Killer Heat (22 page)

“I told you.
Dean
is the key. He knows what happened, and he wants to talk. I bet his doctor would testify that as long as he takes his meds he's coherent enough to know fact from fiction.”

Skepticism created grooves in Hunsacker's jowls. “And you know you can get Dean to turn on Butch because the two of you are such great friends?”

Jonah tossed his pen on the table. “Not as close as you and Butch, apparently.”

“Why are you protecting her?” Hunsacker cried. “What is it with you? Are you hoping to get in her pants?”

Unfolding his lean body, Jonah towered over the short,
round Hunsacker. “Do you have some kind of death wish?”

“Don't you threaten me!”

Feeling guilty for dragging Jonah into this with her, Francesca hurried to interrupt him. “Stop it. You all heard what Dean said when I was wearing that wire.”

Hunsacker refused to look at her, wouldn't take his eyes off Jonah. “I also heard him recant it.”

“So?” She glanced from one investigator to the other. “I'm telling you he wants to help us. He contacted me via my friend yesterday. He's definitely reaching out. Why would he befriend the ‘enemy' if he's defensive of Butch?”

“Maybe he wants to get in your pants, too,” Hunsacker said.

She pinned him with a glare. “You're an asshole.”

Hunsacker chuckled. “Just calling it the way I see it, honey.”

She appealed to Finch instead. “The answers and proof we need won't simply fall into our laps. We'll have to work for it. I hope
you
don't have a problem with that.”

“No. But I have a problem with this.” Retrieving the remote control from the eraser tray on the chalkboard behind him, Finch turned on the TV in the corner. A recording of the news came on. He fast-forwarded through the first few segments until he found what he wanted, then pushed Play.

Butch stood in his salvage yard next to an attractive female reporter. He was telling her all about this private investigator from Chandler who showed up one day and went snooping through his property, then ran to the police claiming he had a dead body in the salvage yard.

The camera panned to the mannequin as he pulled
back the tarp. “This is what she was talking about,” he said.

“Nice effect, don't you think?” Hunsacker piped up.

Too absorbed in what she was seeing to respond, Francesca watched Butch talk about how she'd said he attacked her but how she'd really attacked him. Then, of course, he showed the scratches on his face. Paris and his son stood by him, making him look like the consummate family man.

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “What about his sex addiction and his cheating?”

“What about it?” Hunsacker said.
“That's not murder!”

“The card from the bar he frequents was found at the grave site!” she hollered back.

Hunsacker grimaced. “That's a popular bar. A lot of people frequent that place, including me.”

“Be quiet. You don't want to miss this next part,” Finch said.

That was when Butch, wearing a lugubrious expression, started crying on-screen. He said a consultant hired by the Yavapai County Sheriff's Office had killed Demon, only he didn't use the dog's name. “Demon” didn't exactly make the animal sound friendly. He went on to add that the bullet could've struck
him,
that it was dark and he was running around, trying to figure out what had set his dog off. He said he didn't even know Francesca had “broken into” the yard and, of course, added “again.”

The whole thing made Francesca sick. “It's all lies. He's the biggest liar I've ever met.”

Apparently satisfied that he'd shown her the worst of it, Finch paused the television. “I don't have to tell you the backlash has been huge. Every TV station in Prescott
has called, asking why we think we can infringe on the rights of innocent citizens.”

“You're pretty skilled at letting the public know only what you want them to, so you should be able to dance your way around that, don't you think?” she said. “I mean, seven women have been murdered but the public doesn't even know there's a serial killer on the loose. Instead, they're getting this martyr crap—” she waved at the frozen image of Butch crying over his dog on screen “—and thinking
I'm
the bad guy.”

“You might not be the ‘bad guy,'” Finch said, “but you're no asset to this investigation. I called you in here to inform you that you've been ordered to stay a mile away from Butch, his property and every member of his family.”

Francesca felt her jaw drop. “That's crazy. Laughable.”

“Maybe it is to you.”

“You're getting too carried away with damage control,” Jonah warned. “Butch isn't the nice guy he seems to Hunsacker. I don't care if he gives the poor every dime he's got. Don't forget that someone cut Ms. Moretti's phone line the night after she had that little scuffle with Butch. It'd be pretty damn coincidental if it was anyone else.”

“And we're keeping an eye on him,” Finch said. “Which is what
you
were supposed to be doing last night, watching from a distance. It's not as if we're ruling him out. We're just…taking a less aggressive stance until this blows over.”

“So public safety becomes less of a concern than saving face?” Jonah said.

“Look, I don't give a shit what you think!” Finch jabbed a finger in Francesca's direction. “I'm stuck with
the mess she created and this is the best way to clean it up.” Turning back to Francesca, he lowered his voice, suggesting he felt at least a little bad about what he was doing. “Just so we're clear, this is a court order. If you break it, you'll be jailed. I suggest you return to Chandler, keep your mouth shut about any proprietary information you have on the investigation so far and leave us the hell alone to do our jobs. Otherwise, you'll be charged with interfering in a police investigation.”

“This doesn't end here,” Jonah said.

“It won't do any good to talk to the sheriff.” Hunsacker smiled. “You have nothing more to do with this case, either.”

Jonah's nostrils flared. “What did you say?”

Finch slid the file he'd brought in across the table. “It's true,” he said with a sigh. “You've been terminated.”

“You think you two can solve a case this size all by yourself?” Jonah demanded. “You've never even worked a serial murder before.”

“We won't be by ourselves. We're forming a task force. Prescott P.D. is loaning us some manpower. So is the state patrol. It'll be announced today, when we go public with the news of what was found in Dead Mule Canyon.” Finch drew a deep breath. “And now, I have to get back to my office.”

Circumventing Hunsacker, Jonah caught Finch's arm before he could leave. “So I'm the scapegoat? Firing me is how the department plans to repair its image?”

“You're an independent contractor. That makes you expendable,” he said.

A
lthough Jonah had never been fired before, there was a small part of him that was actually relieved. He'd been struggling with this assignment ever since Francesca became involved in it, but he would never have allowed himself to bail. That would've smacked of running from the challenge—not the challenge of the case but of dealing in any sort of normal manner with a woman he was afraid he still loved. Finch's actions alleviated that problem, removed personal choice from the matter. All he had to do was take Francesca back to Chandler, where he'd left his rental car. Then he could book a flight to L.A., return the car when he hit the airport and say goodbye to Arizona. The next time he was invited to accept an assignment in this state, he'd think twice.

“I can't believe that just happened.” Francesca had been so worked up she'd insisted on driving, but Jonah didn't mind. Somehow, becoming a passenger further relegated him to the “along for the ride” category. He was no longer responsible for anything, he realized as he sat with his seat partially reclined, gazing out at the passing scenery.

“It's politics,” he said with a shrug. “You've got other clients, right?”

She lowered the volume of the radio. “I wasn't getting paid, anyway.”

“What do you mean? I thought you were hired by April's sister.”

“Jill just lost her only sibling. I can't charge her fees on top of that.”

He studied her for a second. “Isn't that what private investigators do? You've got a mortgage like everyone else, don't you?”

“My mortgage isn't the point. This isn't about making money. I've got plenty of work. It's about putting away the guy who murdered all those women. I think we've got the leads to do that. I mean, what about the card from that bar that showed up at the burial site? That Julia person Paris mentioned? The fact that Dean was a patient at the mental hospital where Bianca Andersen worked?”

“No longer our problem. None of it. You heard Finch. They're creating a task force. Hopefully, they'll put those pieces of the puzzle in the proper order.”

“How? By asking Butch whether or not he did it and then thanking him for his time when he says no?”

Jonah didn't want to think about it. He'd never left a case unfinished before. It was hard to let go of an investigation before he'd given it his all, especially one this critical. But if the Yavapai County Sheriff's Office wanted him to bow out, he'd leave them to their own devices.

“There might be some folks on the task force who are willing to dig as deep as they need to,” he said, and knew that could be true. Someone else could solve this. He had to disregard his own compulsive nature, which told him he had to be the one. “Considering what's happened between you and Butch, it's probably better that
you won't be involved. Dropping out of the picture might be what keeps you safe.”

She slowed for a traffic light. “You think he'll forget about me?”

Jonah
wanted
to believe it—that was the only positive he could find. “Why not? He made us both look bad. Hopefully, he feels we're even.”

“We killed his dog, Jonah. I doubt he's going to let that go.”

“
He
caused it.”

“He won't see it that way. People like Butch never do. He might come after me again.”

Trying to persuade himself that she wasn't in danger, he began to list the reasons she could be wrong. “You live two hours away, which makes you an inconvenient victim. And now that he's succeeded in getting us off his back, he'd be stupid to do anything that might risk involving us again. He should consider himself lucky to have won the last round, sit back and enjoy his schadenfreude.”

“His schadenfreude?”

“Pleasure over another's misfortune.”

“If he's a serial killer, he won't settle for that.”

Francesca's words reminded him of Winona Green, the profiler he'd contacted. He'd faxed her the details they had on the Dead Mule Canyon killings but hadn't heard back. What with recent discoveries—the identity of one of the bodies and details about Dean—he could provide a bit more information. But what was the point? The task force would call in a profiler of their own, if they had any confidence in that sort of thing.

Still, he should contact her, let her know not to worry about finishing up….

He'd take care of it in the morning, when he was back
home and away from the gravitational pull of this case with its many unanswered questions.

“Maybe it's not Butch. Maybe it's Dean,” he said.

“What if it is Dean? That doesn't mean the killings will stop,” she responded.

Old-town Prescott was replaced by newer buildings set farther and farther apart.

“So what do you suggest we do?” he asked. “Ignore what we were told? Act like we weren't kicked off the case?”

Scowling, she stared out at the desert landscape. “I don't know. I can't just drop this. Partly because it doesn't feel as if Hunsacker and Finch are paying enough attention to Butch and Dean.”

Jonah understood. He felt the same way. But there were advantages to what had occurred this morning, which he'd been busy trying to tell himself.

“Don't you care about how Finch and Hunsacker treated you?” Francesca asked.

“If you want the truth, I was tempted to break Hunsacker's jaw. If he wasn't so fat and incapable of defending himself, maybe I would have. But I held on to my temper. And now I'm proud of myself for that. I'm thinking we both might benefit from taking this opportunity to…”

She finished his sentence before he could unearth the words he was searching for. “Put some distance between us?”

“To work on something a little less sexually frustrating,” he muttered.

She turned to look at him. “If it wasn't for me, you'd fight for this case, wouldn't you?”

Propping his chin up with his fist, he gazed out the window. “Maybe.” Definitely. But leaving meant he
wouldn't be forced to endure her company anymore or the confusing emotions she evoked. Once he got to California, if all went as planned, those feelings would dull in intensity, at least enough that he could function without thinking of her constantly. He'd managed it before.

Of course, it'd taken him ten years to reach that point, but he didn't want to concentrate on
that
detail. It was too damn depressing.

“In any event, we'd be crazy to give them a reason to charge us with interfering. Because they'll do it if we provoke them.”

“What if you talked to the sheriff?” she said. “Maybe you can get him to change his mind.”

“He's the one who signed the notice of dismissal, remember?” He pulled the file from between the seat and the console and waved it at her.

“So that's it? You're leaving because of me.”

He shrugged. “More or less.”

She didn't seem to like the sound of that. “What will you do when you get home?”

“Same thing you should. Take on a different case. Try to forget this one.”

“Are you worried that your boss might be upset by how it went down in Prescott?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He stretched his seat belt. “Because I've already proven myself. I'll tell him what happened and that will be that.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive. Contracts get canceled now and then. With the task force they're forming, this isn't all that unusual. Besides, I haven't done anything wrong. I couldn't let
Demon kill you. As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing bad they can say about my work.”

“What secret have you kept for Lori?”

The sudden change of subject took him by surprise. “What?”

“You told your ex-wife you've kept her secret all these years. What did that mean?”

He felt his mood shift, grow darker, despite all the effort he'd put into shoring it up. “Nothing.”

“You're
still
going to keep it.”

“Why not? Running my mouth won't improve the situation.”

Francesca obviously wasn't satisfied with that answer. But she didn't press him. A Chevron station came up at the very edge of town, and she pulled into it. “We'd better fill up.”

“I'll get it,” he said.

He pumped the gas, then went into the Mini Mart to pick up a couple of cold drinks. He wanted some iced tea. But as he stood in line at the checkout, his gaze landed on a rack of condoms.

“Will that be all?” the clerk asked as he set the two bottles near the register.

“Yeah.” He had no need for condoms. He wasn't even dating anyone. But after he put down a twenty, he threw a box on the counter, anyway.

“Wait, you want those, too?” the clerk asked.

Jonah glanced through the front window of the store, where he could see Francesca waiting for him in the car. “Those, too,” he said. “And give me a sack.”

 

During the rest of the ride to Chandler, the thought of the panties she'd taken from Butch's house—and still had in the pocket of the pants she'd worn last night—burned
in Francesca's mind. If she told Jonah about them, would he stay in Arizona? Did she want him to? She didn't
need
him in order to continue the investigation.

But if she didn't push ahead with what she believed to be true regarding Butch, what would she do about them? She couldn't discard evidence or hang on to it indefinitely.

She should've mentioned those panties to Finch and Hunsacker. But she was so angry about the investigators' reaction to last night, she'd shied away from admitting what she'd done. She wasn't convinced they'd see it as helpful. They'd just use her actions as more proof of “typical P.I. behavior.”

Considering Hunsacker's friendship with Butch, she wasn't even sure the investigators would have those panties analyzed, not unless and until they had other evidence, irrefutable evidence, that he was their man. She could easily imagine Hunsacker saying, “Why spend the state's money on such a long shot?” She'd told them what Paris had said about that Julia person, hadn't she? And they'd blown it off. She doubted they'd do any more to find Julia than they'd already done by checking their list of missing persons.

On the other hand, what if no other evidence surfaced? What if those panties were indeed a conclusive piece of the puzzle? Then Finch and Hunsacker had to know about them.

“April is dead, and Kelly's alive,” she said to Jonah. “If Butch is guilty, why would he kill one and not the other?”

“There could be a lot of reasons,” he said. “Maybe the women who give him what he wants live, and the others die. Murder to cover for rape would be nothing new in the criminal world.”

In the case of April Bonner, Francesca could picture that exact scenario….

“Or it could come down to the specific personalities involved,” he said. “Do you remember hearing about that guy who was kidnapping women from shopping malls as he traveled across America?”

Francesca shook her head. Although she paid attention to most major crimes, this one didn't sound familiar.

“He brutally tortured and raped each one for days before killing her,” Jonah explained. “But his last victim he treated differently. Somehow she managed to develop a relationship with him. He stopped torturing her and let her live. And just before he was caught, when he knew the end was imminent, he gave her money and set her free.”

“There are so many variables,” she muttered. “Nothing's absolute.”

“That's what makes serial murder so difficult.”

The beginnings of a headache made Francesca wish she'd let Jonah drive. Her arm hurt, too, but at least it wasn't broken. The doctor in the emergency room had told her she was lucky Demon hadn't chomped right through the bone.

“You okay?” he asked when she rubbed her eyes.

She sighed. “Just getting sleepy.”

“Want me to drive?”

“No, that's okay.” She was too upset with him and the situation to let him ease the load.

They listened to a song on the radio before he spoke again. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing in particular.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Your expression is certainly intense for not thinking about anything ‘in particular.'”

She adjusted the air-conditioning vent closest to her so the air wouldn't hit her so directly. Should she tell him she had the panties? Why not? Maybe he could help her decide how to proceed. “I have something,” she said.

“Something?”
he repeated.

“A pair of panties.”

His lips slanted into a crooked grin. “Are you talking dirty to me?”

She tried not to smile at his joke. She felt bad for getting him fired, which was beginning to neutralize some of the resentment she'd been harboring toward him. He'd saved her life last night and bruised his knee in the process. She figured she owed him some credit for that, too. Regardless of what he might or might not have done in the past, she couldn't stop liking him. It was that simple.

“Nothing that exciting. I'm referring to the investigation we're no longer part of.”

He tapped the dash. “And?”

“I have the panties Paris found in Butch's jockey box last night.”

She wasn't sure if it was concern or anger that sharpened his voice. “How'd you get those?”

“They were on the ground. I just…picked them up.”

“I don't remember you telling Finch and Hunsacker about any panties.”

“Because I didn't.”

He adjusted his own air-conditioning vent. “Why not?”

“You were there. You know why.”

The beard growth on his chin rasped as he rubbed it. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“So now what? We're off the case. Do I forget about
them? Mail them anonymously to the sheriff's office? What?”