Paint tubes and brushes had been stomped on and destroyed. Multi-colored footprints tracked across the cement. If he ever found the guy, he should be covered in paint and easy to identify.
Every painting was slashed, but two had received additional attention. The painting of the young boy and the one she’d been sketching the last time he visited were crisscrossed with gashes and stabbing cuts.
The kitchen scene was probably half finished before the attack. Now, a slice ran the length of her body and another cut her head off. What he assumed was his body was punctuated with dozens of stab marks, but that wasn’t the most disturbing thing. His face had been completely obliterated.
The painting of the young boy was similarly desecrated. Only this time, the majority of the damage had been inflicted on the woman sitting at the table. Even defaced, the painting filled him with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
He reached out one finger and touched the painting. “That’s my Houston Oilers shirt, no question. And the Converse sneakers I always wore.”
His finger traced the woman. A mass of black hair framed the spot where her face should have been. Her hand, resting on a full-sized, year-at-a-glance calendar, had been neatly severed with one stroke.
“If that isn’t a young Yolanda Garza, I’ll eat what’s left of this painting.”
A flash of pink at the far edge of the painting caught his eye. A sliver of a young girl in a pink T-shirt and white shorts peeked out from behind a curtain. Her long, black hair was caught in a bow on top of her head and flowed down her back. Her eyes were saucer big and dark as coal. She clutched a small, black kitten with one white paw. Fear radiated through the paint and canvas.
Tessa. No doubt about it. But what was she frightened of, him?
He looked closer. No sign of a scar on her leg.
Whoever did this was one sick puppy. But was it El Jefe, or Tessa herself?
Tessa’s cell phone shrilled a discordant version of Duke Ellington’s “Mood Indigo”. She jerked and the phone slid off her lap and onto the floor of her car.
She groped blindly for it, her fingers first touching it, then losing it as it skittered farther under her seat. She threw open the door and grabbed for the sound.
“Yes?” she answered, still on her knees with her head inside the car.
“It’s clear. You can come home now.”
She didn’t need to ask who it was, his voice already as familiar as her mother’s had been.
Her head banged on the steering wheel and pieces of asphalt dug into her knees, but she ignored them and jumped back in the car. She peeled down the street and into her driveway.
He stood beside her back door, a huge mountain of a man in his bulletproof vest. A gun as large as he was hung from his side. His gold detective’s badge was clipped to his belt and look out of place with his jeans and T-shirt.
“I’ve phoned this in, and the forensic techs will be out at some point to look for fingerprints and take photos, but you can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”
What did he mean, not stay here? This was her home. The only place she’d ever felt truly safe. “It’ll be okay. I’ll get someone out to fix the door.”
He took her arm and placed her in front of the back door. “Look at that door. You had it locked, but one good kick and he was inside.” He turned her toward him and stared into her eyes. “You can’t stay here. It’s not safe until we catch him.”
He was right, she knew it in her soul, but she couldn’t admit it. Not yet. Now while he held onto her arm and ordered her around. “I better go through the house and see what’s missing.”
“There’s no point.”
“Why not?” She felt her temper rise. Everything she said, he contradicted.
“Did you have Yolanda’s appointment book?”
“No.” He knew she didn’t. She’d have given it to him the first time he asked if she did.
“Then he didn’t take anything. And if he did, you wouldn’t be able to tell.”
He wasn’t going to keep her from her own house. She twisted out of his grip and ran inside. Her eyes darted from side to side, seeing the destruction but not taking it in fully.
She sank to the floor in the middle of her bedroom when he caught up with her.
“Who would do a thing like this?” She held up pieces of a broken orange and gold necklace. “I made this myself. And the shower curtain he ripped down in the bathroom? I hand painted that.”
He made a strange sound and she looked up. His face was flushed. Maybe he wasn’t as cold as she thought.
“You need to pack a small bag. Nothing much, just a few casual clothes. I’ll take you someplace safe.”
She glanced around the room. How could she pack? She’d never find two pieces that matched, or both of a pair of shoes. Her eyes fell on a pile of her underwear and bras, scattered across the floor and her breath caught.
Who did she mind the most seeing her underthings, a nameless, faceless intruder, or the man standing next to her?
Him. She knew him. He had no right to look at the contents of her drawers, her closets. “Get out. Now. I’ll pack a bag, but I need a moment.”
All her life she’d been dragged from one place to another with no say in her own life. For the first time, she had a home and he wanted to make her leave. It wasn’t his fault, but somehow it felt like it was.
This was temporary, she could do it. But whatever happened, she wouldn’t cry, not in front of him.
Ruben busied himself putting away her groceries while she packed. It didn’t take long. Rice, cauliflower, two small chicken breasts, and ice cream. Not ice cream. Raspberry sorbet. What was the point of that? Nothing but frozen, flavored water. A Popsicle tasted better.
The groceries tipped him over into the column of thinking she hadn’t done this to herself. Plus the fact that people seldom broke things they’d made themselves. But then, she hadn’t torn the shower curtain, he had.
When he saw how she reacted to the paintings in the garage, he’d feel more certain of his decision.
“Almost ready.” She stood in the doorway, holding a duffle bag. “I just need to get a few things from the garage.”
He closed the freezer door and followed her outside.
A muffled thud sounded from inside her studio and he rushed in, his hand on his weapon. She stood as immobile as a statue. Her duffel lay on its side on the floor. She must have dropped it.
“Noooo,” she wailed. “I can never recover from this. It’s a year’s work. I don’t have enough to buy new paints and canvases. How am I ever going to pay my mortgage?”
That did it. She wouldn’t have destroyed her own work.
She twisted to face him, her eyes large and damp. He took a step closer and put his arms around her. She held onto him as if afraid a current might wash her away.
He took a deep breath and recognized her shampoo from the broken bottle in her bathroom. Thank goodness he still had his vest on. He’d have been in trouble if he could actually feel her pressed against him.
“Do you have insurance?” he asked. Anything to get his mind of the soft form clinging to him.
“Some. The least I could get by with.” Her voice was muffled against his chest.
“I’ll get you the forms for the victim’s fund. That should help some. When I catch the guy, we’ll make him reimburse you.” What did he mean, we? He wasn’t a lawyer. But his cousin Nelda was.
She pulled back slightly and he released her. “Let’s look around. There might be some things you can save.”
He found several undamaged blank canvases. A couple more had paints spots. Would that matter? He had no idea.
She found a sketchpad. The top sheet was dirty, but the rest were fine.
Some of the paint tubes were more than half empty. They had been stepped on but hadn’t ruptured. Several brushes had survived and some drawing pencils were broken but still usable.
When they finished, she had a pile of supplies she packed in
a carrying case.
When he opened the trunk to set the two cases inside, the memory of Gordo’s bloated face stared up at him. She better have packed everything she needed. They weren’t coming back here until Jacinto, or whoever did this, was locked away. Forever.
“One last thing.” She reached for a pet carrier and called, “Here, Bob. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”
A black shadow appeared in the garage door and she scooped him up.
Ruben slapped himself on the forehead. “We have to go by my house. I forgot about Molly.”
Chapter 18
Tessa buckled her seatbelt, but refused to look Ruben’s direction, something she’d managed since he suggested going back to her room to help her pack.
Bad enough that he’d seen it the first time. Having him watch while she picked underwear off the floor or rooted around for a clean blouse or a matching pair of shoes was too much.
But if she was so angry with him, why did the thought of someone named Molly waiting for him at home turn her blood to ice crystals?
They rode in silence for at least fifteen minutes and she let herself relax. A quick glance out of the corner of her eye showed that he was intent on driving and didn’t appear to be watching her.
Good. Maybe he had more sense than she’d given him credit for. He certainly seemed clear-headed in an emergency. In the short time it had taken her to pack her supplies, he’d fixed her garage door so that it closed and locked and called someone to repair the splintered back door.
None of that was his job. He’d just done it because, what, he was that kind of person? That didn’t fit with what she thought she knew about him. Yet it fit with what she felt when he held her arm and showed her the back door.
The back door. Shoot. How was she going to pay for that?
She still had her parents’ china. If the creep hadn’t broken that, she could probably sell it. Would anyone buy an out-of-date six piece place setting of used china?
She’d worry about that tomorrow.
Ruben flicked on the blinker and they turned into a quiet, residential area with older homes and mature trees. Was this where he lived? And with a wife named Molly? He didn’t wear a ring.
Heat rose up the back of her neck. Why had she even noticed a thing like that?
She’d pictured him as more the apartment type, yet he smelled of grass and outdoors and the ankle-high rough-out work boots he wore still had mud on one toe.
The radio had been playing soft jazz, probably the reason she’d been able to relax, and she didn’t realize they’d stopped until the music cut off.
He slipped off his seatbelt and came around to open her door.
“I’ll wait here. It’s nice out and I don’t need to go inside.” She had no desire to see how he lived, well, maybe a little, but she certainly didn’t want to meet Molly, although she could kick herself for caring.
“You can’t sit out here alone. What if he followed us?”
Her head whirled. She hadn’t even been worried about that. Now she wouldn’t be able to take her eyes off the side-view mirror. She’d been happy at home, painting her pictures. Now she’d been sucked into a James Bond universe where strangers kicked in your door and followed your car. And all this was his fault.
Well, no, it wasn’t. But it felt like it ought to be.
She had so few memories of her father, but the one that stood out was watching a bowl game on TV together. Texas Tech was playing . . . somebody. It must have been up north because ice covered the ground.
“Is that the Ruben guy who scared Yolanda so bad?” he’d asked her around a mouth full of beer. “No wonder she was so frightened. He’s a brute.”
And he had looked like a brute; a head taller than any player on either team, shoulder pads on his uniform that made him seem gigantic, black slashes painted under his eyes, and one curl of jet black hair hanging on his forehead.
She was only, what, thirteen, fourteen? It was just a few days before her father died. That’s why she remembered it so clearly. The camera had moved in close and the frost on his breath looked like steam. She’d had nightmares about fire breathing dragons for years.
That wasn’t the vibes she got from him now. Yolanda had called it a gift, she considered it more of a curse, but when she held a person’s hand, she knew them. Not where they went to school, or what they had for dinner but the color of their soul.
One person might be solid as a brick wall, someone you could depend on, with a good heart and loving temperament, the next a hypocrite. Many were simply lightweights, shallow. Most were a conglomeration of different things. She’d never come across anyone truly evil, but she knew they existed. That’s why she had mastered the art of avoiding shaking hands. It was easy these days, with all the germaphobes around.
When she had to shake hands, she offered only her fingertips and pulled away quickly. That’s what she’d done with Ruben when they met. The brief glimpse she’d gotten of him had been confusing, but if it was a result of the evil he saw every day or his basic soul, she had no idea.
In her garage, she’d put her arms around him, but all she’d felt was the unyielding bulletproof vest.
Now she was sitting in the car with him, trusting him with her life.
Ruben stood by the open car door and held out his hand, but Tessa stared straight ahead and didn’t move.
“We need to get moving. We have a long drive ahead of us,” he said.
She blinked twice, gathered her skirt, and climbed out of the car, ignoring his hand.
This was going to be a long couple of days if she continued to pretend he didn’t exist. He’d seen it before. People who broke down in front of him were embarrassed to face him later.
“Is this your home?” She paused to study the house.
“It’s my mother’s home, but yes, it’s where I grew up. I live in an apartment close to the Galleria now, but I’ve been staying here for a few days until we solve this case.”
She glanced next door. “Is that where my mother died?”
Damn. He’d hoped she wouldn’t notice. He’d been careful to park facing the other way. “Yes, although it’s still considered a crime scene and you can’t go in yet. I’ll let you know when it’s been released so you can gather up your mother’s things.”
She didn’t need to see the mess inside that place. Maybe he could collect what was left of her mother’s belongings. Almost everything in there was now a biohazard and would need to be disposed of by a professional service
Could the Villiarreals pay for that? The cost might be the final straw for them. Violent death left unseen ripples that traveled far beyond anything the person who fired the gun, or pulled the knife, or drove the car ever imagined, destroying lives in its wake. And people like him were the ones who saw the worst of it.
He closed the car door and started toward the house. Tessa’s footsteps sounded on the cement behind him. As he reached the porch, the front door swung open.
His hand flew to the weapon on his hip.
Mamacita peered out from behind the screen door. “So there you are,” she said.
“What are you doing home?” He jerked his hand away and patted his chest, making sure he’d removed the bulletproof vest.
“I live here.” Mamacita eyed Tessa. “Maybe you should explain what you’re doing here.”
Ruben held the door open for Tessa. “This is Tessa Reyna, the daughter of the woman who was killed next door. Tessa, this is my mother.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Marquez?” Tessa nodded, but kept her hands at her side.
Mamacita’s face ran through a range of expressions, finally settling on bland. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she muttered.
Ruben couldn’t believe his ears. He’d known her to sit up all night with a grieving widow, or fill a neighbor’s house with food when illness struck. And an insincere ‘Sorry for your loss,’ was all she could muster?
“What happened at Julio’s? I thought you were spending the weekend.�
��
Mamacita shrugged and led the way through the house. “I can’t sleep there. Too much going on all the time. I’ll go back for lunch tomorrow.” She eyed Ruben. “And so will you.”
“It’s Julio’s or Emily’s, because you’re not staying here.” Ruben glanced from Mamacita to Tessa, but both women ignored him.
Mamacita spun around. “I want to be in my own home. At least I did until I came home and found muddy footprints across my kitchen floor.”
Ruben looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry. I was hanging your birdfeeder when I got an emergency phone call from Tessa. Someone broke into her house.”
“All right, that explains the mud on the floor, but how do you explain the dog sleeping in my bed?”
Convincing Mamacita to leave the house wasn’t even the hardest thing Ruben had to do over the next hour. She refused to consider going back to Julio’s or to Emily’s.
“I’ll come with you,” she grumbled.
“I’m taking Tessa to my cabin on Lake Livingston. You hate it there.” He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw hurt.
“I can stand it for one night. I’m sure you’ll have the case solved by then.”
Did she think she needed to serve as a chaperone? The dirty looks she continued to shoot Tessa made it obvious she didn’t want to be in the woman’s company.
He slid Mamacita’s full-sized bag in the trunk next to Tessa’s overnighter and his duffle. Mamacita sat in front, next to him, and Tessa sat in the back between her cat’s travel crate and Molly’s.
They stopped by the kennel to drop off Molly, but the office had already closed. Jillian’s place was on the way to Lake Livingston. If she and Adam weren’t off playing footsie, he could leave the cat or the dog with her. Or maybe Mamacita. Disapproval radiated off of her like steam.
Or he could stay with Jillian and let Tessa, Mamacita, Molly and the cat duke it out. He’d go back tomorrow and see who was left standing.
He watched in the rearview mirror as Tessa spoke softly to each animal and tried to calm them. It would work for a few minutes until one hissed or the other barked.
The Witch On Twisted Oak Page 12