Thread of Fear (24 page)

Fiona plunked her head down. “I can’t believe I’m such an idiot.”

Courtney patted her back. “Neither can I.”

Take care, now.

She’d told him she loved him, and what were his parting words yesterday?
Take care, now.

Fiona pushed through the door to her building. The bright afternoon sun greeted her, and it actually felt nice outside for the first time in weeks. She unbuttoned her coat and looked toward the street in front of her parking garage. People were out biking and jogging and walking dogs, soaking up the Saturday afternoon. The whole city, it seemed, was coming out of hibernation. She strode out to Lamar Street and stopped to turn her face upward. It was one of those crisp, clear days, the sky so blue it looked as if it had been painted with pigment straight from the tube. The gallery wasn’t far, so she decided to go on foot.

Her crushed-velvet dress swished around her legs as she walked. She’d bought it especially for this occasion. It had a scoop neckline and long sleeves, and the fabric clung to her body while the deep violet color set off the gold in her hair. She felt pretty. Beautiful, even. And her pulse picked up as she wondered whether Jack would make it to her show.

It was silly to be thinking about him at a time like this, but she couldn’t help it. She was in love with the man. She didn’t know whether he loved her back, but she thought he might. Even if he wouldn’t talk about it, she’d seen something in his face while they’d made love. And then he’d offered to come here, to see her opening, knowing full well how immensely important it was to her.

Of course, he might just have been being nice.

It was even possible he’d made the offer merely to distract her from an awkward conversation about the L-word. Maybe he had no intention of coming at all.

Fiona stopped at the corner and waited for the light to change. She took a deep breath and tried to steel herself. Today was
her
day.
Hers.
And if Jack didn’t make it, she’d
just deal. There would be plenty of other people to talk to. And Courtney would be there for moral support. Her sister was a flake sometimes, but she came through when it really mattered.

Fiona’s phone sang out, and she pulled it from her pocket just as the stoplight turned green. She didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“Is this Fiona?”

She could hardly hear over the traffic. “Yes.”

“It’s—” Static. “I have to—” More static.

“I can barely hear you,” she said loudly. “Can you speak up?”

“It’s
Brady
.”

“Brady Cox?”

“You said I could call. You gave me your number.”

Her hand tightened on the phone. “It’s fine, Brady. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” But his voice sounded nervous. “I just thought of something, and I thought, you know, I should call you.”

Horns blared. Fiona realized the light had changed and she was planted in the middle of the intersection. She hurried to the corner. “What is it? What did you think of?” She ducked into a doorway to get away from the people and the traffic noise.

“I remembered the truck,” he said. “I was at the grocery store with my mom, and I heard this engine, and it sounded familiar, and I looked over, and there it was. Diesel engine and everything.”

“A truck.” Fiona’s heart pounded. “The one driven by the man we drew together? You saw it?”

The phone was silent for a moment.

“Brady?”

“I dunno. Maybe not the
same
truck. But just like it. I remember now. I remember everything. I was thinking you could come over, and we could, like, draw it all.”

Her heart raced. The perp’s vehicle would be a major break. She had to tell Jack. Or Agent Santos, since Jack had been kicked off the case.

“Brady, listen to me. It’s good that you called me. I’m going to give you a phone number, okay? Of a man who’s working on this case. I want you to tell him everything you told me, and then
describe
the truck to him. Tell him everything you can.”

Silence.

“Brady?”

“I want to tell
you
. I want
you
to draw it.”

Fiona glanced at her watch, exasperated. It was nearly three. Her opening started in two hours, and this couldn’t happen right now.

“Brady. Listen. I’m tied up right now. The soonest I can get there is tomorrow. But it’s very,
very
important that you tell someone about the truck as soon as possible, all right? I need you to call this investigator. He’s a very nice man—”

Click.

“Brady?”

He’d hung up.

“
Damn
it.” She stomped her foot and stared at her phone. She scrolled through to find the number, but paused before pressing the Callback button. It wouldn’t matter. Brady was one of the most headstrong kids she’d ever
worked with. If he didn’t want to talk to someone besides her, he wasn’t going to.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

Fiona whirled around and looked down the street. In the distance, she saw the Fuller Gallery’s black awning. She’d been there yesterday, and she knew that two of her best paintings hung in the window. Her photograph sat on an easel in the foyer, and her Blanco River series was mounted all over the walls. The painting closest to her heart, the fish composition that she’d first visualized during her dinner with Jack, was spotlighted on the main wall, a four-by-six-foot testament to the turmoil permeating her life.

And the gallery owner who had bent over backward to help her get her start was waiting there, amid all of it, to go over last-minute details before her big debut.

Fiona’s hands shook as she stuffed her phone inside her purse and turned around.

N
athan knocked on Fiona’s door and waited patiently. The stereo was on, so he knew someone was home. He knocked again, louder.

Finally, the door pulled open, and there stood Courtney.

“Fiona’s not here.”

Nathan looked her up and down. “You always answer the door that way?”

She glanced down at her silky black robe and shrugged. Then she turned around and disappeared into the apartment.

Nathan followed. “You know where she is?”

“Out.” She bent over beside the bed and pulled a duffel bag out from under it. For the second time this week, Nathan was rendered speechless by her legs. He watched from a comfortable distance away as she tossed the bag on the bed and unzipped it.

She glanced up at him. “Hey, bring me that laundry basket, would you?”

A basket heaped with clothes was sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up and ferried it to the bed.

“Thanks.” Courtney eyed the gun at his hip. He wore
the holster with his usual dress slacks and a tie. “You on your way to work?”

“Home, actually.”

She dumped the basket upside down and started sorting everything into piles. “You try her cell phone?”

“No answer. You know where I can find her? It’s important.”

“She’s at her art show. I’m heading over there, too, soon as I get dressed.” She finished sorting, and Nathan watched, riveted, as she scooped up a pile of lacy lingerie and stuffed it into the duffel. Her gaze met his over the bag, and he suddenly had a burning desire to know what she planned to wear tonight. “You want to give me a message? I can pass it along when I see her.”

“No, I need to talk to her.” He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and sighed. It was the letter Fiona had given him, the one that had taken weeks to get back from the lab. He placed it on the dresser.

“What’s that?”

“A note she got in the mail. I had it analyzed.”

Courtney walked over to the dresser and picked up the bag. Through the plastic, she read the words, and her face paled.

“Couldn’t get anything useful from the prints, but I did some research, and the postmark makes me think it has to do with one of her high-profile cases—a serial rapist who’s doing time in L.A. County. The guy’s got family in the town outside Dallas where this was mailed.”

“A serial rapist. Charming. Last time it was gang members.” She dropped the bag on the dresser and crossed her arms. “Are you aware that she uprooted her life and moved
fifteen hundred miles to get away from this kind of crap?”

“Yes.”

“It’s no wonder she’s so stressed out all the time. She needs a break. Why don’t you guys leave her alone?”

“I wish I could,” he said honestly. “But the cases don’t stop coming, and she’s the best we got.”

Jack flipped his wallet out on the counter and took out a few twenties to pay for his gas and some Gatorade. The pimply-faced kid at the register stared at him, as if he’d never seen a guy in a suit before.

Jack reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sketch, the one he’d taken to carrying around everywhere he went.

“This man look familiar to you?”

The kid cast a brief glance at Fiona’s drawing and shrugged.

“That a yes or a no?”

He smacked his gum a few times, then shook his head. “Nope.”

Jack collected his change. He noticed the bulletin board behind the counter where flyers were posted advertising flea markets and river-rafting tours. Jack slid the sketch across the counter. He had a whole stack of them in his truck.

“Tack this up there, will you?”

The kid looked down at the ugly mug. “I probably should talk to my manager? He’s in back.”

Jack checked his watch. If he didn’t get on the road soon, he was going to be late to Austin. But this gas station was at a high-volume intersection, and he wanted a drawing posted.

His phone buzzed, and he dug it from his pocket. Fiona.

He whipped out an old business card, which wasn’t nearly as impressive as whipping out a badge. “Get your manager. Hurry.”

The kid disappeared, and Jack answered his phone. “Hey, I need to call you back.”

“Wait. Where are you?”

“On the interstate. About halfway to Austin.”

“Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around. I’m coming to you.”

“Why?”

“I need to talk to Brady Cox,” she said. “He remembers the truck he saw from his tree fort.”

“What about your show?”

“They’ll have it without me.”

He paused a moment to make sure she was serious. “But this is your big chance. It could be a onetime opportunity.”

She was quiet on the other end, and he figured she knew this already.

“I need to talk to Brady,” she repeated. “He knows something important.”

Jack felt someone hovering near him, and he glanced over to see an old guy standing too close, gnawing on a stick of beef jerky.

“Okay, so talk to him,” Jack said. “But how about over the phone? Or I’ll bring him to you. You shouldn’t come down here.”

“Jack, this is my job. I’ll interview him at the station house, if it makes you feel better, but I’m coming.”

“Fiona—”

“I have to go now.”

“Wait.”
Goddamn it. She was the most mule-headed woman he’d ever known. “Call me soon as you get to town. And keep your gun handy.”

Jack disconnected, and the white-haired guy shuffled up to the counter. He continued to chew his jerky as he gazed down at the picture until Jack half expected his dentures to fall out.

“I knew it,” the man said. “That’s the spitting image of Melvin.”

Jack’s pulse skipped. “Who’s Melvin?”

“Ah, what’s the last name?” He removed the cap from his head and rubbed the age spots at his temple. “Husky fella. Works at the hunting bureau.”

“Melvin
Schenck
? With Texas Parks and Wildlife?”

The watery gray eyes lit up. “Yeah, that’s the one. Course he’s a lot heavier now.”

Jack had met Melvin and knew he wasn’t their guy. He was a few decades too old and too tall to match the witnesses’ descriptions. But Jack’s mind started to race with possibilities. The Parks and Wildlife Bureau had really dragged its feet on that list of deer licensees. And their regional office was in Borough County, where Lucy had been picked up by hunters all those years ago.

“Does Melvin have a son?” Jack asked. “Or maybe a nephew?”

The man frowned at the drawing, scratching his head some more. “I don’t rightly know. Seems like he had a family once. Seem to recall his wife died. Then he lost his farm. Or maybe that was someone else, fell on hard times. I couldn’t say for sure one way or the other.”

Jack took a moment to jot down the man’s contact information on his gas receipt and then stuffed it in his pocket.

“Thanks,” he told him. “You’ve been a big help.”

Jack plowed through the doors and got back in his truck. He needed a computer, ASAP, not to mention a team of detectives to help him run down this lead.

He probably wouldn’t get either, but he could damn well try.

Within fifteen minutes of arriving in Graingerville, Fiona learned two things: Jack really
had
been booted off the case completely, and Randy Rudd was an even bigger moron than she’d originally thought. The sheriff seemed to believe sitting behind closed doors in his office was going to miraculously bring a killer to justice.

The one glimmer of good news was that someone—most likely Agent Santos—had realized Brady Cox and Lucy Arrellando were the prosecution’s key—and possibly
only
—witnesses, should the case go to trial. Both of them had been placed under protective surveillance for the time being.

The bad news was, Randy’s office was in charge of the job, and the territorial sheriff made it known to Fiona through his assistant, Myrna, that it would be impossible for her to interview Brady at the Graingerville Police Station. More pissing wars with Jack, Fiona guessed.

So she set off to visit the house. She’d promised Jack she’d be careful, and she figured working in the presence of a sheriff’s deputy qualified as taking precautions.

The deputy was sitting in his unit in front of Brady’s home when Fiona pulled up. He was engrossed in a maga
zine and barely bothered to wave as Fiona got out of her car and walked to the door.

“Nice security,” she muttered as she rang the bell.

No one answered, and she tried again. And again. Finally, she strode over to the deputy’s car and tapped on the glass.

He glanced up, startled, from his
Sports Illustrated
swim-suit issue, and rolled down the window.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said sweetly, “but you wouldn’t happen to know where the witness is, would you?”

He frowned. “The mom left. Said she was running late for work.”

“And Brady? You know it’s the boy, not his mother, who will be called to testify if this case goes to trial. You might want to think about guarding
him
.”

The deputy scowled. “Who are you?”

“I’m a forensic artist here to interview Brady about the case.”

He shoved open the door, hauled himself out of the car, and ambled up the sidewalk. Without so much as a knock, he entered the house. He took a quick tour of the tiny home and then returned to the front door, where he fisted his hands on his hips. “He was just here a while ago.”

Fuming, Fiona pulled out her phone and called Santos.

“It’s Fiona,” she said, crossing the kitchen and pushing open the back door. She glanced up at Brady’s fort and saw that it was empty. “They lost the witness.”

“What do you mean
lost
?”

“I came over to interview Brady. He called me this afternoon to tell me he remembers the vehicle, and he wanted us
to sit down and draw it together. I’m at his house now, and he’s gone, right out from under the sheriff’s nose.”

Santos said something in Spanish that didn’t sound kind, and then, “You try his mother?”

“She’s at work, according to this surveillance guy. She waits tables at IHOP. Listen, I don’t like this. Someone needs to check on Lucy.” Fiona noticed the narrow, muddy tire track on the house’s back porch. Maybe Brady was on his bike, which at least meant he’d probably left of his own volition.

“He’s disappeared before,” Fiona said. “But still, I’m nervous. We need to find him.”

“I’m on it,” Santos said, and disconnected.

Fiona did a quick search of the house, on the off chance that the deputy had missed something. No sign of Brady, but several rolls of quarters lay on his bed, along with half a dozen empty coin wrappers and a lonely gym sock. She didn’t see its match.

By the time she made her way to the front of the house, the deputy was leaning against his patrol car talking on the phone as a black SUV pulled up to the curb. Randy Rudd, in all his ten-gallon glory, got out and approached his deputy for what looked like a reaming out. Fiona stood off to the side, pretending not to eavesdrop, and waited for the sheriff to finish.

Finally, Randy looked her way. His gaze paused on her cleavage before he managed to notice her face. “And you are…?”

“Fiona Glass. The forensic artist. I spoke with your assistant.”

His gaze dropped again, and Fiona crossed her arms.
This
was why she wore suits all the time.

“His bike is missing,” she said curtly. “I think we should contact his mother, see if she can tell us his favorite hangouts. And if she doesn’t know, maybe she could at least supply the name of a friend of Brady’s who could tell us.”

The sheriff nodded. “Thank you, ma’am, but we’ve got it under control.” He turned to his deputy. “You check all the playgrounds. I’ll get another man driving through town, see if we don’t spot him.”

Fiona’s mouth fell open. “
Playgrounds?
Sheriff, have you met this kid?” She knew he had, the day Brady had called him a bonehead asswipe. “I think it’s highly unlikely he’s playing on the slides. It looks like he took some quarters from his room—”

Randy hooked his thumbs on his gun belt and stepped in front of her, shading her with the brim of his hat. “Ma’am, you can go now. This is a law enforcement matter. Hadn’t got nothing to do with art.”

Fiona felt her cheeks flush. She jerked her keys from her purse. “Fine. Hey, if you see Brady, tell him I agree with his assessment of you.”

Jack grabbed the sheets off the printer and booked it for the door. As he left the station house, he winked at Sharon, whose worried expression told him she knew he was up to something. Using Carlos’s computer while he was out on a dinner break wasn’t exactly aboveboard. But, shit, what were they going to do, fire him?

Jack returned to his truck, which he’d parked discreetly at the side of the building. He cranked the engine to life, all the while scanning the papers in his lap. This was good stuff.
Nothing definitive, but good. He had an address to check out. And he had the pull factor.

The pull factor was something from his homicide days, when he and Nathan had worked for the HPD.

It was pretty straightforward: when you were staring at a pile of paperwork, or a crime scene, or whatever, and a certain piece of evidence just kept dragging your attention away from all the rest, even if you didn’t know why,
that
was the pull factor.

The last known address for Melvin Karl Schenck was like that. It didn’t feel right, for some reason, and Jack wanted to check it out.

The passenger’s-side door jerked open, and Carlos got in.

“Hey there, Chief.”

Jack scowled. “I’m not chief anymore. You are.”

He popped a toothpick in his mouth. “Whatcha got there?”

“Do yourself a favor,” Jack said. “Go right back to work and pretend you didn’t see me.”

Carlos didn’t budge.

“Damn it, I’m serious. You could lose your job over this. You got kids to think about.”

“You’re looking for our perp, right? I figure that’s my job.”