Thread of Fear (21 page)

“Fiona.”

She pulled out a pencil case, frowning when her hand got tangled up in some black string. “What in the world…?”

Jack watched her untangling the string and noticed the dried black substance and the green peeking through in places. His stomach fell out.

“Stop,” he ordered.

She pulled at the twine, and he clamped a hand over her wrist. “
Stop,
goddamn it!”

Santos was back at the table again, jabbering about something, as Jack stared at the blood-stiffened twine tangled around Fiona’s hand. The sick fuck had put it in her art case.

Jack looked up at Santos and finally tuned in to what he was saying. Something about Marissa Pico. Something about a body—

“We’ve got a crime scene unit heading over there right now. You want to ride with me?” The agent frowned down at Fiona’s hand. “What’s all that?”

“Souvenir,” Jack said. “It’s from him.”

When they arrived at Rancho Pico, the crime scene technicians were already there.

“Body was reported by a deliveryman,” Santos told Jack, parking his car on the shoulder of the highway. “He’d just dropped off a shipment of tractor parts when he saw it from his truck. Called the sheriff’s office on his mobile phone.”

The scene was being guarded by a uniform from Randy’s office, while another sheriff’s deputy set up orange and white blockades just inside the entrance to the ranch. Jack glanced at everyone else milling around, but didn’t see a single familiar face.

Santos picked his way over the cattle guard in his shiny black shoes. He flashed his credentials at the guard and proceeded down the gravel road. Jack tossed Randy’s guy a scowl as he followed the agent, paying close attention to the tracks marring the muddy road. It was a damp morning, and the possibility existed of recovering tire imprints.

A woman in a white jumpsuit approached Santos. She wore latex gloves, and two of her fingertips were smeared with blood.

“We’ve got a brunette female of undetermined age. Multiple stab wounds to the chest. Mutilation to the hands and feet.”

Santos glanced at Jack, and he suspected the agent was thinking the same thing he was—that their man had altered his routine.

Santos followed the woman to a clump of trees just inside the ranch’s entrance. The body was lying in a ditch between the road and the barbed-wire fence. Even from a distance, Jack could see this was a clear case of overkill. The victim had been beaten severely about the face, making her unrecognizable. The stab wounds didn’t appear to have bled very much, and Jack guessed they had been inflicted postmortem, but the ME could determine that for sure. Jack assumed this was a strangling, but the severity of the injuries made it impossible for him to tell at a glance.

“He’s escalating,” Santos said, and pulled a phone out of his pocket.

Suddenly the
whip, whip
of a chopper drew near, and the ground around them began to swirl with leaves and debris. Jack looked up to see a helicopter descending to hover just above the crime scene, kicking up just about every scrap of evidence they might have hoped to find on or around the body.

Jack turned to Santos. “Did you leak this?”

The agent scowled up at the network logo on the side of the chopper. “No.” Then he glanced over Jack’s shoulder. “You might want to ask your sheriff.”

Jack spun around and saw Randy Rudd standing in front of the barricade, gesturing dramatically and talking to a reporter and cameraman. A white news van was parked
haphazardly on the side of the highway, and another barreled down the road toward them. In a matter of moments, this place would be a total zoo.

“Anyone talked to the Picos yet?” Jack demanded.

“No.”

Jack strode past the barricade and shouldered Randy out of the way. “Is that your chopper?”

The bright-eyed reporter looked startled, and then gazed up at the helicopter in question. “It’s Channel Six,” she said. “We’re Thirteen.”

Jack made a note of which station to call and raise holy hell. “We have no comment at this time,” he snapped. “Now get your ass off this property, or I’ll have you arrested.”

The reporter’s jaw dropped. Then she seemed to recover, and gave her cameraman a quick glance to see if he’d caught it on film.

“Now, just wait a minute—”

Jack whirled around. “We’ve got a crime scene to preserve. You mind if we do some police work here, ’stead of strutting for the cameras?”

Randy’s face turned beet red, and Jack glanced past him just in time to see Bob Spivey climbing out of his silver Cadillac and strolling up to the barricade. Jack took in the scene: the mayor, the sheriff, a cluster of police vehicles with the wrought-iron Rancho Pico arch stretched over it all, like a perfect set for an episode of
CSI: Texas
. Jack wanted to throttle someone.

He picked Spivey. “Your brain-dead son-in-law’s holding a press conference, and we haven’t even removed the body yet! You’ve got the Pico ranch on camera, and they haven’t even been notified!”

“Calm down.” The mayor glanced nervously over Jack’s shoulder, and Jack knew someone was filming.

“Who called the media, Bob? Was it you? Was it him?” Jack thrust a finger at Randy, who had resumed his performance in front of a steadily increasing number of TV reporters. “Do you realize the complications this creates for investigators? For the prosecution team down the road? We’ve got evidence flying all over creation while your son-in-law’s up there giving sound bites. He’s one helluva lawman.” As Jack said this, a black Range Rover skidded to a halt just inside the gates, and a man in a blue tracksuit jumped out and ran toward the forensic techs huddled around the body. Senator Pico. Good God Almighty, and the cameras were rolling. Agent Santos intercepted the man and held him by the shoulders as he squealed like a stuck pig.

“This is a disgrace.” Jack glared at the mayor. “You make me sick.”

“You’re fired, Jack.”

“What?”

“You’re off the case and off the job.”

It hit him like a sucker punch. “You can’t fire me. I was hired by the city council!”

Spivey’s eyes blazed with triumph. “Take a look at the Graingerville Municipal Code, Article Twelve, Section Three. I
can
fire you, and I
am
firing you.” He straightened his hat and dusted his lapel. “Have your badge and your gun on my desk by the end of today.”

T
he break sounded like rifle fire.

Two solids dropped, and Jack watched with satisfaction as a third ricocheted off the cushion and rolled into the pocket closest to Nathan. It felt good to smack the hell out of something, even if it wasn’t Randy Rudd. Jack studied the table, then leaned over and took a combination shot that sank the one and the seven.

“I need another drink.” Nathan rested his empty bottle on a nearby table and signaled the waitress.

Jack botched his next shot and swore as Nathan took aim at the twelve, which had been an outright gift. He sank it just as the drinks arrived.

“Here’s to shit jobs, and being rid of them,” Nathan said, raising his bottle. “That Mayberry gig never suited you anyway.”

Jack scowled. He’d never considered being chief of police a shit job, but Nathan was just trying to spin it. He’d been doing his best to snap Jack out of his black mood for the past hour.

Nathan was playing second fiddle tonight, and he knew it, but he was too good a friend to give him crap about it on this particular occasion. Jack had driven to Austin to
see Fiona and had been more than a little pissed when her door—like her phone—went unanswered after repeated attempts. So he’d called Nathan, deciding if he couldn’t console himself with a warm, soft woman, he could do it whipping his friend’s ass at pool.

Or maybe not. Nathan pulled off a jump shot, and Jack cursed.

Nathan leaned down again and sent him a look. “Thought I’d throw the game just to cheer you up?”

“That was dumb luck.”

By way of retort, he sank another stripe. He eyed Jack smugly as he chalked his cue. “Where is she tonight?”

Jack didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He never talked about his sex life, but some things Nathan just knew.

“Out.” Jack swilled his beer.

“She’s a nice woman. Watch your step, though, or she’ll send you packing.”

Jack fumed from the corner. It felt like she’d already sent him. And he should be grateful, really. Hot sex, he wanted. Relationship headaches, he did not need.

What he needed right now was a job.

Nathan rounded the table, studying the layout. “You met her sister yet?”

“Yeah. She’s a babe.”

Nathan lined up his shot. “She’s a train wreck.”

“That, too.”

The fourteen glided into the corner pocket nearest Jack.

“I spent some time with her the other night,” Nathan said. “She told me their old man was on the job in San Antonio. Got killed responding to a liquor store holdup. I looked up the incident.”

Jack frowned. “Fiona never mentioned it.”

“Not much of a talker.”

Jack stared at the table, subconsciously strategizing about the game as he processed this new information. Fiona’s father had been a cop. In Texas. Several pieces of the Fiona puzzle fell into place, and Jack felt relieved for some reason.

Fiona rarely talked about her parents. From a few offhand comments, he’d gathered that her mom had a drinking problem and that they weren’t close. The only male relative she ever mentioned was her grandfather.

Jack watched his friend, who had been a colleague and mentor to Fiona for two years. They’d worked on some grueling cases together, Jack knew, and Nathan had probably seen her with her guard down.

Jack cleared his throat. “You ever wonder why she’s so good at what she does? Rape vics and kids?”

He glanced up from the table, catching Jack’s meaning. Jack let it hang there in case Nathan was struggling with some sort of ethical dilemma.

“It’s crossed my mind. She’s never told me anything, though.” Nathan took a cross-bank shot at the eleven, but it petered out shy of the pocket. “You’re the detective. Go find out.”

Jack scoffed. He wasn’t a detective anymore. He wasn’t even a cop anymore, and they both knew it.

Jack took aim at the three, but put too much power behind it and scratched.

“Fuck.” He looked up to see Nathan watching with annoyance. “What?”

“You’re not really quitting, are you?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Bullshit.” Nathan took control of the table, systematically clearing the remaining stripes as Jack’s blood pressure elevated. He shouldn’t have come here. He’d known exactly what sort of advice he’d get by hanging out with Nathan tonight.

“You think I should ask for my job back.”

Nathan squinted at the eight. Shook his head.

“Then what?”

“You know what. Left corner.” He tapped the cue ball, and the eight tumbled into the corner pocket. Nathan straightened away from the table. He gave Jack the cut-the-crap look that had always reminded him of his father. “You’re a homicide dick, Jack. Always have been. Don’t give up now, not when you’re this close.”

Jack stared down at the table, knowing Nathan was right. The bitch of it was, though, he didn’t know what to do about it. He was a detective without a case. He didn’t even have a
badge,
for fuck’s sake. How was he supposed to apprehend a serial killer? It was the single most important case of his career, and he’d failed. Completely.

Jack drained his beer.

“Go find Fiona,” Nathan said. “She’ll tell you the same thing.”

Another thrashing at the pool table didn’t improve Jack’s mood. Fiona wasn’t home. She wouldn’t answer her phone. He’d lost forty bucks to Nathan and another twenty at the bar. Jack made one last attempt to track her down at her apartment, but no one was there. He’d just decided to head back to Graingerville when he passed an Exxon station on Lamar Street and did a double take. Pulled up to one
of the pumps was a white Honda and, beside it, a familiar redhead.

Jack made a quick U-turn and swerved into the lot just as she was lighting a cigarette. He walked up to her from behind. “Not a smart place to light up.”

Courtney jumped and whirled around.

“Shit!” She clasped her hand to her chest. “Why do you keep
doing
that?”

“What?”

“Sneaking up on me!” She stuffed a lighter into her pocket. She wore a knee-length black trench coat and a pair of shoes that looked painful.

“You seen Fiona?”

“No.” She spun around and jerked the nozzle free, then slammed it back into place when she realized she’d forgotten to pop the gas cap. With a huff, she leaned back into the car.

Jack pulled out his wallet and swiped a credit card. Then he inserted the nozzle and leaned against the door to watch the numbers scroll.

Courtney took a drag of her cigarette. Her nails were painted bright white at the tips. “I have a credit card for that.”

“Oh yeah? Is it yours or Fiona’s?”

She crossed her arms, clearly annoyed that he had her number. Jack had younger sisters, too. He watched the gallons add up.

Courtney dropped her cigarette onto the concrete and snuffed it out with the toe of her shoe. “She wouldn’t want you doing that. She’s very
liberated
that way.”

He shrugged. “I figure I owe her a few tanks of gas. She’s
been driving back and forth to Graingerville to help me with my case.”

Courtney licked her lips. After a few moments looking him up and down, she swayed closer. Jack couldn’t tell what, if anything, she had on under that trench coat, and he suspected that was the point.

“Fiona’s busy tonight,” she purred, hooking her fingers in the pocket of his jacket. “You could hang out with me, though.”

He gazed down at her. She’d done something with her makeup, and her eyes reminded him of a cat’s. She shifted her body, brushing his thigh with hers.

“Knock it off, Courtney. Where is she?”

She dropped the coy look and stepped back. “She’s busy.”

“So you said.” Jack reached for the squeegee and dragged it over Fiona’s dirty windshield. Her car looked like it had been on a cross-country road trip. “You know
where
she’s busy? Or when she’s getting home?” It wasn’t lost on him that if Courtney was driving her car, she had to have another mode of transportation. Maybe she was on a date.

Jack yanked the squeegee across the glass a few more times, trying not to let the thought of Fiona out with another man bother him. It was totally fine. They didn’t have a relationship, really. He didn’t know what they had.

“You really want to know where to find her?”

“Yes.” He jammed the squeegee back in the holder. Something mischievous flickered in Courtney’s eyes, and he knew she was up to something.

Or Fiona was up to something.

“Spill it. We’re freezing our tails off here.”

She smiled. “Well, I don’t know for
sure,
but it’s a good bet you’ll find her at the Continental Club.”

Fiona loathed the Continental Club. It was loud and crowded and filled with people in faux grunge. She’d come here on a mission, and as soon as she accomplished it, she intended to leave.

A guitar whined. Fiona sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey sour and wishing the alt-country singer at the microphone would wrap up his set. Aaron had a fairly decent voice and looks that could have sold magazines. But the tattered cowboy hat and three-day stubble were just a bit over the top for Fiona’s tastes.

She stirred her drink. Going out tonight had been a mistake. She wasn’t up for the music scene right now, not when every one of her thoughts was consumed with work. Or Jack. Or working with Jack. All week she’d tried to focus on other things, but her mind kept returning to Graingerville. She wondered how the investigation was going. She wondered how the Picos were doing. She wondered if she’d ever see Jack again, or if he’d buried himself in his case, intending to forget about her.

She’d tried to forget about
him
by retreating to her studio. She’d spent hours with her paints and brushes until she was ready to collapse. But her normal escape route hadn’t worked this time, and her thoughts kept covering the same ground.

The bartender stopped by to check her drink. Fiona smiled and tried to muster some conversation. It was no use. She didn’t feel like chitchat. She checked her watch and then cast an impatient glance toward the stage.

“Tell me you didn’t ruin that bourbon with fruit juice.”

Fiona jerked her head around. Jack leaned against the bar, watching her.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just catching the show.”

He wore Levi’s, and his scarred leather jacket and boots that had probably stepped in many more cow patties than the ones worn by the man crooning into the mic.

This was going to be ugly.

“How’d you find me?”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’m an ace detective.”

She looked at him closely. Something was wrong. She hoped to God it wasn’t another missing girl.

“What’re you drinking?” He eyed her glass, and then his gaze slid to the half-empty beer bottle just a few inches away from it.

“Whiskey sour.”

He winced.

“What?”

“Somebody needs to teach you how to drink.” He flagged the bartender. “Jack Daniel’s. Straight up.”

Fiona stole a glance at the stage where Aaron was alternating among the three guitar chords in his repertoire. He caught her eye over the heads of the other patrons and then fixed his attention on Jack.

She needed to get out of here.

The bartender delivered the bourbon. Jack tossed back a sip, then offered it to Fiona. “See? No need to mix it with lemonade.”

“Really, Jack, how’d you know I was here?”

“Bumped into Courtney.” He turned to face the club.
His stance was relaxed, but he seemed tense. He was scanning the crowd, possibly for the owner of the half-finished Heineken. He glanced down at her legs. “Those are nice boots. You look good tonight.”

Fiona gulped her drink. She was on her second whiskey sour, which had helped make the past hour bearable. Seeing her ex tonight had pushed her to the limit.

And now she had Jack to deal with. Quickly. Before this song ended. She reached for his drink and took a sip. It scalded its way down her throat and set fire to her stomach. She could
not
tolerate this stuff straight.

He watched her, and she caught it again—that hard glint in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“You drove all the way up here just to see me? In the midst of your homicide investigation?”

He looked away. His gaze paused on Aaron, who was watching their exchange as he muddled through the last few bars of his song. Jack looked back at Fiona.

“It’s not my investigation anymore. I got canned yesterday.”

“You got…
what
?”

“Fired.”

Fiona studied his face and realized he was telling the truth. This wasn’t a joke. “But…but who’s going to take over the case?”

He shrugged. “The sheriff, I guess. It’s his anyway.”

“But…” Fiona’s throat tightened. “That guy’s an idiot! He’ll never figure it out. And if he does, he’s sure to botch it up.”

Jack turned to face the man approaching them from across the room. “Your friend’s back,” he said.

Oh, God.

Aaron stopped in front of Fiona and crossed his arms. He looked like a petulant child—which he was, really—and Fiona couldn’t believe she’d dated him for more than a year. So much for her attempt to break her cop habit with someone “artsy.” She watched Jack and Aaron taking each other’s measure and wondered what Jack would say if she told him she’d slept with someone who habitually borrowed her eyelash curler.

“Jack Bowman, meet Aaron Rhodes.” She grabbed her purse and fished out a twenty. “Aaron, we were just leaving.”

Jack extended a hand, and Aaron, being Aaron, responded with a half-assed squeeze.

Fiona’s pulse skittered. It was amazing, seeing them together like this. It made everything so
clear
. She picked up her glass and poured the last sip of whiskey sour down her throat. God. Oh, hell.
When
had she gone and fallen in love with Jack Bowman?

Aaron looked at her. “I thought we were having a drink later.”