by DiAnn Mills
The younger boy stiffened. “We’ve already talked to the FBI and the cops.”
Ryan nodded. “Repetition helps us see things we didn’t before, and sometimes it jars details from our minds.”
“I’m all over it.” Curt gave Ryan good eye contact. “But my brother needs to find his manners.”
“Get off my—”
“Mom would want us to cooperate,” Curt said. “What if the guy who did this comes back for Dad or one of us?”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s why we can’t take a crap today without someone following us around.”
“Calm down, son. I know this is hard.” Jonathan’s jaw tightened. “You think my sons might know something about the bombing?” he said to the agents.
“We have to look at every possibility, every contact Curt and Ian have made,” Ryan said. “If any of the kids at school have made threats, then we need to know about it. That means individuals and groups.”
“It’s cool, Dad,” Curt said. “I want to help.”
“You think because we’re black, we belong to a gang?” Ian pushed back from the table and stood. “Mom and Alexia are dead, and these two are wasting time talking to us when they could be looking for the killer. I don’t appreciate scum throwing the race card.” The bitterness in Ian’s words and his rigid body revealed the extent of his misery. “One of your projects did this, Dad. It’s your fault.”
“Ian”—his father’s tone was gentle—“we’re all hurting here. No one’s tossing a race card, and we know the likely suspect is one of the people who was laid off. These agents are friends of Linc’s, and they’re professionals. They want the killer found too.”
Tigo had been an angry teen and knew the meaning of the word rebellious. “All of us want the same thing,” he said. “This guy found and justice served.”
“Well, I don’t have anything to tell you.” Ian shoved his chair under the kitchen table and stomped out of the kitchen.
“I’ll talk to him,” Pastor Yeat said. “Agent Harris, I hope you find who did this despicable thing soon.” He handed Tigo a business card. “My office, cell, and home numbers are there. My wife’s the church secretary, and she can always find me.”
“Thanks.” The card might come in handy, especially if any of Jonathan’s employees were also church members.
Jonathan glanced at Curt and then trailed after Ian and Pastor Yeat, leaving Curt alone with the agents. Tigo made another mental note. Possible favoritism?
The teen clenched his hands, his pain evident in tear-filled eyes. “My brother’s hurting,” he said.
“So are you,” Tigo said.
“It’s different with me. I’m the oldest. Supposed to be the strong one.”
“My mother died several months ago.” The moment Tigo spoke the words, grief punched him in the gut. “I miss her every day.”
“Don’t start with the God stuff. I’ve heard so much today that I can’t stomach another round. So don’t go there.”
“I understand. But you and I have a connection.”
Curt swiped at his eyes. “Mom was the best. Always had time for us. Listened. Got in our faces when we needed it. Praised us. Didn’t compare us.”
The latter comment piqued Tigo’s attention, the note of sarcasm within, but he’d think through that later. “You mean your mom didn’t have the same expectations in the way of interests and grades?”
“Yeah. We’re all different. I’m the responsible one. Ian’s more sensitive. Alexia was our princess.”
“Everyone like your mom?”
Ryan continued typing on his iPad.
“Who wouldn’t? She always made me proud. One look at her, and the guys at school wanted to be at our house.” He smiled. “And my baby sister would have grown up to look just like her.”
“Who was here with you before we arrived?”
“Aunt Wanda—that’s Uncle Taylor’s wife—and my mom’s sister, Aunt Angela. Aunt Darena’s working. Some of the church people, but Dad sent them home before you guys showed.”
That made sense. “Did you ever hear your parents argue?”
“No. They got along fine. What’s that supposed to mean anyway?”
“Just a routine question, Curt.” Tigo reached for a little tact. Ryan should have conducted the interview. “Ever hear your mom have a disagreement with anyone?”
“Not often. Are you thinking it’s someone she knows?”
“What about someone who might have been jealous?”
Curt stiffened.
“Anyone is capable of taking another person’s life,” Tigo said. “If you give us a name, we’ll simply look into that person’s life to see if there’s a motive.”
“Then you’d have to talk to her sisters. They don’t have what we have. But …”
“What, Curt?” Tigo kept his tone even, calm.
“I think the bomber was one of the people who was laid off. Threats were made, and most of those guys think with their fists.”
Tigo wanted to explore the jealousy aspect. “Do your aunts live in Houston?”
“Forget I said that. I’m not thinking straight. Just trying to find a reason.”
Twenty minutes later, Tigo and Ryan thanked the teen. They spoke briefly to Jonathan but tabled any more questioning. They needed time to catch up on sleep and analyze Curt’s and Ian’s reactions along with the various reports and interviews the other agents had collected.
Once in the car, they felt exhaustion settling in. The lines drawn on Ryan’s face said he felt the same as Tigo. “What do you think?” Tigo said.
“Curt’s a smart kid. Do you think he knows more than he’s letting on?”
“Possibly. He hesitated in responding, but I imagine he’s fishing for someone to blame. Joanna’s sisters might offer a clue. I want a list of both boys’ friends, grades, and ambitions, and their teachers’ perspectives.” Tigo’s thoughts raced on, consuming him. “Why didn’t we see a woman’s touch in the kitchen? No baked items or casseroles. Is it too soon for church ladies to bring in food?”
“Not sure. Maybe there hasn’t been time. Especially if they came as soon as they got the news.”
“One thing is certain … Curt’s hiding something.”
“Or thinks he is. Ian’s a lit fuse.”
“Jonathan and Pastor Yeat took after him without one thought for Curt. Wonder how the kid feels about that.”
CHAPTER 6
JANUARY 17
3:15 A.M. THURSDAY
In the damp warehouse, Kariss struggled against the duct tape sealing her mouth. The ropes that bound her hands were slicing into her wrists. The stench of filth curdled her stomach, increasing her urge to vomit. Twenty feet away, three Hispanic gang members drank beer and played cards. They spoke in Spanish about what they planned to do to her, no doubt waiting for the call telling them to finish the kill. Raw fear twisted her heart while white-hot pain spread through her rib cage when she breathed. Their beating had left her in excruciating pain, and she could barely see through her swollen eye.
Death would be a welcome guest.
The door to the warehouse squeaked open, and the sound of men’s voices filled Kariss with terror. She recognized Wyatt—Vicki’s ex-husband, the man who’d sold out Kariss to the gang. The other man was one she’d met before, a man involved in white-collar crime. They walked closer. Wyatt ripped off the duct tape, causing blood to seep into Kariss’s mouth.
“The FBI is onto you,” she said. “You won’t get away with a thing.”
“Big talk, considering.”
“These guys used you.” It hurt Kariss to talk, to breathe. “They’ll kill you for sure.”
“Don’t think so,” Wyatt said. “I’ve earned my rights.”
The second man lifted his pistol. Then Wyatt lay at Kariss’s feet in a pool of thick red blood, a bullet in his forehead. Kariss hated what he’d done to her sister, but she hadn’t wanted him dead.
The door squeaked again. This time gang members dragged in Tigo. They pound
ed his body until he collapsed. Blood flowed from his nose and mouth. The gang members were going to kill both Kariss and Tigo. Where was the FBI?
Somehow her wrists were free … but Tigo wasn’t moving. A gun was kicked across the room. Kariss grabbed it and shot the man poised to kill Tigo. The blood … always the blood.
Kariss woke with sweat dripping from every inch of her body. When would the nightmares end? The facts were distorted in her nightmares, but they always ended the same. Kariss tried to hit Delete on every black detail in her memory bank, but the flashbacks always crept unbidden into her nighttime hours. What would make them end?
7:15 A.M. THURSDAY
Kariss attempted to concentrate on the line-by-line edit of her novel instead of Amy Garrett’s proposal. Habitually, Kariss sailed ahead of deadline, and her practice of turning in manuscripts early gave her favor with the publishing house. Having had several books on the New York Times Bestseller List helped too. She loved being a writer, weaving romance with a suspenseful plot, but the tedious process was like giving birth to barbed wire. The latter wasn’t a Kariss Walker quote, but it sure fit when frustration and stubborn characters took control. Or when she couldn’t wrap her brain around edits because something else was occupying her mind.
Kariss reached for her coffee cup and pushed aside yesterday’s stale chocolate-chip bagel. Closing her eyes, she willed the words to flow from her fingertips. Maybe that was the trick. She should stop staring at her favorite cup with the words “Inspire Creativity” written across the side and concentrate on the canvas of her mind.
That didn’t work either.
Sleep had evaded her the previous night. At first her thoughts had been consumed by Amy and admiration for the woman who’d survived a vicious attack. Kariss felt a kinship with her, a need to befriend her.
Questions about the book idea had flitted through her mind as though butterflies had taken residence, lighting on one petal of an elusive flower and then another. Odd how her brain worked, speaking to her in literary form while the words on paper were orchestrated to create mood and emotion.
Then the nightmare had taken over.
The picture of a kaleidoscope on Kariss’s office wall was a reminder of the many colors and shapes of her characters, images of people who’d touched her life. Some of whom she’d like to forget. Kariss picked up a kaleidoscope on her desk, one of many in her collection, and peered through it while looking out the window. The light gave distinction. My, how her philosophical side had taken over that morning. Kariss replaced the kaleidoscope and positioned her fingers on the computer keyboard.
Kariss wanted to embrace Amy’s story. After the previous night’s reminders of how violent crimes affected the innocent, Kariss realized Amy’s story had to be written. Amy would need to be convinced that she might need to compromise on some of the factual details to craft an inspiring novel.
She brought up a new document and titled it “Amy Garrett Questions.”
1. What were you doing before you went to bed the night of your abduction?
2. How were you woken from your sleep?
3. Did the assailant give you a reason why you were his target?
4. What do you remember about him?
5. Were you conscious in the field where he left you?
6. What thoughts went through your mind while you waited for death?
7. What kept you struggling to hold on to life?
8. Were you conscious when the boys found you?
9. What would you do if you came face-to-face with the man who thought he’d killed you?
Kariss would have to pose those questions, along with many more, and Amy would need to reach deep inside to answer them. Could the woman invade her past to repeat what her mind had possibly hidden or denied?
Why did she want to go through this after twenty-three years? Kariss didn’t believe that it was all for the good of women who’d been victimized. Too much time had elapsed. That might be part of Amy’s reasoning, but not all of it.
Too antsy to stay inside her condo another moment, Kariss packed up her laptop and prepared to drive to Montgomery County. She’d visit the sheriff’s department in Conroe, where records were kept, and hope the officer who’d worked Amy’s case was still there. If he had any of Tigo’s and Ryan’s tenacity, the reality of an unsolved crime against a child would still haunt him.
Linc probably had the whole file. But Kariss refused to bother him or anyone at the FBI. Not after what happened with Tigo. Not since her heart decided to take a nosedive every time she thought of him.
CHAPTER 7
8:00 A.M. THURSDAY
After sleeping ten hours, Tigo drove to the office with his triple espresso beside him. It was guaranteed to shift him into high gear. He needed time to study the reports from the Yeat case and learn more about the bomb. The types of components used often led to where the items had been obtained and who had access to them. So far, investigators had been able to gather enough bomb fragments to determine that the device had been triggered by a cell phone. Efforts were also under way to determine whether a phone discovered in a Dumpster near the crime scene had been the triggering device. No fingerprints had been found on the phone, so whoever threw it away had covered his tracks.
Linc had phoned him before he’d left for work, asking what Tigo and Ryan had learned yesterday afternoon. Tigo had already sent their report via the phone, but after Linc’s visit with the Yeats last night, Linc wanted to offer them closure. An impossibility at this point. Solving the case wasn’t going to happen today or tomorrow, no matter how close Linc and Jonathan were or how many FBI agents and HPD personnel worked the case. Tigo was cynical, as Linc stated yesterday, and he had a gut feeling this case wouldn’t be easy to solve. The interview with Curt and Ian confirmed his suspicions that this family had its share of problems.
Law-enforcement officials needed more than twenty-four hours to conduct a thorough investigation, but Tigo understood the pressure Linc was under. Media couldn’t get enough of the crime. Many people had loved the entrepreneur Jonathan Yeat and his wife for their countless charitable acts. Could someone have wanted to end their goodwill efforts?
Tigo parked his F-250 Lariat and hurried inside the FBI building, the espresso acting as an engine additive to his veins. In his cubicle, Tigo scanned the list of suspects, and two people grabbed his attention—Roger Collins and Carolyn Hopkins. Both had done time, and both had threatened Jonathan. Roger didn’t have an alibi, and the woman hadn’t been located. Tigo called the FIG, Field Intelligence Group, for a comprehensive report. All he had at this point was a possible motive and two hundred laid-off employees as suspects.
He’d talked to Ryan about postponing Jonathan’s interview until this afternoon. Yesterday’s meeting with Curt and Ian had left a few blank spaces, but it had opened some new possibilities as well. Tigo and Ryan wanted to check out the boys’ high school, an upscale public institution that drew its students from wealthy neighborhoods.
Teens were either brutally honest or said nothing. Rarely in between. In Tigo’s experience, teachers saw a partial picture of their students’ personalities. Coaches, however, were usually able to zero in on the phonies and the bullies, often before parents realized the truth. Curt’s coach might have insight on the Yeats’ home life that would assist the investigation.
Conscious of Ryan standing in the doorway of his cubicle, Tigo tossed him a greeting.
“I’m a new man,” Ryan said. “I’m getting too old for this. Next time, you can ask one of the younger guys to do a stakeout.”
Tigo grinned. “What happened to the male-bonding thing?”
Ryan shook his head. “We’ll go fishing, and the food won’t give me heartburn.”
“Were you and Cindy able to talk?”
“A little this morning. I still hate the thought of our kids being shoved into one bedroom, splitting the area between American Girl dolls and Spider-Man. But Cindy thinks the sacrifice would be good for them. Th
e verdict’s still out.” He sighed. “Have you checked the newest developments in the Yeat case?”
“What’s that?”
Ryan’s grim look said the situation had grown worse. “New updates. Joanna Yeat filed for divorce on Tuesday, the day before the bombing. Claimed insupportability.”
Tigo frowned. “Which means she no longer wanted to be married to Jonathan. Which means they were not the perfect couple. Which also means he lied to us and the police. Insupportability? She wouldn’t have had to prove a thing to get the divorce, and Jonathan couldn’t stop her. I knew we were picking up on something from Curt and Ian.” He drummed his pen on the desk.
“Yeah. Hard to believe Joanna would file for divorce without the kids knowing their parents had problems.”
“Your kids hear you and Cindy argue?”
Ryan nodded. “We try to keep our disagreements private. But they aren’t stupid. And ours are only in grade school.”
Tigo thought about Curt. The boy wore the oldest-child, responsibility-ridden shield like a coat of arms. “So much for our plans to visit their school. I imagine those boys knew about the divorce. I have no problem interviewing them separately, although Jonathan might object.”
“Good luck getting any information from either of those boys.”
Tigo grimaced. “I only have myself to refer to, and trust me, I took ‘bad boy’ to a whole new level. My mother didn’t let anything pass. She took consequences seriously.”
“I remember when she let you sit in jail.”
“Did community service picking up trash too.”
“Was that before or after she found out you were thinking about joining a gang?”
“After. I felt like I was handcuffed to my mother.”
Ryan chuckled. “That’s why you have me. To keep you in line. Hey, been thinking … Yesterday we might have been conned.”
Tigo had the same inkling. “I agree.”
“We’ve been looking at a bombing supposedly done by a disgruntled ex-employee, but the situation’s changed. Check your phone. Media’s all over this. The new angle is the grieving husband and father may be a killer. Or the grieving husband and father was unaware of his wife’s marital unhappiness, and a jealous lover potentially bombed the car.”
