by Brenda Novak
That P.I. was here for a reason, Butch. And it wasn’t to ask about Julia. Those words had meant so much to Francesca when she’d first heard them. She’d assumed Paris knew of another woman who’d gone missing, that she suspected why and was keeping mum about it to protect her husband. But after Dean broke in and came after her with his trusty choke rope, Francesca had decided those words could have another meaning entirely. “Maybe I was wrong,” she said. “Maybe this Julia hasn’t been victimized. She could just be another woman, alive and well, with whom Butch has been romantically involved.”
“That’s what I told myself when you first reported what you’d heard. I didn’t find the comment particularly damning. Not on its own. But if this Julia is alive, and Butch and the Wheelers have nothing to hide, why won’t anyone provide me with a name and an address so I can talk to her?”
Francesca tried to reason that out, but he went on before she could arrive at an answer.
“And there’s something else that’s curious,” he said.
Stifling a groan because she still felt as if she’d been hit by a truck, she sank back into her chair. “What’s that?”
“I found a whole box of love letters in Dean’s room.”
“To Sherrilyn?”
“To Julia.”
This woke her up. “Do you know how long ago they were written?”
“The most recent is dated last week.”
“Which would suggest she’s alive,” she said, smoothing the tape on the fresh bandage she’d put over her stitches.
“Except that they were never addressed, let alone sent. There has to be a reason.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know where she is.”
“I thought of that, too. But in them he talks about how much he wishes he could’ve protected her from Butch. It seems to be a recurring theme.”
Protect her from Butch? It was Dean who was dangerous. They’d just established that, hadn’t they?
Too tense to sit still, Francesca got to her feet again. “What does Butch say when you ask him about those letters?”
“Nothing.”
“Try asking Paris.”
“I can’t. They all invoked their right to have a lawyer present. As soon as I mentioned her name.”
So the interviews were over almost before they’d begun. That wasn’t good. “You think I can track down Julia without their help?”
“You’re supposed to be a crack P.I., right?”
“Not according to you and your rotund partner,” she grumbled.
“Listen, forget all that. We’ve got work to do.”
Now he was willing to collaborate. Because he needed her.
“Hunsacker and I have our hands full here,” he went on. “I’d be tempted to believe this Julia is merely a figment of Dean’s imagination. He’s psychotic, so that has to be considered a possibility. But—”
“Paris talked about her to Butch, which proves they know her—or know of her—too.”
“Ah, the crack in the ‘he’s making up imaginary friends’ hypothesis.”
Just because Julia was real didn’t mean Dean’s perception of her situation was. He wrote about Butch being a threat. But it was possible that Dean had hurt her himself and blamed Butch for making him angry enough to do it, or used some other convoluted justification for his actions.
“A first name isn’t a lot to go on,” she said.
“But it’s all we got. Can you do it? Can you find her?”
She couldn’t offer any guarantees. No woman named Julia had been reported missing from this area in the past twenty years. They didn’t have a body—at least, not one they’d positively identified. And her name hadn’t come up in any other context—just the letters Finch had found and what Francesca had overheard Paris say.
“I’ll do my best,” she replied. “But I need you to do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Give me the date of the very first letter.”
Paper crinkled on the other end. “Assuming they’re all here, and it certainly looks that way since they were all shoved in the same box under his bed, he wrote the first one on—” a few seconds of silence ticked by “—May 15, 2008.”
Two years ago… “Okay. I’m coming to get them,” she said. “Maybe there’s a reference or a name in one that could start a chain for me to follow.”
“Daylight’s wasting,” he said. Then he was gone.
Francesca’s call came in when Jonah was about thirty minutes from Prescott. He sped up as he answered, even though he was already at risk for a ticket. What if I can’t hate you? He’d been hearing her voice in his head ever since he’d hung up with her earlier, when he was still in California, had been telling himself not to invest that question with more meaning than he should. Not hating him was a far cry from loving him, or being willing to give him a second chance.
“Almost there,” he told her. “What’s going on?”
“I wanted to let you know that you can go straight to the salvage yard, if you like.”
“Don’t tell me you’re heading back to Chandler.” He didn’t like the sound of that, didn’t want her to be alone.
“No, I’m not sure where I’ll be. I’m hoping to find Julia.”
He couldn’t recall who she meant. “Julia?”
“The woman Paris mentioned when I was in the salvage yard. Finch feels she’s important to the investigation.”
“What’s changed? He didn’t seem too interested before.”
“He found a box of love letters written to a Julia under Dean’s bed. Now he’s convinced that whatever role she played might be significant.”
“I’d say that’s more likely than not,” he mused and turned down the radio. “Any sign of Dean?”
“No. None.”
Knowing how much he’d worry about Francesca if Dean remained at large for any length of time, how impossible it would be to leave the state and go home, he cursed. “Not the answer I wanted to hear.”
“Not the answer I wanted to give you,” she responded.
He slowed for a light, thought again of their earlier conversation in which she’d hinted that she still cared for him—and purposely avoided asking if it was true. “Where do you plan to start your search for Julia?”
“If Butch, Paris and Dean all know her, chances are she’s either related to one of them or she’s local. And since Butch is completely estranged from his family, even the family who took him in, and has been for a number of years, I figure the Wheelers’ relatives are much more likely to possess information that might help us.”
“Seems reasonable to me. Has Finch come up with anything besides those letters?”
“Not yet. But it’s a big property. They have a lot of looking to do.”
The light turned green, and he gave the Jeep Grand Cherokee he’d rented at the airport some gas. “What about Butch and Paris? Anyone talking?”
“No one. All the principal parties are planning to get an attorney.”
Because of what he’d learned about that black garbage bag, he’d expected as much. “They definitely have something to hide. But what? What could’ve happened to bring them all into collusion? I have a hard time believing they’d stick together to protect a serial killer, even one who’s part of the family. That would make them as culpable as Dean.”
“I agree. Maybe one person might let loyalty interfere with doing the right thing, but four? The question isn’t just what they’re hiding but why.”
“It would have to be a compelling reason….”
“Maybe they’re all benefiting from these deaths in some way or another.”
“How? Unless it’s petty robbery. And I can’t imagine that’d be nearly enough incentive.”
“Me, neither. But there’s a common thread in this. We just have to find it.”
Maybe he’d do that when he and the security guard traveled into the Juniper Mountains. Although he’d originally planned on taking Francesca along, keeping her by his side ever
y second, he felt she’d be safe for a few hours, since Dean wouldn’t have any idea where she might be. But, considering what Ray Leedy had seen the night before, he wanted her to know that Butch might be a threat, too; there could be anything in that black bag, including the body of the woman she was hoping to find.
“You’re kidding me,” she said when he finished explaining.
“No. So…this thing is far from over. Keep your eyes open, okay?”
“I will.”
He knew she was about to hang up but, for some reason, felt compelled to stop her before she could. “Francesca?”
“What?”
Don’t ask. Let her meet someone who hasn’t hurt her the way you have. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll catch you later.”
What was it Jonah had wanted?
Tempted to call him back to see if she could get him to tell her, Francesca stared down at her phone as she left the sheriff’s station. She was fairly certain he hadn’t been about to make another comment on the case. The energy of those last few seconds had seemed far too personal, as if the world had suddenly shrunk into an intimate bubble that included only the two of them. But if he’d been about to admit that he cared for her, what would she say in return? What did she want from their renewed association?
That was a difficult question to answer because as much as she still loved him, she wasn’t sure it would be wise to hope for a future together. Too many obstacles stood between them. For one, it’d been a decade since their earlier relationship. Those years had changed them both. For another, they lived in different states. Then there was Adriana. Was there room in her life for both of them? Or would it become painful and awkward, eventually making her resent one or the other? She also had to think of her family. If she and Jonah decided to marry at some point, could she really expect her parents and her brother to embrace him?
Her phone flashed to the main menu as if trying to tell her that the past was too big a hurdle to clear. The last thing she wanted was to reunite with Jonah only to go through another breakup. It’d been hard enough the first time….
Dropping her phone in her purse, she told herself she was better off leaving the relationship as it stood. Sure, she’d missed him. But if she’d learned to build a life without him once, she could do it again. She’d be wiser to make that decision now, before she formed as many new memories of him as she had past ones. At least after the last few days she’d be able to remember him in a more positive light. Sometimes one had to be grateful for small things.
Pushing the button on her key that would unlock her car, she took a deep breath. Maybe she wouldn’t have the sense of completion or happiness that felt so tantalizingly close whenever Jonah was around, but that happiness could be just an illusion.
From the moment she got out of her car, Francesca could feel Butch’s glare. It cut through the summer heat like the searing blue flame of a welding torch as he watched her approach from where he sat in a cheap plastic lawn chair, while his son played on a tire swing that hung from the same kind of rope Dean had brought to her house. She made that connection right away, planned to ask the police to take a sample, since Dean had left that short length of rope behind.
The Impala was gone. She guessed Butch had suggested his wife leave, possibly to avoid the painful process of having half a dozen police officers crawl over the house and yard, searching through everything and anything, including her underwear, tampons and birth control products. It wasn’t like she had to stay. Search warrants were very specific, and since Dean didn’t drive, the judge hadn’t allowed Finch to include the vehicles.
It didn’t look as if the old folks were home, either, which made Francesca wonder whether Finch was having them tailed. If Dean’s parents felt any sympathy for their boy’s situation, they could be meeting up with him right now, passing him money or giving him a lift to someplace they deemed safe, someplace out of reach of the law—like Mexico, which was only a four-and-a-half-hour drive away.
Planning to ask Finch if he’d considered that possibility, she started to skirt around Butch when he came to his feet and stepped in front of her. “Well, look who it is,” he said, raising the can of beer in his hand.
She wished she had more energy, but last night had taken its toll. “I have nothing to say to you,” she told him. “Please get out of my way.”
He didn’t. Wearing a baseball hat with his typical sleeveless shirt and jeans, he took a swig of beer. “I hear Dean gave you a scare.”
The taunt in his voice said he wasn’t displeased by his brother-in-law’s actions, and that surprised her. After learning about his activity with that black garbage bag, she would’ve expected him to be upset that Dean had brought the police down on them.
“That’s right,” she said. “And I gave him a shot of pepper spray. Considering he’s wanted by the police and will probably spend the rest of his life in prison, I’d say he got the worst of it, wouldn’t you?”
Muscles bulging, he folded his arms across his massive chest. “Too bad that boy ain’t more of a man.”
“And what would a man have done, Butch?” She wanted to taunt him in return, let him know he’d been observed last night, but she wouldn’t risk compromising their case. First they had to get him on record saying he hadn’t left the house.
His gaze dropped to the slight cleavage above her V-neck shirt. “A real man would’ve had you on your back in ten seconds flat.”
A tingle of fear went through her. Dean had shown up at her house with a rope, yet this man frightened her even more. “Are we talking about rape, Butch? Are you suggesting a real man, a man like you, would’ve raped me?”
He gave her an evil smile that made her feel shockingly vulnerable. “Rape you? Heck, no. That’s illegal.”
“Not to mention immoral.”
“That, too.” He took another drink of his beer. “I’m just sayin’ a real man would’ve been able to pin you so you couldn’t spray him, that’s all,” he said with a wink as he stepped aside.
When she came even with him, she paused. “You think you’re helping your case by making comments like that, Butch? Isn’t your family in enough trouble?”
He made a show of appraising her calves, the only part of her legs visible beneath her knee-length skirt. “I’m not in any trouble. They won’t find anything here, except maybe a few trophies from the women I’ve—” his smile widened “—pinned.”
“You’d better hope all those women are still breathing, or you’ll have a much bigger problem than just putting up with a mess,” she said as she gestured at the chaos surrounding them.
He reached out to grab her arm before she could walk away, but the front door opened and a forensic tech came out at the same time. Laughing, Butch shoved his hand through his hair as if he’d intended that action all along. “Let’s hope you’re still breathing when all this is over, huh?”
Francesca couldn’t believe his nerve. She was so appalled she didn’t realize the forensic tech had spoken to her until he repeated himself. “I said, are you Francesca Moretti?”
Pulling her gaze from Butch, she focused on the man who’d been trying to hail her. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
His eyes cut between her and Butch. Obviously, he sensed the tension but didn’t understand the reason behind it. “Finch asked me to keep a lookout for you. He’s in back.”
“Right. In back,” she said, and began to follow him. Then she caught the tech’s arm, so he couldn’t go in without her, and faced Butch. “I’m going to find Julia, or find out what happened to her. Then we’ll see who’s safe and who’s not.”
The unconcerned mask he’d worn since she arrived disintegrated. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“When whoever’s been murdering women and dumping their bodies in the desert or on the street, like so much trash, has been put behind bars, I’ll quit,” she said, and walked off.
29
After taking the letters Finch had given her to the car, Francesca sat in t
he driver’s seat reading. She thought she might have some questions for the investigators or run across a detail she’d need to check out while she had access to the property. But she felt so sleepy she was hardly in top form. And Butch was making her uncomfortable with the way he kept watching her.
When glaring didn’t seem to intimidate her, he got up and fetched the bat he’d come at her with the first day they met. Whenever she glanced up, he’d grin wickedly and take a big swing, as if he was happily knocking her head off. In return, she’d smile and give him a nod of acknowledgment, then hold up the letter she’d just read, as if it contained so much damning evidence he didn’t have a prayer of staying out of jail.
He didn’t like that. After three such exchanges, he cursed and threw the bat aside, then slumped in his chair. The next time she looked up, she noticed that his expression had darkened to a glower. She smiled, anyway, but soon started her car and drove half a mile down the road, where she could still be close but read without the anxiety.
Dean had dedicated the first page of almost every letter to effusive compliments and pledges of undying love. But in this one there was also a poem using every letter in Julia’s name, one he’d obviously written himself.
J—Jazzy, joyous, jinxed, jewellike eyes of green
U—Unique, unpredictable, unbelievable, under eighteen
L—Lovely, ladylike, laughing, long dark hair
I—Important, inquisitive, interesting, isolated as a bear
A—Angelic, alluring, abandoned, all I ever dream about
“Isolated as a bear?” she read. That line stuck out because it didn’t make a lot of sense, until she realized that the last item on the list for each letter created a separate poem.
Jewellike eyes of green,
Under eighteen,
Long dark hair,
Isolated as a bear,
All I ever dream about.
He’d wanted to rhyme.
