The Survivor (18 page)

“Don’t you ever talk about Mom like that again,” Curt ground out. “She came to the Lord and never turned back.”

Ian jumped forward, but Tigo grabbed him.

“Boys!” Jonathan’s voice thundered. “Fighting doesn’t change any of this.”

“He hit me.” Ian whimpered.

“Be glad it was your brother instead of me.” Jonathan grabbed Ian by the shoulders. “Now, I’m telling you, if you ever speak of your mother with anything but love and respect again, I’ll ship you off to military school.” He released the boy, disgust evident on his lined face.

“I’m sorry, Ian, Dad.” Tears filled Curt’s eyes, and his facial features contorted. “I lost my temper. Sometimes I can hear her laughing or smell her perfume. This afternoon I reached into the dryer and pulled out a sweater that belonged to Alexia. I can’t believe they’re gone.”

Jonathan touched Curt’s shoulder, and Curt clasped his father’s hand.

“Dad, I want the killer found. Maybe it’s the guy Ian saw at the mall.”

Ian rubbed his cheek and glared at his brother. “So what?”

“Ian, if he’s found out you saw him, then your life could be in danger too.” Jonathan’s gaze went from one boy to the other. “The authorities will put this together soon.”

“I appreciate all you’ve done.” Curt reached up to shake Tigo’s hand, but Ian resumed his stoic demeanor. “I know kids give cop types a hard time, but I see you care about us. And I want to believe you’ll find the killer soon. You’re all the hope we have.”

Ian snorted, but Curt didn’t look his way.

“Hey, either of you ever need to talk about school or this or anything, you have my card with my personal cell number. I know your dad has professional counselors for you, but I still want to make the offer,” Tigo said.

“I don’t need anyone.” Ian’s voice rose. “Except a new family.”

Had this kid always been so belligerent? “I have a few more questions for you.”

“I don’t feel like answering anything,” Ian said. “I’m tired of all this crap.”

“Ian, please, son. These men need your cooperation,” Jonathan said.

“Whatever.”

Tigo pressed on. “When you saw your mother and the man at the mall, what was going on?” He probably could have worded that more delicately.

Several seconds passed before Ian responded.

“All right,” Ian said. “They were arguing, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Mom talked and cried. At the time, I thought she might be upset for other reasons. Now I wonder if the way he shook his finger at her and scooted back his chair meant something else.” His tough-boy image dropped, and he choked back a sob.

“Any mention of money?”

Ian shook his head. “I just said I couldn’t hear them. Besides, if this guy was threatening her, why didn’t she tell someone?”

“Maybe to protect all of us.” Jonathan’s morose tone seemed to punctuate the Yeat mood.

“Do you have a name for the … man she worked for?” Curt said.

“Yes.” Ryan took over the conversation. “But it’s fictitious. Our sources indicate he’s wanted for other crimes and possibly used other aliases.”

“Son.” Jonathan turned to Ian. “Do you remember your mother calling this man by name?”

Ian swiped at his nose. “No. But these agents should still be able to do their job.”

“They are doing their best. So is HPD.” Jonathan draped his arm around his younger son’s shoulder. “I’ll get you an ice pack. You’ve offered more information than anyone else has. I’m so proud of you.”

“Right,” Curt said with a huff. “As always, he’s the good guy.”

“That’s enough.” Jonathan furrowed his brow. “Your brother’s hurting, and part of the problem is you.”

Curt took a step back and then left the room. Jonathan didn’t try to stop him or follow.

JANUARY 22

7:30 A.M. TUESDAY

D
arena arrived alone for her 7:30 a.m. interview. She’d apparently had second thoughts about bringing her husband and attorney with her. Her dress was short, her heels were spiked, her earrings dangled on her shoulders, and she wore more makeup than a streetwalker. Tigo escorted her to an interview room, where Ryan waited.

“I don’t have time for the attitude you’ve been using lately,” Tigo said. “According to Jonathan, the last time Joanna talked to you about ending your affair with Taylor Yeat, you said you’d see her dead before she ruined your life.”

For the first time, Tigo detected remorse in Darena’s dark eyes. But for what? Tigo wondered. Had she planted the bomb? Or did she regret her affair?

“Ridiculous. She was my sister.”

“But did you threaten her? Special Agent Steadman is waiting to record your answer.”

Darena pursed her lips. “Her demands made me angry. People say things they don’t mean when they’re upset.”

“And some people follow through.” Tigo tapped his pen on the table. “When a woman and child are blown to pieces—and there’s little left to bury—angry words ramp up to a motive for murder.”

“I did not kill my sister and my niece.” She turned to Ryan.
“Make sure my statement is recorded verbatim, Special Agent Steadman. And since this is being videoed, you have my denial in two places. I detested Joanna and her righteous facade, but I didn’t kill her. Neither did I hire someone to plant a bomb in her husband’s car.”

Tigo smiled. “I appreciate your answering the question before Special Agent Steadman or I posed it.”

Her gaze filled with animosity. “I’m a proactive kind of woman, but I suggest you find the killer instead of wasting innocent people’s time. My taxpayer money is footing your salary.”

Tigo had heard that remark three times in the past two days, and he didn’t like it any better than the first time. “Your conversations with Taylor after the funeral indicated deceit, hatred for your sister, an affair with a married man, and relief that she was dead. I don’t play games.”

“Are … are you planning to arrest me?”

“Should I?”

Fear seeped from the pores of her skin. “Please … I’m a married woman. My son is only eight years old. This would destroy my husband. Think about the scandal. Taylor’s ministry would be over.”

“I don’t care about what this means to your life. Neither do I care about your husband’s or Taylor’s reputations. That’s your problem. What I want to know is why you had a bomb planted in Jonathan’s car.”

Darena stood, trembling. “I’m innocent.”

“Sit down, Darena.” Ryan stood, eye to eye, his voice calm. “We’re not done yet.” He nodded at Tigo, definitely a role reversal in their typical interviewing process. “Do you have more questions, Agent Harris? Or do you want to arrest her now for the murder of Joanna and Alexia Yeat?”

Darena slowly eased into the chair. Her lips quivered. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

“That’s better,” Ryan said. “Any more outbursts, and you’ll need to contact your lawyer.”

“What other questions do you have, Agent Steadman?” Darena had obviously stepped down from her queenly role. “What do you know about Joanna’s college days?”

“Nothing. She only visited us in Memphis a few times.”

“Were you and Joanna as close then as you were at her death?”

A single tear slipped down her cheek. “That doesn’t deserve an answer.”

“Agent Harris, take over. Talking to this woman is a waste of time,” Ryan said.

Desperation crept into her face. “Joanna never talked about her life before Jonathan.”

“Does the name David Smith mean anything to you?” Tigo said.

She shook her head. “Was that a boyfriend’s name?”

“He’s a photographer. Entrepreneur type.”

“Why don’t you interrogate him?”

“We will.”

She tilted her head. “Why do you care about a photographer? Joanna detested having her picture taken. Most of the time, Jonathan had to pose for social events by himself.” She gathered her purse. “Are we finished? I need to get to work.”

“Just one more thing.” Tigo took out the sketch of the man Ian had seen with his mom and slid it in front of Darena. “Do you recognize this man?”

She glanced at it, then looked at Tigo. “No I don’t. So is that it?”

“Although your charisma is hard to resist, you’re free to go.”

Darena glared at him as she stood, then headed for the door.

“Don’t leave town,” Tigo said. “I’d enjoy taking your mug shot for the media.”

Angela arrived shortly after Darena left, but Tigo and Ryan received no new leads during their interview with her.

After she left, Taylor Yeat entered the interview room with
the composure of a man in control. He wore his rehearsed answers better than a new suit.

“I’ve heard enough,” Tigo said after listening to Taylor for too long. “You can brag about your ministry until this time tomorrow, but it doesn’t change your motive to see Jonathan or Joanna dead.”

“Jonathan? He’s my brother. You—”

“He confronted you about your affair with Darena, but you blew him off. How did his confrontation make you feel? He’s a deacon in your church and has the power to make sure you never preach again. Joanna went to Darena and tried to put a stop to your affair. Multiple reasons to find someone who has access to Semtex.”

“Try again, Special Agent Harris.” Taylor nodded at the glass window. “I know this is being recorded and that a couple of experts are watching the interview. I also know you’re looking for a man from Joanna’s past. And her past is filled with dirt. This is just a cheap shot, since you can’t find the real killer. I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid.”

“Might get you further than communion wine.”

Taylor’s nostrils flared. “How dare you speak disrespectfully about the Lord.”

“You accomplished that feat all by yourself.”

“I’ve had enough. I refuse to tolerate any more of this interrogation without my lawyer present.” Taylor’s voice bounced off the wall.

“This isn’t a hearty-amen audience. Did you have your sister-in-law and her daughter killed? Or was that bomb meant for Jonathan?”

“No.” Taylor gritted his teeth. “I’m a man of God, not a murderer.”

“I know my Bible, Mr. Yeat,” Tigo replied. “King David claimed to be a man of God before he killed Bathsheba’s husband. The prophet Nathan had to set him straight. Don’t leave town.”

10:45 A.M. TUESDAY

Kariss left her condo so the cleaning crew could work their magic and Vicki could spend time with Rose. The maids usually dusted and vacuumed Kariss’s office first so she could get back to work, but today expediency wasn’t foremost in Kariss’s thoughts. She needed to pound the pavement and think through what it meant if Baxter wasn’t the perpetrator of the threatening emails or the card and wreath. If he wasn’t guilty, she had reason to be cautious.

She stepped down hard from the curb and lost her footing, landing on her hip. Fiery pain shot up her leg. Kariss took a moment to make sure she hadn’t broken anything, then slowly stood. She’d certainly have a huge bruise, but she’d survive. Walking would still help her think through her dilemma and ensure her leg didn’t stiffen. Sometimes Kariss thought she added dimension to the word
klutz.

Ignoring the ache in her hip, she walked on and allowed her thoughts to turn back to the emails. Who had taken the time to compose them? And why? Why would that person not want to receive her response? If the intent was to intimidate her, the sender hadn’t accomplished his or her purpose yet. Was the whole anonymity thing in place to protect Amy?

Deterring Kariss from writing the book made little sense, because Amy would keep looking until she found a writer who agreed to her terms.

Amy … They’d chatted on the phone, but Amy had been distant. How could Kariss soften her? The woman came with baggage, but she was an inspiration to every person who’d ever faced death and emerged victorious.

Kariss wondered whether Amy’s assailant had been keeping tabs on her, charting her professional successes. It wouldn’t be difficult. Amy was a high-profile figure in the community
and didn’t shy away from public appearances. He could be lurking in the shadows watching her every move. He might even know about the book she and Kariss were working on.

Kariss suddenly thought of an email that had been sent to her shortly after she’d met with Amy the first time. She’d deleted it without a thought. The subject line had read “True Story Alert,” and the message had been an Agatha Christie quote—“If you place your head in a lion’s mouth, then you cannot complain one day if he happens to bite it off.” When she returned to her condo, she’d retrieve it from her Deleted folder and look into it further.

Kariss stopped at the security gate and greeted the guard. Pulling a wrapped cream-cheese-filled brownie from her purse, she slipped it onto the counter of his security booth. He was a sweet man. Always looked out for those in the condo community.

A chill filled the humidity-saturated air, and Kariss slipped her hands into her coat pockets as she walked across the street into an adjacent neighborhood. Dirty clouds hovered and threatened rain.
Threaten.
That word again. Kariss couldn’t get it out of her mind.

She shivered, but her reaction had nothing to do with the weather. She strolled past homes with staged lawns and magazine-cover architecture. Every pine needle and leaf had been raked by some magical hand, commonly referred to as lawn-care providers.

She picked up her speed as she passed a home that housed a German shepherd behind a wrought-iron gate and brick wall. Dogs were the one angst in life Kariss hadn’t conquered. She’d been bitten as a little girl and had never been able to forget the experience.

“It’s only me, taking a walk,” she told the barking dog. She hoped her voice sounded more confident than she felt.

An eerie sensation swept over her, and she turned to look over her shoulder. No one was following her. She’d been reading and writing too much suspense. Some of the TV series were
even worse, with their vivid shots of gory crime scenes. When she didn’t close her eyes fast enough to avoid the blood, she dreamed about it. Or the imagery brought on the nightmares.

The dog’s deep-throated growls could be heard all over the neighborhood. Heaven help her if the animal got loose.

Across the street, an old man limped, somehow managing to keep pace with her.

So that’s what was holding the dog’s attention.

The man had his hands shoved into his pockets, and he wore a cap pulled down over his ears as though the temps were in the twenties instead of the forties. After her fall a few minutes ago, she could identify with an uncomfortable gait. The man glanced her way and stopped. She shivered, as though he might be a menace. Nonsense. Maybe he’d lost his way, wandered from home. Possibly an Alzheimer’s sufferer.

“Do you need help?” she called to him.

He merely stared, as though looking through her. An inexplicable fear crawled up her spine. If she knew any of the people living in these homes, she’d knock on a door. She reached for her phone. Dead. Why hadn’t she charged it?

The man limped across the street toward her. His scruffy beard, combined with the hat he wore, hid his face. Beneath his coat, it was obvious he was a broad-shouldered man. What was she thinking? Paranoia had definitely set in.

“Are you lost?” she said.

He laughed and continued toward her.

Kariss hurried forward, her heart thumping against her chest, the pain in her hip increasing. Surely she was overreacting, a combination of the unexplained threats and the dog’s growls.

“Kariss.” His voice sounded strong.

She whirled around.

“‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.’”

She sucked in a breath. It was a quote from L. P. Hartley’s book
The Go-Between.
A coincidence?

He knew her name.

He’d been following her.

He’d quoted a line from a novel … like Amy’s attacker.

The urge to run spurred Kariss forward though her hip felt as if it were on fire. She’d thought that when adrenaline flowed, everything else escaped the senses. But not this time. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she forced herself to keep moving.

Where was he? If she turned to see if he’d gained ground, she’d surely fall.

Did she feel his hot breath on her neck, or was it her imagination?

Her complex’s security gate loomed in sight.

“Kariss, running from me will never save you.”