Thread of Fear (4 page)

She pulled open the refrigerator and breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc with a few sips remaining. It had been a long, tedious day, wrapped up with a two-hour faculty meeting and a three-hour stint in the library scrounging up slides for Monday’s lecture. She was ready to unwind and shift into painting mode.

Fiona emptied the remaining wine into a glass and
perched on a bar stool so she could thumb through her mail: the usual flyers and bills, plus a letter from her grandfather, who lived in nearby Wimberley. His letters were easy to spot because of the spare handwriting—always in black ink—and the faint pencil lines he drew with a ruler before addressing his envelopes. A former structural engineer, her grandfather had an extreme Type A personality, but Fiona adored him, which was more than she could say for the rest of her family. Despite their fifty-year age gap, she and Granddad knew each other well. Fiona knew, for example, that the envelope from him would contain a clipping from the
San Antonio Express-News
detailing some misfortune that had befallen a single woman living alone somewhere. That would be it. No letter, not even a sticky note. Just an article he hoped would make her settle down and marry some nice young man.

Fiona sighed and tossed the letter aside. The only other item of interest was a plain white business envelope hand-addressed to “Glass.” It bore a return address she didn’t recognize in Binford, Texas. She took a paring knife from her chopping block and sliced open the top.

A small slip of paper fell out, a sheet from one of those pocket-size spiral pads. Fiona picked it up and read the wobbly block lettering scrawled across it: get ready bitch. ill come? u.

She dropped the note on the counter. Then she snatched up the envelope again and reread the return address. “Binford.” The postmark said “Binford” also. She didn’t know of any prisons in Binford, but that didn’t mean a prisoner hadn’t written this. She’d received hate mail before back in Los Angeles—different from this letter, though. Those disturbing missives had been mailed from the home of a con
victed murderer’s brother, and they had ceased after Fiona moved to Texas. She hadn’t received anything threatening in nearly two years.

God, could this be happening again? Was she going to spend the next six months looking over her shoulder and dreading every trip to the mailbox? She didn’t have the stomach for it.

She grabbed the portable phone off the counter and dialed a number she knew by heart.

“Devereaux.”

“Nathan, it’s Fiona.”

“Well, speak of the devil.” His voice sounded cheerful, meaning he wasn’t on duty.

“I have a question for you. Do you know of any jails or prisons in Binford, Texas?”

“Binford, huh?” His tone became serious. “That’s in east Texas. No lock-up there, unless you’re thinking of the town jail, which I would guess has about one cell and a cot. Why?”

She paused, reluctant to tell him but knowing it was pointless to lie to a man who’d been a homicide detective for the past ten years. “I got a letter today.”

“Threatening?”

She chewed her lip. “Maybe ‘harassing’ would be a better word.”

“What did it say?”

“I’ll show it to you.” She cleared her throat. She hated asking for favors. But he’d asked her for plenty since she’d started freelancing for the Austin Police Department. “If I bring you a list of the APD cases I worked on, can you check to see if an address in Binford pops up?”

“No problem. I’m on tomorrow, so go ahead and drop it off along with the letter. We’ll check for prints.”

She let out a relieved breath. “Thanks.”

“And don’t touch it. Put it in a bag—”

“I know the drill.”

“So,” Nathan said, and she knew what was coming. “I hear you told ol’ Jack Bowman to take a hike.”

“I didn’t tell him to take a
hike
. I just declined to get involved in his case. I left him a voice mail at his office with the name and number of someone I know up in Dallas.”

“Jack wants you. He thinks you’re the best in the business, that you’ll use kid gloves with his rape vic.”

“Gee, I wonder where he got that idea?”

He laughed. “Yeah, well, I brag on you every chance I get, sweetheart. You’ve helped clear more cases than half the cops we got working here.”

“I’m really ready for a change, Nathan. I need—”

“I know what you need, and it’s not more time alone. Call Bowman back. Give him a hand with this one.”

Her irritation was mounting. It always annoyed her when men second-guessed her decisions, as if she didn’t know her own mind. More than one relationship she’d been in had run into trouble over this very issue.

“I appreciate the compliment, but please don’t send me any more cases.”
Or detectives.

The phone beeped, and Fiona welcomed the interruption. “Can I talk to you tomorrow at the station? I’ve got another call.”

“Sure, see you then.”

She switched to the next call and didn’t even have time to say hello.

“What are you doing?” her sister demanded.

“Right now?”

“Yeah, right now. Right this second.”

Fiona stared at her untouched glass of wine. It was probably warm by now. And after that, she was fresh out of distractions for the evening. “Not much,” she said glumly.

“Perfect! You’re coming with me to the Continental Club.”

Fiona groaned. A crowded, noisy nightclub filled with wannabe rock stars was the dead last place she wanted to be tonight. And Courtney probably just wanted her there so she’d have someone to talk to before she picked up whatever guy was on her radar screen this week.

Either that or her car wasn’t working again and she needed a ride.

“Fi? You there?”

“Tonight’s no good, Courtney. I’ve got papers to grade. And I was planning to paint—”

“Fi
on
a! What are ya, eighty? I swear to God, you’re always doing chores or some bullshit
craft
project or—”

“Hey!”

“Come
on
. I’ll even buy you a drink.”

Fiona bit her lip. Felt tempted. Thought about the forty-two essays awaiting her on the European Renaissance. If she read one more paper citing Dan Brown as an authoritative source on Italian frescoes, she was going to scream.

Plus it was Friday night, and she felt lonely. Coffee that afternoon had been the closest thing she’d had to a date in months, and she was beginning to feel like a shut-in.

“Okay, I’ll go.”

A squeal pierced her eardrum. “I
knew
you’d come! Wear
something fun, okay? Not one of your Laura Bush getups.”

Fiona gritted her teeth.

“Oh, and hey, my car’s out of commission, so you can drive.”

Jack rode the elevator up to Fiona Glass’s swanky loft apartment and wondered what the hell he was doing. He didn’t have time for this shit. He had a desk piled with paperwork, an officer out on maternity leave, and an unsolved homicide waiting for him back in Graingerville. And he’d wasted a full day driving up here to sweet-talk a cranky art teacher.

The elevator doors dinged open, and Jack glanced around. This floor had six units, and hers was on the left at the end. Nathan had given him her address over a steaming platter of barbecue brisket at the County Line. That was moments before she’d called Nathan’s mobile phone to tell him about some letter she’d received and ask him not to send her any more cases.

Yet here he was.

All his life Jack had had a hard time taking no for an answer. His mother had taught him if he wanted something badly, he should show up in person, ask politely, and then ask again. And again. And again, if necessary. It was the Bowman family credo, the one that explained why his sisters had sold more Girl Scout cookies than anyone else in town, and why their drill team fund-raisers always generated enough money for trips to South Padre over spring break. The Bowmans could sell milk to a dairy cow, and Jack refused to accept failure after one attempt. He stopped in front of Unit 4A and mustered a charming smile.

The door swung open before his knuckles touched the wood.

Fiona jumped back. “What are you doing here?”

Holy hell,
she’d ditched the suit. In a very big way. Jack stared, slack-jawed, at the two creamy scoops of flesh disappearing into folds of purple fabric. He managed to drag his gaze away from her cleavage only to get hung up on her shiny red lips. The cherry on top of a sundae.

“Jack?”

Then she stepped into the hallway, and he noticed the boots.

Plenty of women in Graingerville wore boots. The western kind. These were black leather lace-ups that went clear to her knees, with skinny heels about four inches tall. A black miniskirt hugged her hips.

“Hel-
lo
? Earth to Jack?”

He snapped his attention to her face. “That’s…quite an outfit, Professor.”

Scowling, she shrugged into a long black coat that covered everything up to her chin. Then she turned her back on him so she could lock the door.

All that hair hung in waves around her shoulders. It was reddish blond, or blondish red. There was a word for it, but damned if he could think of it when most of his blood had left his head.

She spun around to face him. “I thought you went back to Graingerville.”

Jack cleared his throat. “I was on my way out of town, and I realized I forgot to mention something.”

She made a point of looking at her watch. “I’m late to pick up my sister—”

“Where are you parked?”

“The garage.”

He flashed her a smile. “How about I walk you to your car? Then I’ll leave you alone, promise.”

She huffed out a breath. She seemed to do that a lot when he was around.

“Fine.” She slid her keys in her pocket and started down the hall. “What did you forget to mention?”

“I forgot to tell you about the poppies.”

“The poppies.” She stopped in front of the elevator, jabbed the Call button, and turned another scowl on him. “What poppies?”

The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped in beside her. She pressed the button for the lobby.

“We’ve got the best poppies in the entire state. Right outside Graingerville. Artists and photographers come from all over. We even have a festival.”

She was looking at him like he was nuts. And she was right. As sales pitches went, this was a little out there.

Her eyebrows arched. “And you thought I should know this
why
?”

“Nathan told me you’re a nature painter.” Wow, she had a pretty mouth. He wondered if she planned to use it on anyone tonight. “The best fields are off the back roads. I figured I’d give you a private tour. You can bring along your painting stuff, maybe do something for your show.”

The doors dinged open, and she strode across the lobby to the side entrance. Her heels made little clicks on the marble floor, and the sound reminded Jack just how long it had been since he’d gone to the trouble to ask out a woman.

He pushed the door open for her, and they entered the
breezeway to the garage. A cold gust of air lifted her hair off her shoulders. Jack darted his gaze around as he walked her down a row of parked cars. This garage needed better lighting and a security camera.

She halted in front of a white Honda Civic. A hybrid, no less. “Let me get this straight. If I agree to help you with this case, you’ll give me a tour of the
poppies
?”

He rubbed his jaw. “Now, I hadn’t thought about a trade. But it’s a good idea. Course, we’d still pay your drawing fee. Whatever you normally charge.”

“Don’t poppies grow in the spring?”

“Yeah. So?”

She shook her head, but he saw the smirk on her face. She pulled her key chain out of her pocket, and he noticed the whistle attached to it.

He frowned. “You know, a tube of Mace can be a lot more effective. You can pick one up at any hardware store.”

She tipped her head to the side. “I’m aware of that, but I’m in and out of airports all the time, so I settle for this.”

Jack’s personal security device of choice was a SIG P229, which trumped the hell out of a panic whistle. But he doubted Fiona cared for guns, being a California girl.

She opened her door and stood there watching him for a minute. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Nope.”

He rested his hand on the door. Their fingers brushed, and a little quiver of something passed between them. He caught her look of alarm.

She slid behind the wheel and shoved her keys in the ignition.

Jack leaned his forearm on the Civic’s roof and looked
down at her. She was moments away from caving, he could tell by those pursed red lips.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

He smiled, and she started the engine.

“How about ten a.m. tomorrow?” he suggested. “You can meet me at the Graingerville police station. It’s a two-hour drive from here, an hour forty if you speed.”

She tugged the door handle, and he stepped out of the way. She pulled the door shut and lowered the window a few inches. “Eleven. I’ll probably get in late tonight, and I’ve got an errand to run in the morning.”

“You driving home alone?” It was none of his damn beeswax, but he had to ask. He’d spent nine years on a major metropolitan police force. Women leaving bars alone at night were easy pickings.

“
That,
” she said, “is none of your business.”

He stepped away from the car as she put it in gear. “Right. Well…be careful.”

She smiled up at him. “I’m always careful.”

T
he sky outside Fiona’s window was still black when she gave up the charade of sleep and tossed back the covers.

It was futile. Nothing would be gained from another two hours in bed besides a stiff neck. She wrapped herself in her green satin robe, slipped on her flip-flops, and shuffled into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. As the machine hissed and gurgled, she stared down at her feet.

Why can’t you go barefoot like normal people? You’re so freaking anal.

Aaron’s words came back to her, and she felt relieved that they no longer mattered. So what if she couldn’t stand bare feet, or loud music, or empty milk cartons left in the fridge? Those were
her
preferences, and it was no longer anyone’s concern if she was anal, or picky, or flat-out impossible to live with.

She was alone now and better off.

The coffee finished brewing, and she poured a mug while mentally rearranging her day. She’d swing by the police station, as planned, but instead of delivering the letter to Nathan personally, she’d leave it for him at the front desk, along with her list of cases. That would give her a jump on
this morning’s road trip and also save her from a conversation she didn’t really want to have. At least not yet. Once she’d finished this last job—once it was
totally
complete—she’d march into Nathan’s office and tell him she’d officially retired. Period. No more referrals.

Less than an hour later, Fiona exited police headquarters and returned to her car. It was still dark. Once inside the Civic, she flipped the heater to high and rubbed her hands together, wishing she’d remembered gloves. As the car warmed up, she skimmed the directions she’d printed off MapQuest. Estimated trip time, two hours and thirteen minutes. By eight o’clock, she would be entering the bustling metropolis of Graingerville, Texas, population 10,320.

With any luck she’d beat Jack Bowman into work.

She didn’t know why, but the idea of one-upping him—even in such a minor way—pleased her. She supposed it had to do with his talking her out of what she’d thought was a firm decision. She’d really, truly intended to refuse him. She had, in fact. But when he’d told her this case involved teenage girls, she’d lost her backbone. All it took was one more nudge, and he’d had her.

She suspected he’d planned it that way.

Despite his tough-guy persona, Jack seemed unusually sensitive for a cop. Fiona had picked up on it when he’d talked about those girls in his town, as if he felt personally responsible for what had happened to them. She’d met a lot of dedicated cops over the years, and most of them displayed a certain detachment that enabled them to do their jobs day after day. Jack didn’t seem detached. On the contrary, he seemed personally invested in this case. Fiona recognized the signs because she had that tendency, too,
which was one of the reasons she longed for a break from law enforcement.

She took the on-ramp for Interstate 35 southbound and cast a glance at Town Lake as she crossed the bridge. Even at this early hour, people were out jogging on the spotlit path by the water.

She’d intended to exercise today. But making it to the gym—just like making time to paint—kept falling off the agenda as her life got busier and busier. If it wasn’t a faculty meeting or a student-teacher conference, it was a late-night phone call from some detective who needed her help yesterday. A few high-profile cases, a few big arrests, and Fiona’s forensic art career had taken off, leaving her barely enough time to keep up with her day job, much less devote a few hours to the painting she loved so much. And her fitness regimen? Her feet hadn’t touched a treadmill in months. She needed to get back to the gym. Although, judging by Jack’s tongue-tied reaction last night, she still had a few assets worth noticing.

A pair of headlights flashed in the rearview mirror. She squinted against the glare as the driver closed in, beaming her with his brights.

“Jerk,” she muttered, adjusting the mirror. It looked like a pickup, the testosterone-mobile of choice in the Lone Star State.

He continued to blind her, so she relented and swerved into the right lane.

Fiona’s shoulders tensed as the truck passed her, horn blaring, and swerved in front of her. He flipped her off and then gunned his engine, sending back a puff of exhaust.

Her breath whooshed out as the taillights faded. It was a
tailgater, for God’s sake. She needed to get a grip. She took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders to ease some of the tension.

The inky purple sky was turning yellow in the east as Fiona exited the interstate a short time later. She passed several dumpy gas stations before finding one that looked sufficiently new and well lit. She needed something caffeinated to keep her alert for the remainder of the drive.

A cow bell clattered against the door as she entered the store.

“Mornin’. Help you find anything?”

She glanced at the clerk behind the counter and shook her head. She’d been in Texas two years, and the unwarranted friendliness of strangers still caught her off guard.

After grabbing a Diet Coke, Fiona paused in the snack aisle beside a box of Nutri-Grain Bars. She passed over the healthy stuff for a king-size Snickers and headed for the register. After all, breakfast was the most important meal of the day. As she dug through her purse, she felt someone behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and froze.

She’d sketched this man.

Her brain scrambled for a context. Was it an Austin case? Los Angeles? Her gaze swept over his features, searching for a clue. He had a hooked nose and a high forehead. Thinning brown hair…She
knew
she’d sketched him.

Or had she?

She watched him pull out his wallet, trying desperately to remember—

“That be all, ma’am?”

At the clerk’s voice, the man’s head jerked up. He caught Fiona staring at him and arched his brows. “What?”

She’d never seen him before. She’d never sketched him. He wasn’t some wanted fugitive, just some regular guy buying gas.

“Ma’am?”

Fiona whirled around. The clerk was watching her expectantly.

“I’m sorry.” She slapped a five on the counter and rushed from the store.

Jack’s nationally renowned forensic artist arrived early and in a foul mood.

“You sure you don’t want some coffee?” Jack asked, as they exited the station house.

She glared at him. “I repeat:
no
. If I change my mind, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged into his official cold-weather attire—a khaki windbreaker that matched his uniform. It wasn’t heavy, but it kept him from freezing his ass off.

They descended the steps and started across the parking lot. Fiona’s breath turned to steam in the brisk morning air, and he wondered why she hadn’t worn something warmer than a turtleneck. Not that he minded the way it fit her, but she had to be freezing.

Jack led her to his pickup. She’d wanted to take her car, but after much wrangling he’d convinced her it’d be easier if they just rode together. He wanted to give her a feel for the town, and anyway, it was a short trip.

Now he wondered if he could stand her that long.

He popped the locks with his remote. After driving a two-toned Buick for nearly ten years, Jack was now the proud owner of a stone gray Ford F-250 with leather in
terior. It was a nice truck. And he’d decided to use it this morning because he wanted to keep a low profile, not because he wanted to impress Fiona, who seemed determined to bust his balls today.

Jack opened the passenger’s-side door, and she sighed as she looked inside the cab. He offered her a hand getting in, but she batted it away.

Well, shit.

He rounded the front of the truck and hitched himself behind the wheel. “Someone get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

She shot him a pissy look. “Stressful trip.”

Jack turned his key, and the V8 hummed to life. “What, like car trouble?”

“No. On my way out of Austin some wacko practically tried to run me off the road.”

“Nathan told me you got a mail threat. You think…?”

“Different wacko. This was just some idiot out joyriding in his truck.”

Not a fan of trucks, then. Jack cranked
his
truck’s heater and adjusted the vents toward Fiona. As he exited the parking lot, he waved at Lorraine Snelly, who was crossing Main Street. She gave him a nod, no doubt curious about his passenger. Jack resigned himself to the unavoidable reality that his new “friend” would be the hot topic of conversation at Lorraine’s lunch counter later today.

“Tell me about the witness,” Fiona said, her voice crisp. He’d noticed she had different tones for different settings, just like she had different wardrobes. Besides the pine green turtleneck, she wore jeans and practical brown ankle boots today. He missed the spiky black ones from last night.

Jack reeled his thoughts in. “Her name’s Maria Luz Arrellando. Lives just outside town.”

“You have jurisdiction there?”

“No. But she was abducted from Graingerville, so it’s ours.”

“Okay. Give me a sense of the crime. I want to make sure I steer clear of her triggers.”

“Triggers?”

She opened the leather case she’d brought along and scrounged around for something. “You said she’d been sexually assaulted. Most rape victims suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder. Some experience feelings of panic set off by unexpected reminders of the attack.” She pulled a cell phone out of her bag and fiddled with the setting. “I met a teenage victim once who’d been drugged with a hypodermic needle. I was interviewing her in the hospital the following day, and a nurse walked in with some meds in a syringe. The girl went ballistic.”

Jack glanced at her, realizing she still had some major misconceptions about this case.

Misconceptions he’d helped foster.

“You planning to medicate my witness?”

She rolled her eyes. “No. I’m just saying, help me prepare. Give me a feel for where she’s coming from. What can you tell me about her attack?”

Okay, time to come clean.

“Well, for starters, she was abducted late at night, from a road not too far from here. Guy pulled up in a gray sedan and offered her a ride, which she accepted because she was cold.”

Fiona shook her head, probably having heard this sort of thing before. In all his years of policing, Jack had never
been able to understand how people could be so reckless with their safety.

“Instead of taking her home,” Jack continued, “he pulls off into some brush and ties her up with this tough green twine. Blindfolds her. Then he takes her to an unknown location and keeps her there for about two days. She’s in and out during the assaults. He’s force-feeding her something—she thinks it’s cough syrup. Finally she comes to, and he’s gone. She gnaws through the twine, grabs some clothes, and manages to escape. Some deer hunters pick her up about forty miles from here.”

Fiona sighed.

“What?”

“I didn’t know she’d been sedated. That could affect her description.”

“She insists she got a good look at the guy right off. Then later when she was in and out. Fact, she says she faked being out of it at some points so he’d go easier on her.”

Jack took the highway leading south out of town and picked up speed. Acres of farmland stretched out on either side of them. The fields looked soggy and desolate.

The recent freeze had wreaked havoc on several of the region’s crops, most notably the citrus. Not an hour south of here, groves of navel oranges and ruby reds had been decimated by the ice. At first, area growers had attempted to battle the frost. Farmers had pumped water into the fields to raise the ground temperature and circulated warm air with giant fans, but after the frigid temperatures dragged on, the effort became hopeless. After salvaging what little they could, they’d ruefully said good-bye to all the rest.

Jack had grown up on a farm and knew firsthand it was
a tough business. But knowing that didn’t make things easier when disaster struck. The repercussions of last week’s three-day dip into the teens would be felt throughout this area for years.

The Tejas Fruit sign loomed up ahead, and Jack slowed slightly. On a typical January day, the place would be bustling with delivery trucks and people, but hundreds of workers had been let go recently, and the pack shed looked strangely quiet.

“We’re almost there,” he said. “Anything else you need to know?”

“Yes. Has she been interviewed before by a sketch artist?”

Jack had expected the question. He popped open the console between the front seats and pulled out a manila envelope. “She talked to one of our officers at the time. He came up with this.”

Fiona opened the envelope and pulled out a computer-generated drawing. It showed a Caucasian male somewhere between twenty-five and fifty. He had bland, unremarkable features and reminded Jack of the father from those Dick and Jane books kids used to read in school. Except instead of smiling, the guy stared blankly out into space.

Fiona frowned at the picture. “This is completely generic. It could be anybody.”

“I know. The kid who came up with that—guy by the name of Lowell—he’d never interviewed a sexual assault victim before. I’m guessing he was a little out of his league.”

Fiona looked at him, appalled. “How could you let this happen? She needed to talk to someone experienced. Preferably a female. If you don’t have someone on staff, you should have brought someone in—”

“Believe me, I know. But I wasn’t in charge then—”

“And don’t even get me started on this computer program! To get a useful sketch you need a good interview with a trained artist. You can’t just tell some rookie to sit down at the computer and slap together a face like it’s Mr. Potato Head. A woman was
raped
!”

Clearly this was a hot-button issue for Fiona. Jack watched her, waiting for the rest of his words to sink in.