by DiAnn Mills
“I’ve seen enough abuse of women and kids to last a lifetime. Just let me see one bruise, and I’ll be tempted to cuff him.” She studied the waterfall flowing into the pool. No doubt ice-cold. “From experience, it will be difficult to get solid answers from the daughters. Blood runs thicker than murder charges. And bruises and broken arms.” She sensed his gaze on her. Was he wondering how she felt about Lucas? Of course he recognized her—why not?
“Would you start the interview, play the caring female role?” he said. “A nod will signal for me to take over.”
“Is the nod a guideline for any interview?”
“Sure. Relax, you’ll be fine. This isn’t a competition.” He gestured toward the door.
Later she’d dissect his words, but right now her brain needed to form questions and absorb facts.
Paul Javon met them in the living room wearing a grievous smile. Tall, blond hair, built like an athlete. Good-looking, if a gal went for the pretty-boy type. She’d expected him to be more immobile with his disability.
“You must be the FBI agents.” His words choked out.
Thatcher and Bethany introduced themselves and displayed their IDs.
“I hope you can find my wife’s killer,” Javon said. “Most people think tragedies strike other families, not your own. Seems like a nightmare with no end.”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Thatcher said, his tone genuine.
Bethany walked to the harp. She had no musical ability, except to adjust the volume on her car radio or sound system at home. “I understand your daughters are quite musical.”
“Yes. Alicia was too. . . . Both girls are in college on music scholarships. We’re . . . I mean, I’m so envious of their talent.” He joined Bethany. “I have videos of the three playing right here.” He glanced around. “The Christmas video is my favorite. The room decorated in red and gold.”
“I can see you’re proud of them.”
He nodded and dabbed beneath his eye. “All the girls and I have left are memories. I feel Alicia in every room. Hear her sweet voice. Smell her perfume.” He touched the harp. “The animal who did this has to pay.” He picked up a family photo on the fireplace mantel. “This was taken last summer. See how beautiful . . . my Alicia. I have to keep remembering her this way, not how we found her.”
“I understand,” Bethany said, wishing she had a crystal ball to see inside Javon’s words. “Have you recalled anything that can help us find your wife’s killer?”
“I want to cooperate in every way. Please, sit down.” He gestured to a pair of pale-green, cushioned chairs. His shoulders slumped. Grief or drama? “I apologize for my emotions. This is raw. Hard. This time yesterday, she was alive.” He swiped at his eyes. “I’ll let my daughters know you’re here. They went upstairs to grab a few things.”
He already had enough strikes against him with Alicia’s medical history. Slow down, Bethany. A judge and jury determined the innocence or guilt of a man. Her job was to help Thatcher and the FBI bring in whoever had motive and evidence stacked against him. She adjusted her condemnation and fixed her best compassionate smile.
“We’re here,” a female voice said.
Two young women entered the room. Shannon was twenty-one and Carly nineteen. Both resembled their mother with thick auburn hair and brown eyes. One of the girls limped. Bethany mentally noted to find out if the condition stemmed from a physical defect, an accident, or if her father had substituted one of his daughters for Alicia.
“I’m Special Agent Graves and this is Special Agent Sanchez,” Thatcher said. “You have our sympathies in the loss of your mother, and we value your time today. Our questions may duplicate what has already been asked by HPD, but repetition sometimes jars the memory. We know this is difficult, but it’s necessary to find the source of your tragedy. We’ll make our visit as brief as possible.”
The young women flanked their father on a sofa. Shannon leaned into him, but Carly hugged the opposite end. Javon placed a massive arm around Shannon’s shoulders. “We discussed your interview, and we’re ready for whatever it takes to stop the killer.”
He reached out for Carly. “Honey, come closer. These agents are here to help.” He pulled her to him and kissed her cheek. She frowned.
Repulsed? Bethany kept her smile intact. “We’re looking for any details,” she said. “The smallest incident may open doors for us to make an arrest.”
“We’re a close family.” Javon glanced at his daughters. “Have you thought of anything to help the agents?”
Had Javon’s daughters seen him hit their mother? Carly’s arctic eyes and a slight recoil from her father indicated disgust.
Thatcher nodded for Bethany to continue the interview. Paul Javon was way too congenial—charming described him best. He reminded her of her brother, Lucas, when he was around their family, causing Bethany’s patience level to rise near tilt.
“Our report says HPD imaged your wife’s computer. Did that include all of the electronics in your home?” she said.
“Just my wife’s,” Paul said. “We have three other computers and three iPads, so looking at their content makes sense.”
Bethany jotted down his comments.
“Mom used my laptop a few times.” The first words Carly had offered. “I can insert a flash drive to copy the contents.”
“That’s not necessary.” Her father patted her knee. “The FBI has professional tech people to handle it.”
“It would be my way of helping.” Carly’s words were emotionless.
“No. I have this covered.” His fingers dug into her knee.
“How long will this interview take?” Shannon said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have an hour before a class. Then we have Mom’s memorial service to plan.” She gasped as though reality had punched her in the gut.
“You don’t need to attend school today.” Her father reached for her hand, and she closed her eyes. “Let your sister and I help you through this.”
“I really don’t know how I can help,” Shannon said. “I want to wake up and find Mom’s at work and everything’s fine.”
“Can you tell us about your mother?” Bethany sensed the young woman was sincerely distressed.
A tear trickled over Shannon’s cheek. “She took care of us. Made sure we were always okay. When we had late study nights, she stayed up with us, sometimes cooking and making coffee and other times quizzing us.” She talked on about her mother’s fine qualities. No signs of deceit were evident. “Carly, Mom, and I loved to play music together.”
“Thank you.” Bethany poured compassion into her words. She turned to the younger woman. “What about you, Carly?”
She folded trembling hands. “Mom was active in church, and I admired that about her. Although I didn’t jump on board the religious train, I understood her commitment. I volunteered with her at a homeless shelter for women. She worked with them to better themselves, and I played with the kids.” Carly spoke in a monotone as though guarding every word.
“Agent Thatcher, what questions do you have?”
“Do either of you know of anyone who disliked your mom?”
“No, sir.” The two voices sounded like a choir.
“Are you acquainted with Ruth Caswell?”
The two responded negatively, along with their father. “She’s the other woman who was recently murdered?” Javon said.
“Yes, sir. Any disagreements with a neighbor, friend, or coworker?”
“None.” Shannon drew in a ragged breath. “I can’t believe she’s gone . . . and how she died.”
Carly slipped out of her father’s hold. “I have nothing to help you. I wish I did. No strangers. No arguments. No mention of anything out of the ordinary.” Her right foot wiggled. “If I think of something, I could contact you.”
Thatcher and Bethany handed each of the family members their business cards.
“We might need to talk to you again,” Thatcher said. “Thanks so much for your help. We’re
finished except for a few questions for your father.”
“Daddy, are you okay?” Shannon said.
He smiled. “Of course, baby. You go ahead and make sure you have what you need from upstairs. Carly, you’ve been exposed to enough. I’ll continue in private with the agents.”
The gentle, caring father. If not for Alicia’s unexplained injuries, Bethany might have swallowed his words. No point in his daughters hearing their conversation. The girls exited the room, leaving Thatcher and Bethany alone with Paul Javon. She nodded at Thatcher to take over.
“Would you like a cup of coffee or iced tea?” Javon said.
“We’re fine,” Thatcher said. “Would you tell us about your relationship with Alicia?”
He rubbed his face. “We had a rock-solid marriage.”
“So good that she had multiple trips to the hospital?”
Thatcher’s question met dead silence for a long moment.
“We worked out our differences in counseling.”
“Guess you did.”
“Ask our pastor. He’ll testify to the fact. He helped us through a rough period. We . . . we had a trip planned to Rome. Just the two of us, a second honeymoon.” His gaze darted about the room, then back to Thatcher. “I’ll contact Pastor Lee right now. Have him make a copy of our sessions. Sir, I loved my wife with all my heart.”
“All right. Would you have your pastor e-mail the records to the address on my card?”
“Yes, of course. Would you like for me to call him now?”
“Later’s fine. The police report says you found Alicia’s body in the kitchen.”
“The girls and I had gone to a concert at Rice University. I pulled the car into the garage, and Carly found her first. When she screamed, Shannon and I hurried inside. It was a horrible, bloody scene.”
“What’d you do then?”
“Checked for a pulse while Shannon phoned 911. I then had my girls wait on the driveway in case the killer was still inside. And they didn’t need to view their mother.”
His words matched the police report.
“Mr. Javon, did you touch your wife other than to check her pulse or in any way damage or remove evidence?” Thatcher said.
Javon struggled to speak. “I’m sorry. No, nothing.”
More confirmation from HPD’s findings.
“How did you feel about Alicia supporting you?”
Bethany positioned her pen to write Javon’s response. Thatcher’s theory about a serial killer just crashed with Javon’s answers.
Javon stiffened. “I’m disabled and suffer from chronic fatigue.”
“You didn’t answer my questions.”
“I admit it was tough. After the first of the year, I planned to open a consulting business at home for new start-up businesses. Just a few hours a day. Alicia supported the idea.” Javon tugged on his ear.
“How did she break her arm?”
“She fell down the stairs. It’s in the medical report.”
“Were you present when it happened?”
“I was. She slipped. Alicia wore flip-flops around the house.”
Bethany zeroed in on the guy. Did Thatcher think he was innocent? That losing his job and having his wife support him had caused their problems? Depression could have altered his reactions to things that were said and done. Anger issues. Abuse unchecked only got worse.
“But you hurt her in the past.” Thatcher peered emotionlessly into Javon’s face. “Sent her to the hospital a few times.”
“I have problems—”
“Let’s hear them.”
“Agent Graves, I’m feeling bad enough about all this without being accused of murder. She—”
“Neither of us have accused you of murder. I’m simply asking you about your relationship with your wife.”
Javon drew in a breath. Was it for show? “I believe my wife was the target of a crazed killer, a serial killer.” Tears dripped down his face. “The scorpion on her body proves it, like the other murdered woman. Alicia was my whole world. You can go through everything I own. Cell phone records. Credit card bills. Bank accounts. Take it all. I had nothing to do with my wife’s murder. I loved her.”
Bethany had heard her brother declare his innocence with the same feigned emotions. She didn’t believe his lies, and she wasn’t falling for this one.
“Mr. Javon,” she said, “your concern for your wife is commendable. Our reports indicate Alicia recently inherited over eight million dollars from her deceased parents. You could buy a lot of punching bags for that.”
CHAPTER 3
9:35 A.M. MONDAY
Thatcher gestured for Bethany to enter the interview room ahead of him. The petite young Hispanic woman before him had a bulldog reputation when it came to nailing a civil rights crime. A champion for the mistreated. She’d arranged for victims to have counseling over and above her job, and he admired her altruism. But she also had a nickname of ice queen.
From her lack of eye contact, she was far too anxious. Could be she didn’t make the grade for violent crime, and the civil rights division was the best for the bureau and her. Violent crime required a balance of sensitivity to victims and their families with an investigator mind-set. As much as he’d like the partnership to work, he had doubts. They must have complete trust in each other, and that took time—a disaster if unsuccessful.
They processed cases differently, and she apparently had no respect for his methods.
Lack of respect could make you angry.
Lack of trust could get you killed.
Last year while working a case, he’d nearly gotten killed by allowing arrogance to rule his actions. He thought he had the perfect plan to end a crime spree and skipped a few protocol steps. An HPD officer saw a killer aiming at him and brought him down. But if Thatcher had trusted the officer instead of playing bad-boy agent, the incident never would have happened. That man had become his closest friend.
Bethany eased onto a chair. She had a can of Diet Dr Pepper in one hand and a legal pad in the other. He sat across from her with another cup of coffee and the murder victims’ files.
He opened both case files and spread them over the table. “I work fast when I’m on a case. We have two murders, and we’ll be flip-flopping interviews and angles continuously. Will this be a problem?”
“What if it’s not a serial killer on the loose? Then we’re wasting valuable time. Look at how he abused his wife. I believe the evidence points to Paul Javon being responsible for his wife’s murder.”
His patience had grown paper-thin. “Who’s the senior agent?”
She sighed. “Point taken.”
“Thank you. We’re partners, not enemies. What else can you bring to the table?”
“I use a spreadsheet and various graphs to keep facts straight.”
“All right. We copy each other on every e-mail, and every interview is together. If one of us receives information, the other gets it ASAP. Ready to get a few things documented?” When she nodded, he smiled, more for her benefit than his. “Here’s what we have—the police investigative reports, crime scene info and photos, autopsy reports and those photos, security cam information for Ruth Caswell, which the killer disabled, and background information on both victims. Compare every piece of data I give you.”
She drew a line down the middle of her legal pad. “Go for it.”
For the first time he noticed her huge brown eyes. “White females. Neither sexually assaulted. Ruth Caswell, age eighty-six, was killed at approximately 5:15 p.m. on October 12,” he said. “Alicia Javon, age forty-five, killed between 4:30 and 6 p.m. on November 5. Four weeks apart. Different days of the week. Both women were shot execution style, 9mm to the forehead with a hollow-point bullet. Forced entry through a window for Caswell. No signs of forced entry for Javon. Their clothing was intact. Brown plastic scorpions, a variety sold at Walmart and Toys“R”Us, found on the victims’ chests, tails pointed toward the forehead. Fingerprints on scorpions, negative. DNA on
Caswell, negative. Waiting on DNA report from Javon scorpion and other collected samples. Both women robbed. Neither woman appeared to be acquainted with the other.” He stood and paced the floor. “None of the stolen items have been recovered. Since the personal property was insured and registered with identifying numbers, tracking them will be easier. Few leads on the Caswell murder, and—”
“The best lead on Alicia Javon seems to have an alibi. Javon could have easily found out the kind of plastic scorpion used in Caswell’s murder.”
Thatcher sensed heat rising in his face. Her conclusions were that of a rookie. “How many murders have you solved?”
“I’m just saying Javon had more to gain with Alicia out of the way.” She sighed again as though waiting for him to object. “The ballistics report will prove if the same gun was used, eventually determining which one of us is right.”
“Right or wrong about our suspicions isn’t what solving a murder is all about.” He peered into her face, wishing his old partner sat across from him. “Two people are dead, and it’s our job to find out who killed them and make an arrest. Clear?”
She blinked. “Yes, and I agree. Phone records?”
“Caswell’s landline cleared, but the woman was dying and her calls were from family, friends, hospice, etc. So far Javon’s landline and cell phones check out. Computer imaging takes a few days. But initially, we’ve found nothing to flag.”
Bethany glanced up. “Where was the hospice nurse when Ruth Caswell was killed?”
“Her name is Mae Kenters, and she claims not to have heard or seen anyone. She stepped out of Caswell’s room for her scheduled cup of coffee and break. Gone about fifteen minutes before returning to find the woman dead.” He handed Bethany the file. “We pulled a boot print, military grade, size 81/2, near a window where the killer gained entrance to Caswell’s second-floor bedroom. The debris from the shoe matched the newly spread mulch below. HPD interviewed the landscaping company and conducted follow-ups on employees. One man wore the same shoe size, but he checked out.”
“Did both women use the same doctor, medical clinic, or hospital?”
