by DiAnn Mills
“Buen punto. I’ll work on mastering my psychological skills.”
“As long as applying those skills comes first in your mind.” He glanced away, then back to her. “My commitment to the bureau says I need to replace fear with courage, and anger with commitment.”
“What kind of commitment?”
“To help new agents in violent crime overcome textbook answers.”
She bit her tongue to keep from leveling him with a comment. Instead she raised her hand for a high five.
“I want to prove we can work well together,” he said. “I requested you when I learned about your interest in violent crime.”
Her eyes widened. “We’re like oil and water.”
“Or salt and pepper. Entirely different but together unbeatable. Your record is impressive.”
Truth about her FBI involvement slammed against her heart. She could be a little transparent. “The reason I joined the FBI is when I was twelve, I saw my best friend gunned down on the sidewalk in front of her house. She got in the way of a drive-by and bled out before an ambulance arrived. I decided then to spend my life in some type of law enforcement. Research led me to the FBI.”
“From the civil rights division to violent crime,” he said quietly.
“Protecting the innocent from selfish individuals, like far too many in my neighborhood.”
“Thanks.”
She brightened for a moment. “Didn’t hurt at all.” But the driving question still persisted. “Thatcher, why haven’t you said a word about my brother?”
He stopped with his sandwich in midair. “Your brother?”
“Lucas Sanchez.”
He set his nearly eaten burger on its wrapper. “He’s your brother?”
She should have kept her mouth shut. Too late now. “Yes, and I was with my family outside the courthouse when my father threatened to break your legs.”
He shook his head. “I don’t remember seeing you. Honestly, I made no name association with your brother. Is that why you act like I haven’t showered in a week?”
She took a sip of her Diet Dr Pepper. “I’m usually standoffish and all business. But I do want to apologize for my father’s threats. He could have been arrested.” She set her drink on the table. “Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time a Sanchez’s temper landed him in jail.”
He waved her away. “He was upset. My testimony obviously sealed your brother’s conviction.”
She hesitated. “I support my family, not necessarily their opinions.”
A trace of compassion crossed his face, but he had no idea how difficult her family could be when it came to Lucas. “How is he doing?”
“Released today after another eleven-month stint.” She didn’t expect any signs of rehabilitation until he initiated a change.
“Does your family know we’re partners?”
“No. My career isn’t a family topic.”
“I’m sorry.”
That hit her pride. “I don’t need your pity. I make my own decisions.”
He scooped up the rest of his burger.
Stupid pride. “Forget it. My brother’s a sore subject. More like festering.”
“No problem.”
“Now you know about my supportive family. What about your parents?”
“Mom lives in Tulsa. Dad passed a year ago.” He lifted a brow. “Dad’s a sore subject. Maybe after six months or so, we can dive into my dysfunctional upbringing.”
How long would it take for her to really know and understand Thatcher? She longed for a partner who predicted her actions and reactions just like she’d do his. Even a friend. Though he referred to their partnership as salt and pepper, she had no intentions of kowtowing to his way of working a case.
CHAPTER 8
4:00 P.M. MONDAY
Thatcher pressed Send on an e-mail to Nick Caswell requesting in detail the information discussed earlier. He copied Bethany and leaned back for some think time. The Caswell case kept turning up cold, but deepening the investigation and comparing the findings with Alicia Javon’s case sparked hope. Had to keep digging.
Thatcher noted Mae Kenters’s arrival thirty minutes before the scheduled hour. She was a pleasant, robust woman who swallowed with every word. Her apparent nervousness didn’t mean she harbored information about a crime. Many people were uneasy in an FBI interview, as though simply being in the building meant they were accused of a crime. But instinct wouldn’t let him close the file on her. He’d asked Bethany to lead out, sensing Mae would appreciate a female agent.
Bethany smiled. “I commend your hospice work. Certainly not a career where I’d excel.”
“Thank you. I gain a lot of self-satisfaction in ministering to the suffering and their families. It’s what God has purposed me to do.”
Bethany patted a file. “Ms. Kenters, we have HPD records here of your statement regarding Ruth Caswell’s death. I’m going to read it aloud. At this point, we aren’t going over your testimony unless you’ve remembered a detail.”
Ms. Kenters listened through the reading. “No, ma’am. Nothing’s changed.” Her hazel eyes clouded.
“Were you close to Mrs. Caswell?”
“Oh yes. We’re more than nurses for our hospice patients. We’re counselors and friends.”
“What kind of things did you do for her other than nursing?”
“I read Scripture and sang hymns.”
Bethany sighed. “I hope I have someone like you when I pass.”
Something unrecognizable flickered in her eyes. Thatcher made a mental note.
“Had Mrs. Caswell mentioned being upset with anyone?” Bethany said.
“No. She was a sweet lady who lived her beliefs until she no longer breathed.”
“Was your break always at the same time?”
“Pretty much. With her medication, she normally slept, and I took advantage of the time to brew a cup of tea.”
“Did anyone else know your schedule?”
“No. I always had my cell phone with me, and it monitored Ruth’s vitals.”
“What about sound?”
“Just the vitals.”
“So you didn’t hear anything?”
Ms. Kenters pressed her lips together before speaking. “I’ve gone over this before with HPD, and I have nothing to offer.”
Bethany tilted her head. “I’ve found posing questions in different ways and at different times often shakes a memory.”
“Not for me. I’m straightforward. Remember everything.”
“I have only a few more. Have you ever volunteered at Noah’s Loft?”
“What is it?”
“A women’s shelter.”
“No, ma’am. I’m pretty busy without adding more work.”
“Are you involved in any volunteer work?”
“I help out in the nursery at church.”
Bethany smiled. “I do too. The toddlers.”
“I care for the newborns.” Ms. Kenters relaxed. “Not much different between them and many of my hospice patients. Both need care either coming into this world or leaving.”
Bethany should have brought up babies sooner. Good job.
“I have a photo I’d like for you to see.” Bethany opened the file and displayed Alicia’s pic. “Do you recognize this woman?”
The woman stared at it with a blank expression. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you.”
“Special Agent Graves and I appreciate your willingness to assist us.” Bethany replaced the photo. “Ms. Kenters, are you afraid for your life?”
Bethany had picked up on her fear too.
The woman blanched. “Should I be?”
“The killer could think you saw him crawl through the window.”
“But I didn’t.” Ms. Kenters touched her throat. “I had a nightmare. Must be what you sense from me.”
“May I suggest counseling to help you through the tragedy? I recommend not going out at night alone. In the meantime, I’ll make sure the media is informed
you have no idea what the killer looked like.”
Bethany’s strategy hit the excellent mark.
“Thank you,” the woman whispered.
“Thanks for the clarification and your time today. An agent will escort you to a waiting area. I’ll join you momentarily.”
After the woman left, Thatcher slid into the same chair Mae Kenters had occupied. “You were outstanding.”
“But?”
He smiled. “My gut tells me she knows more than what she’s saying.”
“I work on facts, and her responses line up with previous interviews.”
Thatcher studied her. Bethany thought they were finished with Mae Kenters. But the woman showed fear in every movement.
CHAPTER 9
6:35 P.M. MONDAY
Bethany drove the few minutes home from the FBI building to her apartment. When she was assigned to the Houston office, she chose housing close by. Made sense. Still did. No reason to live close to her family with the hurricane-like problems between them. Reuniting with Mamá and Papá meant supporting Lucas and worshiping God in their church. Papá believed his denomination held the keys to heaven, and the rest of the family sided with him. She was estranged, shunned, and saw no hope of reconciliation. Truth was the only superglue that could mend the cracks in her family. Why did she keep thinking about it? She was such a type A personality even her blood type was A+. A fixer. A crusader. Perfectionist.
After a hectic day of studying reports, conducting and arranging interviews, creating a spreadsheet and graphs, combing through paperwork, and examining HPD write-ups on the victims, her head spun with the cacophony of data. No wonder. Although if today was an indication of how she and Thatcher complemented each other, she’d be back in civil rights before eight in the morning. Seemed like she stubbornly insisted on her own way too much of the time. If given the opportunity to prove herself, she’d apply herself.
Thatcher Graves—not at all what she’d expected and not at all like the rumors. She’d heard the worst about him and had her shield ready for the overconfident womanizer. Today’s Q & A revealed a couple of commonalities. Her brother was off-limits for discussion, and so was Thatcher’s dad. The questions they’d tossed at each other had helped relieve some of her tension. Tomorrow they planned to give it another whirl during lunch. As long as they were still partners then.
The moment she stepped inside her apartment, her parrot greeted her. “You’re lookin’ good, girl.”
“Thank you, Jasper.” By habit, she looked for the piece of paper on the floor indicating if someone had been inside her apartment. Intact. She walked to his cage, opened it, and he perched on her hand. “Did you miss me?”
He leaned his head against her cheek. “Like a toothache.”
She laughed. “Anything else?”
“Hide the gun. Hide the gun.”
“Okay, Jasper.”
“Call the cops.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Order pizza.”
“Not tonight.” She kicked off her so-called comfy shoes and dropped her purse on the table. Jasper had been a part of her life for the past eight years—her sidekick, who could be sassy. And incredibly quick in picking up phrases. “I’m changing clothes.”
“Can I watch?” His previous owner must have taught him that line.
“Not nice, Jasper.”
“Sorry. Jasper’s sweet.”
“Yes,” she said. “Jasper’s sweet.”
He rode on her shoulder to her bedroom, where she set him on her dresser. She unbuttoned her jacket and pulled out the pins holding her hair in place. The moment she released them, the throbbing around her scalp diminished. Couldn’t wear the thick mess back too often.
She drew in the fragrance of lavender and vanilla, fresh and feminine. Her two-bedroom apartment was her sanctuary, soft colors of pale green and peach throughout. Every piece of furniture was white, pure and clean like she wanted her life. Accessories dipped into her love for distressed metals, mostly black with dried flowers.
The door to her closet wasn’t completely closed. Odd, but she’d been scattered this morning. She slipped into sweatpants and a T-shirt while her stomach protested its empty condition.
Mamá had met her at the park yesterday and sent home frijoles and chiles rellenos. Mamá wanted her reconciled to the family, but Bethany refused to sacrifice her principles. A quick trip to the microwave and into her tummy. Of course Papá had no idea the two had met or he’d have been furious. He claimed his God blessed the meal, not Bethany’s, as though she contaminated his food.
In the kitchen, she scraped Mamá’s gift onto a favorite yellow, red, and green plate, covered it with wax paper, and stood on tiptoe to slip it into the microwave. While it warmed, she fed Jasper a tortilla smothered in peanut butter, his favorite, and allowed him to perch on her shoulder for a while longer.
Other things besides Jasper held priority this evening, beginning with the two murders and the killer’s or—as she believed—killers’ motive. Her mind raced with Thatcher’s request to the FIG regarding a psychological profile with what they knew about the crimes. Perhaps an update? At the moment she saw no link between the two. Thatcher’s reasoning of both women being murdered by a serial killer frustrated her.
I’m so predictable. First day on the job, and I want to make an arrest.
The microwave signaled her food was warm. She lifted it onto the counter. The smell of beans, peppers, and beef ushered her home. In the morning on the way to work, after Papá left for the shop and Lucas would still be asleep, she’d call Mamá. Maybe they could talk—really talk—about her brother.
After she’d eaten, she called Elizabeth, her friend and director of Noah’s Loft, and confirmed Saturday’s first volunteer assignment. Actually she wanted to ensure her friend would be there.
“Yes, you’re on the schedule for one o’clock.” Elizabeth’s voice rang soft yet clear. “And we can really use you. How did your new assignment go today?”
“Crazy. Hectic. My head’s spinning.”
“Is your new partner young, old, married, single?” Elizabeth, the eternal romantic.
“Extremely good-looking if I could get past his personality. I made a huge mistake early on. But I plan to do better tomorrow.”
“Rather you work violent crime than me. Seriously, Bethany? I’ll take my residents and their problems any day over your job.”
“Are you short on volunteers now with Alicia Javon’s death?”
“You have no idea. I miss her already. She volunteered three days a week, and the women and kids loved her. We all did.”
“I’m working her case.”
“Do you think one of the residents might know something?” Elizabeth’s voice grew cold.
“She could have mentioned a fear or a stalking.”
“I shudder at the thought. Please don’t tell me you want to use my precious ladies on your first day of volunteering.”
“I care about oppressed women,” Bethany said. “You haven’t told them about my agent status, right?”
“Not a word. I promised you I’d keep your job a secret.” Elizabeth’s tone grew chillier.
“I don’t want to jeopardize my relationship with those women or the investigation.”
“Do you think that’s fair when they’ve gone through so much?”
Bethany’s stomach churned at the idea of upsetting her friend, but a murder needed to be solved. Actually two. “I’m not there to make arrests.”
“But you want to question them about Alicia.”
Bethany didn’t want to argue with her. Elizabeth protected the women and children at Noah’s Loft like a mother hen. “You respect what she did for the residents, but you don’t want her murder solved?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You love the residents and you want to keep them safe from those who’ve mistreated them, just as I do. You spend hours preparing them to enter society as strong and independent women. But when a
killer steps in with his agenda, you hesitate?”
“That makes me sound horrible. No one here would hurt her.”
Bethany wished she had the words to relay her passion for ending the killings. “Talking to them allows me to make sure Noah’s Loft is free of predators. I’ll ask if any of them want to share about Alicia. You and I could do this together.”
After several seconds, Elizabeth sighed. “All right. I want Alicia’s killer found too.”
Bethany ended the call and stared at her cell phone. Had she just imposed on her good friend, the one who listened when her family treated her like three-day-old fish, the one who accepted her odd ways and left-brained thinking? She texted Elizabeth.
I care about u, dear friend. Sorry about pushing my agenda
Bethany placed her dishes in the dishwasher. Her phone alerted her to a text.
No problem. I understand. C U Saturday.
Yes! Thnx. U know me better than anyone.
I’m ur friend. And I want Alicia’s murder solved.
I’m doing all I can 2 find him.
No need 2 prove anything 2 me. I know ur faith and ur heart 4 God.
Bethany’s heart was heavy for far too many things. She quickly slipped into workout gear. Running six miles on the treadmill to alleviate some of the stress made sense, but sweating didn’t alter the reality of wanting to help solve a murder while getting used to a partner who swore his gut told him more than his brains.
CHAPTER 10
8:10 P.M. MONDAY
Thatcher lowered his garage door and cut the engine to his car. What a day. A heavy workout had only succeeded in making him more tired. Leaning back against the headrest, he closed his eyes to focus on a total reliance on God to overcome the machinery of work tension.
Two murders. Two bodies with no obvious link. Yet something tied the victims together tight enough to get them killed. He mulled over the stolen items—antique guns, a Bible, and heirloom jewelry. What did they have in common? Unless the killer had connections, he’d have to hold on to the goods until the smoke cleared. Religious agenda might help the psychological profile.
