Deadlock (16 page)

1:20 P.M. MONDAY

Bethany digested the morning’s findings. Working on a sleep deficit hammered at her body, but at least she’d taken time for lunch.

She was alerted to a message. She’d gotten to the point of dreading to see what came in next because it seemed each new development brought discouragement. Media was still running wild with the derogatory letter about the FBI’s inability to bring in a killer.

The ballistics report. SSA Preston must have pulled strings to expedite it.

She soaked up the information. The same gun was used in all three murders.

She’d been wrong, so very wrong. Paul Javon was innocent of Alicia’s murder
 
—though guilty of abuse, which could have led to her death. She’d accused an innocent man, and the regret assaulting her twisted like a sharp knife.

A serial killer walked the streets of Houston claiming victims. What was the motive? She typed in a request to the FIG to see if the same gun had been used in any previous crimes.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the many times she’d argued with Thatcher about Alicia Javon’s murder being done by a copycat. She owed him a huge apology.

She typed a text to him.
Can we talk now? Ballistics report.

On my way.

She took a long drink of her Diet Dr Pepper and set it beside her computer. Thatcher stood in the doorway of her cubicle.

“Flash?” She forced a smile, referring to him as the DC Comic hero.

“I wish. Was on my way when you texted.”

She drew in a breath. “I apologize. This seals a serial killer for all three murders.”

He shook his head. “I could have been the one wrong, and this isn’t over yet. Without your insistence, Carly would not have had the guts to stand up to her dad. You rock, partner. You’re my girl.” His face reddened, and he turned away.

She felt the implication in a place where she’d sworn never to go. Not with Thatcher Graves, the player or the agent.

Her phone buzzed a notification from the FIG, ending the awkward moment. She read the update. “Thatcher, listen to this. Two months before Ruth Caswell’s death, another man was found dead by the landlord of his apartment building. Shot in the forehead by the same gun used to kill our Scorpion victims.” Panic raced through her veins. “This poor man was murdered too. HPD labeled it cold, no suspects, no motives, and no leads. I hate this for all the families who are waiting on us to end the killings.”

“Bethany, we’re human. We’re doing our best to find Scorpion. What was the victim’s name?”

“Eldon Hoveland.”

“Let’s spend some time reviewing the police reports and interviews. Does the FIG indicate a scorpion found on the body?”

“No, but that might be in his file.” She turned to her computer and typed in the request. A moment later she looked at him. “No scorpion found on Hoveland’s body.”

“I think we should explore this. I’ll get a chair and join you.”

“Sure,” she said, her focus on the computer screen.

Thatcher returned with a chair. “I pulled up the reports on my phone.”

“Good.” She gave him her attention. “This could be the connection to make an arrest.”

He nodded. “Read what you have and I’ll follow along.”

“Eldon Hoveland was found dead by the landlord of his apartment. He was in his late sixties. Cleaned office buildings and lived alone. Never been arrested. His daughter said nothing was missing from his apartment. The poor man probably didn’t have anything worth taking. No forced entry either.”

“The killer’s gun but without the plastic scorpion,” Thatcher said. “Maybe the plastic variety was an add-on after the Caswell murder, or the Hoveland murder had a different motive.”

“I checked to see if Hoveland cleaned Danford’s building for a connection with Alicia Javon, but nothing there.” She blinked with the additional information. “According to his daughter, he was homeless for a while.”

“What are the odds Hoveland and Spree knew each other?”

“Houston’s a huge city, but maybe they met at a soup kitchen or under a bridge.” She attempted to see the likelihood of the two men being acquainted, but her mind kept shutting down the possibility.

Thatcher scrolled through his phone. “I don’t see any names that match up with Scorpion’s victims.”

She swallowed hard. “According to the report, the daughter’s name is Annette Willis. Let’s talk to her. What if the other murders link directly to him?”

“She could fill in a few missing pieces.”

She stood before he had a chance to change his mind. “You drive.”

Within the hour, Bethany and Thatcher sat at Annette’s kitchen table.

“Dad had been estranged from the family for about five years. Then he found religion and everything turned around for him. He found a job and an apartment. Active in church. This was unfair, a death sentence for a changed man.”

“How was your relationship with him?” Bethany said.

“While he was homeless, we often didn’t hear from him. Later he told me he slept under bridges, on benches, and even a few times at the Lighthouse. He sank his soul into alcohol.”

Bethany had seen too many times where addictions took once-good people. “What brought on the problem?”

“Mom died unexpectedly of a heart attack, and he drank his grief. When he recovered, he was the father I remembered.”

“So the whole family accepted him back?”

Annette frowned. “Not exactly. My husband left during the time Dad was drinking heavily.”

“The problem with your dad also led to marital disillusionment?”

Sadness swept over the woman’s face. “My husband couldn’t forgive some of the things Dad had done.”

Bethany took Annette’s hand when she saw the woman’s pain. “Would you share with us what happened?”

“I suppose.” She breathed in deeply. “Dad’s drinking made him mean, violent at times. He showed up drunk at my husband’s office during a critical meeting, destroyed valuables, and Lester lost his job.”

“I’m sorry.” Bethany glanced at her notes. They had the husband’s name to run a background.

“So am I. He now lives in Austin. New job. A new, much-younger wife. A new baby.”

Thatcher would refer to her ex-husband as having motive. Bethany jotted down the man’s contact information.

“Can you give us the names of your dad’s friends?”

“He came here alone and seldom talked about others. Dad was more interested in me and the kids. I only wish our family hadn’t suffered so.”

“Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt your father?”

She dabbed at a tear. “No. He became such a sweet man. It’s not right he died alone. I hope he didn’t suffer.”

“One of our victims had her Bible stolen. I’m assuming your father had a Bible too.”

Annette nodded. “It was on the kitchen table. Untouched.”

Bethany handed her a card. “If you remember a detail, please give me a call. Thank you for your time, and we’re sorry for your loss.”

“I keep thinking I’ll climb out of this well of grief. But it hasn’t happened.”

Driving back to the office, Bethany fought against a shadow of darkness that stalked her. She tried to shake off a sense of her uselessness mixed with no idea where to investigate next. Prayer hit her radar, yet she sank further.

“You were good with Annette,” Thatcher said. “Appreciate the request for her ex-husband’s work and home contact information.”

She offered a smile of thanks. Although any agent could have conducted the interview.

“What’s got you down?”

“Doesn’t matter, really.”

“Doc Graves will be the judge of that.”

He paid attention to her moods and her health
 
—small things, and yet it made her feel taken care of. If only she didn’t have to be so tough to survive. “My inability to help end this case.”

“God’s a good beginning.”

“Easy for you?”

“Are you kidding? I’m an agent. I thrive on power and control.”

She blew out her understanding. “When you first told me about your faith, I wanted to say it wasn’t part of the office gossip. So thanks.”

“For what?”

“Telling me how God entered your life. And making sure my head is on the case and not on junk. I’ve never told you my best day or favorite vacation or any of those things. Someday . . . I promise.” She wanted to know him better. . . . The scent of him stirred a need she dreamed about and ran from at the same time.

Bethany, stop this ridiculous attraction before you ruin your career. Change the subject now.

“When are you going to tell me more about you?” she said.

“Soon. We men have a tough time expressing our emotions.” He turned her way. “I read the textbook and even got a couple of degrees. Tell you what
 
—one day soon I’ll give you more of my boring life story. We both can have our own share time.”

Before she could respond to his preschool comment, a text came in on her phone. The message made her ill.

“Tell me that’s not your brother harassing you again.”

She laid the phone on her lap. “Okay, I won’t.”

“Bethany?”

She chuckled to make light of Lucas’s text. “He’s making fun of our case.”

“What did he say?”

“It’s not important.”

He swung toward her. “You’re beating yourself up again about something you have no control over. What did he say?”

“All right. ‘Only special Scorpions have enough poison 2 kill a person.’ He must have researched the same site we did.” She saw the sender was typing. “Here comes another one.”

U r not smart enough 2 find the real killer.

8:45 A.M. TUESDAY

Bethany scrolled through the latest news, analyzing information for a lead to Scorpion and waiting for an update about Lester Willis. The Dallas office had scheduled an interview with him late this afternoon, but he looked clean. Probably another dead end, not that she wanted Annette’s ex-husband to be a part of Scorpion. But an arrest would give her a perk. Then again, geographically speaking, the deaths were in Houston, not Dallas.

SSA Preston’s eight-fifteen briefing had lasted long enough for him to order agents to triple their work effort and make an arrest. Bethany’s sponge-like personality soaked up the urgency.

A blurb caught her attention. The director of a women’s shelter on the northeast side of Houston had been attacked and hospitalized. Listed in critical condition.

Bethany’s pulse raced as she pressed in Elizabeth’s cell phone. It went directly to voice mail. She left a callback message and pressed in the number for Noah’s Loft. No answer.

Turning to her computer, she typed in a request for details of the attack. The information scrolled across her screen
 
—Elizabeth Maddrey had been found in her office with a head injury at approximately 5 a.m. A volunteer called 911.

The residents loved Elizabeth, although the men in most of those women’s lives despised her. Bethany offered a prayer
while phoning Memorial Hermann Northeast Hospital near the shelter.

Her dear friend remained in critical condition. Still unconscious. No visitors except for immediate family, who were with her now. Bethany talked to Mrs. Maddrey, who said it was useless for her to come until much later. Elizabeth’s mother could be rather odd, at times rude. But Bethany would honor her wishes.

Elizabeth was the kindest, most generous person on the planet. Someone had better handcuff Bethany if she found out who’d hurt her. She texted Thatcher while grabbing her purse and keys.

Elizabeth in hospital. Serious. Attacked @ shelter. Going to Noah’s Loft first. Will call.

She didn’t wait for an answer. The Scorpion case could wait awhile. Hadn’t Thatcher reminded her several times how many agents were working the case?

At Noah’s Loft, three police cars blocked the driveway. Bethany exited and displayed her ID to a middle-aged officer. “Elizabeth Maddrey is a close friend.”

He raised a brow. “Has the FBI been called in on this?”

“No, sir. Like I said, she’s a friend. I’m asking for a concession here.”

“I see. You’re wanting to know about the assault?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ms. Maddrey was found unconscious in her office with a severe blow to the head. Looks like a blunt instrument.”

“From behind? Her office was kept locked and is too small for someone to catch her by surprise.”

“Yes. We’ve swept the area and checked for prints and DNA. No motive at this point.”

“Who found her?”

He checked his notes. “A volunteer, the cook.”

“I’m familiar with the woman.”

“No sign of forced entry. Indications are one of the women housed here attacked her.”

Bethany determined to learn the truth. “Have the residents been interviewed?”

“We have two officers inside finishing up. Taken us several hours. Nothing concrete yet.”

She wished for once a crime could be solved immediately. “Did anyone see or hear anything?”

“They aren’t talking. Probably afraid, but I’d think they’d want to cooperate. The cook who found her has been very helpful. I understand she’s a pastor’s wife.”

“Right. Can I talk to her?”

“Sure. I’ll walk you around to the backyard. Officers have used a picnic table back there to talk to the women.”

Seated on a bench, the cook dabbed at her eyes, and Bethany took her hand. “I’m so sorry about this.”

“Are you helping the police?”

Bethany nodded. She’d learn about her ID soon enough. “What happened this morning?”

“I heard Elizabeth arrive about four fifteen this morning. The night before she’d asked me to help with breakfast, so I was already here. A little before five, I walked to her office because we were short on milk. The door was closed. When I knocked, she didn’t answer, so I called her name a few times. Finally I opened the door. There she lay, sprawled on the floor over toys.” She drew in a ragged breath. “I used the phone on her desk to call 911. I gave the ER people her vitals, then waited until the ambulance and police arrived.”

“Were any others working?”

“No. The ambulance woke several of them. Bethany, you’re a good friend to help find out who did this.”

“Thanks. Honestly, I’m FBI, and I will get to the bottom of who did this to Elizabeth.”

“I had no idea. I’m glad you’re here.”

Bethany escorted the cook though the back door to the shelter.

The officer who’d met with her originally was speaking to
Dorian and a female officer. He gestured for Bethany to remain where she stood. While she waited, she observed the goings-on around her, listening to conversations and studying body language. A few women were in tears. Others appeared numb.

The officer joined her. “The woman over there is our first suspect. Her name is Dorian Crawford. She’s served time for armed robbery and prostitution. I wanted to find out what she was doing when Ms. Maddrey was attacked. She claims to know nothing and agreed to let us go through her room.”

Dorian laughed at the female officer as though this were a party. She waved at Bethany. The peculiar woman had secured Bethany’s identity, which could easily be found, and she’d exhibited mentally unstable behavior.

“She might open up to you,” the male officer said.

“I’ll see what I can learn.” She approached Dorian. “We need to talk outside.”

“I hope this won’t take too long. Activities must go on. And the kids need games and toys.” Her words raced like the Indy 500. “These women adore me. They’re helpless, you know. I already told the officers what happened.” She touched her heart. “Has the kitchen staff started lunch? I need to check. And we still need milk.”

“Food prep can wait. Today can be a peanut butter and jelly day.”

Dorian gasped. “Oh no. Elizabeth would never permit it. What if a resident had a nut allergy?”

Bethany took on her agent persona. “Dorian, it can wait.” She made a mental note to conduct her own background. The women at the shelter often had shady pasts, but it didn’t set them up for condemnation. Bethany and Dorian stepped into cooler temps and seated themselves on opposite sides of the picnic table.

“I’m telling all the residents you’re FBI,” she said.

“Be my guest.” Bethany made no effort to shove kindness into her question.

“None of the women here will talk to you. You’re a spy.”

“A spy for what? Elizabeth is one of my dearest friends. She and I share the same concerns for the women and children here.” She pointed to her cell phone. “I’d like to record our conversation.”

“No way, Ms. FBI. If you’re going to record me, I insist upon a lawyer. You must think because I volunteer here I’m stupid.” Hostility seemed to seep from the pores of her skin. “Why didn’t you tell the others about your FBI work?”

“Because I wanted to volunteer and help the residents, not have them think I’m on an investigation.”

Dorian giggled. “But now you are.”

An airhead or brilliant? “Why did you refer to me as a spy?”

Dorian glared. “Why are you firing questions at me like I’m a suspect?”

“Are you?”

Dorian pounded her fist against the picnic table. “What’s that supposed to mean? Upset me, and I’ll destroy your reputation. Media love a victim.”

“Go for it.” Bethany had no desire to get into a debate.

Dorian pursed her lips like a pouting two-year-old. “Since the first time I met you, you’ve been obnoxious.”

“Some people bring out the best in me.” Bethany reached deep for professionalism. “Who else knows where you volunteer?”

“No one but my former landlord. I don’t have family.” She sniffed. “These women and children are all I have. I live for them. You won’t find a thing linking me to this morning’s crime.”

Smart woman or a lack of social skills? Dorian’s facial muscles were relaxed. Her arms were folded in front of her, but not gripped. A smile intact without a hint of malevolence in her eyes.

The woman rose from the bench. “I believe we’re done here. You have nothing to incriminate me that would stand in a court of law. From your history, Special Agent Bethany Sanchez, you don’t fight well. What you did to your own brother puts you at the bottom of the food chain. I suggest you watch your back.”