Deadlock

by DiAnn Mills

  Mae Kenters, caring hospice nurse, was concealing information. He wanted to explore her actions on the security camera footage. Nick Caswell said tonight he’d never believe Mae had anything to do with his mother’s death.

  Time and evidence would reveal the truth.

  He wanted a ballistics report now, except he’d never get the lab to expedite the findings, not without solid proof to back up his serial killer theory. And he didn’t want another body. Once Thatcher had eaten, he’d wrestle with it more.

  He opened the car door and dug for his house key. So much to do in so little time. But that seemed to be the cliché for every violent crime case. He rode the elevator to his loft condo, then entered and breathed in the comforts of home. He’d chosen an open floor plan, no confining rooms for him. Since moving to the Hyde Park area of the Inner Loop, he’d enjoyed everything from the beautiful scenery to running along the bayou. But tonight, home failed to raise his spirits.

  He turned the oven on broil and pulled out a pan and four pieces of last night’s pepperoni pizza. The business of getting to know Bethany Sanchez . . . No-nonsense and drop-dead gorgeous. How could a woman have such huge brown eyes? He hoped her performance-oriented perfectionism didn’t get them killed. Actually, they were survival skills from dealing with her family. To think her brother was Lucas Sanchez. Every law enforcement official in the city knew his name, and most had a few expletives to go with it.

  After today, he questioned his instincts that a woman with her skills could term their partnership invincible. Despite the hunger gnawing at his belly and the dull ache at the base of his skull, he chuckled. Bethany obviously didn’t know her father had also threatened to slice him into little pieces for arresting and testifying against his son.

  With the cheese sizzling on his pizza, he scooped up a hot piece and ate while standing at the counter. He focused on Alicia Javon. Felix Danford demanded a search warrant upon the advice of his attorney. Thatcher understood the reasoning behind the legal procedure. Or was there a hidden agenda? Neither of the interviews with Danford or the Javon family rang true. Body language spoke louder than words, and none of them were telling the truth. Was Alicia really a beloved wife, mother, and competent woman in the business world, or was there something else?

  Paul Javon didn’t deny physically abusing his wife. But he also visibly regretted his actions and grieved her loss. Why did Alicia endure the beatings and continue to support him? Because of their daughters? But they were older, and why would they insist their mother stay in an unsafe environment? The younger, Carly, shied away from her father’s touch. Thatcher made a note to request she come to the FBI office for further questioning, an interview Bethany wanted earlier in the day.

  Could Alicia’s religion have played into her choice to stick it out? Had she or her worthless husband initiated the counseling? Definitely a question for Pastor Lee. Glancing at the time, Thatcher dug into his pocket for the pastor’s mobile number. Thirty seconds later he put his phone away. Pastor Lee hadn’t appreciated the inquiry, but he did state Paul initiated the marriage counseling.

  A file came through from Pastor Lee with notes about the Javons’ sessions. Not much there. A few confusing sentences as if words had been deleted. But one thing surfaced—Paul requested his wife end all volunteer work so they could spend more time together. He felt she neglected him. She agreed. In fact, Alicia consented and took the blame for every issue. So this justified the ongoing abuse? According to the pastor’s notes, Paul looked like a dutiful husband who had lost his job and needed his wife’s support. What a bunch of garbage.

  Was Alicia’s volunteer work an opportunity to show her faith or escape her husband? The hefty inheritance from her parents’ estate looked like a killer’s motive. Although first conclusions in a case usually brought a timely arrest, something about Paul Javon as Scorpion didn’t make sense, which confirmed a serial killer on the loose. Why end the life of Ruth Caswell, an old woman who had only days left on this earth?

  Thatcher pushed the questions aside until tomorrow. A good night’s sleep would help him find the connectors.

  He picked up his phone to call Mom. The conversation with Bethany had reminded him of how much he valued his relationship with his only living family member. The dividing line with his dad had never been bridged, but Thatcher could make it up to his mother.

  He pressed in her number. “This is your favorite son.”

  She giggled, a sweet sound he’d always treasured. “I only have one.”

  “And it’s me.”

  “Good to hear your voice. How’s your new partner?”

  “She has potential.”

  “My evasive son. Do you have plans this weekend?”

  Which meant, would he be flying to Tulsa? “On a big case, Mom. But soon.”

  They chatted for a few minutes, then said good night. He wanted to tell her about a decision he’d made, but it didn’t happen. Too many times his choices upset her, and he had a feeling this one would send her over the top.

  CHAPTER 11

  7:00 A.M. TUESDAY

  Bethany phoned Thatcher to let him know she planned to stop by Noah’s Loft before coming into the office.

  “I want a few words with the director. It may be after eight thirty before I get there, depending on the traffic.”

  “How often do you plan to volunteer?”

  “Two Saturdays a month for only a few hours. No one but the director is aware of my FBI affiliation. I’m hoping someone will have information about the Javon murder. The idea of waiting until Saturday to talk to the residents and staff gives the killer an opportunity to cover his tracks or strike again. I’ll call when I’m on my way to the office. Any updates other than last night’s conversation with Pastor Lee?”

  “Just hunches, but we can discuss them later.”

  Hunches weren’t facts and were worthless in a court of law, and they led to mistakes. Concluding the call, Bethany deliberated her own conclusions about yesterday’s interviews. The partnership with Thatcher could be termed as in the dating stage, and she had to prove herself. But she refused to hold back on her own principles. After feeding Jasper, she stepped into her closet for a box of clothing articles to deliver this morning. No surprise she’d found clothes she’d never worn, products of a habit she detested. A few sweaters still had tags. At least someone would put these to good use.

  Images of Alicia Javon and Ruth Caswell crept into her mind. Why did the innocent always suffer the most?

  Once in her truck with a few minutes to spare, she pressed in Mamá’s cell phone number.

  “What do you want, Bethany? You shouldn’t call me,” her mother said in Spanish.

  “I wanted to see if you’re okay. I’m on my way to see Elizabeth and—”

  “You mean you’re checking on Lucas.”

  She closed her eyes. “I suppose so.”

  “He’ll be fine once he’s rested and has good food in him. Jail hurts his heart.”

  You mean his pride. “What are his plans?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because he’s my brother.”

  “I hear you have a new position at the FBI, and you’re working with Thatcher Graves?”

  “How did you find out?” And so soon?

  “One of Papá’s friends is a police officer, and he told Papá. Said you two were working a woman’s murder. Bethany, Agent Graves sent Lucas to jail the first time.”

  “Thatcher was only doing his job. He—”

  “He hurt your brother. Can’t you refuse to work with him?”

  “What would you have me do, Mamá?”

  She sighed. “Nothing. We’re getting Lucas set up in his own apartment.”

  “So he has a job?”

  “When he’s healthy and mentally ready.”

  She clenched her jaw. “Mamá, you can’t support him forever. Does he want to go back to school?”

  “Enough. My precious son needs to heal. This second time in jail was
very difficult, thanks to you.”

  “Would you have him call me?”

  “So you can belittle him? Find an excuse to arrest him again? Don’t call until you’re ready to be a member of this family. Papá’s orders.” Her mother said good-bye.

  How would she get Lucas’s number? The text she’d gotten from him earlier came from a blocked number. She called his old number but no one answered. Neither was there a voice mail box.

  She turned on an FM station to classical music, soothing her mind as she drove to see Elizabeth. No surprise Lucas had persuaded their parents of his need to be taken care of. Nothing ever changed there.

  A short while later, she pulled into the driveway of the unmarked facility known as Noah’s Loft, a twelve-thousand-square-foot Tudor-style home that had been converted into a women’s shelter. From the street, nothing indicated the circumstances of those who lived inside. An iron gate across the driveway could be interpreted as a way to keep a dog or a child from roaming instead of a means of protecting the residents. But it could be scaled.

  The way her mind slid into possible crime scenarios, she could only imagine what an irate man could do if he learned his significant other or children had taken refuge within those walls. Many of the women and children had been physically abused. Two of her own cases in civil rights had once found refuge here. They’d gone on to secure a new life since then. At Noah’s Loft they could restore their dignity and self-confidence. The children were homeschooled by volunteers to keep them safe. She’d seen the bloodcurdling results of domestic violence in her old neighborhood. A huge reason why she gave of her time and money for what too many ignored.

  Approximately forty women and children lived here. Their identities were confidential, and they could stay as long as they desired. A board of directors supervised Elizabeth’s goals of providing health care, GED studies, résumé assistance, homemaking skills, child care essentials, and assistance in finding vocational training so the women could become independent.

  Bethany searched both sides of the street for vehicles with passengers before lifting the box of nearly new clothes from her mocha-steel Ford Ranger. A resident met her at the door and stated Elizabeth was in her office.

  A few moments later, Elizabeth and Bethany met in a small, cluttered room stacked high with donations not yet disbursed among the residents. Bethany added hers to the pile. She picked up a coloring book and a plastic bag of broken crayons from a chair, then stacked them onto the puzzles.

  “I apologize for the mess.” Elizabeth cringed. “But you already know it comes with the job.”

  “No need to apologize. Reminds me of being at my parents’ with all my nieces and nephews—before I was eliminated from the family roster.”

  “Their loss.” Her light-brown hair hung in waves past her shoulders.

  “Lucas is out of jail. And my family learned about my transfer to violent crime and my new partner’s name.” Bethany stopped herself. “Know what? That’s the last time you’ll hear me whining about the mess. Time I got over it.” She drew in a breath. “Hope you don’t mind my stopping by this morning. Feel badly about how I pushed you last night.”

  “I was at fault too. Tired and on overload. I really see how a killer on the prowl could endanger the residents no matter how tight the security.” Sadness swept over her face. “Alicia did a fabulous job with all of them. Usually it’s our women and children who are in danger, not a volunteer. Especially not one as gracious and loving as Alicia. Who would want her dead?” She lifted a tissue from a box on her desk.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I think encouraging the others to talk is a good idea. A memorial service is wise for closure.” Elizabeth dabbed her nose. She didn’t mention Bethany wanting to shake out any clues, and Bethany didn’t bring it up. “I have a few things she left here, personal effects.” She pointed to a box in the corner. “Her daughter Carly plans to pick them up this afternoon.”

  “My partner and I interviewed the family. They appear to be working through the grieving process.”

  “Alicia never mentioned her husband, but she talked about the girls. They’re all musically inclined. Sometimes she sang to the children, and we all listened.”

  Bethany nodded. “I met her daughters. Beautiful.”

  When her pale-blue eyes pooled, Elizabeth grasped another tissue. “I’ll snap out of this. Thought I’d gotten past the shock. I’ve arranged for our ladies’ minister to do a few counseling sessions, except she’s tied up for the next month. Fortunately a volunteer has stepped into her role. She’s coming by five days a week.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “She’s here now with several of the residents upstairs. Would you like to meet her?”

  “Of course.” These women needed continuous support, and a new face could help them through the process. “But first, I have a quick question—well, two. Do the names Mae Kenters or Ruth Caswell mean anything to you?”

  “No, other than the Caswell woman’s recent murder.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I’m ready to meet your new volunteer.”

  Elizabeth led Bethany up a flight of creaky stairs to a huge open space where a noisy group of women and children were gathered. The tattered blue sofa needed replacing. Her church supported Noah’s Loft, and she’d make them aware of the need. Or she’d make the purchase herself.

  “There she is,” Elizabeth whispered and pointed. “Working a floor puzzle with the children.”

  A woman in her late thirties, wearing huge pink glasses, smiled, and Elizabeth beckoned her. “Dorian, do you have a minute? I’d like for you to meet someone.”

  Green eyes under a mop of short blonde hair met Bethany, and the slender figure popped up like one of the kids. She stepped over toys and arms and legs with an extended hand.

  “This is Bethany Sanchez,” Elizabeth said to the woman. “Bethany, I’d like you to meet Dorian Crawford.”

  “What a pleasure.” Dorian pumped her hand. “Glad you’re here. Are you staying? Goodness, you’re pretty.” The woman talked faster than an auctioneer.

  “Thanks. I don’t want to keep you. So glad you’ve stepped in for Alicia.”

  Dorian beamed. “I could never take her place, but I can do my part. We’re all learning together.”

  “Miss Dorian,” a small African American boy said. “Can we play Twister again?”

  “Sure. In a few minutes. When we’re done, we’ll throw a few balls in the backyard. See if you can improve your batting average.”

  Bethany appreciated the woman’s interest. Enthusiasm was the secret to staying young, and Dorian obviously had the energy to make a difference in the residents’ lives.

  One of the staff members from downstairs called to Elizabeth, and she excused herself.

  “Alicia was quite involved with the residents here,” Bethany said.

  Dorian nodded like a bobblehead doll. “One of her specialties was helping them with English and grammar for their résumés. I’m not qualified. Barely made it through high school—too many years ago.” Long bangs hung into her eyes. “But you’d be perfect. You look highly educated. We could use a person of your caliber. Do you have a day job?”

  How quickly could Bethany excuse herself? “My job keeps me busy, unless I used my volunteer time twice a month.”

  “Can’t you do any better?”

  Bethany inwardly sighed. “One hour a week, on Saturday afternoons.”

  “Wonderful.” Dorian clapped her hands as though she were ten.

  “Understand my job could pull me away at a moment’s notice.”

  She glared. “I’ll see if I can find someone for those times. You know this is about commitment. I’d like your cell phone number.”

  “Elizabeth has it.”

  “Well, I’ll be here in case you call in with other plans.” She whirled around and descended the steps.

  Bethany watched Dorian leave. Good thing she’d left before Bethany unleashed a lecture on manners.
The possibility of the woman having a form of Asperger’s or Tourette’s stomped across her mind. Elizabeth must be really desperate for volunteers. Then again, what had Bethany gotten herself into? Okay . . . she could spend one hour a week to help women better themselves. Refusing had selfish written all over it, but Dorian needed to curb her outbursts. If it occurred again, Bethany would whip out a few guidelines.

  She made her way to a group of women and chatted with them and the children. After an appropriate time she raised the question: “Were you friends with Alicia Javon?”

  A woman tilted her head. “Because of her tutoring, my son and I will be moving from here to an apartment tomorrow.”

  “She taught me how to read English,” another woman said.

  A staff member mounted the stairway. “Miss Bethany, we have a problem. Your rear tire’s flat.”

  Bethany phoned AAA while descending the stairs and making her way out to her truck. The rear sank to the pavement on the right side. Under her windshield wiper, a piece of paper was wrapped around a rusty nail and held together by a rubber band.

  Reaching inside her purse, she pulled out a pair of latex gloves to explore whatever someone had left. Frustration hovered like a dark cloud.

  You have no idea what I can do.

  Mamá must have told Lucas where she was going. When would he stop his game?

  CHAPTER 12

  9:30 A.M. TUESDAY

  Thatcher listened to Bethany’s explanation of why she was late returning from Noah’s Loft. Flat tire. She stood in the doorway of his cubicle, ramrod straight with frown lines across her forehead. What had originally looked like a surefire way for her to gain insight into Alicia Javon’s death now had a hitch.

  “But if you can put up with the new volunteer, you have an opportunity to get closer to the women.” He wouldn’t have gotten involved volunteering in the first place. He did enough of that in college and grad school, but she must find it rewarding. “I don’t recommend pulling your Glock on her. Might ruin your image.”