Killer Heat

by Brenda Novak

  “But what are the chances he’d find you on such a busy thoroughfare?”

  “I don’t want to risk it. Now that I’ve got what I got, I’m scared of him. I’d rather he didn’t know we’ve talked. He’ll tell my parents, and they may not like it. They’ve protected him his whole life.”

  What had she discovered? Physical evidence? “Where, then?”

  “I was thinking Wickenburg.”

  Francesca had never been to Wickenburg, but she’d lived in Arizona long enough to know it was an old mining town. They wouldn’t have much trouble meeting each other in such a small place. “Fine. Is there a Starbucks?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll call you once I arrive. Then we can pick a more specific location. Are you bringing that guy with you? What’s his name?”

  “Jonah? No. Do you want me to?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. This isn’t easy for me. Dean’s my brother, after all. It’s not like I want a big audience.”

  “I understand.”

  “See you soon.”

  “I’ll be there.” Tossing her phone aside, Francesca dragged herself to the kitchen, where she downed a couple of painkillers before heading to the bathroom. Once she was out of the shower and dressed, she considered calling Jonah or Finch to let them know about this latest development. But after the way she’d behaved last night she was reluctant to speak to Jonah. It was probably her turn to apologize. And she was afraid calling Finch would blow her rendezvous with Paris. He might mention it to Hunsacker, who’d could pass the information on to Butch, who could act to squash the idea. There was no way he’d want to help her.

  She decided to call Finch when she had Paris’s “proof” in her hands, which would also give her time to figure out how to approach Jonah.

  In a further attempt to ease the jackhammer in her head, she put on her sunglasses. Then she found her keys and hurried out the door.

  The little Jonah had slept had been in the Jeep Cherokee he’d rented, which he’d parked a mile or so away from the salvage yard after driving back from Chandler last night. He’d spent most of his time watching the house and drafting Lori’s character reference on his laptop. He’d finally realized he didn’t have the right to hope Francesca would ever forgive him if he couldn’t forgive Lori, so he’d just e-mailed it—

  He sat up. Something was wrong…

  Grabbing his binoculars, he took a closer look at Butch’s house. With Dean being released from jail and Paris charged with manslaughter and subsequently posting bail, he hadn’t expected Butch or Dean to be active. They’d gotten in late. But he hadn’t been willing to bet Francesca’s life on that, either. Regardless of how she felt about him, he still loved her, and if he couldn’t stay with her to keep her safe, he’d protect her some other way, even if it meant watching Butch and Dean until he could determine, for sure, that they weren’t a threat to her anymore.

  Now he was glad he’d made that commitment….

  Although the results of his surveillance had been un-remarkable until several minutes ago, when he’d seen Paris drive off, that no longer held true. There weren’t a lot of people moving around, but the way Butch came in and out of the house, making several trips to his truck and pacing the front yard, reminded Jonah of an anthill after a stick had been jammed into it. Butch seemed to be reacting to a recent and rather upsetting change. But what?

  The binoculars revealed him unshowered and un-shaven, an intense expression on his face and his cell phone jammed against his ear. He hung up, dialed again, hung up and threw his phone. Then he raked his fingers through his hair, recovered his phone and had to replace the battery that’d gone flying when it hit the ground. A second later he got into his truck and drove away.

  Debating whether to follow him or take advantage of his absence by talking to Dean or Elaine, Jonah decided to try the house.

  Once Butch was out of sight, he drove closer and went to the door.

  Dean answered. Judging by the hair sticking up on one side, he’d just rolled out of bed. “Hey there! What’s going on?” he asked as if they were now good friends.

  Jonah glanced in the direction Butch had gone, toward town. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What’s up with Butch this morning?”

  Dean didn’t seem to realize Jonah had been watching the house. Apparently, he assumed Jonah had tried to speak with Butch and been rebuffed. “Who knows?” he said with a shrug. “But don’t let it bother you. He can get like that sometimes.”

  “He didn’t say anything before he left?”

  A wry smile curved Dean’s lips. “Does ‘fuck’ or ‘damn’ count?”

  Jonah couldn’t help chuckling. “As long as you can give me a reason he might be using those words.”

  “It has to do with Paris. He doesn’t know where she went.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Plus, he’s afraid she might confront his girlfriend. I heard him call Kelly and tell her Paris could be on her way over. He said that she wasn’t to open her door and to contact him immediately if she tries to get in.”

  Jonah arched his eyebrows. “Tries to get in? You think she might be that aggressive?”

  Dean yawned but spoke through it. “She’s pretty tired of him cheating.”

  “Does she know about all the women he’s been with?”

  “A lot of them. I once saw a list in her purse.” Now that they were “friends,” Dean seemed eager to confide whatever he knew.

  “How do you know it was a list of the women he’s cheated with?”

  “I’m not positive because I just saw the top of it before she shoved it back in. But Kelly was on there. So was Wanda Erickson, who used to be a masseuse in town. I stopped by once in a while, but Butch went there every chance he got. I saw his truck in her driveway all the time. No way my sister would’ve missed it.”

  Jonah’s heart skipped a beat. “You’re sure? It was Wanda Erickson?”

  “Yeah, but her name had a line through it, probably because she moved back to Nevada.”

  Wanda hadn’t moved back to Nevada. Dr. Price had called Jonah late last night to say they’d managed to identify more of the remains. Wanda Erickson was one of the victims. “Any chance you can give me Butch’s cell phone number. I’d like to see if I can help,” Jonah said.

  “Sure, no problem,” he replied and rattled it off.

  Dean shut the door as Jonah walked slowly back to his car. She’s pretty tired of him cheating…. I once saw a list in her purse…. Her name had a line through it….

  Bits of the forensic profile also came to mind: Beating someone to death is intensely personal. I believe the man you’re looking for has reason to hate his victims and feels justified in violence. The man they were looking for? What if they weren’t looking for a man at all? What if it was a woman? A woman who thought her victims deserved the worst possible treatment? A woman who used a bat to make up for what she lacked in size and strength? A woman who’d already attacked one rival in a jealous rage? Maybe if Julia hadn’t been killed accidentally, in front of Butch, she would’ve been killed on purpose, behind his back. Like the others…

  “Shit!” The killer was associated with the salvage yard. They’d been right about that. But they’d been looking past the real culprit. And, if Jonah had his guess, Butch had figured it out, too, or he wouldn’t have called to warn Kelly….

  Taking his phone from his pocket, Jonah dialed Finch’s number. They had to find Paris—before she attacked anyone else.

  Paris slowed to make a U-turn. This had been a good choice; Wickenburg was the perfect place. She’d been scouting towns since she left home early that morning. Now all she had to do was travel back toward Prescott until she found a desolate spot….

  After twenty minutes, she felt she’d gone far enough. She was in the middle of nowhere, precisely what she wanted. Only a handful of cars passed by. Since it was noon, most people were inside, working a day job, not driving from o
ne small town to another in the middle of the Sonoran Desert.

  Spotting an alcove where she’d have the cover of some scrub brush and palo verde trees, she turned around so she’d be facing in the right direction, and pulled to the side of the road. Then she got out and went to the trunk, taking out the hammer and nail she’d put there.

  Would the nail be long enough? Frowning, she held it up. If not, she’d have to find something else. She hadn’t had much time to prepare for her encounter with Francesca. But she wasn’t particularly worried. It wasn’t that difficult to pop a tire.

  Wincing against the blistering heat, she circled the Impala while deciding which tire to flatten. Francesca would be more prone to believe her “crippled car” predicament if she could see the problem immediately, wouldn’t she?

  That made sense, so—when there was no one else on the road—Paris crouched beside the front right tire.

  She’d just finished hammering the nail through the rubber, could hear the hiss of escaping air, when her cell phone rang. It was her husband. Again. He’d called more than a dozen times. She hoped he’d been in touch with Champ’s friend’s mother, made arrangements to pick him up, because she couldn’t answer the phone and remind him. He’d be upset with her for leaving and would try to talk her into going home.

  She’d call him when it was all over, she told herself, after Francesca got what was coming to her.

  But what if Francesca proved to be more of a challenge than the others? Dean hadn’t been able to overpower her, had he? No. She needed to make her plans accordingly. Fortunately, she wasn’t as stupid as Dean. And she’d done this before. Only Sherrilyn had given her any real problem, but she’d managed to overpower her. They’d find her remains in Dead Mule Canyon with the rest, if they hadn’t done so already. She knew they were still looking and had two more to find.

  Returning to the trunk, she gathered up the rest of her tools, including the one that would cause the most pain. Maybe Francesca hadn’t slept with Butch, but she was a whore all the same and deserved the treatment Paris saved for the women she hated most.

  Finding a nice spot in the shade, she sat down and went over every aspect of her plan while awaiting Francesca’s call.

  By the time she reached Wickenburg, Francesca had her headache under control. She was grateful for the cessation of pain; her nerves were difficult enough to deal with. Paris claimed to possess evidence that would blow the Dead Mule Canyon case wide-open. As far as Francesca was concerned, that couldn’t happen soon enough. But she was still reluctant to believe it was Dean who’d been murdering people. Despite those macabre drawings, he didn’t seem to have the killer instinct.

  Fortunately, Paris said she had proof. If that was true, they’d no longer have to rely on intuition or profiling or anything else.

  As she passed an old schoolhouse painted bright red, obviously a historic building, she called Paris’s number. “I’m here.”

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you.” Paris sounded discouraged.

  “You have? Nothing’s come through.”

  “Coverage is spotty out here.”

  “Out where?”

  “I’m stranded along the highway. And, God, is it hot. I wish I’d brought some water.”

  Already at the end of town, Francesca pulled to the side of the road. “What’s wrong?”

  “I was almost to Wickenburg when I picked up a nail. My tire’s flat.”

  “You don’t have a spare?”

  “I do, but…I don’t know how to change it. I’ve been trying to flag someone down to help me since it happened.”

  Francesca turned the air conditioner to low so she could hear over the fan. “No luck?”

  “It’s too hot for anyone to feel like stopping. There aren’t many people out, anyway. But I called Butch. He’s coming to get me.”

  Butch hated Francesca. He’d only ruin this opportunity, which meant she had to get to Paris before her husband did. “Maybe I can help you change it. Where are you?”

  “On the side of the road about twenty minutes east of town. In the Impala.”

  Checking for traffic, she eased back onto the road. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Could you bring me some water?” Paris asked.

  “Of course,” Francesca agreed, and stopped at the first convenience store she came across.

  When Paris saw Francesca’s BMW coming toward her, she waved. She had the stun gun Butch had purchased for her personal safety—along with the handcuffs she planned to put on while Francesca was incapacitated—in her baglike purse, which was slung over one shoulder. The bat lying in the backseat as, supposedly, “evidence” of Dean’s guilt would serve a dual purpose.

  She’d use one end to make it appear as if Francesca had been raped, the other to finish her off. The only thing Paris didn’t have handy was the garbage bag hidden in her trunk. But she wouldn’t need that until Francesca was dead. She’d stuff her body in that bag, placing it in the trunk of her own car, and drive the BMW as far into the desert as she could safely walk during the return trip, and the sun would do the rest. Francesca’s body would liquefy in a day, two or three at most, and it would probably take weeks, maybe even months, for someone to find her. There wasn’t much reason for people to be out walking in the desert this time of year. As a matter of fact, it was downright dangerous in these temperatures. Paris was glad she’d remembered to ask Francesca for water. She was going to need it.

  The tires of Francesca’s car crunched on the gravel-like dirt as she swung around and parked behind the Impala.

  Paris pasted a smile on her face and approached. “Thanks for coming all the way out here,” she said as soon as Francesca opened her door. “Can you believe this? Look at that tire.”

  “It’s flat, all right.” Francesca didn’t immediately get out. She glanced around as if checking to be sure they were alone. She was a little leery, but Paris wasn’t worried. She knew how harmless she appeared. Although Francesca wasn’t a big woman, she had Paris beaten by several inches and probably twenty pounds. That wouldn’t make any difference once Paris zapped her, of course, but it meant Francesca would feel more confident that she could defend herself, if need be, than if their sizes were reversed.

  That confidence would be her undoing.

  “Did you remember the water?” Paris asked. “I’m dying out here.”

  She barely refrained from laughing at her own joke, but her preoccupation with water seemed to put Francesca at ease. After digging into a paper sack on her passenger seat, she handed Paris a bottle.

  Paris took the time to open it and drink. “Thanks a lot. This is great.”

  “No problem.” Francesca pushed her sunglasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “What did you have to show me? Once I take a look, I’ll help you get that tire fixed. Maybe Butch won’t have to come all this way.”

  “That would be nice,” Paris said, and took another drink. The less hurried she acted, the more Francesca would trust that she was what she seemed to be—an innocent wife and mother who’d come across the sad proof of her brother’s complicity in murder. “It’s in the backseat.”

  When Francesca got out, the BMW dinged to let her know she’d left her keys in the ignition.

  Paris made a note of it. In a few minutes, she’d need to be able to drive that car.

  “What kind of evidence is it?” Francesca asked.

  “A wooden bat,” Paris explained. “But not just any bat. I could be wrong, but it looks as if there’s blood in the crevices. And a couple of long strands of hair are stuck to the end.” That much was true. It just hadn’t been Dean who’d raped and killed with that bat….

  “You’re kidding.” Now Francesca didn’t seem frightened at all. She was too eager to become the big shot who solved the Dead Mule Canyon slayings. “Where’d you find it?”

  Paris followed her to the Impala. She had to come up with some explanation for why it hadn’t been discovered when the cops did their sear
ch, but she’d already decided how to deal with that. “Champ’s coach called to tell me he left his baseball bat at practice a few days ago. I didn’t think that could be true, because I’d seen Champ with his bat since then, but when I drove over to pick it up this morning, I realized he had Dean’s bat.”

  “How do you know it was Dean’s?”

  “Because we only have two. And Dean etched his name on the handle when he was a little boy. It’s still there.”

  As Paris opened the back door, Francesca leaned in to get a closer look. “There’s hair, all right. And I’m positive that’s blood.”

  “I told you,” Paris replied, and reached into her purse.

  35

  Where was Francesca?

  When he couldn’t contact her, Jonah had driven hell-bent for Chandler, but she hadn’t answered the door. Fearing she was hurt, he’d broken a window to get in. But she wasn’t there. And if someone had dragged her out of the house, it wasn’t apparent. Her bed was rumpled and unmade, which wasn’t like her, but if she’d been in a hurry, maybe she hadn’t bothered making it.

  The only odd thing was the bottle of tequila in the living room. Tequila wasn’t something she’d ever liked. He couldn’t imagine her drinking it, especially alone. But there was only one glass….

  His cell vibrated. Hoping she was returning one of his many calls, he answered without even glancing at the screen. “Jonah Young.”

  “It’s Finch. We’ve got Butch here. We picked him up twenty minutes ago, not far from Kelly’s house. He won’t say why he was sitting there, watching her place. Won’t say much of anything at all, which has me worried. I just spoke with Wanda’s former neighbor. She said Butch’s truck was parked at Wanda’s house on several occasions, and yet he told Hunsacker he’d never heard of her. Are you sure it’s Paris we want?”

  “I’m sure,” Jonah said. “Ask Butch if he thinks his wife might’ve gone after Francesca.”

  Jonah heard Finch repeat the question but he couldn’t make out Butch’s response.

  “He says you can go to hell,” Finch said.