, meaning it would release six months after the first. And
she’d outlined an idea for a third book using the same characters, the ones she’d developed when Tigo helped her with FBI research. But despite her writing, all she could see was Tigo’s face, and all she could hear was his voice and his incredible deep-throated chuckle.

His earlier call had sent her emotions into a whirlwind of heartache and what-ifs. His image had stepped unbidden into her mind—gorgeous olive skin, deep brown eyes veiled by long lashes, and thick, dark hair. The looks of a perfect hero. No words could describe her distress, but Kariss refused to succumb to tears and regret. A survivor moved forward and learned from the past.

A writer’s best work was supposed to come from personal pain, but Kariss hadn’t expected this torment. The idea of putting her scattered emotions about Tigo into a character’s life seemed to cheapen what they’d gone through together. The weeks since their parting had only increased how much she missed him.

Dating an unbeliever had been wrong, but the attraction had been stronger than her values. They’d tasted death together and survived. That meant something, to her at least. Still, Tigo had betrayed her trust.

She was better off.

Kariss possessed the trophy for being stubborn, and one day she promised herself she’d waken and find that her infatuation for Tigo had vanished.

She should call him back. Not returning his previous calls was one matter. Lying to him jumped the fence of integrity. How could she manage a conversation without asking to see him? Without compromising her stand?

At a stoplight, she fished her phone from her purse. He’d called from his Blackberry, not his personal iPhone, so she’d call his business line. Maybe he’d be unable to talk. With a prayer for wisdom, she punched his speed-dial number. Odd … having him listed there gave her hope.

“Kariss?”

The driver behind her blared his horn. She pulled through the green light and turned into a Walmart parking lot. With her emotions fluttering like this, she’d probably cause an accident. “Hey, I’m calling you back.”

“Thanks.” He sounded distant. “How are you doing? I …” He paused. “I guess Vicki’s little girl is almost two months old now.”

“She’s growing much too fast. So sweet and good.”

“And Vicki?”

“Adjusting to life as a new mother.”

“Give her my best. The baby’s name is Rose …”

“Rose Elizabeth.”

“Middle name the same as her Aunt Kariss’s.”

He remembered. She couldn’t help but wonder if other things about her … about them … still existed in his memories. “Yes. I’m hoping she’ll not go the path of a writer. You know, the drama queen and all.”

They both laughed.

“I’m looking forward to seeing our book in print.”

Did he have to say “our”? She nearly cratered. “I’ll make sure you have one of the first copies.”

“Great. What are you writing now?”

“Finishing up the second book in the series.”

“Had to have round two with the FBI agent?”

“The editor thought he was a hunk.” Why did she say that?

“Didn’t you model him after me?”

“Very funny. I have a whole dossier of heroes.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

Her stomach fluttered. Oh, Tigo … How could she when no man measured up?

“Guess that’s none of my business,” Tigo added before she had a chance to respond.

“It’s okay.” Best she not state the truth.

“I’ve been going to church with Ryan. Thought you’d want to know.”

Her mouth went dry. “I’m glad, Tigo.”

“Hey, I’ve got to go. Duty calls.”

“Sure.” Kariss felt relief and disappointment at the same time. “Be careful.” The tremor in her voice nearly gave her away.

“Always. Thanks for returning my call.”

The phone shut off, just like the end of their relationship. She wanted to dwell on the sound of his voice. Bigger than life. Her hero, her …

Kariss pressed in Vicki’s cell number. “Hey, sis. I’m at Walmart. Do you need diapers?”

“You don’t need to get them.”

“But I’m here. Need anything else?”

“Kariss, you haven’t been to Walmart since you and Tigo broke up. Remember when you bought three hundred dollars’ worth of things you didn’t need?”

And returned them all a week later. Kariss shook her head. Why did her sister, who already shared Kariss’s shoulder-length, dark brown hair and similar looks, also have to read her so well? “We need paper towels and toilet paper. And I’ll grab a box of baby wipes with the diapers.” Forcing a laugh, she glanced around to see if an onlooker could see she was struggling for composure.

“Did you see Tigo? Was that your three-thirty appointment?”

“No. I met a woman who has a potential story idea. But he called during that time, and I called him back.”

“Now you’re a mess. Finish up your shopping and hurry home. While Rose slept, I made Stroganoff. She’ll be out until after six, so we can eat and talk. I’ll put a box of tissues on the table as a centerpiece.”

“I’m over the relationship. Remember? Besides, you’re bossy.”

“I’m older. It’s my job. And since I’m living with you until I can provide a home for myself and Rose, I have to take responsibility for something.”

Kariss hadn’t told anyone the truth about her and Tigo. Maybe it was time to face the problem head-on.

4:45 P.M. WEDNESDAY

T
igo dropped his phone into his truck console, not really ready to talk to Ryan. Regret pelted him. He’d rather face a dozen bad guys with machine guns than the reasons he and Kariss weren’t together anymore. The six-lane expressway and bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic fueled his contempt—for himself. He drove US 290 south to the 610 Loop, passing the sky-high buildings of the prestigious Galleria area before jumping onto the Southwest Freeway and then driving to the exclusive neighborhood where the Yeat family lived … what was left of them.

“You did just fine,” Ryan said, as though reading his thoughts. “But from the look on your face, your blood pressure’s up.”

Tigo forced a chuckle. “I’m not on medication yet.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I sounded like a wuss.”

“You sounded like a man who wishes things were different.”

“That too.”

“How is she?”

“Good, I guess. She’s probably seeing someone.” The sadness he wanted to hide was evident to his own ears. Buzz Lightyear would be embarrassed.

“I doubt it.”

“She evaded the question.”

“Tigo, it’s been almost two months. Both of you have had time to think about what happened. Any chance of getting back together?”

“The problem is me. My fault.”

“I’m sorry. I hate what it’s doing to you. If you want to talk, I have a good ear.”

“And ruin my macho image?”

“Are you praying?”

Praying meant Tigo had a relationship with God, understood who He was and acknowledged He created the universe. Hadn’t happened. “It’s tough. Real tough. How are you and Cindy doing?”

“Trying to figure out how to handle her mother’s condition,” Ryan said, sounding as frustrated with that situation as Tigo felt about his. “When I went home, Cindy was crying. She and her mother never got along, and now with the dementia and stroke, a good relationship isn’t in the future. We don’t have room for her mom unless the kids double up, so I suggested a nursing home. We argued.”

“Ouch. We’re batting zero in the personal relationship department. Let’s talk about Jonathan Yeat so we can get this interview with his kids out of the way.”

“Sure. I’m beat, which I’m sure has a lot to do with my outlook on the home front.” Ryan reached for a bottle of water. “I haven’t met Yeat, but his reputation’s outstanding.”

Tigo’s mind swung into case-detail mode, pushing aside anything that distracted him. “Linc’s torn up, but he’s approaching the investigation logically. Thinks you and I can solve it. Values your bomb-tech days.”

“Can’t solve it without sleep. Hope I have enough sense to ask the right questions.” Ryan pulled out his iPad. “Yeat received four threats after the layoff. One of the suspects has an alibi. One we need to question. And a third person is missing—a woman.”

“That’s only three threats, dude. You really need to get some sleep. All have records?”

Ryan groaned. “Yes.”

“I know the answer’s in the layoffs, but Linc wants to turn
over every rock. Tell me what you know about his sons.” Tigo blinked, his eyes stinging as though grit was all that was forcing them to stay open. If the dark circles under Ryan’s eyes were any indication of how Tigo’s looked, they’d be better off handing this interview to a couple of other agents. But he’d given his word to Linc.

“They’re ages sixteen and seventeen. Good grades. The older boy’s a junior, and the younger boy’s a sophomore. Both play basketball. The older one is on the varsity team and has scouts all over him. The younger is on the JV team and isn’t as talented.”

“You must be into high school sports.”

“Always. My son will be there one day. Basketball. You’ve seen him play.”

Tigo laughed. “Yes, and he’s beaten both of us.”

“Sports don’t mean those boys are immune to threats or drugs. Look at the big leaguers. Sometimes the temptation is worse, especially with money—and the Yeat boys have plenty of that at their disposal.”

“I agree. What about Jonathan and his wife? Any marital problems?”

“None that we know of. Media reports show his grief, and he’s pressing us and HPD to find those involved.”

“I want to know everything about their relationship. Could be he didn’t know about a problem.”

“The little girl’s the most innocent victim here. She wasn’t old enough to make a bomber mad.” Ryan blew out a breath. “I’d tear apart someone who tried to hurt my family.”

Tigo didn’t have a family, but he understood every adult’s responsibility to nurture children. He had a picture of a little girl, named Cherished Doe, in his desk drawer. She’d been a cold case for five years until her death was recently solved. It served as a reminder of what happened when deranged people weren’t brought to justice.

Jonathan Yeat and his family lived in a gated community
with every amenity imaginable. Through the Yeat Foundation, he gave back to those less fortunate in the way of college scholarships, funding after-school programs in poverty-stricken areas, sponsoring sports teams, and—his number one project—providing jobs and guidance for former inmates.

Ten minutes later, Tigo parked outside the community entrance, sliding in behind the car of a bomb tech assigned to investigate and gather materials around the scene of the explosion. Three police cars were sandwiched between media vans near the entrance of the community, outside the yellow crime-scene tape.

“Once we get caught up on sleep, we can look at this more objectively,” Tigo said. “I think it’s a cut-and-dried case of an ex-employee seeking revenge, but maybe not. I’ll need time to examine the reports.”

“I’ll review them tomorrow before the drive into work.”

“What do you say we conduct our own interview with Jonathan in the morning?”

Ryan set his bottle of water in the cup holder. “Sure thing. Questions were racing through my mind when I skimmed Linc’s report.” He peered toward the gates. “Isn’t that your old friend Mike McDougal pushing his luck at the crime scene? I’m surprised Channel 5 still has him employed.”

“He walks a fine line between criminal and reporter.” Tigo recalled Kariss’s claim that she’d dated him at a low point in her life.

The agents made their way to the gate, where McDougal argued with an HPD officer.

“Sir, you know the law. Back off,” the officer said.

“The folks of Houston have a right to see what’s going on,” McDougal said.

Tigo sidled up to the blond-haired man. “Haven’t we been down this road before? Or have you forgotten that media types don’t cross the yellow tape that ropes off crime scenes?”

McDougal gave his typical sneer. “My old friend Agent
Tigo Harris. Excuse me, Special Agent Santiago Harris. How’s Kariss these days?”

“She’s fine.”

“Saw her at an authors’ dinner at Christmas. She flirted with every man there. Thought you two might have split after she wrote her novel. She has a tendency to use people.”

That wasn’t Kariss, but he wasn’t going to let McDougal get under his skin. “The fact is, you’re attempting to break through crime-scene tape. Again. Are you going to obey the law, or do you want to cool your enthusiasm in jail?”

McDougal raised his hands, including the one holding his camera. “The public wants to know what’s happening.”

“And they’ll be informed. Just remember your boundaries.”

“That’s the way it is with law-enforcement types,” McDougal said. “Give them a badge, and they think they have power over the rest of us. Ever read my blog?”

McDougal’s blog fell under the categories of gossip and lies. A joke to anyone with intelligence. Tigo and Ryan left the man rambling to the police officer about his infamous blog and walked toward the Yeat property, which was adjacent to the community entrance.

Police and FBI agents swarmed all over the grounds. Tigo approached the FBI team that was combing the crime scene and requested a full report of their findings be sent to his Blackberry. A section of the front iron gate and the right side of the stone wall had been destroyed. Later Tigo would study the photos being taken to see if any faces in the crowd stood out. Bad guys often returned to their own crime scenes as bystanders.

“Tigo.”

Tigo turned to see HPD Detective Ricardo Montoya walking their way.

“We’re working together again,” the detective said.

“Only the best, right?” Tigo grinned. “Hope we can get this wrapped up soon. What have you got?”

“All evidence points to a disgruntled employee.” Ric gestured toward the crime scene. “We’ll know more when the reports are in.”

“What can you tell us about the bomb?” Ryan said.

“Sophisticated. Not much else yet. We’re still gathering forensics. At this point we don’t detect aluminum nitrate or know the fuel.”

Tigo didn’t voice his thoughts. He’d wait until he saw a report. “Keep in touch. The media’s all over this.”

Ric nodded. He started to say something, but his phone rang and he answered it instead.

Tigo and Ryan made their way to the carved double doors of the home and greeted two police officers. Ric called for the officers to admit them. Once Tigo and Ryan stepped inside the marble foyer, an officer stood sentry.

“FBI Special Agents Ryan Steadman and Santiago Harris to speak to Mr. Yeat,” Tigo said. They flashed their IDs, and the officer examined them.

“I’ll see if he’s available.”

“Tell him FBI Special Agent in Charge Linc Abrams sent us.”

The officer spoke into a radio.

Tigo’s gaze swept to a staircase that wound to the top floor. A three-tiered chandelier glittered, just as he would have expected in a home of this size. No sounds. Little smell, except for the rich scent of wood and a faint floral sweetness. What seized his attention was a wall-sized family portrait of the Yeat family. Tigo focused on Joanna, a striking African-American woman with wide-set, honey-colored eyes that peered into the camera with a sparkle. The boys resembled their father with darker skin and features, but the daughter, Alexia, had lighter brown skin, like her mother, and the same captivating eyes. She would have been a beauty. If she’d lived.

Viewing the portrait of the once-complete family deepened Tigo’s determination to find the person who was responsible.
Conscious of Ryan standing beside him, he felt compelled to comment. “Senseless,” he said. “All we can do is stop someone from ever committing such a crime again.”

Jonathan Yeat stepped into the foyer dressed in dark slacks and a pale-blue dress shirt. Body erect, he looked like a man who was accustomed to a professional world. But solemn eyes gave away his sorrow. He shook each man’s hand. “Linc said to expect you. Tigo, I’m glad you and I know each other. I’ve talked to enough strangers today.”

“We understand this is difficult,” Tigo said.

“Keep expecting to wake up from this horrible nightmare.” Jonathan swallowed hard. “I’m here to do whatever it takes to find my wife’s and daughter’s killer. I speak for my sons too. They’re aware you have a few questions.” He took a deep breath, no doubt to steady himself. “Nothing in life ever prepares you for such loss. I … I gave my statement to the police and to Linc. I’m sure you have it, but I’m available anytime.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tigo said. “We can talk to you in the morning. Right now we’ll make this interview with your sons brief.”

“I understand you two came straight from a stakeout. I appreciate this.”

Tigo nodded. “I imagine we look worse than we feel.”

Ryan pulled out his iPad. “We’re here to expedite the investigation and give you some peace about what’s being done.”

“Linc said you two are the best. I’m afraid my sons may be the next target of this crazed killer. I’m not letting them go anywhere until he’s found.”

“We understand, sir,” Ryan said. “We all hope an arrest can be made soon.”

“I’ve given the authorities the names and contact information for my employees, past and present, and those persons who have access to my home, which includes the pool service, the maid, pet groomers, yard men, and pizza delivery. That’s all I could think of.”

“No problem. We’ll be researching every name on the list and working with HPD,” Tigo said. “Any projects here at the home in the last six months?”

Jonathan glanced away. “Four months ago I had the pool plastered. Before that Joanna had the flooring and countertops in the kitchen replaced. I’ll locate the companies used and get the information to you.” He startled. “I forgot about the woman who designs Joanna’s clothes. Didn’t think about her. I’m sorry.”

“No problem. Just add her contact information.” Tigo nodded toward Ryan, who was taking notes. “Sir, do you have any questions for us?”

“Not at the moment. When I think how happy we all were this time yesterday …” Jonathan gestured toward a doorway. “Right this way, gentlemen. We’re in the kitchen where it’s easier to talk. You know teenagers.”

Tigo expected to see family and church members seated at the kitchen table with Jonathan’s sons. But he didn’t see anyone gathered to comfort the grieving family except one man, who leaned against the kitchen counter. The clerical collar gave away his profession, but the man resembled Jonathan. Ah, yes, Linc had said Jonathan’s brother was their pastor as well.

Viewing the intense emotions of those present, Tigo pushed aside his exhaustion to focus on the sons. The morning’s tragedy and the impact of reality were unfair to kids, yet they might know something that would lead to an arrest.

The pastor extended his hand. “I’m Pastor Taylor Yeat. Anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

Jonathan turned to Tigo and Ryan. “Do you have a problem with my brother being present during the interview?”

Tigo offered a thin smile. “Questions and answers are confidential.”

“That’s my line of work,” the pastor said. “I’m a shoulder to my family.”

“I understand.” Tigo questioned this logic of the family dynamics, but he’d play it out. “We’ll be brief.”

The older son was slumped over the table. He straightened, his eyes red and swollen. The younger folded his arms across his chest, hostility showing in his eyes. Both boys’ attention was riveted on their father.

“Curt, Ian, these men need to talk to us. That’s why I sent the others home. No one needs to witness any of this.” Jonathan nodded at the agents. “Please, sit down.”