by DiAnn Mills
A knot formed in his throat. Linc and Ryan were pillars of strength. But Tigo simply didn’t get it, and tragedies like this made him so angry with God. At times he wanted to walk away from finding who God really was and live life his own way. Yet he’d promised his mother he wouldn’t give up.
After the graveside service—where Tigo shivered in the January cold for more reasons than the plunging temperatures—he drove to Jonathan Yeat’s home for the meal. This would last until midafternoon, but the time would be worth every moment if Tigo found a clue about the person who’d planted the bomb. Outside the gated entrance, he spotted Linc, Yvonne, and their college-age son. He hurried to join them. Because of the crime scene, the crowd had to park on the street and display ID before entering the property.
Tigo again realized his suit coat provided little warmth in the forty-degree temps and freezing rain.
“Did you see anything unusual?” Linc murmured.
“Not yet.”
“One of Jonathan’s key employees isn’t here—his executive assistant, Vanessa Whitcom.”
Her absence surprised Tigo after she’d sworn devotion to Joanna and Jonathan. “I’ll look into it.”
“Are you two talking about the investigation?” said Yvonne, a lovely African-American woman who always reminded Tigo of a runway model. Almost as attractive as Kariss. Now why would Tigo think of her when he had work to do?
“Yes, honey. We’re talking about the case,” Linc said. “It’s who we are.”
Yvonne peered around her husband’s side and said to Tigo, “I want to talk to you about Joanna. Perhaps later on. I’ve been trying to make sense of this, and I might have some insight.” She smiled at her husband. “This isn’t anything you haven’t already heard. Sometimes another perspective opens doors we haven’t thought of.”
Linc squeezed her waist. “Thanks, honey. Go ahead and talk to Tigo now, and I’ll begin my own investigation.” He kissed her cheek and walked to the house with their son. A police officer stopped Linc, and he pulled the officer aside, no doubt giving instructions about keeping the agents’ identification private.
Yvonne shivered. “It’s cold. Nasty day for a funeral. Though it’s not as if sunshine would have made it any more bearable … Let me get right to the point.”
Tigo noticed she used the same verbiage as Linc—probably the years of marriage.
“I want to know the smallest thing, so bring it on,” Tigo said.
“Joanna had been distant for the past six months or so. Refused dinner invitations. Said she was worried about Ian. But she wouldn’t say why.”
That made sense.
“I learned from my own son that Ian had been giving his parents trouble. But I thought Joanna and I were friends. Why wouldn’t she tell me about it unless she was embarrassed?” She shrugged. “Joanna prided herself on helping others. Could be she didn’t have a solution for him.”
“So you think Ian had something to do with this?”
“I hope not. I just wondered if she had information about Ian that she couldn’t tell anyone. Maybe he still knows more than he’s claimed.”
Unless the problem was another man. Joanna could have been seeing another man and then wanted out. The guy could have refused. Tigo would chew on it some more. See where it led.
“One more thing.” Yvonne lifted her chin. “She loved Jonathan, and this divorce thing is a cover for something else.”
“Any idea what?”
“No. You’re the FBI agent. I’m just a woman with intuition. Trouble was brewing in the Yeat household, but I have no clue what.”
Another person who shared his suspicions.
Once inside the over-ten-thousand-square-foot home, Tigo joined the people clustered in the formal rooms. The kitchen and dining room tables overflowed with food and beverages, and many people stood in line. Tigo paid his respects to Jonathan, Curt, and Ian and then slipped into the background to observe those in attendance. The Yeat men had been given instructions not to give away Tigo’s profession. In his opinion, the Yeat men walked a fine line of trust. While Tigo wove through the crowd, he heard sympathetic comments.
“I hate this for Jonathan and the boys.”
“Who could have done such a thing?”
“Why haven’t the FBI or HPD made an arrest?”
“We need to keep everyone in our prayers.”
“I was helping Alexia try out for cheerleading.”
Two African-American women stepped outside onto a covered patio. Earlier, Linc had pointed them out as Joanna’s sisters. A little cold for a breather unless their grieving needed to be private. After Curt’s and Vanessa’s comments about the animosity between the sisters, Tigo wanted to hear what they had to say. He grabbed a cup of coffee and exited through the front door, making his way around to the back of the home, where he could hear the conversation.
“I’d give anything to have five minutes with Joanna,” a woman said. “Maybe we could’ve made things right between us. Let go of the past and be real sisters. We were getting close.”
“Give me a break, Angela,” a second woman said. “You don’t think for one minute Joanna lived the holy life. Everything was a front so she could spend money and screw around.”
Tigo pressed Record on his Blackberry. The two had already given the case a new slant.
“I admit she had a few faults,” Angela said, “but when Dad tossed me out on my rear because I was pregnant, Joanna opened her home and paid my bills.”
“A few faults?” the second woman said. “She persuaded you to give up your daughter. You hated her for it.”
“Joanna’s gone. Why drag her through the mud?” Angela sniffed. A click indicated she’d opened her purse. “My baby was better off in a home with two parents who could provide for her.”
“Sure. You keep telling yourself that, and one day you’ll believe it.”
“Darena, how can you be so heartless?” Angela said.
“I’m just saying I thought Joanna had more sense than to get involved with a lowlife who would kill her and her daughter.”
“That’s enough. This is our sister and niece’s funeral. And you’re still acting like a fool. Jealous for no reason except that Joanna was beautiful and had a good life. Conjuring up smut today? That’s low. One of Jonathan’s ex-employees did this, and you’re stupid to think otherwise. Jonathan was the target, not our sister or niece.”
“I was simply pointing out the facts,” Darena said. “You always were the gullible one, swallowing all Joanna’s piety. Since when did you become so sympathetic?”
“I should have defended her a long time ago instead of letting you walk all over me.”
“Don’t tell me you believed her crap too?” Darena laughed.
“She never did a thing to you but try to be a good sister,” Angela said. “You’re pathetic, and one day you’ll get yours. I’m not listening to any more of this.” The door slammed.
One of Joanna’s sisters despised her. Tigo turned to leave, needing to make his way back into the crowd to talk to the high schoolers. The patio door squeaked, and he hesitated.
“Hey, babe. You doing all right?” The male voice sounded familiar.
Tigo waited a few more moments so he could seal the man’s identity. He anchored his back against the side of the house and took a sip of his coffee. Who did that voice belong to?
“I’m fine, sweetheart. My sister is in total denial. Where’s your wife?”
“With Jonathan. I told her I needed to check on you, but I can’t be gone long. I know you and Joanna had your differences, but this is horrible.”
“So the tears were real?”
“Of course. Can’t believe you’d ask such a thing.”
“I’m sorry.” Darena’s tone dripped in sugar. “You and I have nothing to fear now that Joanna’s gone. Angela has no clue about us.”
“It’s the only thing about today that eases my mind. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Tig
o kicked at a stone along the path loud enough to create attention. He stepped into the couple’s view. Darena gasped. The man took a step backward but not quickly enough.
Pastor Taylor Yeat was having an affair with Joanna’s sister?
CHAPTER 19
2:25 P.M. SATURDAY
Kariss drove her rental car into the covered parking garage of the building where Freedom’s Way housed its suite of offices. She slid in beside a late-model Malibu and breathed a quick prayer for wisdom. The empty area seemed a bit spooky, though it could just be her imagination heading into overdrive after being run off the road yesterday morning. She felt guilty leaving Vicki at home, but Mom was there and Dad planned to stop by.
The excitement of a new novel and compassion for Amy’s horrific experience rose within her. Unusual emotions to feel simultaneously, but they were real. Kariss’s personal goal was for each novel she wrote to be better written than the previous one, which meant a more intriguing plot and deepening characterization. Reaching for her purse and hot-pink computer case, she recalled her last meeting with Amy and how well they’d gotten along. Hopefully that camaraderie would continue long after the novel was written.
Amy met her at the building’s entrance and ushered her inside. “Good to see you. I’ve been looking forward to our getting together all morning.” Odd how once again Amy’s voice and words sounded rehearsed. A quick look into her blue eyes revealed apprehension.
“Are you sure?” Kariss said. “We can postpone this.”
“Absolutely not.” Amy locked the glass door behind them, then turned to Kariss. “I don’t want anyone walking in off the street and thinking I’m open,” she said. “You know, free counseling.”
Kariss waited while Amy confirmed—four times—that the door was locked. Obsessive-compulsive disorder?
“Excuse me a moment while I inform the security company of your arrival,” Amy said, heading down the hallway.
Maybe if Kariss had survived such trauma, she’d be a little OCD herself. After what Amy had been through, it was a wonder she was able to function on any level. Whoever had guided her through her ordeal had to have been a gentle counselor. Perhaps that person had encouraged her to help others too.
While waiting for Amy to reappear, Kariss studied the waiting area. A pair of contemporary, cream-colored sofas, chrome-and-green upholstered chairs, and a massive philodendron filled the room. An abstract painting above one of the sofas, painted in rich blue, green, and red, looked like something Kariss’s four-year-old nephew had done with finger paint. Magazines were arranged accordion style, ready to distract an anxious client or simply entertain a reader. Ah, a hint of Amy’s personality caught Kariss’s attention. A collection of elephants was artfully arranged in a corner display case. The symbolism curled around her heart.
An elephant never forgot.
Amy reappeared, wearing a smile that complemented her designer jeans and green turtleneck sweater. Green was the color of healing and nurturing.
“Are we locked down?” Kariss said, making sure Amy could read her lips.
“We are. No walk-ins today.”
“Those who’ve abused the women you’ve counseled would be more of a challenge than a suffering client.”
Amy nodded. “Right. They’re the worst.”
“Ever have a problem with hostility?”
“A few.” Amy gestured down the hallway. “Right this way. My office is the last one on the right.”
“Before we continue, I received an email last night warning me against writing your story. Would you know anything about that?”
“No.”
“What about a family member? You said they didn’t support this project.”
Amy startled. “You’re blunt. Is that a writer’s trait?”
“Sometimes it’s simply research. Before I turned to suspense novels, I wrote women’s fiction, and I learned to be straightforward and ask questions.”
“I have no idea who’d want to discourage you.”
Kariss didn’t believe her. “If you did, would you tell me?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“An honest one.”
“I’m a woman of integrity. You and I have a business relationship.”
Kariss hadn’t seen this condescension in Amy at the coffee shop. “How about friendship?”
“I’m sorry.” Amy’s tensed facial muscles relaxed. “Yes, we all need friends. I’ve been in a rough place these past two days, and I shouldn’t take it out on you.” She pointed to facing love seats in pale green, constant reminders of healing and nurturing. Behind Amy’s desk hung a pastoral scene of sheep grazing under the watchful eye of a shepherd. Kariss recognized the artist, Larry Dyke. She had two of his prints in her condo.
“No problem. Want to talk about it?”
“Not really, but thanks.” Amy smiled.
“So how long do we have this afternoon?”
“As long as it takes. In answer to your earlier question, there have been times men and women who’ve victimized my clients have sought revenge, which is why security measures are in place and law-enforcement numbers are at my fingertips.”
“Have you ever been assaulted by one of them?”
“No. But it only takes one attack to make sure precautions are always in place.”
“Do you carry a gun?”
Amy crossed her arms over her chest. “I’d never resort to a weapon. It would shatter my ministry to the hurting. Do you?”
“Yes. I’ve learned to defend myself. My motto is ‘Never again’.”
“Ever had to threaten someone with your gun?”
“I killed a man to protect an innocent one.”
“It didn’t make the evening news.”
Kariss forced a smile. “It didn’t make my scrapbook either.”
“If you need counseling, I can recommend one of my other therapists.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got it handled.” Kariss pulled out a small digital recorder and her laptop. “I’ll make a copy of our conversation so you can review it later for accuracy.”
Amy nodded. Her wan complexion told more about the woman’s mood than any words could convey. “Fair enough. I want to tell the entire story, regurgitate the past in one sitting. My brother and parents are great, but they fear for my emotional health and the possibility of my assailant coming after me again.”
“I understand. But it’s because they love you.”
“The attack nearly ended my life, and it deserves to be told in a manner that would reach the most readers. I’ve done the research. I know a novel is my best option.”
“Okay, then let’s get started. I’ll type while you talk, and I won’t stop you unless I need clarification. Can you begin by telling me about your childhood, then move on to what happened the day of the assault?”
Amy took a deep breath. She looked poised, but her lips quivered for a fraction of a second. “I may repeat some things from our earlier discussion, but I want to tell the story in chronological sequence.”
“Sounds good. I didn’t take any notes when we met earlier.”
“My family wasn’t and isn’t perfect. But after the attack, they worked hard to keep dysfunction tucked away. My dad is a commercial real estate investor, and my mother is an account rep for an insurance company. We did the vacation thing. Birthdays and holidays are still special. My brother and I were encouraged to work hard in school and have friends. Our door was open to the neighborhood kids. After the attack, that continued to give me a semblance of a normal childhood.”
“Did your friends treat you differently after the trauma?”
“Not those my own age. But older kids and adults acted as though I were a bubble child.” Amy folded her hands. “Most parents couldn’t get past the horror or the realization that their child could have been the victim.”
Kariss shivered. “What about your brother? Is he married?”
“He was, but it ended in divorce. No children.”
/> Kariss typed and listened for clues to indicate who may have hurt Amy. Although that aspect of the story had been analyzed by the most experienced criminologists, Kariss couldn’t help but wonder if a new detail in the case could bring a cruel man to justice. “Are you ready to describe what happened?”
The color drained from Amy’s face.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.” Amy laid her hands in her lap. “The day I was abducted from my bedroom is as vivid now as when it happened. It was a Thursday night in mid-May. We’d returned from a school event for my brother, where he’d been a finalist in a science fair and had taken first place. We celebrated with ice cream from Dairy Queen. Mom and Dad were so proud of him. We went to bed like any normal night. I remember looking forward to summer.”
Kariss noted Amy’s clenched fists.
“I was woken by a hand clasped over my mouth. I could barely breathe. The other hand held what I thought was a knife to my throat. I learned later it was a piece of glass from my bedroom window. Neither my parents nor my brother heard the glass breaking.”
Amy paused, and Kariss glanced up from her laptop. A tear slipped down the woman’s cheek. “We had a dog, a golden retriever. Her name was Daisy. The … the assailant killed her. My dad found her before he realized I was missing.”
“Do you want to continue?” Kariss whispered.
Amy nodded. “I simply haven’t thought it through from beginning to end for a long time. This is really good for me, I think. Helps me get in touch with what my clients feel.”
As if Amy needed to feel additional pain. “Did the assailant say anything?”
“Told me to be quiet or he’d kill my parents and brother. He obviously knew a little about me.” Amy moved a magazine on the table in front of her. “He dragged me through my broken window. In the darkness, I never saw his face. Only felt what he did to me and heard his voice.” She paused and rearranged the magazine again. “His voice has haunted me for years, and now I’m going deaf. Rather ironic, don’t you think?”
