Thread of Fear (14 page)

She came back with some ointment.

“And what about Courtney?” he asked. “Was she already here, or did she come along for the ride?”

“We moved together.” Her face looked carefully neutral. “She’d had enough of California and wanted a fresh start.”

A fresh start. How come he felt like he was getting the abbreviated, sanitized version of that story?

“This’ll help your nose,” she said, dabbing ointment below his nostril. He’d cleaned up some already at the station house, but he’d been in a rush.

“So what’s going to happen to Hoyt?” she asked.

“He’ll spend the night in jail. Probably take a good day
or two before he can round up someone willing to bail him out again.”

“He’s a repeat offender?”

“He’s a repeat fuckup. He drinks too much and makes a habit of picking fights.”

She pursed her lips, and he wondered if she thought he didn’t take tonight’s events seriously.

“Don’t worry, he’s in a whole new world of hurt this time. He assaulted two people tonight, both law enforcement officers.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow at the description, but didn’t say anything.

“He’ll be charged. The prosecutor’ll probably want to make an example of him, and if he doesn’t, I’ll do my best to persuade him.”

Fiona gazed down at him tiredly.

“Come here.” Jack tossed the ice pack aside. He put his hands on her hips and pulled her between his knees.

“I’m not finished patching you up.”

“Yeah, you are.” He tugged the silk loose from her skirt and slid his hands underneath. Her skin was smooth and warm, and he felt her shiver. He pushed the shirt up and watched her eyes. “Let me see you,” he whispered.

She stared at him a moment, then lifted the shirt over her head. It made a soft whoosh as it landed on the bed beside him, and then she was standing there, finally, without all those layers covering her up.

“You’re so pretty.” He reached up to cup her breast, thumbing her nipple through the creamy lace. He eased forward on the bed and reached for the other one. Her bra
had a tiny pink rosebud just between her breasts, and he pressed a kiss into the sweet skin right above it. He ran his hands down over her hips again and then reached around her waist to find her zipper.

“On the side,” she whispered, guiding his hand.

He pulled the zipper down, then slid the skirt over her rounded hips. She had another rose just below her navel, and when he kissed the skin above it, she sucked in a breath. He trailed his mouth down, tasting her skin, and his phone buzzed.

She froze.

Jack looked up at her as it buzzed again. He swore vividly and fell back on the bed. He jerked the phone out of his pocket and saw Lowell’s number on the screen.

“What?”

“There’s a woman just come in here. Nola Fuentes.”

Jack sat up. “Yeah?”

“Well, it took a while to understand her at first. She’s crying and carrying on. Finally Carlos came in from that fender bender in front of the Texaco? I got him to talk to her.”

Fiona reached for her shirt and pulled it over her head. Next the skirt came up, and Jack sent her a look of apology. Her face was a mask of composure.

“Spit it out, Lowell.”

“It’s our Jane Doe, Chief. This woman says the picture on the ten o’clock news is her daughter.”

N
atalie Fuentes. Natalie.

All day long, the name had been echoing through Fiona’s mind.

Natalie.
It was such a young-sounding name, so full of promise. Natalies were beautiful, smiling girls with lots of friends, girls whose phones never stopped ringing and whose lockers were always surrounded by people. Girls named Natalie had bubbly personalities, and long silken hair, and dates to the homecoming football game every fall.

She knew it was an illusion. How could a name determine a person’s life? But Fiona had feelings attached to names, and in her mind—up until today, at least—
Natalie
had been one of the happy ones.

According to Jack, Fiona’s illusion hadn’t been far from the truth, either. During her early-morning drive back to Austin, Jack had called. He’d apologized again for leaving abruptly and then had given her an update on the victim.

Natalie Fuentes had been an honor student and captain of the Meyersberg High School cheerleading team. Fifteen months ago, she’d been nominated for the homecoming
court. Five months ago, she’d enrolled as a freshman at San Pedro College in Hamlin, Texas.

Two weeks ago she’d been raped, brutalized, and strangled, then abandoned on a frozen patch of grass off Highway 44.

Neither Fiona nor Dr. Jamison had pegged her age correctly. Natalie was a short, slightly built eighteen. She’d been on her way back to school after Christmas break, but she’d never made it. Her mother hadn’t heard from her in twelve days, but she said that wasn’t unusual. Her daughter studied hard and had a busy social life.

Natalie’s body would be released to her family by the end of today.

Usually, when a victim’s identity finally came through, Fiona felt a sense of closure. Some family somewhere would lay their loved one to rest, and Fiona would feel a small measure of satisfaction for helping make that possible, for being one of the people who gave the victim back a name and a bit of dignity.

But Fiona felt no closure today. On the contrary, she’d spent the better part of this chilly Friday blazing with red-hot anger. So she’d come home from work, thrown on her rattiest jeans, and decided to do the only thing she knew that would help.

Now she lined up all her supplies, loaded her gun, and went to work.

Pop.
The recoil shocked her hand.
Pop. Pop.
Her arm tingled with it.
Pop.
With every pull of the trigger, she felt a tiny release of tension.

The door opened, and Courtney waltzed in. She looked at Fiona and stopped cold. “What happened?”

“What?” Fiona looked down at the wood and aimed.
Pop.

Courtney tossed her purse and coat on the sofa. “You’re upset. You always stretch canvases when you’re upset.”

Fiona frowned down at the frame in her hands. She didn’t realize anyone had noticed. She’d thought it was her secret stress buster.

“Crappy day?” Courtney prompted.

“You could say that.” Fiona put down the staple gun and turned the wooden frame ninety degrees. “You want to help?”

“Sure.”

“Right here,” Fiona directed. “Pull as tight as you can.”

Courtney sauntered over and positioned her hands on the frame. She’d helped with this chore before, so she knew how important it was to get the linen as taut as possible. The fabric had to be stretched tightly across the wood, but not so tightly it would tear at the staple points. Fiona turned the frame frequently, so the fabric would pull more evenly over every side.

Courtney held the linen beneath her thumbs. “This is a big one.”

“Tighter.”

Courtney pulled it tighter.

“Your hands are all chapped,” Fiona said.

“Comes with the job.”

Her sister had been through a wide variety of jobs in the beauty industry. In her current position as a hairstylist at an exclusive salon, she worked with chemicals all the time and washed her hands frequently.

“Is this for the show?”

“It’s the focal point. It’s supposed to be the largest canvas in the Blanco River series.”

“Wow,” Courtney said. “No wonder it’s so big.”

Fiona had the four-by-six-foot composition all planned out. She’d
had
it planned for weeks, but hadn’t had time to get started until tonight—which was crazy, considering this was to be the centerpiece of her entire exhibit.

“How’s the detective?” Courtney asked.

Fiona blew out a sigh. “He’s not a detective. He’s a police chief.”

“So where is he tonight?”

“Working on a case.”

“This the Jane Doe thing down in Hickville?”

“Natalie Fuentes.” Fiona positioned the staple gun.
Pop.

“Huh?”

“Her name’s Natalie Fuentes. They IDed her late last night. College freshman. She was a cheerleader.”
Pop.
“One of the little ones, you know, who go on top of the pyramid.”

They rotated the frame again, and Courtney pulled another section of fabric. She was good at this, always had been. A properly stretched canvas was the first step to a good painting. One of Fiona’s first instructors at Art Center in L.A. had drummed it into her head: no gaping fabric, no puckers, no tears, and for God’s sake, make your staples straight!

“It’s called a flyer.”

Fiona looked up. “What?”

“The girl on top of the pyramid. She’s the flyer. She’s the lightest one, so she gets tossed around the most. Sometimes twenty feet in the air.”

Fiona lifted her eyebrows. “How do you know that?”
Courtney had steered far away from the cheerleaders during high school.

“Some of my clients bring their daughters in for highlights.” Courtney shrugged. “I can tell you anything you want to know about the glam high school scene.”

Fiona shook her head at the irony. She and Courtney hadn’t run with the cool crowd back in high school. Fiona had been the quiet misfit, and Courtney was the promiscuous one whom the guys sought out and the girls hated.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

“Okay, that about does it.” Fiona stepped back to look. “Not bad, either. Thanks for helping.”

“Sure.”

Courtney stripped off her sweater as she crossed the apartment. “You mind if I borrow something to wear tonight? I’m having dinner with David.”

Fiona eyed the lotus tattooed on her sister’s shoulder. “I thought he lived in Dallas.”

“He does. But he’s had a lot of business in town lately.” Courtney smiled over her shoulder. “I think he likes me.”

Fiona leaned the canvas against the wall and followed Courtney into the bathroom. Her sister swept back the shower curtain and turned on the water to heat.

“And do you like him?”

Courtney wouldn’t look at her, which was always telling.

“Is he a nice guy?”

“Yeah.” Courtney took off her earrings. “He treats me well. He talks to me. Tells me about his cases. His job’s really interesting.”

Fiona remembered this guy was a lawyer. Knowing her sister, she’d be talking about going to law school next week.
Not that Courtney wasn’t smart enough to do whatever she wanted—she was. She just didn’t have much follow-through.

“Stop worrying,” Courtney said.

“I’m not worrying.”

“Yes, you are. I can see it. Chill out, okay? It’s not like I’m getting married or something.”

“Where’d you get your tattoo done?” Fiona asked, changing the subject.

“What, the lotus?”

“You have more than one?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a yin-yang, too.” She tugged down her skirt and showed her the black-and-white disk just below her left hip bone. “I got that, like, a year ago. Both times I went to a place downtown.”

“Hmm…” Fiona rubbed her fingers over it. “Did it hurt?”

“Not too bad.” Courtney grinned. “Why? You want one?”

“I’m just curious.” Fiona leaned back against the sink. “Say I wanted to get a swastika? Could I just show up somewhere and get one, or is that taboo?”

Courtney flipped the toilet lid closed and sat down to take off her shoes. They had narrow black ankle straps and stiletto heels that looked fabulous but probably felt miserable.

“A taboo tattoo,” Courtney mused. “I think that’s an oxymoron.”

“So I could just get anything I want?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, really. You’d have to check. I’ve never seen anyone ask for neo-Nazi shit. It might be
something they don’t talk about, but they’ll do it in a back room or something.”

“And where would I go?”

Courtney grinned. “You really want to do this? I’ll go with you.”

“You will?”

“Sure, it’ll be fun. We could look at tats, piercings. This is for an investigation, right? You’re not really going to get one?”

Fiona wrinkled her nose.

“Don’t be so judgmental,” Courtney said. “I happen to think you’d look extremely hot with a navel ring. Jack would probably take one look at it and have an orgasm.”

“We’re not sleeping together.” Yet.

“Whatever. I’ll take you to one of the ink places on Sixth Street.” Courtney glanced at her watch before taking it off and tossing it on the vanity. “We need to go soon, though. I’m meeting David at nine.”

Fiona heaved a sigh and buried her face in her hands. “God, what is
wrong
with me? I’m supposed to paint tonight. Instead, I’m going to go traipsing around tattoo parlors.” She looked up at Courtney. “If I don’t get these pictures finished soon, I’m going to blow my whole career before it even gets off the ground.”

Courtney lifted an eyebrow. “Which career is that?”

“My art career! The one I spent six years training for. The one I’ve been dreaming about since I was a kid. I’m throwing it all down the drain, Court!”

Courtney tipped her head to the side. She had that look of understanding, the one nobody else in the universe had
ever had except for her. “You already have a career. You’re good at it, too.”

“But I’m trying to get
out
of that.”

“Are you really? Seems to me if you really wanted out, you’d be out by now.”

The Egyptian Cat perched at the end of Sixth Street, just beyond a series of crowded bars and thumping dance clubs. Fiona followed Courtney inside, relieved to get away from the throngs of college students and the bitter night air.

The room was warm. Intricately patterned fabrics were draped over the light fixtures, giving the space a muted glow. Sitar music surrounded her, and she felt like she’d entered an Indian restaurant instead of a tattoo parlor.

“Not what I expected,” she said, slipping off her coat. At the back of the room hung a saffron yellow curtain, and from behind it came a low buzzing noise.

“I know. Isn’t it great?” Courtney led her to a wall of drawings. Almost all the designs looked Eastern. Fiona caught a few Celtic symbols. Some hieroglyphics. Where were all the naked women and biker symbols? This place seemed a little high end for their purposes.

“I love the incense here,” Courtney said, as they perused the drawings. “It gives you something to think about besides the needle.”

Fiona sent her a skeptical look. She doubted anything would take her mind off the needle except a shot of morphine.

“This would look good on you.” Courtney pointed to a Chinese character. “It means double happiness. Maybe it would cheer you up.”

Fiona turned to her sister. “I’m cheerful.”

“Right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re too serious lately. You need to destress. Have some fun.”

“I have fun,” Fiona said, defensive now.

“You haven’t had fun since you and Aaron broke up.”

“That’s not true.”

“All you do is work all the time. And you’re avoiding men.”

“No, I’m not.”

Courtney gave her a “yeah, right” look. “So what happened to Jack the other night? Why didn’t you bring him home with you?”

“
You
were there.”

“I was on my way out. You should have asked him up. He’s very nice-looking. And I think he’d be good for you. He seems trustworthy.”

Fiona bit her tongue. She didn’t need relationship tips from Courtney. Her sister’s longest-term boyfriend had lasted three months.

“Don’t get upset.” Courtney’s expression softened. “I’m just saying, you should start dating again. Loosen up some. Not everyone’s out to hurt you.”

A man with short-cropped dark hair ducked out from behind the curtain, saving Fiona from a response. He had olive skin, a muscular build, and two full sleeves of black tribal-looking tattoos.

“Hey, there.” He stepped closer and zeroed in on Fiona. “You need some help?”

She was speechless. Men typically gravitated toward
Courtney first. It must be the outfit. She was wearing a low-cut crimson sweater with bell sleeves and tight, hip-hugger jeans.

“We have some questions for you,” Courtney answered for her. “But we don’t want to keep you from a client or anything. You busy?”

“We’re slow tonight.” He smiled, and focused again on Fiona. “What can I do for you?”

She cleared her throat, trying not to stare at his lip rings. “I’m wondering about your designs here. What all do you do?”

That sounded vague, but she felt flustered. He was looking at her with those sensual black eyes.

“Anything. What did you have in mind?”

“What about swastikas?” she blurted, and his eyebrows shot up.

“She means, hypothetically,” Courtney put in. “Would you
do
a swastika? If someone asked you?”

He looked from Fiona to Courtney and back to Fiona again. “
I
wouldn’t. But that’s me, personally. You could get someone else to do it. Not here, though.”

“Where could I go?” Fiona asked.

His gaze drifted over her. “You don’t seem like the swastika type. Have you thought this through?”

“It’s not for me. I’m just doing some research.”

He seemed to relax at this, and smiled again. “Good. You strike me as more of an artist.”