by Brenda Novak
She’d been too preoccupied, couldn’t remember letting it go. Or was her fuzzy memory because of the sedative? “Paris doesn’t seem to think he’s so bad.”
“Paris loves him. She’s blind to his faults. Besides, she hasn’t witnessed his handiwork. I have.”
“Handiwork” likely meant the kind of brutal murder suffered by April Bonner—and the others, as well. His words raised the hair on the back of Francesca’s neck. But she wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth, not after learning about Sherrilyn. Was Dean projecting his own actions on to someone else? Someone who seemed capable of killing? Someone he’d hoped to frame? “You’ve seen him kill?”
“I’ve seen the body.”
“What body, Dean? Sherrilyn’s? Or Julia’s?”
Dean jerked as if she’d shot him. Had he taken one more step, Francesca would’ve had no choice but to dive for the pepper spray, even though she hadn’t located it yet in the bedding.
“How do you know about them?” he asked.
“I’ve been doing my research. They’re dead, right? You killed them.”
“No.” Seeming stricken, he shook his head. “Sherrilyn’s not dead. She’s just…missing. I’ve been looking for her for years. Almost every night. All over. I’ll find her eventually.”
His voice sounded so childlike. Had he slipped into a psychotic episode? And, if so, would that help or hurt her chances of getting out of this alive? “What about the others?”
“Don’t confuse me. This—this isn’t about anyone else.”
“Who’s Julia, Dean? Where did she come from?”
“Why should I tell you? I can’t trust you. You’re not my friend. I tried to be nice. But you—you weren’t interested.” He moved forward again. “I need to think of my mother. What did you do with the panties?”
What did this have to do with Elaine Wheeler?
Francesca came up against the headboard. She still hadn’t found the pepper spray, but making a run for it seemed just as big a gamble as a search. “They’re on their way to a police lab. So this is pointless, Dean. You might as well go home and not get yourself into any more trouble. If there’s DNA on those panties, the police will build a case against you, and they’ll put you in prison.”
“Why me? I haven’t killed anyone! And I’m not going to kill you. Whether you die is up to Butch. He’s the murderer.”
She wanted to believe him, but Butch wasn’t the one standing in her bedroom. And she couldn’t see why Dean would be holding a rope if he meant her no harm. “Then why are you helping him? Why are you doing this?”
“I told you. I have no choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“Not this time.” When he lunged forward, she dropped onto the bed and shoved her hands under the blankets. Terrified that she wouldn’t come up with her pepper spray, she almost couldn’t believe it when her hand closed around the canister and she withdrew it so easily from the sheets.
Dean was already on her, forcing her onto her back, using his body weight to subdue her. But he didn’t realize she had a weapon.
Knowing that some of the spray would fall on her, Francesca squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away as she aimed and pressed the button.
It hadn’t been a direct shot. They’d been moving, fighting. But her action had taken him by surprise, and he gulped in some of the spray when he gasped. Coughing and screaming, he seemed to forget that he had the rope in his hands. He dropped it and swung at her wildly, hitting her in the head, the jaw.
Francesca lost her grasp on the can as she coughed, too. The pepper spray burned her eyes, temporarily blinding her, but she knew her bedroom better than Dean did. Ignoring the flash of pain in her forearm from the recent dog bite and using every ounce of strength she possessed, she slammed him into the headboard.
A second later, she broke free.
He cursed at her, telling her she was dead, as he flailed around, trying to find her. And then he started to cry for his mother.
Stumbling toward the hall, guiding herself with her hands, she managed to make her way out of the house. But by the time Josephine let her in to call the police, and a patrol car arrived, Dean was gone.
Pounding on the door woke Jonah from a restless sleep. He’d been dreaming. Of Summer, who’d been drowning in a crystal-clear lake; try as he might, he couldn’t grab her. Of Adriana, who’d refused to help him, then screamed when she saw their daughter floating facedown, just out of reach. Of Francesca, who kept weaving in and out of the other sequences, while trying to escape an ax murderer. Beyond the woman-in-jeopardy theme, the dream made little sense. Except to magnify his fears. And fill him with a sense of foreboding.
Hearing someone at his door before dawn only intensified that feeling.
“Coming!” After scrambling to get out of bed, he pulled on a pair of basketball shorts and jogged over to check the peephole. Then he threw the door open.
Nate Ferrentino stood in the hallway, wearing sweats that didn’t match and a pair of slippers. He’d obviously just rolled out of bed, still had the imprint of a blanket on one cheek.
“What’s the matter? Is it Rachel? Is she having the baby?” Jonah had never been part of their birth plan before. But perhaps Nate’s mother was unavailable and they needed someone to watch Dylan….
“Where the hell’s your cell phone?” Nate demanded.
“I turned it off so I could get some sleep. Why?”
“You need to get a home line.”
“I’m not here enough. What’s up?”
He scratched his head, which did nothing to improve the state of his uncombed hair. “The answering service called me. They said someone from Arizona needs to get hold of you. That it’s an emergency.”
Fear swept through Jonah with the force of a raging river. “Did they say what’s wrong?”
“No.” Nate shoved a piece of paper at him. “Call this number,” he said, and shuffled off.
Jonah recognized the number. He’d called it earlier, just after he’d spoken to Dr. Price to let her know he was off the case and while he waited to board his plane. He hadn’t felt one hundred percent comfortable leaving Francesca behind, so he’d purchased a little insurance.
As he closed the door, he turned to glance at the clock. Four.
Nothing good ever happened so early in the morning.
Powering up his cell, he stood at the window, gazing out at the headlights snaking along the streets of L.A. far below.
A male voice answered on the second ring. “Ray Leedy.”
“Ray, it’s Jonah. What’s going on?”
“Where have you been, man? I’ve been trying to reach you since midnight.”
Jonah hadn’t really expected trouble. He’d hoped Finch and Hunsacker would keep a close eye on Butch, as promised. This security guard was basically an afterthought, a backup system, a way to put his mind at ease. “Forget it. You’ve got my attention now. What’s happening?”
“Your man was busy last night, bro.”
Jonah’s stomach muscles contracted. “What do you mean by that?”
“He’s been up most the night. Wasn’t easy to tell what he was doing. I couldn’t see a whole hell of a lot, especially when he came home from wherever and went into the junkyard. Then I spotted him carrying something in a heavy-duty garbage bag to his truck.”
No… “What’d he do with it?”
“He loaded it in the back and took off.”
Jonah sucked air between his teeth. “What time was this?”
“Around midnight. That’s when I first tried to call you, to see what you wanted me to do.”
“I hope you followed him.” Jonah wished he’d given Ray more detailed instructions, but he hadn’t expected him to have to do anything more than sit outside and watch. Besides protecting Francesca, Jonah had thought it might be handy to be able to confirm Butch’s whereabouts should another murder take place. He hadn’t anticipated this….
“I followed
him, all right. You said I wasn’t to let him out of my sight. But he didn’t go to Chandler, like you were worried about.”
“Where’d he go?”
“The mountains.”
Jonah gripped the phone tighter. “Which mountains?”
“The Juniper Mountains, to the west.”
“What for? What was he doing?”
“I’m not completely sure. I couldn’t get too close. What with all the trees and having to stay back far enough that he wouldn’t see me…”
“You lost him.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.”
At least this guy was willing to accept responsibility. “Can you take me to the general area?”
“Sure.”
“That should help.”
“What do you think he was doing?” There was a note of insecurity in that question, because Ray already had an inkling or he wouldn’t have asked.
“Who knows, but a suspected killer toting a black garbage bag into the mountains in the middle of the night always makes me uncomfortable.”
“Since I’m sitting about twenty yards from his front door, that shit makes me uncomfortable, too,” he said with a nervous laugh.
Jonah pressed his palm to his forehead. “Where is he now?”
“He got home not long ago. All the lights are off. I assume he went to bed.”
“Did he see you?”
“No. I kept my distance. That’s why I don’t know what he did with that black bag. I only know it’s gone. I checked the truck.”
He’d tossed it out or buried it along the way. Jonah had no idea if they’d ever be able to recover it, but he planned to try. “Have you noticed anyone else who might be watching the place?”
“You mean I’m not the only one?”
That answered his question, and made Jonah damn glad he’d decided to spend a few extra bucks to keep Francesca safe. A fifteen-dollar-an-hour rent-a-cop had never been more worth the money. “I guess you are. What about Dean?”
“Who?”
“The slight man I told you about.”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“What time did you get to the salvage yard?”
“’Round ten, like you asked.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
“You want me to stay until dawn?”
“I’d like you to stay until I get there, if you can. I’ll be on the first plane. Consider it time and a half.”
“You got it, man.”
They disconnected, but before Jonah could get showered for the day, his phone rang. “Hello?”
“Jonah?” It was Francesca. He was about to tell her what he’d learned but she didn’t give him the chance.
“It’s not Butch. It’s Dean,” she blurted out. “He broke into my house last night and tried to kill me. If—if not for that pepper spray…”
“What?” His free hand curled into a fist. “Are you injured?”
“No. Since the effects of the pepper spray have worn off, I’m just…rattled.”
Now that he knew she wasn’t hurt, he realized what she’d told him didn’t make sense. If Dean was their killer, why had Butch been driving that garbage bag into the woods? If the two brothers-in-law were partners in crime, they were the most unlikely duo ever, so unlikely that Jonah couldn’t bring himself to believe it.
Something else was at play. But what that “something” was, Jonah couldn’t begin to guess.
“Where are you now?” he asked Francesca.
“On the road to Prescott.”
“Finch and Hunsacker know you’re coming?”
“I called them right away. They’re trying to get a search warrant.”
He considered telling her about the black bag Butch had transported, but decided to wait. If Dean was a threat to Francesca, he wanted him caught, first and foremost. No need to throw the investigation off-kilter before that could happen, especially when they were about to search the salvage yard. Let the investigators take the evidence technicians in there; he’d go to the Juniper Mountains himself.
“I’m heading to the airport right now,” he said. “I’ll call you as soon as I land.”
28
Francesca told Finch and Hunsacker about the panties. Those panties were the reason Dean had come after her, which made them as significant as she’d suspected they might be. She couldn’t in all conscience keep that information to herself any longer. So she’d braved their tirade and breathed a sigh of relief when the search warrant came through and they left with a couple of forensic science technicians. They were finally going to look beyond the mannequin they’d found before, and maybe they’d discover some piece of evidence that could bring this case to a satisfactory close.
But she was as uneasy as she was excited. No one knew where Dean had gone. Although Finch had sent a deputy to arrest him the moment he returned to the salvage yard, he’d never shown up. And Paris, Butch and the Wheelers claimed he’d left his phone at home so they had no way of contacting him, no idea where to find him. Unless that had changed and she hadn’t been notified—which was entirely possible with Finch and Hunsacker—he was still missing.
Where could he be? And what was he doing? Francesca was more than a little afraid to find out. Not only was he mentally ill and emotionally unstable, he had the names and addresses of all her family and friends. And he’d shown an inclination to contact them….
Expecting Jonah to arrive at any moment, she slumped over the table in the small interrogation room, where she’d been sleeping since the investigators left, and told herself everything would be fine. The investigation was on the downhill slide; it had to be. Surely Finch or Hunsacker or a tech on the team would discover some trace evidence—fibers, a piece of jewelry, hair—something to connect Dean with one or more of the victims, even if it was only a spot of blood he’d tracked in on his shoe.
She’d wanted to go with the investigators but, after what she’d been through and the effects of that sleeping pill, she’d been too exhausted to stay on her feet. Besides, Finch hadn’t wanted her with them. Because of her encounter with Dean last night, her antagonistic relationship with Butch and the bad press her involvement in this case had already brought the department, he claimed that her presence would actually make it more difficult to achieve their goal.
“The testimony of the people closest to him will be important. I need to talk to Dean’s family, get them to trust me enough to open up. I can’t believe that will happen with you there,” Finch had said. “Not considering how they feel about you…”
“Just have Hunsacker do the interviews,” Francesca had responded with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “He and Butch are like family.”
The fact that Finch had shaken his head instead of speaking up to defend his partner told her that his anger over the panties and everything else was spent. He acted as if he felt bad for being such a jerk. Hunsacker, on the other hand, showed no remorse. He’d simply muttered, “Told you it wasn’t Butch,” as he passed her on his way out.
Her cell phone rang. Lifting her head, she pressed the answer button. “Hello?”
“Jonah there yet?”
Finch. “No. But he should be coming soon.”
“You stuck on palling around with him? Or do you want to make yourself useful?”
Covering a yawn, she got up to stretch her sore muscles. As tired as she was, she thought she could’ve slept anywhere, even standing, but that chair hadn’t been remotely comfortable. “I’m ready to help. What’s going on?”
“Not much. We haven’t found anything incriminating yet.”
Disappointment weighed as heavily as her fatigue. “I’d settle for suspicious.”
“These things take time.”
She switched the phone to her other ear. “So why are you calling me?”
“The interviews aren’t going much better than the search.”
“No one’s talking, even though I’m not there?” she said, taking a jab at his refusal to include her.
He d
idn’t rise to the bait. “Not the old folks. Not Butch’s wife. And certainly not Butch.”
“I told you to let Hunsacker do the interviews.”
Irritation sharpened his voice. “Enough with the bad blood between you and Hunsacker. If you two want to go at each other, leave me out of it.”
He had a point. Letting her dislike of Hunsacker get in the way wouldn’t help. She was just so…sleep-deprived. And worried.
Resting her forehead against the wall, she stared down at the commercial-grade carpet. “Maybe Dean’s family doesn’t know anything. He was able to stalk Sherrilyn, which means he has a great deal of freedom. This might sound a bit harsh, but Butch and the others are probably glad when he takes off on his little walkabouts, because then they don’t have to deal with him.”
“Maybe they are glad when he’s gone. But they know more than they’re saying about Julia. I can feel it.”
She toed a spot where the carpet was coming loose from the wall. “I thought you didn’t put much store in instinct.”
“I don’t put much store in your instinct. My instinct’s like a compass.” The chuckle that followed indicated he was joking.
“You can be funny?” she said dryly. “I didn’t know that about you.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
And she wasn’t really interested in learning more. “You think they’re protecting him?” she asked, getting back to what mattered most.
“Hell, no. Butch and Paris would love to make someone else responsible for Dean. Even a prison warden.”
Francesca still wasn’t sure where Finch was going with all this, why he’d reached out to her. “You haven’t told me what you want from me.”
“I need you to find Julia.”
What? She lifted her head. “The Julia Paris mentioned to Butch?”
“That’s the one. We kept Butch, Paris and the Wheelers separated so they couldn’t hear each other’s testimony. Standard procedure. But every time I asked about her—if Dean had any friends by the name of Julia or if they’ve ever known a Julia—they mumbled something vague, like, ‘Not that I remember,’ or, ‘Not in recent years,’ and that was it. I couldn’t get another damn detail out of them.”
