Deadlock

by DiAnn Mills

  “All different providers.”

  “Are you terming Ruth Caswell’s investigation cold?” she said.

  A defeatist attitude was not in his gene pool. “I’ve solved every murder case I’ve worked on. No plans to admit failure now. Indications are theft ranks as motive. But that doesn’t hold water. Why steal valuables and murder a dying old woman? Why enter through her bedroom window when the house is huge? So the killer cased the house, disarmed the security system, and was aware when the nurse typically took her break? Makes me question if the killer worked alone. Several antique guns were stolen from an adjacent bedroom, but nothing’s been reported from gun collectors and pawnshops. Not theft, murder.”

  “All in about ten minutes? Has a background been done on Mae Kenters?” she said.

  “We have HPD’s report. No priors on her.” He considered the circumstances surrounding Ruth Caswell. “Make a note for us to bring Mae Kenters in today for another interview, sometime this afternoon. Her HPD statement is in the file with my phone follow-up. Very nervous woman. Add to the note for me to call Ruth Caswell’s son. He might have information regarding Alicia or other Javon family members. Also, his mother’s religious preference since Alicia’s Bible was stolen.”

  “Sure.” She looked at the list. “What else do you have?”

  “That’s it until various reports are completed. Do you see anything?”

  She studied her list. “Makes sense to talk to neighbors of both victims. See if they saw anything usual. Examine those findings.”

  “Landscape company. Housekeeping services. Remodeling. Home repairs. Food deliveries, including fast food that could supply the Javons and hospice nurses. All services that had access to the homes for a three-month period.”

  “Whoa, slow down.”

  “Quantico doesn’t teach shorthand anymore?” He snapped his fingers. “Life insurance companies and the current sales rep assigned to both women. Blood type.”

  She pressed her lips together. “You’re far out there, a waste in—”

  “Bend your rules, Bethany. You might be surprised what you find.”

  She fumed, but he ignored it. “What about traffic cam footage near the Caswell home for the past three months,” she said. “The Javons have an alarm system, but not cameras. Traffic cams might help there too.”

  “Good call. We’re looking for a single unique trait. At this point, it looks like our killer chose a targeted stranger. But the relationship will be defined as we move through the evidence.” He eased onto the chair, adrenaline and caffeine coursing through his veins. “Your thoughts?”

  She folded her arms on the table. “Less than one percent of the murders committed in our country are conducted by serial killers, and I know the definition per the FBI. But Javon could have hired a killer for the eight million.”

  He wanted a partner, not memorized protocol. “Then why didn’t he set up an accident or an overdose of pills to get her out of the way?”

  She held up a finger. “We need proof. He’s definitely a piece of work—a coward and a bully. Unregenerate in my opinion. Do you believe his show of grief?”

  “No.”

  “The victims’ ages don’t fall among the high percentage of murdered victims.”

  “They’re still dead.”

  She startled. “True. I’m merely thinking aloud with the information we have. Paul Javon has motive and a background of violence.”

  “Could be no motive at all. The killer can, so he does. It could be more than one driving force. Or Javon wanted control of the inheritance. I don’t rule out anything, especially a serial killing.”

  “What about Alicia Javon’s missing Bible?”

  “Hard to say. She could have audibly prayed before being shot, and the killer reacted. Or it could be an indication of something else. Add these to the list—past addresses, elementary, middle, and high schools. College. Employment history. Any infractions? Daily habits. Political views. Community affairs.”

  “We don’t have time for thin theories—” She reddened. “I’m sorry. No excuse for my rudeness, except I’m a superachiever on steroids. I’m used to comparing facts and going forward with what can be proven.”

  Maybe this partnership wouldn’t work. “The human mind doesn’t necessarily work on facts.”

  “What are we looking for to narrow in on the killer or killers?”

  “First of all, you’re doing great. The psychology of any killer is always a huge factor, because usually the psychological gratification is what spurs him on. In this case, we’re working through two murders that have a few characteristics indicating a serial killing, and that requires a complex homicide investigation on many levels. I was assigned to my first murder case about eight years ago. Only two years out of Quantico, and I was scared stupid. My partner had been in violent crime for a dozen years, and he guided me through the investigation.”

  “So we examine the two murders as though they were individual killings and find the common trait that connects the two? If there is one.”

  “Yep. We have people to interview today and a report to compile at the close and information to send to behavioral analysts at Quantico.”

  Her cell phone buzzed with a text. She glanced at it, frowned, and dropped it back into her purse.

  Thatcher checked the time. “Are you ready to visit Alicia Javon’s pastor?”

  “First? What about those closest to her? The first forty-eight hours is the most crucial time in an investigation. Look at how the younger daughter reacted to her father. She’s our best interviewee.”

  Taking a gulp of coffee, he allowed silence to prove his point. “Do you honestly think Carly Javon will point a finger at her dad with her mother’s body barely cold? She knows he has an alibi. Give her a few hours or a couple of days to think this through—and plan her mother’s funeral.”

  He once again doubted the flexibility of the woman before him. “Pastors are also counselors, and counselors often hear what’s going on in a person’s life. Alicia could have confided in someone she trusted about a stalking, a quarrel, an association with Ruth Caswell, or—”

  “Nothing.”

  He lifted his coffee cup. “We’ll find out, now, won’t we?”

  “Thatcher, I think we could complement each other and use every angle to end this crime and others.” She shrugged. “But we’ll have to work at it.”

  “When my old partner took a transfer, I was bummed. We thought alike, and we were always on the same wavelength. But I’ve been thinking about you and me, instinct versus logic. We could be a force to be reckoned with, if we don’t kill each other first.”

  CHAPTER 4

  10:40 A.M. MONDAY

  While Bethany waited for Thatcher to join her in the FBI lower hallway, she lifted the Diet Dr Pepper to her lips, like the classic commercial—10, 2, 4, and anytime in between when she needed a burst of energy. Liquid courage trickled down her throat. She’d made a fool of herself. By noon she might be back in the civil rights division. Still, she believed pressing Paul Javon and his younger daughter would provide faster results than interviewing their pastor. A whole list took precedence over speaking to the pastor, one being to transcribe the notes she’d just taken into a spreadsheet. At least in the car, she could concentrate on FBI and HPD reports on her phone.

  She reached for her phone to read the text from Mamá, sent when she and Thatcher were discussing the case.

  Lucas released from jail. Says he needs money.

  Let her brother get a job and earn a living honestly instead of armed robbery, which only got him eleven months. Mamá and Papá would hand over whatever he needed. She glanced at the text’s recipients. It went to her sisters too. No surprise. Baby brother’s actions were always justified. She closed her eyes while guilt assaulted her for not responding. Then she texted her mother.

  I know a contractor who needs workers

  Lucas is fragile & can’t take a job right now. How much will you give?

>   None

  I’m really sad & disappointed

  Exasperation caused her to drop her cell back into her purse. She’d concentrate on her new assignment and pray Lucas had learned something in jail besides new ways to con everyone in his universe.

  10:56 A.M. MONDAY

  While Thatcher and Bethany walked to his Mustang in the FBI parking lot, he phoned Nick Caswell, Ruth’s son and only living heir.

  “Dr. Caswell, I have a few questions for you,” Thatcher said. “Do you know Alicia Javon, or had your mother ever mentioned her?”

  “I don’t recall the name, but I’ll look into it and ask my wife. Why do you ask?”

  “Alicia Javon was murdered yesterday, and there are some similarities between her case and your mother’s. At this point we’re compiling history on both women for the past six months. If you can get your hands on a list of all those who had contact with your mother, including services at her home, that will expedite the investigation. I’ll send a follow-up e-mail later on today with specifics.”

  “Whatever it takes. Shouldn’t be too tedious since I managed her affairs for the past year.”

  “Thanks. Was your mother religious?”

  “Depends on the season of the year. I’d say more generous than religious.”

  Thatcher thanked him and set the phone aside. “Nick’s an orthopedic surgeon, a good man.” He pointed to his car. “There’s my ride.” She hadn’t said a word, and from the look on her face, her mood could be served with shaved ice.

  Once he pulled onto 290, he chose to try breaking her chill. “How about an interrogation?”

  She swung his way. “With the pastor?”

  “No, us.” He chuckled. “Hours and days of work are ahead of us. We need to know each other on a personal level.”

  “I really wonder if a Q & A is necessary.”

  Why was this woman so private? Unless his reputation with women had her cautious. “If we’re in a shoot-out, I want to know my back’s covered.”

  “Makes sense. What’s your plan?”

  “You’ve proved yourself an outstanding agent in the civil rights division. Why transfer to violent crime?”

  She blinked. “The challenge.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not a stranger to violent crime.”

  “I see where you were raised. Any killings affect you personally?”

  “All of them.”

  “How?” Textbook answers didn’t let him inside the real agent, the one who was influenced by life’s curveballs to work a murder.

  She moistened her lips. “Where I grew up, a boy’s arrest is his initiation into manhood, and blood in the streets is a fact of life.”

  Tough girl. “Revenge or justice?”

  She lifted her gaze. “Justice.”

  “What’s your favorite candy?”

  “What?”

  “Humor me for a moment.”

  “None.”

  “Do you have a dog?”

  “No.”

  “Why a Ford pickup?”

  “I’m short. Helps me see better.”

  “Siblings?”

  “Three sisters and one brother. I’m next to the youngest. I threw in the extra for more points.”

  He laughed. She could lighten up. “Your name isn’t Spanish.”

  “My parents wanted the best of both worlds for their kids.”

  “Hobbies?”

  “The FBI.”

  “Why the FBI?”

  “Why not?”

  “This isn’t a test. Our quirky traits make us unique.”

  She remained stiff. “You’re asking weird questions. Am I winning or losing?”

  “This isn’t a game. From your answers, I can’t bribe you with candy to enter my notes into the computer. I can’t show up at your door to walk your dog so you’ll bring me coffee in the mornings. We both drive Fords. You have a large family, and you hate to lose. Diet Dr Pepper is your beverage of choice, although I think it tastes like bad medicine. You’re performance-oriented, and your reasons for choosing a career in the FBI and specifically violent crime are private.”

  Her eyes flashed. “In other words, a certain amount of familiarity between us is necessary. I’m not used to a partner being privy to my personal life.”

  “You weren’t investigating a murder. My weakness could be your strength and the other way around.”

  “You might be right.”

  Getting her to loosen up was like shooting blanks at a moving target. “For the record—red licorice, no dog, drive a Mustang, only kid, enjoy country-western music, and my dad offered me ten grand if I joined the FBI.” He grinned. “I like sports, and it’s how you play the game.”

  “I play to win.”

  “Figured so.”

  CHAPTER 5

  11:57 A.M. MONDAY

  After battling Houston traffic from the FBI office to University Boulevard, Thatcher stood with Bethany in the office reception area of Alicia Javon’s church with Pastor Lee. Dark caverns shadowed beneath the aging man’s eyes. He represented truth, but he seemed hesitant to meet with the two agents. Perhaps the idea of a murdered church member scraped raw against a message of love and forgiveness. His shoulders held the weight of too many people expecting too much from one man.

  “Would you rather come to our office?” Thatcher said.

  Pastor Lee sighed. “We can talk now for a few minutes.”

  Once seated in the pastor’s office, Thatcher sensed the man’s barrier in his reluctance to make eye contact. Walls were built to protect, not hide, and he saw fear and exhaustion in the pastor’s demeanor. Thatcher understood the horror of spilled blood when life flowed to nonexistence. He experienced the inevitable finality every time an innocent person walked into death’s trap. Right now, he needed to soothe Pastor Lee’s nervousness. They were on his side.

  “Pastor, our job is to find out who killed Alicia Javon,” he said.

  Red rimmed his eyes. “The family and my members are suffering. Paul suggested a memorial service right away since Alicia wished to be cremated, and we have no idea when you people will release her body.” He paused. “Can’t you let us go on with our lives?”

  Thatcher leaned toward him. “We don’t ignore a murder. The person responsible for Mrs. Javon’s death has possibly killed another woman and is free to kill again. Is that what you want? What if the killer is a member of your church? Even someone you respect?”

  Pastor Lee’s drawn features paled. “The thought makes me ill. I’m sorry about my lack of cooperation. I’ll help you.” He closed the door to his office. “Are you recording this conversation?”

  “Can we?”

  “I prefer not.”

  Thatcher could have persuaded him without using shock tactics, but he was in what-works mode, and that meant dealing with Pastor Lee’s difficult emotions. “We appreciate your time in this tragedy.”

  “Alicia’s family is in bad shape. I was at their hotel until two this morning.”

  “That’s why we’ve got to work together to find the killer. Special Agent Sanchez and I are committed to ending the murders.”

  The man glanced at Bethany. His features hardened. Did he have a problem with a female agent? Or a Hispanic? His church was upper-crust white bread. . . .

  “We understand how you’d like to put this behind you,” Bethany said. “The sooner this case is solved, the easier everyone will rest. Special Agent Graves will ask the questions, and I’ll write your responses.” She pulled a notepad from her purse and opened it to a clean page. The woman with huge dark eyes and inches-long lashes wore professionalism in one package, and she must have seen the revulsion for something in Pastor Lee.

  “I want this nightmare ended,” the pastor said. “With closure, the Javons can grieve without fear.”

  “Have they shared their apprehension with HPD?” Thatcher said.

  “Yes, of course. I think that’s natural when a loved one is murdered. However, none of the ot
her family members have been threatened. Neither was Alicia. They were an excellent Christian family.”

  There were holes in the story. Every family had its share of dysfunction, and the Javons were at the top of the list. “We’re ready to get started.” Thatcher nodded at Bethany, and she clicked her pen.

  “Pastor Lee, we’re looking for a connection between Alicia and another recently murdered woman. Do you know Ruth Caswell?”

  “Other than hearing her name as a victim, no.”

  “Did Mrs. Javon ever confide in you about concern for her life?”

  “Never.” He folded his hands into a tight fist.

  “Anyone who might be upset with her? A situation at her place of employment, here at church, or in the community?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Was she active in your church? Did she hold a leadership position?”

  “She led a Tuesday night Bible study at a women’s shelter.” The lines in Pastor Lee’s face softened. “I’ve been told the women loved her.”

  “The facility could be housing the killer’s family or girlfriend,” Thatcher said. “What is the name of the facility?”

  “Noah’s Loft. It’s located in the northeast part of town,” Pastor Lee said. “Her group wasn’t just a Bible study, but an outreach built on enriching the lives of each resident through faith. She supported them in every way possible. Even helped them write résumés so they could find jobs.”

  “What about her husband?”

  “Paul is a good man. A deacon.”

  “I see Paul Javon is unemployed. Did they have any problems, marital or otherwise?”

  Pastor Lee swiped at his nose. Did he have any knowledge of Paul Javon’s earlier interview? “Not any more than anyone else.”

  A lie. Body stiffened.

  “Normal couple. Volunteered in the church. Beautiful and talented daughters.”

  “I don’t think you’re being honest about the Javons’ relationship.” Thatcher believed it was time to pull off the gloves. “If you are aware of anything about the case, now is the time to step forward.” Why would a man of God hold back anything that would help solve a murder?