Killer Heat

by Brenda Novak

  He scratched his bare chest. “No kidding. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “You bet. You coming in today?”

  “Probably not. I’m planning to work the April Bonner side of the equation, see how far I can get with that.”

  “Makes sense. But before you go, I also wanted to tell you that we have a match on those veneers.”

  Getting a little anxious due to the time—they were down to a mere twenty minutes before they were to report to the sheriff’s office—he skirted Francesca on his way to the bathroom. “The teeth? Why didn’t Pelusi call me?”

  “He tried to about an hour ago. When you didn’t pick up, he called me, thinking you might be here.”

  Ernie Pelusi was the street cop assigned the task of going from dentist to dentist, looking for the man who’d performed the cosmetic dentistry they’d noticed on one of the victims. Jonah had taken to him immediately. Ernie reminded him of one of the guys he worked with at Department 6—Roderick Guerrero. “I had my phone off. Trying to grab a few hours’ sleep.”

  “You mean you don’t work twenty-four hours every day?” she teased.

  Relieved to have some privacy, he closed the bathroom door and leaned against it. “Not every day. So what about the veneers?”

  “A dentist by the name of Greg Johnson recognized his own work. He said the woman for whom he created those veneers was Bianca Andersen, age thirty-three.”

  “If she was reported missing she’s not on any list I’ve seen.”

  “As far as I know, she wasn’t reported.”

  “Why not?”

  “No idea. But Ernie’s got her dental file.”

  Which would have her name and address. “Do we have any idea how long she’s been missing?”

  “From the condition of her jaw, I’d guess over a year.”

  But now that he knew her name, chances were good he could learn more.

  At the prospect of having even a few answers to their many questions, a surge of hope filled Jonah. He’d solve this case and head back to California, leaving Francesca better off—safer—than she would’ve been without him. Maybe that couldn’t make up for his mistake, but at least he wouldn’t be doing any more damage. “We’re going to get this guy.”

  “We don’t have any choice,” she said. “This kind of killer won’t quit on his own. You and I both know that.”

  12

  After summoning her courage, Francesca followed Jonah into the sheriff’s station. On the ride over, he’d told her about the Pour House card at Dead Mule Canyon, and Bianca Andersen and her veneers, which had done nothing to settle her nerves. It was bad enough thinking Butch was responsible for what she’d seen outside the gift shop in Skull Valley. Assuming he was the reason there’d been seven corpses buried in Dead Mule Canyon was simply…overwhelming, especially when Jonah kept warning her not to let Butch get her alone.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Finch wanted to know as soon as he saw them striding down the corridor toward him. “I’ve been calling.”

  Francesca checked her new phone. Neither county investigator had bothered to try her, but she didn’t mention it. Jonah responded. “We can still make it by ten.”

  “Only if we hurry.” Finch waved at Francesca. “Get her wired up.”

  “You got everything else ready?” Jonah asked, leaning on the partition.

  Finch had his hand on his phone. “I’m making sure of that this very second.”

  Hunsacker came out of his cubicle a few feet away, carrying a handful of wires, which he handed Jonah, along with some duct tape. “It’s harder to conceal a wire when you’re not wearing a jacket,” he said to her.

  She glanced from him to Finch to Jonah. “You’re kidding, right? I wear a jacket in the middle of the summer and I might as well announce on a blare horn—‘I’m doing this to hide a wire!’”

  He shrugged. “Just sayin’. I mean, you’re pretty thin. Any bump is gonna stand out.”

  Compared to Hunsacker, everyone was thin. “Then maybe you should go in and wear the wire,” she said.

  His lazy-dog eyes narrowed. “Funny. Almost as funny as sending us to the salvage yard in search of a dummy. Little did we know we were dealing with two dummies.”

  She smiled sweetly. “And yet the woman I was looking for shows up dead on a street corner and now we’re heading right back. Who’s going to have the last laugh, Investigator?”

  “Maybe Butch is.” He lowered his voice. “If he kills you today.”

  “Cut it out,” Jonah growled.

  Hunsacker shot him a sullen look for interfering but seemed to realize he’d gone too far. “Let’s get moving,” he said, and walked away.

  “I can’t believe that guy’s married,” Francesca grumbled. “His wife must be blind and stupid.”

  Finch, who’d just finished dialing, was holding the phone to his ear, but jumped into the conversation, anyway. “Stop wasting time.”

  Jonah passed the surveillance equipment to her. “There’s a bathroom around the corner.”

  Holding a hand over the receiver, Finch stopped her before she could go anywhere. “Whoa, wait. She won’t be able to get that on by herself. We’re in a hurry here. Help her out, Jonah.”

  Jonah raised his eyebrows as if asking Finch to take care of it, but Finch wanted it to happen right away, and he was clearly busy. “I’m trying to see where the hell our utility team is,” he said. “They were supposed to be out there at seven this morning. We can’t all arrive at the same time.”

  Slightly offended by Jonah’s reluctance, Francesca walked toward the bathroom. “I’ll figure it out.”

  Muttering something under his breath, he caught up with her and took the device from her. “It’s not a big deal. Lift your shirt.”

  She did, and he taped the tiny recording device to the small of her back. Then his fingers trailed along her bare skin as he brought the wire around her body. He stopped every few seconds to secure it with pieces of tape she tore off for him, but he kept his head bowed and worked efficiently. Indifferently.

  “You can take it from here,” he said when he reached her bra. “Feed it up and under.”

  “Got it.” Relieved that he was finished, that she didn’t have to smell the fabric softener on his clothes or endure the close proximity of his body anymore, she took the mic, and he turned away so fast it was as if he’d found it repulsive to touch her.

  Why does it have to be Jonah who’s involved in this case? Why can’t it be someone else? she thought as she situated the mic between her breasts and lowered her shirt.

  They tested the equipment. When they were satisfied that it worked properly, they trooped downstairs and into the parking lot. She was to take her car and go alone; they were to follow in an unmarked police vehicle.

  “You okay?” Jonah asked as he handed over her keys, which he’d pocketed after driving earlier.

  She mustered a disinterested smile. “Sure. What’s he gonna do? Kill me?”

  Judging by his dark scowl, Jonah didn’t appreciate the joke. “We’ll be listening. If there’s trouble, we’ll be there right away.”

  “What I won’t do to avoid a trip to the DMV,” she said, but she knew—they all knew—she wasn’t doing this for the articles she stood to recover. She was doing this to save lives. The sooner they could get some hard evidence on Butch, the sooner he’d go to prison. Then she wouldn’t be afraid to return to her own home, and all the other women out there that might come into contact with him would be safe—including Adriana, Heather and Josephine.

  All business, Jonah grabbed her arm. “Make sure you speak up, so we can hear what’s going on. And, whatever you do, don’t go inside. You go inside, no telling what might happen.”

  “Don’t scare her too much,” Hunsacker interrupted. “We’re not even positive this is our guy.”

  Francesca glanced back in time to see Jonah silence Hunsacker with a glare. “Better safe than sorry,” she heard him say, but what she was doing ha
d very little to do with her safety. There was a reason Butch had asked his brother-in-law to invite her back to Prescott, and it sure as hell wasn’t because he felt guilty for stealing her purse.

  Surprisingly, everyone seemed to be home. Several vehicles, including Butch’s wife’s Impala, jammed up the driveway. His son, dressed in a baseball uniform, was tossing a ball out front.

  Butch’s brother-in-law answered the door almost before Francesca could ring the bell, as if he’d been watching for her. Although Francesca had braced herself for the worst—after seeing that body in Skull Valley, who wouldn’t?—she was quickly losing her fear. Surely Butch wouldn’t attack her in front of his whole family.

  “You made it.” Dean offered her a pleasant smile. “Come on in.”

  Jonah had warned her not to go inside, but Francesca was beginning to think that, once again, they’d put out a lot of effort that would prove wasted in the end. Whatever Butch had in mind when he asked Dean to call her—or gave permission for Dean to call her if that was how it’d happened—didn’t seem to be nearly as diabolical as she’d believed.

  Still, she made an attempt to remain on the stoop. “That’s okay. I’ll just get my purse and go.”

  “You won’t come in?” He sounded confused. “I think Butch wants to talk to you.”

  Remembering how Butch had changed the second his family had come into view, Francesca cast a glance at his son. As long as that child remained in the vicinity, she’d be fine. She needed to push this a little further, had to walk away with something. For one thing, she didn’t need Hunsacker and Finch making fun of her for crying wolf again. “Okay. Maybe for a few minutes.”

  Obviously pleased, he moved out of the way and held the door.

  She imagined Jonah cringing as she stepped into a middle-class home that smelled like hot dogs and could’ve been decorated by her grandmother. A purple sofa sat against flocked wallpaper on violet carpet. Tables with doilies and gold lamps completed the effect.

  Butch’s wife was too young to have a house like this; it had to belong to the old couple she’d met before. “Nice place.”

  Dean laughed. “You think so?”

  “You don’t?”

  “I guess. I quit seeing it ages ago. It’s just…home.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “My whole life.”

  She’d already guessed as much. “Your parents owned it before Butch?”

  “They still own it. The house and the salvage yard. But when they retired, they turned everything over to Paris’s husband. He runs it, and they live downstairs in their own apartment. Butch said a smaller place would be easier for them to take care of so they can travel. They can head out whenever they want, but they never go anywhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you ask them, they’ll say they don’t want to leave me. I’ve heard it a thousand times. My mother says she keeps me ‘grounded.’”

  Apparently, Francesca had been right about the house. She’d also been right about Dean. He wasn’t quite normal. “I see. Well, it’s nice that Butch could take over. Your parents must really like him,” she said, just to see how he’d react.

  He leaned close, as if he was about to confide a great secret. “It’s Champ they’re crazy about. It’s Champ we’re all crazy about.”

  The name threw Francesca. “That’s a…dog?”

  “No. The boy!” he said with a laugh. “The dog’s name is Demon.”

  “Nice names on both counts.” She wondered if he could tell she was being sarcastic, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Butch chose both.”

  “I suppose Champ is better than Rover.”

  “I’d rather have a cat than a dog,” Dean volunteered. “But Butch is allergic to cats. He shot the Persian I grew up with the day he moved in.”

  It wasn’t difficult to understand why he’d be unhappy with Butch’s actions. “I hope you had a say in that decision.”

  “Me?” He shook his head. “I don’t have a say in any decision.”

  “Why not?”

  He studied her. “You can’t tell?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I could.”

  “I’ve got mental problems.”

  Strange, he didn’t mind admitting that. “Meaning…”

  “Sometimes I can’t think straight.” He tapped his head. “But it’s okay because the pills keep me on track. I’m fine as long as I take my pills.”

  Which would explain his detached behavior when she’d seen him before. He’d been doped up.

  “Anyway, Princess was getting old,” he said. “It was time to put her down.”

  “Most people take their pets to a vet.”

  “Butch is his own vet. He’s his own doctor, too. But you don’t really care about that. What you want to find out is how I feel about what he did to my cat, because you know you’d feel like shit if you were me.” He cocked his head as if seeing her from a whole new angle. “I like you. You’re smart.”

  A voice came from the kitchen, and Francesca realized that Paris had been standing just inside the doorway, listening, the whole time. “I didn’t know she was here to visit you,” she said, entering the living room. “I thought she wanted to pick up her purse.”

  “We’re getting to that,” Dean said. “Jeez, can’t you let me talk to a pretty girl now and then?”

  With a grimace, Paris folded her arms. “Pick one who hasn’t scratched up my husband’s face. Pick one who isn’t as crazy as you are.”

  “Excuse me?” Francesca said, but Dean interrupted.

  “Isn’t Champ supposed to be at his little league game about now? You know how angry Butch’ll be if he’s late. ’Cause if he’s late, the coach won’t let him play. And Butch doesn’t like it when his little boy sits on the bench.”

  “Like you used to do?” she said. “Game after game? That won’t happen to Champ. My son’s a good athlete. He takes after his daddy. He’ll play.”

  Dean motioned for his sister to butt out. “Ignore her,” he said to Francesca in a loud whisper. “She’s not happy with me for inviting you over. She doesn’t like it that you’re better-looking than she is.”

  “Get her purse, Dean, and get her out of here,” Paris said.

  Before Dean could respond, the back door slammed. Someone else had just come in.

  A flicker of fear replaced the anger in Paris’s eyes. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and pulled car keys out of her pocket as she hurried to the front door. “Champ, grab your bag!” Francesca heard her call as she went out.

  “Seems Butch always gets his way around here,” Francesca said.

  Dean whistled. “Like I said, you’re smart.”

  A shadow darkened the place where Paris had first entered the room, and Francesca glanced up to see Butch filling the entire doorway. She’d thought he looked big outside. Inside was a whole other story. He had to duck beneath the door frame just to pass from room to room. Of course, the doors in this old house were lower than most, but still.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” he said.

  Francesca felt her eyebrows go up. “I’m all ears.”

  “Not here. Not with this retard listening in. Let’s go out to my office.”

  Francesca wasn’t feeling quite as safe as she had when she first went into the house. The people she’d considered insurance—Paris and Champ—were gone. Butch obviously had no respect for Dean, who might not have the sense to intercede if something went wrong, anyway. And she hadn’t seen the old folks. Were they in their apartment? If so, there was a better chance they’d hear her scream if she stayed put.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  He gestured at Dean. “Get her purse.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Wherever you put it after playing with all her stuff.”

  Dean squirmed uncomfortably. “I didn’t play with your stuff,” he mumbled, his face red. “I was just…admiring it.” He slanted an accusing glare
at Butch. “And Paris had it last.”

  “Then it’s probably in the bedroom. Get it, fruitcake. Now,” Butch snapped, and Dean scrambled to obey.

  “Is it really necessary to treat him so badly?” Francesca asked.

  “Live with him for a day, then see what you have to say about how he’s treated.”

  She refused to back down. “He’s your wife’s brother.”

  “Are you sure you want to waste your time talking about my crazy brother-in-law? Because he’s my problem, not yours. And I thought you’d be more interested in hearing about April Bonner.”

  At the mention of April’s name, Francesca’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you have to say about April?”

  Footsteps indicated that Dean was already on his way back. “Not here. In my office. You coming?”

  The opportunity was too good to pass up. She was wearing a wire and could get the whole conversation on tape—although she highly doubted he was about to confess. More likely he’d make up some story to cover being with April last Saturday night. But maybe in the midst of telling that story he’d slip up. Catching him in a lie could help break this case wide-open.

  “Here.” As Dean handed over her purse, Francesca noticed that his mood had changed drastically. Gone was the friendly Dean, the childlike Dean, even the embarrassed Dean. Now he seemed angry—brooding and angry. But, considering how he’d been treated, she found those emotions justified.

  “Go take your medication,” Butch said. “I can always tell when you try to skip.”

  Dean glared at him again, then turned on his heel and left the room.

  “So what’s it gonna be?” Butch asked.

  Francesca didn’t bother to check her purse for her phone or her wallet. What was there was there. She had bigger concerns. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she raised her chin. “Where’s your office?”

  13

  As she’d expected, Butch’s office was the ramshackle building she’d hidden behind when she’d first spotted that mannequin and thought it was a corpse. About four hundred square feet, it had two doors, four windows, a large metal desk, a few office machines and an old air-conditioning unit, which sounded as if it was leaking water, hanging out the window closest to Butch’s chair. A tiny apartment sat off to one side, an obvious addition. Francesca could see part of a bed through the open doorway, but she didn’t have the impression the apartment was currently occupied.