by DiAnn Mills
The coach stepped into Tigo’s personal space, nose to nose. He looked to be in his early sixties and was definitely in shape.
“You have something to say?” Tigo smiled into the coach’s smirk.
“I don’t appreciate your method of investigation, marching in here with your fancy FBI credentials. You don’t own me or this school. All I ask is that my boys work hard, make decent grades, and keep their noses clean. Period.”
“I think you have something to hide.”
The coach pursed his lips. “My boys’ personal lives are just that. If they need to talk, I’m here to listen. Curt and Ian live by my rules.”
“At the beginning of our interview, I asked if they were well liked by their peers,” Tigo said. “I’m still waiting for an answer.”
“Of course. Lots of friends.” The coach took a step back. “Curt has outstanding skills, and he’s a highly respected team player. Scouts have been looking at him since he was a freshman. Ian’s working on his game.”
“Any fights?”
“I’m their coach, remember? If there’s ever a problem, I take care of it. Look, I have things to do. Talk to the counselor. I have a class to prepare for and a team that’s not ready for tonight’s game.”
Tigo’s patience had worn thinner than a piece of paper. “When’s practice?”
The coach raised a brow. “After school. But we have a crucial game. You’re not—”
“We’ll be here at two forty-five to talk to the team and their parents. Make sure you phone them, Coach Ofsteller. That still gives you plenty of time to practice.”
Once they left the coach’s office, Tigo and Ryan visited the school counselor, Mrs. Villerreal, a Hispanic woman with graying hair and a tight smile. They introduced themselves, and Ryan closed the door.
“We have a few questions about Curt and Ian Yeat,” Tigo said. “We’re assuming you counsel both boys?”
“Yes, sir.” She gestured for them to sit and eased into a chair behind her desk. A bowl of chocolate kisses sat on the desktop, which was littered with school paraphernalia.
“What can you tell us about the Yeat brothers? Their grades? Friends? How they get along with other students?”
She stiffened. “I’m not sure I legally have to answer your questions.”
Tigo nodded—Ryan’s cue to persuade the woman to help them so they wouldn’t have to take legal measures.
“Why wouldn’t you want to assist the FBI?” Ryan began. “A horrible crime has been committed, and none of us want Curt or Ian to be another stat in an unsolved murder case.”
The color vanished from Mrs. Villerreal’s face. “I hadn’t considered that the bomber might be after them too. I know bodyguards are at the house, but I thought it was just precautionary.”
“No, ma’am,” Ryan said. “We don’t know who the next victim could be.”
She gasped. “Okay. I’ll help with what little I know.”
“Good.” Ryan smiled. “Agent Harris will pose the questions, and I’ll record your answers. All right?”
She nodded and reached for a chocolate.
“Thank you,” Tigo said, his comment aimed more at Ryan than the counselor. His partner knew how to soften tough situations and seldom lost his temper. But when it happened, no one had better get in his way. “Tell us about Curt and Ian.”
“The boys make good grades and are likable.”
A definite textbook response. “Any behavior problems?”
“Not really.” The woman fidgeted in her chair. “That information is confidential.”
“Mrs. Villerreal, what are you not telling us?”
The clock on her desk ticked the seconds.
“Do you think the boys could be involved in this?” she said. “I mean, the news says the parents were having problems, and Mr. Yeat had just made a critical business decision that appears to have endangered his family’s lives.”
“Our concern is for Curt and Ian.” Tigo studied her facial expressions. She was cautious and nervous. “Whatever you tell us is strictly confidential.”
“But I don’t see how I can help.”
The woman knew something. Tigo glanced at Ryan.
“This is off the record,” Ryan said. “But it’s still your choice whether to give us information.”
She nodded and rearranged paper clips on her desk. “What I’m about to say is common knowledge to most of us. Nothing documented.” She directed her gaze at Ryan, then Tigo. “Ian has a nasty temper, and Curt cleans up his messes.”
“In what way?” Tigo resumed the questioning.
“Ian likes to party, and Curt doesn’t because he has scouts at every game and wants to maintain that status.”
“So Curt follows his kid brother around to keep him out of trouble?”
“Apparently so.”
“But Ian doesn’t have a police record,” Tigo said.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“What does your information say about altercations?”
She shrugged. “His dad keeps the incidents off his record.”
Resentment had to be building in Curt. “Do you suspect an addiction?”
“Not yet.”
“Any problems on school time?”
“A few arguments.” She swallowed hard. “Ian also threatened a female teacher in the school parking lot last spring. But Curt intervened.”
“Was the threat verbal or physical?”
“Uh … both.”
“Do you have the threat documented?”
She flushed. “Uh, no. Mr. Yeat met privately with the teacher to discuss the incident, and she decided not to file any charges.”
Tigo got the message. “What recourse did you take?”
“I initiated a conference with Ian’s parents about his aggressive behavior. Mrs. Yeat tended to be more upset than his father.”
“What else?” Tigo said softly.
“I shouldn’t be saying any of this. I could lose my job. Mr. Yeat could sue me.”
“What happened?” Tigo said.
“They got into an argument in my office. Mrs. Yeat wanted to take disciplinary action, and Mr. Yeat thought a family vacation would help the problem.”
Tigo let the silence flow. Giving them any more information had to be her choice.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Yeat said Ian was stressed by trying to live up to Curt’s achievements. He accused Mrs. Yeat of favoring Curt. She accused him of allowing Ian to get away with behavior that would eventually land him in jail. Both left … angry.”
CHAPTER 12
8:00 A.M. FRIDAY
Kariss helped Vicki load the car with baby Rose’s many supplies for the morning excursion. Kariss stretched and watched her sister organize and rearrange toys and extra clothes as though they’d be gone for a weekend instead of a few hours. Kariss referred to packing for Rose as the What-If Syndrome—whatever emergency might arise, its solution had been tucked into the diaper bag or positioned in the backseat.
“I’m so excited to show off my baby girl.” Vicki’s high school friend and her husband had built a home in a rural section south of Tomball. Kariss questioned who was showing off what. But a precious baby beat four thousand square feet of brick and mortar.
“Is your friend a good cook?” Kariss said.
“Absolutely.”
“Better than you?”
Vicki laughed. “You be the judge.”
Kariss counted the number of diapers and checked the box of baby wipes. She’d hoped by this time in her life, a little one would be calling her mommy … possibly three little ones.
“I think we’re ready.” Vicki rechecked the rear-facing car seat to make sure it was securely fastened.
Kariss feigned a sigh. “Takes longer to get Rose ready than it does me.”
“I know what you mean. At least I can put on my makeup while you drive. You had to get up an hour earlier than we did to get yourself beautiful. Then again, I’m a natural.”
Kari
ss frowned, but they ended up laughing. How she loved her sister and treasured their relationship. One day Vicki would have a home of her own. Kariss didn’t blame her for wanting independence. But right now, having Vicki and Rose in the same house helped her bear the sadness of losing Tigo and moving on with her life. Selfish, but true. She stopped herself midthought. Had she really lost Tigo, or could something draw them together again? He’d betrayed her trust. Should she have asked why instead of responding in hurt and anger?
“Sis, what’s bothering you?” Vicki said.
Kariss opened the driver’s door, giving herself time to construct a reply. A little honesty went a long way. “I’m pea-green jealous over you and Rose. Oh, I know the situation’s tough, raising your baby girl alone, but motherhood makes you sparkle.”
“Your time’s coming. And you will be a great mother.”
Kariss hoped it came before her biological clock expired. She’d be thirty-six in May. Of course, she had a textbook of hurdles to overcome first. One of those was the fear of not being a good wife or mother.
They fastened their seat belts, and Kariss hoped the conversation about her personal life was done. She wanted a family. And not just any family, but the one God planned for her. Was it wrong to hope that God might include Tigo? Placing her silver Jaguar in reverse, she backed out of the driveway and headed toward the gated exit of their small community.
“Earth to Kariss,” Vicki said. “Avoiding the subject will never make it go away. There’s more, and you know it. Yesterday you started to tell me about Tigo, but the phone call from Amy interrupted what could have been a deep discussion. You’ve held me while I’ve cried about Wyatt, and it’s not fair to shut me out of your pain.”
“I miss him.”
“Then tell him so.”
“I can’t. He’s hurt. I’m hurt. We’re both miserable. It’s all in God’s hands anyway, and I refuse to lead Tigo on when the situation is out of my control.”
“In other words, the ball’s in his court.”
“Exactly. If reconciliation is part of the plan, then Tigo knows what has to take place. All I can do—all anyone can do—is pray.”
“Sometimes God’s answer isn’t what we want to hear.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Kariss tossed Vicki a smile, one that hopefully said the topic had been flushed down the drain. She turned the satellite radio to a classical station and let Bach soothe her troubled mind.
Kariss drove north on SH 249, noting the light traffic and enjoying the early morning. Gray clouds in the distance indicated rain, but that was January in Houston.
“Thanksgiving night I heard Tigo shout at you,” Vicki said.
Kariss’s stomach knotted. “What did you hear?”
“Enough to know he was furious.”
Kariss tapped the steering wheel. “Maybe you and I will talk later, okay?”
“Sure thing. If you don’t bring it up, I will.”
“So you want me to blubber all over you?”
“I might have to pay the FBI a visit and take revenge on Special Agent Santiago Harris for making my sister cry.”
They laughed, and Kariss knew the subject had been dropped for now. She watched a black Ford pickup in her rearview mirror. Ever since she’d been chased and kidnapped, she was wary of every vehicle that appeared to be following her. This one had been behind her since before they merged onto the highway. But that was only ten minutes ago—nothing to be alarmed about.
A few minutes later, Kariss turned onto a rural road that would eventually take them to the home of Vicki’s friend. The pickup was tailgating them now. The road ahead was straight and clear of traffic. Kariss slowed and hugged the right side of the road so the driver could pass, but the truck stayed on her bumper. His custom rims had extensions that looked like whirling knife blades.
“What is he doing?” Vicki glanced back at Rose. “Did he drink his breakfast? And look at those wheels. Why would anyone sane want those things?”
“I have no clue. Maybe he thinks they’re hot.” Kariss sped up to see what the other driver would do. He did the same. “Kids call those spinners.”
“Whoa,” Vicki said. “Straight off a movie screen, sis. Are they even legal? They must stick out a foot.”
Acid rose in Kariss’s throat as the situation threw her into her nightmare scare zone.
“You have a Baby on Board sign on the back window,” Vicki said. “I’m going to get his license plate number and turn him in.”
“Good call.”
Vicki reached for pad and paper inside her purse. “I think he’s laughing. Hard to tell through his tinted window. Does he think this is a game? What a jerk, a bully.” She rattled on, her normal method of handling stress. “Speed up again. He’s so close I can’t see his plate numbers.”
Kariss pressed on the gas as Vicki twisted around, but the truck stayed within inches of the Jag’s bumper.
“Rats, all I got was V8.”
“Don’t think he’s driving a vegetable truck.” But Kariss didn’t think any of this was humorous. She turned off the radio.
“I’d call 911,” Vicki said, “but what would I say? A driver is tailgating us, and we’re nervous?”
“Go for it. He probably has a record.” Kariss wanted to study him but couldn’t risk it with a baby in the car. She refused to panic. “Most likely drunk or high.”
“Ah, but we’re a team.” Vicki pressed numbers into her cell phone. “Would you believe there’s no signal? I’ll take a pic of his truck. That ought to help the cops locate him.”
“Maybe we should open our own private-eye firm. Name our own hours.” Kariss knew she didn’t sound brave or witty.
“You’ve done everything else, oh fearless one.” Vicki turned in her seat again and snapped a pic. “Even things you won’t tell me.”
“More than I care to remember.”
“We haven’t gotten to that part of the discussion yet.”
“Hey, try my phone. I have a different provider.”
Vicki grabbed Kariss’s purse and dug out the cell phone before pressing in the three emergency numbers. She relayed their location to the dispatcher, describing how close they were to the county road where her friend lived.
Kariss had experienced too many close calls with unscrupulous drivers to dismiss this incident as a joyrider playing with them. But why? And who? She thought about speeding ahead to turn at the next intersection, but such reckless driving could endanger little Rose or Vicki.
“He’s not slowing down.” Vicki’s voice rose, her attention focused on her baby.
The truck moved into the opposite lane, and Kariss felt relief, believing he was finally going to pass. Instead, he swerved toward them, smacking against the side of the Jag. Metal scraped against metal. Vicki screamed. “Oh, Lord, remember my baby!”
Kariss stomped on the accelerator. She’d bought this car because of its performance. The intersection loomed ahead. If she could just make it …
Kariss’s prayers came in short bursts for Vicki’s and Rose’s safety. If she could get away from the truck, her precious cargo would be okay.
The truck rammed into them again, hard. Kariss gripped the steering wheel, attempting to keep her car on the road, but she hit gravel and felt herself lose control.
CHAPTER 13
9:20 A.M. FRIDAY
Tigo and Ryan left the high school en route to Yeat’s Commercial Construction. Tigo drove his pickup, his mind going back over the information he’d gleaned from the coach and the guidance counselor—verbal and nonverbal. Had Jonathan really been surprised by Joanna’s filing for divorce?
Tigo and Ryan had several hours to pore over the reports gathered from the accounting department and employee records before showing up at the high school in the afternoon.
But first Tigo wanted to interview Jonathan again to confront him about Curt’s and Ian’s behavior. Maybe it all meant nothing, but his gut feeling about the family hiding issues kept resur
facing. He couldn’t ignore it—his sixth sense had helped him solve many crimes.
“This is a mess,” Ryan finally said. “What looked like a simple case of retaliation has exploded. This family has far too much baggage and far too many secrets. Oh, and did I mention the bomb component that has sophistication written all over it?”
“Jonathan’s a deacon in his church, and his brother’s a pastor. Was he a jealous husband? Did Alexia not belong to him? Did he insist on taking care of his children’s discipline? Perhaps he was abusive to Joanna? Linc will be devastated if any of these suspicions are true.”
No wonder Tigo questioned the reality of God and the unconditional love he heard about on Sunday mornings. This family had deceit stamped all over it.
“The other investigators believe our bad guy is affiliated with Jonathan’s business. They think Jonathan would have tried to talk Joanna out of a divorce instead of killing her.”
“I hope so.” Tigo toyed with what they knew about the Yeat family. “Would Joanna have told anyone else she planned to take Jonathan’s car Wednesday morning? And would that someone have been able to tamper with it before she left?”
“He would have had to have been on the grounds or have had access to the security gate. Look at the facts, Tigo. Whoever did this had to have planned it. People don’t stack kilos of Semtex in their garages. This guy planned and executed a murder. Brings us back to who had motive.”
“Jonathan reeks of it,” Tigo said.
“Interviewing Roger Collins is more my expertise,” Ryan said. “Or Carolyn Hopkins, once she’s found. You may have written them off as suspects, but I still have my doubts. Think protocol.”
“You crave the hard cases as much as I do,” Tigo said. “What you need is a good disguise in a sleazy bar. Turn on super bad boy.”
“Makes me wonder how I’ll tell my kids what I do to solve crimes.”
Tigo chuckled. “They’ll figure it out. Let’s have Collins brought in later today after we finish at the high school.”
At Yeat’s complex, FBI agents searched accounting and employee records. A team talked to those in the warehouse, while another team posed questions to the employees and subcontractors at the construction sites. HPD worked alongside them with their own investigators.
