Thread of Fear (20 page)

Jack left Lucy’s in a sour mood. It felt pretty low to be sleeping with someone he’d hired to help work his ex-girlfriend’s rape case. He knew it was bad. Hurtful. He never would have brought it up with Lucy, but she was good at reading him, always had been.

His phone buzzed from the console, and he saw his home number on caller ID. Damn it, he’d been gone over an hour.

“I’m on my way,” he told Fiona.

“Where have you been? I called the station!”

Her voice sounded funny. “I was finishing up with Carlos. What’s up?” He waited a beat. Then another. “Fiona? You there?”

“You’ve had a break-in.”

“A
what
?”

“A break-in. It’s where an intruder enters the premises and—”

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m five minutes away.” Three if he floored it. He never should have left her alone. “Tell me what happened. Tell me everything. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Jack pictured Hoyt Dixon kicking the door in, and his blood started to boil.

“I was in bed. After you left.”

God, she’d been naked. He’d left her there naked and alone, and someone had broken in.

“I heard the door opening—”

“Which one?”

“The back.”

“It was locked. How’d they get it open?” Jack hit a curve, and the truck skidded. He regained control.

“I don’t know.”

“Then what?”

“I hid in your closet. Then I heard a footstep. And then I heard the door squeak, and they were gone.”

“That’s it? That’s all that happened?”

“That’s it.”

“Did they take anything?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did they break anything?”

“I don’t think so.”

Okay. This was odd. “Any chance it wasn’t the door you heard? Maybe you heard a gate slamming? Something outside?”

The silence stretched out. “It wasn’t outside. It was the
back door
.”

All right, so she was pissed. Couldn’t be helped. He needed to understand what happened. He specifically remembered locking the back door.

“And then what?”

“Then I called the station,” she said coolly. “And Carlos came over.”

Carlos.
Shit.

“Put him on.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“J.B.? Where are you?”

“Is she really okay? Tell me straight.”

“Seems fine to me.”

“Any sign of forced entry?”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“I don’t get it.”

He heaved a sigh. “Neither do I, Chief. Hold on.”

Jack waited while Carlos exchanged some muffled words with Fiona.

“I gotta go, J.B. She needs a ride to her vehicle.”

“Stall her.”

“No can do. She really wants to go home.”

“
Stall
her, will you? I’m almost there. Fill out a report or
something.” She was pissed, and in typical Fiona fashion, she was taking off.

“We done that already. I can’t keep the lady against her will, and I can tell you right now, her will is to leave. I don’t know what you done, but she’s out the door already, waiting by the unit.”

“Just…drive slow. I’ll try and catch her at her car.”

Ten minutes and about a hundred moving violations later, Jack squealed into the parking lot of the Grainger County Administrative Building. Fiona was tossing her art case into the backseat of her Honda, and Carlos looked to be doing his damnedest to slow her down. He stood beside the hybrid, probably making inane small talk as she climbed into the car. She shot Jack an icy look as he pulled up beside her and hopped out.

“Thanks, Carlos,” he said. “I can handle it from here.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow in a clear vote of no confidence and got back in his car.

Jack caught Fiona’s door just as she was pulling it closed. “Hold on. I want to hear what happened.”

“Read the report.” She started the engine. “Carlos was very thorough. No sign of forced entry. No footprints. No tire marks. Nothing stolen. Nothing broken. I must have imagined it.”

She tugged the door, and Jack blocked it. He crouched down next to her, and she looked straight out the windshield.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“That’s okay. You were working, obviously. With Carlos.”

“Talk to me. I want to understand what happened.”

She put the car in gear. “I repeat: read the report. Now do you mind? I’ve had a long day, and I could really use some sleep tonight.”

She wouldn’t look at him. He crouched there, right beside her, and she wouldn’t even make eye contact. He saw the slight quiver in her chin as she fought with her emotions. Shit, she’d been alone and frightened of something—he didn’t really know for sure what. And then he’d lied to her and questioned her credibility.

“I’m sorry you were scared.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. A single tear slid down her cheek. He reached up to wipe it away, and she cringed.

“Come home. We’ll talk about it.”

“It’s not my home, Jack.” Finally she looked at him. “And I don’t want to talk to you.”

T
he white hybrid Jack spotted on the way into work could belong to only one person. He swerved into the parking lot of Lorraine’s Diner and elbowed his way through her breakfast crowd until he sighted Fiona seated way at the back. She wore the beige suit from yesterday, and her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She glanced up as Jack neared her table. Her face remained neutral, but she shifted her art case to the space beside her.

He slid into the vinyl bench across from her. “Thought you went back to Austin.”

“Evidently I didn’t.”

“Where’d you sleep last night?”

“The motel.” She gazed down at her menu. “I’m leaving shortly, though. I’d hoped to meet with Brady this morning, but it’s not going to work out. His mom says he’s got a stomach virus.”

“Can I get y’all some coffee?”

Jack looked up at the waitress. “That’d be great, thanks. And two eggs, sunny-side up. Side of sausage.” Jack gave Fiona a look that said,
Tough luck, babe. You’re gonna have to talk to me
.

She sighed. “Coffee, please,” she told the waitress. “And toast.”

Jack watched the armor come up. She filed her menu away behind the napkin dispenser, squared her shoulders, and tipped her chin up. She knew he’d stopped by here to corner her.

“I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

“It’s immaterial.”

He leaned back against the booth. “You always talk like a lawyer when you’re upset?”

“I’m not upset.”

The coffee arrived, and Jack watched as she added creamer, delicately peeling back the foil lids of the containers and meticulously stacking them off to the side when she was through. He downed a sip of his strong black coffee and decided to change tactics.

“I was at Lucy’s,” he said. “She had a disturbance at her house and wanted me to come see about it.”

“Interesting. Why didn’t you just tell me that?”

“I didn’t think you’d understand.”

“I understand completely. Who else would she call to check out her disturbances in the middle of the night? There’s no reason to lie about it, as if there’s something to cover up.”

Jack was pretty sure there were several layers of meaning to what she’d just said, but he was running on very little sleep and didn’t feel up to analyzing it.

“What was Lucy’s disturbance?” she asked.

Jack paused a moment, then decided to go with honesty. “She says she saw someone sneaking around her place last night.”

Her eyebrows tipped up. “Did he try to break in?”

“Nope.”

“Did
you
see him?”

“Nope.”

She pursed her lips. “Two delusional women in one night. Must be something in the water.”

“I didn’t say she was delusional. I don’t think
you’re
delusional. I just don’t understand what happened. I know I locked the door, so I don’t see how someone could have just walked in.”

“When did you lock it?”

“Huh?”

“The door.
When
did you lock it? You left twice, remember? Once to get my stuff out of your truck and once to go to Lucy’s.”

Jack’s shoulders tensed as he realized what she was saying. She thought he’d been careless. She thought he’d left her alone in an unlocked house while he’d rushed off to see about Lucy. That’s not how he remembered it, but he had to admit it was possible. He’d been half asleep and in a hurry.

“You think the incidents are related,” he stated.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“I don’t know.” Sebastian’s “shadow man” could be anybody, but Jack didn’t like the timing. He felt grateful now that Fiona was going back to Austin.

Their food arrived, and Fiona tore her triangle of toast in half. She buttered it with polite little swipes of her knife. She looked so cool and prim, and suddenly he remembered the way she’d looked, bare-breasted and flushed, in his lap yesterday. And then underneath him in his bed.

“I’m coming to Austin,” he said. “I want to see you again.”

She nibbled her toast. Swallowed. Took a sip of coffee. “When are you coming?”

“When are you available?”

That got her. She didn’t like the label, and her eyes sparked. “I’m not. I told you before, I’ve got a gallery showing—”

“I want a do-over.” He gave her a hot, lingering look that conveyed the kind of do-over he had in mind. He needed time—much more time—to show her he wasn’t the man she’d seen last night. Last night he’d lied, and been insensitive, and been much too quick on the trigger. That wasn’t the real him, and it was important that she know it.

He
needed
her to know it.

Her hands fluttered over her toast, and he could tell he’d made her uncomfortable.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because. This isn’t going anywhere, and I’m not good at casual sex.”

“You were great last night.”

Her cheeks reddened, and the freckles on her nose stood out.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

They glanced up to see Agent Santos standing a few feet from their table. He had a gray trench coat draped over his arm and was holding one of Lorraine’s to-go cups. “Mind if I…?”

“Certainly.” Fiona moved her art case out of the way and scooted over to make room for him beside her. Jack gritted his teeth as the agent slid right in.

“When is your interview?” Santos asked her.

“It’s canceled. He has a stomach virus. Or so his mother says.”

Santos’s brow furrowed. He took a sip of his coffee, but didn’t say anything. Then he looked at Jack, reached over the table, and offered a hand. “Ray Santos, FBI.”

Jack shook his hand. “Jack Bowman, Graingerville PD.”

“I know.”

“Any word on those lab results?” Jack asked him.

“So far, no match.”

“Match for what?” Fiona asked.

“The DNA evidence recovered from Natalie Fuentes,” Jack provided. “We were hoping he might already be in the database.”

“He’s not,” Santos said. “But that isn’t necessarily conclusive because we’ve got backlogs you wouldn’t believe. There’re tens of thousands of samples out there, just haven’t been entered yet.”

Jack shook his head.

“Blame the politicians,” Santos said. “Our labs can’t keep up with all the new laws on the books.”

“What about prints?” Jack asked. “You run them through IAFIS?”

Fiona’s eyebrows snapped together. “You have fingerprints? From where?”

“Marissa’s car,” Jack told her. He exchanged a look with Santos that said Fiona was in the loop. Yes, she was an outside consultant, but she could be trusted.

“Marissa’s blood was found in her car,” Santos said in a low voice. The booth behind them was empty, but Lorraine was busy this morning. “We also found prints from
a thumb and index finger on the rearview mirror, also in Marissa’s blood.”

“So he got in her car, adjusted her mirror, and
drove
her somewhere?” Fiona asked.

“Most likely,” Jack said. “Why else adjust the mirror? But he wouldn’t have gotten far on a bad tire. He probably just pulled the car farther off the road than it was originally. We found it at a bend in the highway, near some trees.”

“The prints aren’t consistent with the victim’s,” Santos said. “So we believe they belong to her abductor, that he got blood on his hands when he subdued her with force, possibly a blow to the head. We were expecting the prints to tell us something, but so far that hasn’t been the case.”

Jack shook his head. “And you got a thumbprint? That’s what the sheriff said.”

“That’s correct.”

Fiona’s gaze moved from one investigator to the other, and Jack could see her following the logic. “That print should be in the DPS database,” she said. “If this man has a Texas license, you should have a record of him.”

“You’d think,” Jack said. “So maybe he’s from out of state—which I don’t believe, personally—or he doesn’t mind operating a vehicle without a license. My money’s on the second one.”

Santos leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You sound like you’re working a theory. What is it?”

Jack watched him a moment. He’d expected to hate this guy, but so far, he was okay. He was soliciting help from the locals, which Jack approved of, and he wasn’t walking around with a monster ego. Jack was still waiting for some psychobabble.

“I think he’s local,” Jack said. “For a lot of reasons, many which have to do with an unsolved rape case we’ve got from more than a decade ago.”

“Maria Luz Arrellando.” Santos nodded. “I read the report. And you think they’re connected because of the MO? The cordage?”

“That and some other things. The victimology.”

Santos cocked his head to the side. He was listening, at least seemingly, with an open mind. Jack found this remarkable because he knew Randy and his father-in-law had been working hard lately to make the Graingerville police chief into something of a pariah. They didn’t want Jack horning in on their publicity.

“I think we’ve got a loner,” Jack continued. “A white supremacist type who probably doesn’t have much use for the government. This guy’s not going to stand in line and pay a fee to be fingerprinted and granted a license so he can move around freely—something he believes is his God-given right. I think he’s local, because of his familiarity with the land and the roads around here. I think he knows just where to pick up his victims, just where to take them to stay out of sight. But he’s got to be a hermit, or else somebody would have recognized him from Fiona’s picture by now. It’s a good drawing. She’s the best in the business.”

Fiona glanced at him, obviously startled by the compliment.

“Agreed,” Santos said, looking at Fiona. “Your drawings are always right on the mark.”

She looked down, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. Jack didn’t understand how a woman with her gift could be so modest.

“I think he chooses his victims carefully, and that he stalks them first.” Jack watched Fiona’s reaction. If his words spooked her, she didn’t let on. “Once he knows who he wants, for whatever reason, I think he lies in wait, like he probably did with Maria Luz. Or he uses some scam, like the flat tire, to get the victim in a vulnerable position. I suspect if we ever find Natalie’s car, we’ll find evidence she ran into some sort of trouble that led to her abduction.”

Santos nodded. “So you believe he’s smart and organized.”

“Don’t you?”

“The evidence seems to point that way. And he’s not using the victim’s car, that we know. It was a Hyundai Elantra, right? That’s not consistent with the tread marks from the crime scenes.”

“That’s right,” Jack said. “I think he has his own vehicle. Maybe more than one. I think he has his own base of operations. Maybe more than one. And I think he’s escalating. I think it’s no accident he picked a politician’s daughter, a Latina. I think it’s part of his message. I haven’t figured out the weather thing yet.”

“The weather?” Santos asked.

“All the victims went missing during a cold snap. Temperatures in the twenties or lower.”

The agent nodded, and Jack felt faintly smug that he’d picked up something the FBI hadn’t, even if he had no idea what it meant.

Jack didn’t share the rest of what he was thinking. He didn’t tell Fiona he suspected the man skulking around the Arrellandos’ last night and the person who had somehow entered his house was their guy. And that if he was on
the prowl again, that did not bode well for Marissa Pico.

Santos leaned back against the booth and looked pensive. Jack locked gazes with Fiona. His analysis seemed to come as a surprise to her, and Jack bit back a sarcastic comment. Hell, he’d been on this case for two weeks—eleven years and two weeks if you counted Lucy’s attack. Did she think he hadn’t developed a profile of the subject by now? Jack didn’t need a fancy degree or a stint at Quantico to be a good detective. It was what he did. It was what he excelled at. And just because his current job came with a big title didn’t mean he’d forgotten how to roll up his sleeves and work a case.

“We’ve been channeling a lot of resources into domestic terrorism, both foreign and home-grown,” Santos said.

“‘We’ meaning the FBI?” Jack asked.

“And Homeland Security. There’s been increased activity from a number of hate groups in the Southwest lately. I’ll see if we’ve got our eye on anyone in particular who lives close to here.”

“You’ve infiltrated the groups,” Jack stated, not bothering to conceal his skepticism.

“Some. The agencies vary, but there are people working undercover. I’ll see what I can find out.”

Jack shook his head, wishing the FBI had been involved weeks ago. Amazing the resources that could be brought to bear when someone rich and powerful got involved.

“I agree with the hate-crime angle, but I’m not sure it’s completely about race,” Santos continued. “I think there’s more to his motive.”

“Such as?” Jack asked.

“These crimes are up close and personal. They demonstrate a high degree of emotion. Maybe he picks his victims
because of race, but I think there has to be more behind his rage. I think there’s some personal element to it that we’re missing. His MO says he’s conflicted about these women.”

“Yeah, well, maybe someone can write a thesis about him someday,” Jack said. “Me, I’d mainly like to catch him.”

Santos didn’t acknowledge the jab. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out his cell phone, which had started to ring. “Excuse me,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “I need to take this.”

When he was gone, Jack stared at Fiona. He felt both relieved and frustrated that she was going back to Austin soon.

“Well.” She took out her wallet and placed some bills on the table. “I think I’ll try Brady one more time before I go. See if he’s feeling better.”

She rummaged through her purse and then her art case, purposely avoiding Jack’s gaze.

“I meant what I said about coming to Austin. As soon as I can get away.”

“Where is my phone?” she muttered, jerking a sketch pad out of her case and slapping it on the table. “I swear I just had it.”