Killer Heat

by Brenda Novak

  “It’s nice that the two of you have so much in common,” Francesca said.

  “You can go to hell!” he retorted.

  Sitting taller, Jonah directed his comments to Hunsacker. “That doesn’t mean Kelly won’t change her mind.”

  Francesca spoke up again. “What about the other woman Paris brought up? Julia. Did you check the missing persons list? It would certainly be suspicious if she’s on there.”

  Hunsacker clicked his tongue. “I hate to break this to you, but there is no Julia.”

  This took Francesca aback. She knew that name had some significance. Paris had seemed relieved that the police hadn’t come knocking, looking for information about Julia. That meant someone should be asking, didn’t it? “What Paris said means something. I know it does. You won’t find Bianca on any missing persons list, either. Yet she’s dead.”

  “You’re stretching.” Hunsacker again.

  “No, I’m not. This Julia could be from out of town, and in that case she wouldn’t be reported as missing in this area.” She tucked her hair behind her ears as she puzzled through it. “Or…maybe she was a runaway. Or she could’ve been a homeless woman. Or even a prostitute. There’re a lot of reasons she might not be on the list. But that name is significant.”

  Hunsacker’s whole body jiggled as he laughed. “You’ve got quite an imagination, you know that?”

  She glared at him. “Stop patronizing me.”

  “What else do you want me to do?”

  “Charge Butch for what he did to me last night!”

  “You might want to listen to her about Butch,” Jonah said. “He knew she was in the yard when he told Dean to close the gate. You don’t seem to be listening—I told you this last night—but I witnessed the whole thing. I watched him bring the dog outside, even heard his wife pleading with him not to turn the animal loose.”

  Hunsacker rolled his eyes. “Or you’re trying to protect her. You come to her rescue every time she gets herself in trouble.”

  “Kiss my ass,” Jonah snapped. “You weren’t there.”

  “Exactly! I wasn’t there,” he responded. “But I know Butch puts that dog out every night.”

  “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t a routine act,” Jonah insisted.

  Finch straightened his tie. “How would we prove that he knowingly locked her in?”

  The investigators’ stubborn resistance made Francesca feel hopeless. “What are you talking about? You have two witnesses. We told you what happened.”

  “Like you told us he had a dead body in the yard?” Hunsacker said.

  With a bitter laugh, she got up. “Under the circumstances, anyone would’ve thought that mannequin was a body, Hunsacker. Or do you have your head so far up Butch’s ass that you would’ve turned a blind eye, regardless?”

  Hunsacker’s face turned scarlet. “Are you questioning my ethics?”

  “I’m wondering if your relationship with Butch is making it impossible for you to view him objectively.”

  Spittle shot from Hunsacker’s mouth as he clambered to his feet. “Because I’m demanding proof?”

  “Because you’re ignoring the obvious!”

  “Whoa, calm down.” Finch held up a hand to each of them but spoke to her. “The problem here is that what you’re saying not only contradicts Butch’s side of the story, it contradicts what his wife, his brother-in-law, his mother-in-law and his father-in-law are saying. So how do you expect the D.A. to take your word against that of all four people who live in the house, when you already have a history of overstepping your bounds?”

  “A history of overstepping my bounds?” she echoed. “Give me a break! The first time I went there, it was just to speak with him. I was searching for a missing woman—and he was the last person to have seen her alive.”

  “That doesn’t make him guilty,” Hunsacker said. “Whether he and April Bonner had an affair or not doesn’t matter. That’s not proof of murder.”

  “He nearly attacked me with a baseball bat. Which, I might add, is how seven other victims have been killed in this area!”

  Sweat began to bead on Hunsacker’s forehead. “But he didn’t beat you. You assaulted him!”

  Francesca narrowed her eyes. “That’s probably what saved my life.”

  “It’s cost you your credibility. That’s what it’s done.”

  Jonah was the only one still seated. “Butch Vaughn is trouble,” he said. “Believe it or you’ll be sorry later.”

  Hunsacker turned to Jonah. “Oh, so if you say it, we should take it as gospel, is that right? Why? Because you’re Mr. Big Shot from California? What have you been able to accomplish since you got here, huh?”

  “Hunsacker, stop,” Finch said. “You know these investigations take time. We’ve hardly begun.”

  “I didn’t want his help from the beginning. He’s no better than we are!”

  Finch slanted Hunsacker a dark look. “I don’t want to get into that.”

  “Whether you’re happy with what I did last night or not won’t change the truth,” Francesca said. “Butch had his mentally ill brother-in-law lock me in, and then he sicced his dog on me. All you have to do is get Dean to talk.”

  Hunsacker smacked his forehead. “Oh, why didn’t I think of that? That should be easy to do. We just need to get him to turn on Butch, to bite the hand that feeds him. And if we could convince him, his testimony would be completely reliable, wouldn’t it? Considering he’s psychotic and hears and sees things that don’t exist!”

  Finch spoke before Francesca could retort. “You say Butch locked you in and set the dog on you.”

  Ignoring Hunsacker, she focused on him. “Yes.”

  “I personally believe that. I have no reason not to. But did he also kidnap you from the van, where you were supposed to be, and carry you off to the salvage yard?”

  Refusing to respond to a question he already knew the answer to, Francesca frowned at him.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “So, in other words, the incident last night could easily have been avoided if you’d stayed beyond the fence where you belonged, correct?”

  “If you’re saying that makes it my fault—”

  “It does make what happened your fault!” he told her. “How do you expect me to charge Butch with attempted murder when all the evidence supports his story instead of yours?”

  “I told you. Dean is the key. He knows what happened, and he wants to talk. I bet his doctor would testify that as long as he takes his meds he’s coherent enough to know fact from fiction.”

  Skepticism created grooves in Hunsacker’s jowls. “And you know you can get Dean to turn on Butch because the two of you are such great friends?”

  Jonah tossed his pen on the table. “Not as close as you and Butch, apparently.”

  “Why are you protecting her?” Hunsacker cried. “What is it with you? Are you hoping to get in her pants?”

  Unfolding his lean body, Jonah towered over the short, round Hunsacker. “Do you have some kind of death wish?”

  “Don’t you threaten me!”

  Feeling guilty for dragging Jonah into this with her, Francesca hurried to interrupt him. “Stop it. You all heard what Dean said when I was wearing that wire.”

  Hunsacker refused to look at her, wouldn’t take his eyes off Jonah. “I also heard him recant it.”

  “So?” She glanced from one investigator to the other. “I’m telling you he wants to help us. He contacted me via my friend yesterday. He’s definitely reaching out. Why would he befriend the ‘enemy’ if he’s defensive of Butch?”

  “Maybe he wants to get in your pants, too,” Hunsacker said.

  She pinned him with a glare. “You’re an asshole.”

  Hunsacker chuckled. “Just calling it the way I see it, honey.”

  She appealed to Finch instead. “The answers and proof we need won’t simply fall into our laps. We’ll have to work for it. I hope you don’t have a problem with that.”

  �
�No. But I have a problem with this.” Retrieving the remote control from the eraser tray on the chalkboard behind him, Finch turned on the TV in the corner. A recording of the news came on. He fast-forwarded through the first few segments until he found what he wanted, then pushed Play.

  Butch stood in his salvage yard next to an attractive female reporter. He was telling her all about this private investigator from Chandler who showed up one day and went snooping through his property, then ran to the police claiming he had a dead body in the salvage yard.

  The camera panned to the mannequin as he pulled back the tarp. “This is what she was talking about,” he said.

  “Nice effect, don’t you think?” Hunsacker piped up.

  Too absorbed in what she was seeing to respond, Francesca watched Butch talk about how she’d said he attacked her but how she’d really attacked him. Then, of course, he showed the scratches on his face. Paris and his son stood by him, making him look like the consummate family man.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said. “What about his sex addiction and his cheating?”

  “What about it?” Hunsacker said. “That’s not murder!”

  “The card from the bar he frequents was found at the grave site!” she hollered back.

  Hunsacker grimaced. “That’s a popular bar. A lot of people frequent that place, including me.”

  “Be quiet. You don’t want to miss this next part,” Finch said.

  That was when Butch, wearing a lugubrious expression, started crying on-screen. He said a consultant hired by the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Office had killed Demon, only he didn’t use the dog’s name. “Demon” didn’t exactly make the animal sound friendly. He went on to add that the bullet could’ve struck him, that it was dark and he was running around, trying to figure out what had set his dog off. He said he didn’t even know Francesca had “broken into” the yard and, of course, added “again.”

  The whole thing made Francesca sick. “It’s all lies. He’s the biggest liar I’ve ever met.”

  Apparently satisfied that he’d shown her the worst of it, Finch paused the television. “I don’t have to tell you the backlash has been huge. Every TV station in Prescott has called, asking why we think we can infringe on the rights of innocent citizens.”

  “You’re pretty skilled at letting the public know only what you want them to, so you should be able to dance your way around that, don’t you think?” she said. “I mean, seven women have been murdered but the public doesn’t even know there’s a serial killer on the loose. Instead, they’re getting this martyr crap—” she waved at the frozen image of Butch crying over his dog on screen “—and thinking I’m the bad guy.”

  “You might not be the ‘bad guy,’” Finch said, “but you’re no asset to this investigation. I called you in here to inform you that you’ve been ordered to stay a mile away from Butch, his property and every member of his family.”

  Francesca felt her jaw drop. “That’s crazy. Laughable.”

  “Maybe it is to you.”

  “You’re getting too carried away with damage control,” Jonah warned. “Butch isn’t the nice guy he seems to Hunsacker. I don’t care if he gives the poor every dime he’s got. Don’t forget that someone cut Ms. Moretti’s phone line the night after she had that little scuffle with Butch. It’d be pretty damn coincidental if it was anyone else.”

  “And we’re keeping an eye on him,” Finch said. “Which is what you were supposed to be doing last night, watching from a distance. It’s not as if we’re ruling him out. We’re just…taking a less aggressive stance until this blows over.”

  “So public safety becomes less of a concern than saving face?” Jonah said.

  “Look, I don’t give a shit what you think!” Finch jabbed a finger in Francesca’s direction. “I’m stuck with the mess she created and this is the best way to clean it up.” Turning back to Francesca, he lowered his voice, suggesting he felt at least a little bad about what he was doing. “Just so we’re clear, this is a court order. If you break it, you’ll be jailed. I suggest you return to Chandler, keep your mouth shut about any proprietary information you have on the investigation so far and leave us the hell alone to do our jobs. Otherwise, you’ll be charged with interfering in a police investigation.”

  “This doesn’t end here,” Jonah said.

  “It won’t do any good to talk to the sheriff.” Hunsacker smiled. “You have nothing more to do with this case, either.”

  Jonah’s nostrils flared. “What did you say?”

  Finch slid the file he’d brought in across the table. “It’s true,” he said with a sigh. “You’ve been terminated.”

  “You think you two can solve a case this size all by yourself?” Jonah demanded. “You’ve never even worked a serial murder before.”

  “We won’t be by ourselves. We’re forming a task force. Prescott P.D. is loaning us some manpower. So is the state patrol. It’ll be announced today, when we go public with the news of what was found in Dead Mule Canyon.” Finch drew a deep breath. “And now, I have to get back to my office.”

  Circumventing Hunsacker, Jonah caught Finch’s arm before he could leave. “So I’m the scapegoat? Firing me is how the department plans to repair its image?”

  “You’re an independent contractor. That makes you expendable,” he said.

  22

  Although Jonah had never been fired before, there was a small part of him that was actually relieved. He’d been struggling with this assignment ever since Francesca became involved in it, but he would never have allowed himself to bail. That would’ve smacked of running from the challenge—not the challenge of the case but of dealing in any sort of normal manner with a woman he was afraid he still loved. Finch’s actions alleviated that problem, removed personal choice from the matter. All he had to do was take Francesca back to Chandler, where he’d left his rental car. Then he could book a flight to L.A., return the car when he hit the airport and say goodbye to Arizona. The next time he was invited to accept an assignment in this state, he’d think twice.

  “I can’t believe that just happened.” Francesca had been so worked up she’d insisted on driving, but Jonah didn’t mind. Somehow, becoming a passenger further relegated him to the “along for the ride” category. He was no longer responsible for anything, he realized as he sat with his seat partially reclined, gazing out at the passing scenery.

  “It’s politics,” he said with a shrug. “You’ve got other clients, right?”

  She lowered the volume of the radio. “I wasn’t getting paid, anyway.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you were hired by April’s sister.”

  “Jill just lost her only sibling. I can’t charge her fees on top of that.”

  He studied her for a second. “Isn’t that what private investigators do? You’ve got a mortgage like everyone else, don’t you?”

  “My mortgage isn’t the point. This isn’t about making money. I’ve got plenty of work. It’s about putting away the guy who murdered all those women. I think we’ve got the leads to do that. I mean, what about the card from that bar that showed up at the burial site? That Julia person Paris mentioned? The fact that Dean was a patient at the mental hospital where Bianca Andersen worked?”

  “No longer our problem. None of it. You heard Finch. They’re creating a task force. Hopefully, they’ll put those pieces of the puzzle in the proper order.”

  “How? By asking Butch whether or not he did it and then thanking him for his time when he says no?”

  Jonah didn’t want to think about it. He’d never left a case unfinished before. It was hard to let go of an investigation before he’d given it his all, especially one this critical. But if the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Office wanted him to bow out, he’d leave them to their own devices.

  “There might be some folks on the task force who are willing to dig as deep as they need to,” he said, and knew that could be true. Someone else could solve this. He had to disregard his own compulsive natu
re, which told him he had to be the one. “Considering what’s happened between you and Butch, it’s probably better that you won’t be involved. Dropping out of the picture might be what keeps you safe.”

  She slowed for a traffic light. “You think he’ll forget about me?”

  Jonah wanted to believe it—that was the only positive he could find. “Why not? He made us both look bad. Hopefully, he feels we’re even.”

  “We killed his dog, Jonah. I doubt he’s going to let that go.”

  “He caused it.”

  “He won’t see it that way. People like Butch never do. He might come after me again.”

  Trying to persuade himself that she wasn’t in danger, he began to list the reasons she could be wrong. “You live two hours away, which makes you an inconvenient victim. And now that he’s succeeded in getting us off his back, he’d be stupid to do anything that might risk involving us again. He should consider himself lucky to have won the last round, sit back and enjoy his schadenfreude.”

  “His schadenfreude?”

  “Pleasure over another’s misfortune.”

  “If he’s a serial killer, he won’t settle for that.”

  Francesca’s words reminded him of Winona Green, the profiler he’d contacted. He’d faxed her the details they had on the Dead Mule Canyon killings but hadn’t heard back. What with recent discoveries—the identity of one of the bodies and details about Dean—he could provide a bit more information. But what was the point? The task force would call in a profiler of their own, if they had any confidence in that sort of thing.

  Still, he should contact her, let her know not to worry about finishing up….

  He’d take care of it in the morning, when he was back home and away from the gravitational pull of this case with its many unanswered questions.

  “Maybe it’s not Butch. Maybe it’s Dean,” he said.

  “What if it is Dean? That doesn’t mean the killings will stop,” she responded.

  Old-town Prescott was replaced by newer buildings set farther and farther apart.