by Herron, Rita
But he’d failed. He’d missed something on the case—Harlan’s real motive. Why he’d come after Liz’s mother in the first place.
Why he’d stopped killing for years, then started again.
“I’m not going to fall apart on this case, Rafe. You can trust me.”
That wasn’t the problem. He didn’t trust himself around her. And he sure as hell didn’t want her anywhere near this latest psycho. “I do, but you also suffered a terrible trauma only a few months ago. Everyone needs time to recover.”
Liz squeezed his hand. “Stop treating me with kid gloves. I survived. I’ve had therapy and time to heal.”
“Have you?” he asked softly. “Healed, I mean?”
Pain darkened her eyes. “Rafe . . . please . . .”
Emotions crowded his throat. “I can’t help but worry about you.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Liz said, struggling to keep her voice from quivering. “But I need to work, Rafe. I need to find this guy.”
He was well aware of her devotion to her job, but he didn’t necessarily like it. His gaze shot to the scarf around her neck. Images of her bloody body and weakened state, her throat slashed.
The front door of the house screeched open, jarring Rafe from his thoughts, and he swung around. A heavyset man with a shaved head, wearing overalls stood on the rickety porch, aiming a shotgun at them. Tattoos snaked up and down both arms, and his left hand was scarred badly, as if he’d been in an accident.
Or perhaps one of his hogs had mauled him.
He also seemed sweaty and out of breath, as if he’d been running, or he’d just gotten home.
“What the hell you doing on my property?” he bellowed.
“Mr. Truitt,” Liz said, throwing up a hand to calm him. “I’m Special Agent Liz Lucas, and this is Special Agent Rafe Hood, with the TBI. We just want to talk.”
Truitt kept the gun trained on them. “You’re a fed?”
“Actually, the TBI is state.” Rafe gestured to the gun. “Now, like I said, put down the gun.”
“It’s about your mother,” Liz said.
“My mother is dead,” he snarled.
“That’s why we’re here.”
Rafe’s hand itched to put Liz back into the car. To protect her. He stepped forward, half blocking her in case the man took a pot shot. “We talked to the staff at the nursing home where your mother stayed and heard that a nurse named Ester Banning mistreated your mother.”
He shifted, lowering the shotgun to his side. “Yeah. But that was a long time ago.”
“Not so long that you’ve forgotten what she did,” Liz said softly.
“So?” he asked.
“Ester Banning’s body was found in Slaughter Creek.”
Truitt’s lip curled up. “That bitch is dead?”
“Yes.”
Truitt grunted. “I thought she was too mean to die.” He rubbed a hand over his pocket.
Rafe stiffened, then stepped to the right, again trying to block Liz.
Instead of another weapon, though, Truitt pulled a cigarette and lighter from his pocket, propped the shotgun against the front of the house, and lit up.
“Haven’t you seen the news?” Liz asked.
“Naw, TV’s broke. And I don’t get the paper out here.”
Rafe cleared his throat. “We’re trying to find out more about the Banning woman. If we can retrace her steps, find out where she went after she left the nursing home, it might lead us to her killer.”
Eyes narrowed, Truitt took a long drag on his cigarette. Rafe stepped onto the porch, still worried about how the man might react when he realized they were treating him as a person of interest in Ester’s murder.
Hoping to relax him, Liz paused to pet the mangy dog sprawled on the tattered plaid sofa on the porch, next to an old washing machine. Muddy work boots were tossed beside it. A broom, toolbox, and dust-coated dog bowl sat next to the door.
“I don’t know where she went, and frankly I don’t care.” Truitt tapped ashes onto the porch floor.
“Mr. Truitt,” Liz said, “we understand that you filed a lawsuit against Ester.”
“Hell, yeah, I did. You would have too, if you’d seen bruises on your mama like I did. Bad bruises and bedsores.” He cursed beneath his breath and blew smoke into the air. “But then Mama died, and the lawyer said the hospital fired Ester, so I figured wasn’t no point in spending money to go to court.”
“The hospital probably didn’t want publicity,” Rafe said. “We heard they gave another patient’s family a deal to settle out of court.”
Liz raised an eyebrow. “Did they cut you a deal, Mr. Truitt?”
Truitt’s lips curled into a snarl again. “Do I look like I’m floatin’ in money?”
“So that’s a no?” Rafe asked.
Truitt shrugged. “A small settlement, not enough to amount to anything.”
Rafe slanted him a cold look. “That probably pissed you off, didn’t it? First Ester abuses your mother, then you try to sue, she dies, and the hospital insults you by barely giving you anything for your suffering.”
“You wanted to get back at Ester, didn’t you?” Liz said quietly.
Truitt reached for his gun. “I hated the woman, all right. But I didn’t kill her. Now get off my property.”
Rafe put one hand on the shotgun to keep Truitt from retrieving it. “Here’s what I think. You run a slaughterhouse. It was probably nothing to you to lob off Ester’s hands.”
Truitt muttered a curse word, but Rafe didn’t back down. “Leave the shotgun on the porch. You’re going with us to answer a few more questions.”
“I didn’t do nothing,” Truitt muttered
“Where were you last night?” Liz asked.
The big guy shrugged “Here.”
Liz folded her arms. “Anyone with you?”
“My hogs.”
“Unfortunately they can’t alibi you.” Rafe pointed to the bloody ax leaning against the concrete building, deciding that since they weren’t getting anywhere, he’d play bad cop. “If we check that ax, we’ll find Ester’s blood on it, won’t we?”
“Screw you,” Truitt growled.
Liz cleared her throat, taking Rafe’s lead to play good cop. “If you’re innocent like you say, then we’ll clear you, and you won’t have to see us again.”
Truitt glared at her. “All right, take the damn ax. That old bitch’s blood ain’t on it.”
Liz phoned the chief to request a warrant for Truitt’s farm. “We have motive and opportunity, and he has no alibi for the night of the murder.”
“You think he did it?”
Liz glanced at the concrete slaughterhouse with revulsion. “I don’t know. But the guy is . . . off. And he certainly was belligerent when we confronted him. Pulled a shotgun on us. And there’s a bloodstained ax by the slaughterhouse.”
“Could have been used on his hogs,” the chief said.
“I know, but it could also be the murder weapon, so we have to process it.”
“All right, I’ll get the warrant. Lieutenant Maddison will bring it with him when his team comes out.”
Liz studied Truitt. Last time she’d made a crucial mistake and missed the part about Harlan’s partner.
Rafe stood beside the car where Truitt sat in the backseat, handcuffed. “Did you get the warrant?”
“The CSI team is bringing it.” Liz yanked on gloves, removed the shells from the shotgun, and stowed Truitt’s shotgun in the back of Rafe’s SUV. “I’ll wait here for the crime team if you want to drive him to the sheriff’s office.”
Rafe’s dark eyes turned stony. “No way. I won’t leave you alone in this godforsaken place.”
“Then I’ll drive Truitt to the station.”
“Hell, no,” Rafe said. “He weighs ne
arly three hundred pounds. He could crush you in a second.”
Liz forced her voice to stay calm, though she was seething inside. “Rafe, you can’t treat me like I’m not capable. If you don’t respect me at work, no one else will.”
His breath hissed out. “Dammit, Liz. It’s not that I don’t trust you. But you’re small, and I don’t want a repeat of last time’s disaster.”
Liz’s heart stuttered at the self-recrimination in his voice. The last few months, she’d been too consumed by her own tumultuous feelings to realize that Rafe felt guilty.
“It wasn’t your fault that he got me,” she said. “We both just . . .”
“Screwed up,” he said. “Because we let emotions interfere with our jobs.”
Because they’d slept together.
“We won’t repeat that mistake,” she said.
“You’re damn right we won’t.” He glanced at her scarf, a reminder that he saw her as weak. Scarred.
Not beautiful, as he once had.
That hurt, and made her even more angry.
Dammit, she shouldn’t care how Rafe looked at her. Hadn’t her therapist assured her that she was still attractive? That if a man really cared about her, he wouldn’t even notice the scar?
But he saw it.
Still, like a fool, she wanted to touch him, tell him she didn’t blame him. But touching him would only make her want more.
Too many nights she’d dreamed about working with him during the day, then having his arms around her, his big body next to her, keeping her warm and safe at night.
She couldn’t reveal her weakness, or he’d sure as hell push to have her relieved of the job. And truthfully, she didn’t think she could stand it if he rejected her.
A siren wailed in the distance. Liz stepped away from Rafe and went to meet the crime team as Jake’s deputy roared up in a squad car to escort Truitt to the jail.
Hopefully when they searched the place, they’d find Ester’s missing hand.
Unless Truitt had fed it to the hogs to get rid of the evidence.
Chapter Six
Liz was grateful to search the house instead of the slaughterhouse. Advances in the industry had made pig slaughtering and processing more humane, but judging from the house and setup, she doubted Truitt was that progressive.
The crime team took a walk through for obvious evidence before starting a thorough search.
Perkins adjusted his ball cap. “I’m going to work the slaughterhouse.”
“I’ll take the house,” Castor agreed.
Liz watched Perkins head out across the yard to the brick building. He must have a strong stomach. He didn’t even seem fazed by the stench, or the prospect of finding body parts.
She surveyed the house. Truitt obviously had an aversion to cleaning. Dust and grime coated every surface. Gun and farming magazines littered a scarred oak table, along with a stack of papers that looked like receipts from places where he sold his meat. A game show blared on an ancient TV in the background. The house smelled musty, as if something had rotted inside.
A body?
But there wasn’t one evident.
She walked through the small five-room house, sizing up the interior to give herself a better idea of Truitt’s character. The kitchen was cluttered, dried food crusted on the counter, the sink full of dishes that looked as if they hadn’t been washed in weeks. A box of takeout fried chicken sat on the table.
Searching the cabinets next, she found an assortment of canned goods, garage-sale dishes, and battered pots and pans. Castor lifted a jar of pickled pig’s feet from the counter.
Revulsion hit Liz, but an odd smile creased Castor’s mouth. “Looks like he likes to keep some for himself.” Castor opened the refrigerator and gestured toward the stacks of packages wrapped in butcher paper. “I’ll check these out.”
Relieved to let him take that job, she moved to the bedroom, noting a faded bedspread on an iron bed with the footboard sawed off.
The closet was tiny and held work boots, a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, flannel shirts, and more overalls.
She scrounged through the dresser drawers, which held only ratty underwear and socks. Anxious to finish, she checked under the bed and found a wooden box with a lock.
Her nerves tingled.
She removed a tool from her pocket and picked the lock. If they found Ester’s missing hand, they’d have everything they needed to close the case.
But inside there were no body parts, just dozens of pictures of Truitt and his mother. Pictures of him as a kid on camping trips with her and a man Liz assumed was his father. Another one of Truitt fishing when he was a teenager.
Odd—why would he keep pictures in a locked box?
She studied a more recent shot. Mrs. Truitt had white hair and age-speckled skin, and wore a bed jacket as she lay propped on a stack of pillows.
Liz flipped it over and noted the date: just a few weeks before Mrs. Truitt’s death.
An envelope below the photographs caught her eye, and she removed the papers inside with a frown. It was the settlement offer from the hospital.
They had given him a lousy ten thousand dollars.
Ten thousand was all the value they’d put on his mother’s life?
Had that insulting settlement made Truitt angry enough to kill Ester?
She dug deeper and found another photo. A photo of Ester, taken from a distance.
Ester was entering a building called HomeBound. Liz quickly googled it on her phone and learned it was a home health care business.
She checked the date. The picture was taken after the settlement, which stipulated that Ester’s license had been revoked and that she could no longer practice nursing in Tennessee.
Maybe Truitt had discovered that Ester had defied the contract and landed another job. Maybe that had triggered him to take matters into his own hands and kill her.
Rafe’s phone buzzed just as he made his way back to his SUV to meet Liz. “Hood speaking.”
“Rafe, it’s Maddison. We found Ester Banning’s last known address.”
“Text it to me, and Liz and I will check it out. By the way, Truitt’s on his way to the sheriff’s office.”
He disconnected just as Liz walked up. “Did you find anything in the house?”
“The hospital settlement papers Truitt signed. According to them, Ester’s nursing license was revoked. But Truitt must have followed her. There was a picture of her entering a health care organization called HomeBound dated after the settlement.”
Rafe chewed over that information. “Truitt definitely had motive and opportunity.”
“He certainly did.” Liz sighed. “Did you find anything in that building?”
“A lot of blood, but no human body parts.” Rafe opened the door and slid into his SUV. “We’ll have to wait and see if the lab analysis verifies that some of the blood is human. I have the address for Ester’s home. Let’s drive over and take a look.”
Liz slid into the passenger seat. “I have to admit I’m glad to leave this place.”
“Me, too. It takes a strong stomach to work in a slaughterhouse.”
Liz buckled her seat belt as he pulled down the drive. “People’s occupational choice reveals a lot about their past and their personality.”
Just as his choice to hunt down killers did.
He’d grown up in foster care, bouncing around from house to house, never quite belonging or feeling wanted.
Seeing kids smaller than him being picked on and abused had roused his anger, and he hadn’t always channeled it in productive ways, landing himself in trouble more often than not. His smart mouth hadn’t helped, and he’d locked horns with his foster fathers, especially the ones who took their frustration and rage out on innocent kids.
When one of his foster sisters died at the hands of
the family the two of them had been placed with, he’d lost it.
He ratted out the couple who’d locked the girl in a closet, beaten her, and rarely fed her, instead using the money they got for taking care of her to buy booze and cigarettes. The system had let her down badly.
He’d realized then what he wanted to do with his life. He had to make a difference; he had to stand up for those weaker than him.
Just like little Benny at the Boys’ Club needed someone to stand up for him now.
Rafe couldn’t get that kid out of his mind. Benny reminded him of himself at that age. Scared. Alone. Small for his age, but tough. Benny never cried. It was almost as if he saw it as a weakness.
Hell, he understood that. Caring meant letting people in your heart. And losing them hurt. Better not to hope for a family or a real life.
Put up a wall and pretend you didn’t need anyone.
The boy needed a home. Rafe just hoped the social worker found one for him soon.
In spite of the temperature drop, Liz powered her window down as if she needed fresh air to wash away the smell of that farm, and Rafe did the same. Wind whistled through the trees, beating the SUV and tossing pine needles across the road and onto the windshield.
Liz propped her elbow against the door edge and leaned her head against her hand. “You’ve been busy working other cases these last few months?”
Rafe tensed. “A couple.” But that didn’t mean he hadn’t still been hunting for Harlan.
“I wanted to call,” he said by way of an apology.
“I didn’t expect you to,” she said quietly.
Her comment made him feel even more like a heel. “It’s not because I—”
“Don’t.” Liz waved a hand to ward off his explanation. “You don’t have to say anything. We both got caught up in the case, the adrenaline high, the . . . tension. Once the case ended, I knew it was over.”
Because her expectations for men were so low? Or because she thought so little of him?
Hell, if she only knew how many times he’d driven by her place, parked, almost knocked on her door.
How many times he’d punched her number and hung up before she answered. He’d wanted to tell her they could see where their relationship might take them.
