Deadlock (6 page)

7:00 A.M. TUESDAY

Bethany phoned Thatcher to let him know she planned to stop by Noah’s Loft before coming into the office.

“I want a few words with the director. It may be after eight thirty before I get there, depending on the traffic.”

“How often do you plan to volunteer?”

“Two Saturdays a month for only a few hours. No one but the director is aware of my FBI affiliation. I’m hoping someone will have information about the Javon murder. The idea of waiting until Saturday to talk to the residents and staff gives the killer an opportunity to cover his tracks or strike again. I’ll call when I’m on my way to the office. Any updates other than last night’s conversation with Pastor Lee?”

“Just hunches, but we can discuss them later.”

Hunches weren’t facts and were worthless in a court of law, and they led to mistakes. Concluding the call, Bethany deliberated her own conclusions about yesterday’s interviews. The partnership with Thatcher could be termed as in the dating stage, and she had to prove herself. But she refused to hold back on her own principles. After feeding Jasper, she stepped into her closet for a box of clothing articles to deliver this morning. No surprise she’d found clothes she’d never worn, products of a habit she detested. A few sweaters still had tags. At least someone would put these to good use.

Images of Alicia Javon and Ruth Caswell crept into her mind. Why did the innocent always suffer the most?

Once in her truck with a few minutes to spare, she pressed in
Mamá
’s cell phone number.

“What do you want, Bethany? You shouldn’t call me,” her mother said in Spanish.

“I wanted to see if you’re okay. I’m on my way to see Elizabeth and
 
—”

“You mean you’re checking on Lucas.”

She closed her eyes. “I suppose so.”

“He’ll be fine once he’s rested and has good food in him. Jail hurts his heart.”

You mean his pride.
“What are his plans?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because he’s my brother.”

“I hear you have a new position at the FBI, and you’re working with Thatcher Graves?”

“How did you find out?” And so soon?

“One of
Pap
á
’s friends is a police officer, and he told
Papá
. Said you two were working a woman’s murder. Bethany, Agent Graves sent Lucas to jail the first time.”

“Thatcher was only doing his job. He
 
—”

“He hurt your brother. Can’t you refuse to work with him?”

“What would you have me do,
Mamá
?”

She sighed. “Nothing. We’re getting Lucas set up in his own apartment.”

“So he has a job?”

“When he’s healthy and mentally ready.”

She clenched her jaw. “
Mamá
, you can’t support him forever. Does he want to go back to school?”

“Enough. My precious son needs to heal. This second time in jail was very difficult, thanks to you.”

“Would you have him call me?”

“So you can belittle him? Find an excuse to arrest him again?
Don’t call until you’re ready to be a member of this family.
Pap
á
’
s orders.” Her mother said good-bye.

How would she get Lucas’s number? The text she’d gotten from him earlier came from a blocked number. She called his old number but no one answered. Neither was there a voice mail box.

She turned on an FM station to classical music, soothing her mind as she drove to see Elizabeth. No surprise Lucas had persuaded their parents of his need to be taken care of. Nothing ever changed there.

A short while later, she pulled into the driveway of the unmarked facility known as Noah’s Loft, a twelve-thousand-square-foot Tudor-style home that had been converted into a women’s shelter. From the street, nothing indicated the circumstances of those who lived inside. An iron gate across the driveway could be interpreted as a way to keep a dog or a child from roaming instead of a means of protecting the residents. But it could be scaled.

The way her mind slid into possible crime scenarios, she could only imagine what an irate man could do if he learned his significant other or children had taken refuge within those walls. Many of the women and children had been physically abused. Two of her own cases in civil rights had once found refuge here. They’d gone on to secure a new life since then. At Noah’s Loft they could restore their dignity and self-confidence. The children were homeschooled by volunteers to keep them safe. She’d seen the bloodcurdling results of domestic violence in her old neighborhood. A huge reason why she gave of her time and money for what too many ignored.

Approximately forty women and children lived here. Their identities were confidential, and they could stay as long as they desired. A board of directors supervised Elizabeth’s goals of providing health care, GED studies, résumé assistance, homemaking skills, child care essentials, and assistance in finding vocational training so the women could become independent.

Bethany searched both sides of the street for vehicles with
passengers before lifting the box of nearly new clothes from her mocha-steel Ford Ranger. A resident met her at the door and stated Elizabeth was in her office.

A few moments later, Elizabeth and Bethany met in a small, cluttered room stacked high with donations not yet disbursed among the residents. Bethany added hers to the pile. She picked up a coloring book and a plastic bag of broken crayons from a chair, then stacked them onto the puzzles.

“I apologize for the mess.” Elizabeth cringed. “But you already know it comes with the job.”

“No need to apologize. Reminds me of being at my parents’ with all my nieces and nephews
 
—before I was eliminated from the family roster.”

“Their loss.” Her light-brown hair hung in waves past her shoulders.

“Lucas is out of jail. And my family learned about my transfer to violent crime and my new partner’s name.” Bethany stopped herself. “Know what? That’s the last time you’ll hear me whining about the mess. Time I got over it.” She drew in a breath. “Hope you don’t mind my stopping by this morning. Feel badly about how I pushed you last night.”

“I was at fault too. Tired and on overload. I really see how a killer on the prowl could endanger the residents no matter how tight the security.” Sadness swept over her face. “Alicia did a fabulous job with all of them. Usually it’s our women and children who are in danger, not a volunteer. Especially not one as gracious and loving as Alicia. Who would want her dead?” She lifted a tissue from a box on her desk.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I think encouraging the others to talk is a good idea. A memorial service is wise for closure.” Elizabeth dabbed her nose. She didn’t mention Bethany wanting to shake out any clues, and Bethany didn’t bring it up. “I have a few things she left here, personal
effects.” She pointed to a box in the corner. “Her daughter Carly plans to pick them up this afternoon.”

“My partner and I interviewed the family. They appear to be working through the grieving process.”

“Alicia never mentioned her husband, but she talked about the girls. They’re all musically inclined. Sometimes she sang to the children, and we all listened.”

Bethany nodded. “I met her daughters. Beautiful.”

When her pale-blue eyes pooled, Elizabeth grasped another tissue. “I’ll snap out of this. Thought I’d gotten past the shock. I’ve arranged for our ladies’ minister to do a few counseling sessions, except she’s tied up for the next month. Fortunately a volunteer has stepped into her role. She’s coming by five days a week.”

“Wonderful.”

“She’s here now with several of the residents upstairs. Would you like to meet her?”

“Of course.” These women needed continuous support, and a new face could help them through the process. “But first, I have a quick question
 
—well, two. Do the names Mae Kenters or Ruth Caswell mean anything to you?”

“No, other than the Caswell woman’s recent murder.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’m ready to meet your new volunteer.”

Elizabeth led Bethany up a flight of creaky stairs to a huge open space where a noisy group of women and children were gathered. The tattered blue sofa needed replacing. Her church supported Noah’s Loft, and she’d make them aware of the need. Or she’d make the purchase herself.

“There she is,” Elizabeth whispered and pointed. “Working a floor puzzle with the children.”

A woman in her late thirties, wearing huge pink glasses, smiled, and Elizabeth beckoned her. “Dorian, do you have a minute? I’d like for you to meet someone.”

Green eyes under a mop of short blonde hair met Bethany, and
the slender figure popped up like one of the kids. She stepped over toys and arms and legs with an extended hand.

“This is Bethany Sanchez,” Elizabeth said to the woman. “Bethany, I’d like you to meet Dorian Crawford.”

“What a pleasure.” Dorian pumped her hand. “Glad you’re here. Are you staying? Goodness, you’re pretty.” The woman talked faster than an auctioneer.

“Thanks. I don’t want to keep you. So glad you’ve stepped in for Alicia.”

Dorian beamed. “I could never take her place, but I can do my part. We’re all learning together.”

“Miss Dorian,” a small African American boy said. “Can we play Twister again?”

“Sure. In a few minutes. When we’re done, we’ll throw a few balls in the backyard. See if you can improve your batting average.”

Bethany appreciated the woman’s interest. Enthusiasm was the secret to staying young, and Dorian obviously had the energy to make a difference in the residents’ lives.

One of the staff members from downstairs called to Elizabeth, and she excused herself.

“Alicia was quite involved with the residents here,” Bethany said.

Dorian nodded like a bobblehead doll. “One of her specialties was helping them with English and grammar for their résumés. I’m not qualified. Barely made it through high school
 
—too many years ago.” Long bangs hung into her eyes. “But you’d be perfect. You look highly educated. We could use a person of your caliber. Do you have a day job?”

How quickly could Bethany excuse herself? “My job keeps me busy, unless I used my volunteer time twice a month.”

“Can’t you do any better?”

Bethany inwardly sighed. “One hour a week, on Saturday afternoons.”

“Wonderful.” Dorian clapped her hands as though she were ten.

“Understand my job could pull me away at a moment’s notice.”

She glared. “I’ll see if I can find someone for those times. You know this is about commitment. I’d like your cell phone number.”

“Elizabeth has it.”

“Well, I’ll be here in case you call in with other plans.” She whirled around and descended the steps.

Bethany watched Dorian leave. Good thing she’d left before Bethany unleashed a lecture on manners. The possibility of the woman having a form of Asperger’s or Tourette’s stomped across her mind. Elizabeth must be really desperate for volunteers. Then again, what had Bethany gotten herself into? Okay . . . she could spend one hour a week to help women better themselves. Refusing had
selfish
written all over it, but Dorian needed to curb her outbursts. If it occurred again, Bethany would whip out a few guidelines.

She made her way to a group of women and chatted with them and the children. After an appropriate time she raised the question: “Were you friends with Alicia Javon?”

A woman tilted her head. “Because of her tutoring, my son and I will be moving from here to an apartment tomorrow.”

“She taught me how to read English,” another woman said.

A staff member mounted the stairway. “Miss Bethany, we have a problem. Your rear tire’s flat.”

Bethany phoned AAA while descending the stairs and making her way out to her truck. The rear sank to the pavement on the right side. Under her windshield wiper, a piece of paper was wrapped around a rusty nail and held together by a rubber band.

Reaching inside her purse, she pulled out a pair of latex gloves to explore whatever someone had left. Frustration hovered like a dark cloud.

You have no idea what I can do.

Mamá
must have told Lucas where she was going. When would he stop his game?

9:30 A.M. TUESDAY

Thatcher listened to Bethany’s explanation of why she was late returning from Noah’s Loft. Flat tire. She stood in the doorway of his cubicle, ramrod straight with frown lines across her forehead. What had originally looked like a surefire way for her to gain insight into Alicia Javon’s death now had a hitch.

“But if you can put up with the new volunteer, you have an opportunity to get closer to the women.” He wouldn’t have gotten involved volunteering in the first place. He did enough of that in college and grad school, but she must find it rewarding. “I don’t recommend pulling your Glock on her. Might ruin your image.”

Bethany grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

“Should we conduct a background on any of the residents?”

“Not at this point,” she said. “Only Elizabeth is aware of my FBI status.”

“You’re going undercover?”

“Don’t think so. But I’ll find answers if any of the residents have insight into Alicia.”

“Glad to see you made it today.”

“You had doubts?”

“We both have, but we’re overcomers.”

She leaned against the side of his cubicle and tilted her head. “Thanks. I needed a little reinforcement.”

“Keep frowning, and it’ll stick.”

“I’ll think happy thoughts.”

Oh, the sarcasm. “We have a busy day lined up. My preference for getting information is through people. Stats and online research are solid, but people can rarely disguise their true feelings.”

She glanced away. “Have you profiled me?”

“I did.”

She reddened. “I’m sure you saw that I’m a solid performer.”

That was the Bethany Sanchez he expected. “Always.” He laughed but she didn’t respond. “On with the case. Let’s check out Paul Javon’s alibi. Won’t take long to run by Rice University.”

She jotted it down. “Thank you. I think it will change your perspective about who killed Alicia. What else?”

“Yesterday you wanted to talk to Carly Javon further, so let’s bring her in for an interview.”

“She doesn’t think much of her dad, and I’d like to hear her explanation.”

He pressed in Carly Javon’s cell number and pushed Speaker. A gallon of coffee was fueling his reasoning, but this family had more than its share of secrets. He raked his fingers through his hair. Most families had closet stuff. His included. When the girl answered, he introduced himself.

“Why are you calling me?” Carly clipped each word.

“Your mother’s unsolved murder is part of an FBI investigation.” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “We need to ask you a few more questions, preferably at our office.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Your father is a person of interest.”

“Why aren’t you talking to him?”

“He’ll be coming later.”

She released an expletive he no longer used. “My mother’s memorial service is at two this afternoon.”

“You’re not surprised by my call, Carly. Special Agent Sanchez and I read your body language. You didn’t want a thing to do with your father yesterday.”

“Right,” she whispered. “I expected you to contact me.”

“Do you or Shannon have reason to be afraid?” Her silence told him all he wanted to know. “Do you want us to pick you up?”

“I can be there around ten thirty,” Carly said. “The office on 290? Big green building?”

“Yes. You can bring your sister, especially if she’s concerned about her safety.”

“Shannon spent the night with a friend. She and Dad get along okay. It’s me who has the big mouth and refuses to take his orders.”

Thatcher confirmed the time again, then noted the interview on his phone’s calendar. He was quickly beginning to value Bethany’s perception, although she’d not refer to it as intuition. “How are you?” He pointed to his chair. “This is not the hot seat, but a clear-the-air seat.”

“Is this a part of my training?”

“Didn’t you read the manual?”

“Yes, but this part must have slipped my mind.” She eased onto the chair. “Now what?” She felt under the seat. “No gum here or wires to record my responses.”

He chuckled. “Okay, your eyes tell me little sleep. If it’s personal, none of my business, except you have to be alert for the job. If you spent the night beating yourself up over yesterday, then we need to talk.”

“Not personal. I studied the behavioral habits of serial killers, in case you’re right.”

“Tell me what you’ve learned. My guess is you memorized all the reports.”

She massaged her neck muscles. “From the top ten characteristics of serial killers, which you already know, I’m aware of what to look for when we conduct interviews.”

He nodded. “And?”

“Social outcasts. Highly intelligent. Lousy home life. Substance abuse. The same list could be applied to any criminal.” Her eyes clouded for a moment. “I studied a serial murder report on a
symposium done in August and September of 2005. Were you there?”

“No, but my partner was. Bethany, I’m glad you’re diligent, but you also need your rest.”

“I will . . . tonight.”

“Great. Why didn’t you tell me you had diabetes?”

She blew out frustration. “It’s controlled with diet, and I plan to have snacks with me all the time. Looks like my trust level with you has hit bottom.”

“We can only move up.”