Killer Heat (20 page)

“Here it is.” Nate came back on the line. “I don't know how it wound up clear over there.”

“You're not much of a secretary,” Jonah said.

“I'm not a secretary at all, so kiss my ass,” he responded.

Jonah chuckled. “How's Rach?”

“Uncomfortable and impatient. She's also eating me out of house and home. But that's to be expected at eight and a half months. It happened last pregnancy, too.”

“Dylan ready for his new brother?”

“Hell, yeah. Now he'll have someone to pound on.”

They hadn't planned on having children only sixteen months apart, but they didn't seem unhappy about it. “With the size of that kid, I feel sorry for the new arrival.” Picturing Rachel as he'd last seen her, looking swollen and harried as she dragged Dylan through the office in search of his father, Jonah continued to smile. “You sure you're ready to do this all over again?”

“You kidding? There's nothing like it, man. Someday you'll understand.”

Jonah's thoughts reverted to Summer, as they so often did. But this time it was as if he was standing in that hospital room ten years ago, smelling the sweet scent of a brand-new baby.
His
baby. Although it was something he never talked about, he already knew what having a child was like. But that moment, the one that was supposed to be so special, had turned into an ache that would never heal. Not only had he let Francesca down, and Adriana, too—he'd known she wanted far more from him than he'd been willing to give her—he hadn't been there for his own child. He'd opted to go the convenient route.

Little had he known how inconvenient giving her up would become for his conscience. “Someday maybe I will,” he said. “What do you have on Dean Wheeler?”

“Quite a bit, actually. The man's spent the better part of his life navigating the mental health system.”

Relieved by the change of subject, Jonah straightened his shoulders and tried, once again, to close the door on his past. “I'd guessed as much. But has he ever been treated at Laurel Oaks Behavioral Hospital?”

“He has.”

Bingo. They had their connection. Jonah was grateful for that; he thought it might come in handy when he and Francesca met with the investigators later this morning. At least they'd have proof that a second murder victim had a link to someone at the salvage yard. Two links were better than one—and might help combat Finch and Hunsacker's upset over what'd happened last night.

“For a brief period, anyway,” Nate was saying. “Looks like he was committed three different times, all for short stints. In 2006, he was in for a psychotic episode. Spent one week at the hospital. In January 2007, he was committed again, for violent behavior against his sister. I guess he pulled a knife on her—”

“He what?” Jonah broke in.

“Don't get too excited. It was only a butter knife, and the details were never clear as to whether he meant to harm her.”

“How long did he stay that time?”

“Two weeks. Then his psychiatrist released him into the custody of his parents. He went back a month later for depression.”

“So…he's what? Bipolar?”

“He has schizoaffective disorder with severe bipolar tendencies.”

“That's a mouthful.”

“Not a pleasant diagnosis.”

“You mentioned a psychotic episode. He loses touch with reality?”

“According to his doctor, a Dr. Shishimu, he sometimes hears voices that tell him to act a certain way.”

“Do they tell him to murder women?”

“Dr. Shishimu said he'd be very surprised if Dean ever harmed anyone. The voices tell him what clothes to wear, what bus to take, even if that particular bus doesn't go where he originally wanted to, what to eat and so on. You get the picture.”

Unable to pace or do much of anything else in the bathroom's confined space, Jonah sat on the edge of the tub. “What a way to live.”

“That's not all. A nurse at Laurel Oaks told me she remembered him having a persecution complex. When he was there last, he insisted there was someone out to kill him, and the voices were telling him he had to get home in order to protect his mother.”

“He thought it was someone in the hospital?”

“He wouldn't say.”

“Interesting.” The man Jonah had met didn't seem that far gone. Apparently, his meds were working well enough to make him appear somewhat functional. “What medication do they have him on?”

“Geodon.”

“Never heard of it.” But then, he wasn't very familiar with mental illness or its treatments.

“Neither had I, so I searched the Internet for info. It's considered one of the ‘newer generation' anti-psychotics.”

“Which means…”

“I'm not sure exactly. It's more recently developed, I guess. It inhibits the absorption of dopamine in the brain, but I think they all do that. Anyway, he's also on Depakote, a mood stabilizer, to treat the bipolar.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“That's it.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate the legwork.”

“No problem. I'll send you an e-mail with all the names and dates.”

Jonah had just hit the end button when another call came in, this one from his ex-wife. Apparently, Lori was tired of sending him text messages without getting a response. Since even his mother's involvement hadn't brought results, she was breaking away from their usual mode of communication.

“What's it going to take to get some breathing room?” he muttered, then answered so he could finally get her off his back.

T
he pain in Francesca's arm half woke her. Then something else disturbed her sleep. Someone talking in a low voice in another room. Problem was…she lived alone.

Butch! A jolt of panic shot through her—until she opened her eyes and recognized where she was. Jonah's motel room. She'd been so drugged up from the pain medication, she'd stayed over.

Raising her arm to shield against the harsh light slicing through the blinds, she squinted to see if any blood had seeped through the bandages, but it didn't seem to have.

Relieved, she slumped onto her pillows, listened to the air-conditioning chug and contemplated what she had to look forward to this morning. Finch and Hunsacker had called to check on her while she was getting her stitches last night and set up a meeting for 10:00 a.m. But she could tell from Finch's peevish voice how that meeting was likely to go.

She'd have some difficult questions to answer—like why she'd made the decision to go back onto Butch's property. She'd explain that she'd been hoping to come up with some evidence that might save lives, which was the truth. But she doubted they'd be sympathetic, especially
Hunsacker. As a private investigator, she often bent rules she couldn't or wouldn't have bent as a police officer. Knowing which rules could be flexible, and when to test them, was what made a good P.I.

Rolling over, she kicked off the blankets and sat up. She needed to use the bathroom, but Jonah was in there.

Should she knock or wait until he'd finished his conversation? She didn't think he was using the facilities. She was pretty sure he was just doing his best to be quiet since she'd been sleeping. So she padded barefoot to the door and lifted her hand to knock. But when she heard him mention a woman's name, she hesitated.

“Look, Lori, I'm fine with it. I'll write the letter when I get home. I hope you get the baby. But I don't appreciate you calling my mother. Although this should go without saying, leave her out of whatever happens between us.”

Who was Lori? His most recent girlfriend? Someone he was still dating but didn't classify as a girlfriend? And what was this about a baby? Had he fathered another child?

The answers to those questions were none of Francesca's business. Lowering her hand, she scurried back to the bed and tried to ignore the conversation. But now that she was aware of it, she couldn't avoid hearing the rest, particularly when he raised his voice.

“It's not up to you to decide that,” he said. “I've kept your little secret all these years, the least you can do is have some courtesy when you want something from me…. What's the rush? Anything I have to say probably won't matter, anyway. It's been too long since we were married.”

Francesca sank onto the edge of the bed. He'd been married and divorced since they were together? Somehow
she hadn't expected that. She was quick to remind herself that once she'd turned him loose, he had every right to do what he pleased. It just came as a surprise—and added fuel to her determination to keep some emotional distance between them. He was racking up quite a number of failed relationships….

Not that her romance record was much better. She hadn't been married or had any children, but she'd drifted from one man to the next. Even Roland, someone she'd dated steadily for over a year, hadn't meant enough to her to continue the relationship once he started pressing for a permanent commitment. Her feelings never passed “lukewarm” for anybody.

Except Jonah. From the beginning he'd been unique.

“I'll send it to you when I get home,” he said again. “Until then, I'm tied up with an important case…. No, I can't meet you…. That's not true…. I have to go. I'll be in touch,” he said, and the silence told her he'd disconnected.

Trying to feign sleep so he wouldn't realize that she'd picked up on so much of his conversation, Francesca crawled toward the pillows, but he came out of the bathroom immediately, catching her before she could settle in. At that point, she thought he might comment on his phone call, since he had to know she'd overheard it, but he didn't.

“Want to shower?” he asked. “I'd like to grab breakfast before our meeting today.”

She deliberated whether or not to ignore what she'd heard, but couldn't quite convince herself to do so. “Who's Lori?”

Wearing nothing but a pair of jeans with the fly half-
buttoned, he rummaged through the closet for a shirt. “No one important.”

“You don't consider an ex-wife important?”

He selected a clean T-shirt. “Not anymore.”

“How long ago were you married?”

“Long enough that I'd rather forget all about it.”

As unreasonable as it was, jealousy lanced through her. “You have a child with this woman?”

He threw her a scowl. “What, were you taking notes?”

“I couldn't help overhearing.” That was true—sort of. “We don't have a child together. Thank God.”

But he'd definitely referred to a baby…. “Why all the secrecy, Jonah?”

“It's not secrecy. There's just no reason to go into it. These days you and I have a professional relationship, remember?” he said with a facetious wink.

“Fine. Be that way.” Getting up, she went into the bathroom, but by the time she'd stepped out of the shower and brushed her teeth, curiosity had gotten the better of her again.

“I'll trade you,” she offered, poking her head into the room.

He stood at the desk, shoving his wallet and change into his pockets, but at this he turned. “What are you talking about?”

“You answer one question of mine, and I'll answer one question of yours.”

Evidently less interested than she'd expected him to be, he powered down his laptop. “What makes you think I have any questions?”

She should've dressed in the bathroom, but she'd been so preoccupied she hadn't thought to bring any clothes in
with her, so she pulled the towel she'd wrapped around her higher. “You cared for me so little that you're not curious about anything that's gone on in my life since we were together?”

Scowling, he glanced up; he'd been about to slide his computer into its case. “Do you really believe I didn't care, Francesca?”

She smiled to hide the fact that she didn't know
what
to believe. “That's a question, isn't it?”

Kneading his forehead, he blew out a sigh. “I know I shouldn't get involved in this, but…it won't be the first time I've done something I regret.”

“Then we have a deal?”

His obvious suspicion created a marked hesitancy. “What do you want to know?”

“How long were you married?”

“One year.”

“Only one year?”

“Thirteen months, to be exact.”

“How long ago?”

“Uh-uh-uh.” He wagged a finger at her. “That's two questions. It's my turn.”

Concealing her frustration with a shrug, she said, “Fine. Shoot.”

“Who's the man standing with you in front of the Lincoln Memorial in that picture on your bar?”

“His name's Roland Perenski.”

“I don't care about his name,” he said with a grimace. “I want to know his significance to you.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Then you should've asked, because a second question is breaking the rules, as you've already pointed out.”

He came around the bed. “You cheated me on that answer.”

“No, I didn't. I answered honestly.” But it wasn't the answer he'd been after, and she knew it.

“Okay, one more question,” he said.

“Each?”

“Each.”

“No problem.”

“Roland is…”

She pretended to adjust the bandage covering her stitches, which was now a little damp, thanks to her shower. “One of my ex-boyfriends.”

“How long ago were you together?”

“Sorry. My turn.” She bestowed the sweetest smile she could muster on him. “When were you married?”

“Before I ever met you.”

This came as a total shock. “But we were only twenty-three when we met! How could you have already been married? And why didn't you ever tell me?”

He cocked his head to one side. “Wait a second—are we trading
more
questions?”

She pursed her lips as she considered whether or not to continue.

“Well?” he prompted. But before she could answer, he went back to the desk. “Never mind. This is pointless.”

She followed him as far as the aisle between the two beds. “That was a quick reversal. What's the matter? Got a few secrets to hide? Like the fact that you were married when we were dating?”

He rolled his eyes. “I wasn't married when we were dating. That one's for free. But Twenty Questions is now officially over.” Pivoting, he stalked toward her. “Unless…”

As he advanced, she backed up until her spine touched the wall, but the subtle lift in his tone had caught her like a baited hook. “Unless what?”

“Unless you're willing to trade something else.”

She couldn't believe he'd been married and never told her. She had a million questions. But what would he demand in exchange? “Like what?”

His gaze fell to her lips. “A kiss.”

Again wishing she'd gotten her clothes and dressed before starting this conversation, she hugged the towel to her body. “No,” she said with a shake of her head.

Lowering his voice to a seductive whisper, he leaned in until his lips were only a fraction of an inch from hers. “Is this the same woman who was willing to get into the back of the van with me last night for a hit-and-run? The same woman who said making love wouldn't mean anything?”

Her throat was suddenly so dry she had difficulty swallowing. They were treading on dangerous ground again. “I said it doesn't
have
to mean anything.”

“Neither does a kiss.”

She couldn't argue with his logic. But the butterflies rioting in her stomach made her feel too vulnerable to take that kind of intimacy in stride. “Maybe not. But…” But what? She already knew she wouldn't refuse. His proximity jammed all the frequencies in her brain. “If I agree, you have to satisfy my curiosity about your marriage. Even if that means three or four questions.”

She noticed a brooding quality in his expression, which surprised her. He'd asked for this and yet he didn't act as if he was getting what he wanted—he acted as if she was leading him to the hangman's noose.

“Lori isn't a subject I like talking about,” he said. “One kiss per question. Take it or leave it.”