Deadlock

by DiAnn Mills

  “Inside and outside the home?”

  “Right. I’ll want to zoom in on this at the office.”

  They finished their breakfast and were walking to the parking lot when another text alerted Bethany, and she snatched it. She paled and glanced around them.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Odd text.”

  “It obviously shook you up. A blocked number again?”

  “Yes. Was Lucas at Starbucks? I always make sure to notice who’s inside a place when I enter, but I didn’t see him.”

  “What did he say?”

  She handed him the phone. Drank 2 red-I b4 u arrived. Always 1 step ahead of u. Watch 4 me when you least expect it.

  “Lucas wasn’t in the coffee shop. And it really bothers me the sender knows every step you take.”

  She shook her head. “Wouldn’t be the first time he kept tabs on me. He’s been at this since I was a freshman in high school. Don’t waste your time on my brother. We have more important things to do.”

  Thatcher’s protective nature urged him to say more, but she’d take offense. Didn’t stop the apprehension.

  CHAPTER 21

  10:37 A.M. THURSDAY

  At the office, Bethany noted Shannon Javon had a 4:15 interview today. The young woman could very well lawyer up. Odd, her father’s lawyer phoned earlier stating his client had volunteered to take a polygraph. Fat good that did when it wasn’t admissible in court.

  Paul Javon had jail duty until Monday. When the judge heard “person of interest” regarding the serial murder case, he added mandatory anger management classes along with ninety-six hours of community service. Javon pleaded innocent to domestic abuse charges, but Carly’s battered body and testimony proved otherwise. Shannon refused to affirm her sister’s allegations against their father. But maybe she’d have time to think about it before their afternoon interview.

  The security camera footage at Ruth Caswell’s home prior to the crime failed to implicate Mae Kenters. Another dead end. Another point for the cold-case side.

  Her computer alerted her to an e-mail from Mamá. Never uplifting news.

  I’m too upset to call, so I’m sending an e-mail. If your brother comes to your apartment, don’t let him in. He’s gone off the deep end. Around nine this morning, he came back from a motorcycle ride. Stone drunk and high. Said he needed money. When we explained we didn’t have cash at the house because of giving him money the day before, he said bad things and punched a hole in the living room wall. I don’t know where we went wrong with him.

  Your papá went to the bank to draw out a few thousand dollars. He says the more we give Lucas, the more he’ll see how much we love him and change. Sorry to bother you. I only meant to warn you.

  Don’t let your papá know about this. I’m deleting it from my Sent file like you showed me.

  Instead of responding to her mother’s e-mail, she pressed in her parents’ landline number and hoped Papá wasn’t around to answer. Her brother had played the role of a bully his whole life. Why couldn’t her parents see that?

  Her mother answered.

  “Mamá, are you okay?”

  “I think so. Your papá’s in the garage banging on something. Isn’t going to work until after lunch. He called Lucas and left a voice message telling him the money was here.” She sniffed, and Bethany envisioned her sitting alone in the kitchen.

  Papá only worked in the garage when he was upset. Mamá cleaned house. Her brother broke the law. Bethany went shopping.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Of my own son? Never. He’s so hurt and troubled. Jail did that to him.”

  “He was this way before jail.”

  “He has nothing but his motorcycle. Life’s been so unfair to him.”

  Bethany swallowed her frustration. “It’s his fault he has no money or a job. You’ve helped him so many times he feels entitled. I bet he’s never thanked you or Papá.”

  “I shouldn’t be talking to you. Just be safe.”

  “I’m not letting him inside my apartment, and I can take care of myself.”

  “You call us to come get him. No point in involving the police.” Mamá gasped. “You wouldn’t shoot your own brother!”

  A dull ache mounted in Bethany’s skull. “At least in jail he wasn’t drinking or fighting.”

  “I should hang up before your papá comes in.”

  “Right. For a moment I forgot I’ve been excommunicated from the church and my family.” Bethany stopped herself before saying more. “I’m sorry. I’m being disrespectful. I love you, and I appreciate your letting me know about Lucas. Does he have the same cell number?”

  “Don’t call him. It would only upset him more.” Her mother hung up without a good-bye or indicating Lucas had a different number.

  An hour later, Bethany picked up her cell phone for the third time. Should she call Lucas or leave the situation alone? He’d hammered their relationship perhaps beyond repair. Her twenty-seven-year-old brother had a track record of poor choices, abandoned children, and multiple incarcerations. Bethany sighed. He was the son Papá had always wanted and could do no wrong. He—

  Stop going over the situation. The past didn’t have to dictate the future. Either she was committed to Lucas’s betterment or not. Just not in the same way as her family.

  She stared at her phone. Elizabeth had repeatedly told her she’d never be the one to help Lucas see the light. He held too much malevolence against her. The only prayer she could muster was “Help.” Could he strike back any worse than he already had? His texts were annoying, but stealing Abuela’s brooch was low.

  When no message came from heaven, she pressed in his old number.

  He answered on the third ring. “Why are you bothering me?” He compared her to something too vile for her to think about.

  “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  “What do you think? Finally got out of jail, where they treated me worse than a dog. Does that answer your question?”

  Jail wasn’t designed to be a five-star resort. “Are you at the shop?”

  “None of your business. Look, I have stuff to do. Don’t call me anymore. You destroyed my life, remember? The rest of my family cares. They’ll give me whatever I want. You have no part in my life.”

  “Because I want to help you stay out of jail?” Her heart sank to her toes.

  “Aren’t you the righteous one? This is your fault. The only reason you’re not in my shoes is because you have your fancy FBI job. You never had to scrape for a living. You’re nothing but a nosy—”

  “Hey, enough.”

  He swore. “I see your type on every street corner. Sleep around with any man who’ll help you get to the top.”

  The typical irrational Lucas response to anyone who tried to reason with him. But his lies hurt, and she refused to get into more of a verbal battle.

  “No answer, huh?” he smirked.

  “Lucas, stop the texts, and I want Abuela’s brooch returned.”

  “No one gives me orders. Since you’re such a good FBI agent, work on your and Special Agent Graves’s obituaries. He has the same nowhere future.”

  Her stomach lurched. “Are you threatening FBI agents? It’s a federal offense.”

  “So have me arrested. Won’t be the first time.” He hung up.

  4:20 P.M. THURSDAY

  Bethany escorted Shannon Javon from the reception area to an interview room where Thatcher waited. Not one word from the young woman until she was seated.

  “This is ridiculous,” Shannon said. “I’m only doing this for Carly.”

  This was the docile sister? Or was it a tough-girl act? “How is she?” Bethany poured sweetness into every word.

  “AWOL. She belongs at home.”

  “Why?”

  “Dad wants her there when he returns.”

  “So he can knock her around, or has he started on you?”

  “He loves us, and with Mom gone, we need to be united as a family. Th
e lies you people feed her have to be stopped.” Shannon’s fingernails were bitten to the quick.

  “What lies?”

  “The ones Carly keeps telling about our parents’ relationship. She told the judge that Dad had contacted his attorney about their wills, requesting Carly and I be removed from Mom’s inheritance. She even said Dad wanted to know if our trust funds reverted to him in the event of our deaths.” She sobbed. “You influenced Carly to make our dad look evil.”

  “Shannon, we had nothing to do with your sister’s testimony. Remember she took an oath to tell the truth. We have the court report. Special Agent Graves, would you like to read Paul Javon’s response to Carly’s claims?”

  Thatcher nodded. “Your father admitted to the accusation. You were there.” He picked up the court’s proceedings. “He said Alicia had consulted an attorney about a divorce and he wanted to make sure she wouldn’t leave him penniless with his disability. In addition, your father said Alicia was turning you and Carly against him. Is that true?”

  Shannon’s shoulders lifted and fell. “She wasn’t turning us against Dad. Please tell me why I’m here. The nightmare doesn’t stop.”

  Sympathy washed over Bethany. She recognized a weak young woman. “Are you holding back any information about your mother’s killer?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “What about the name of your father’s girlfriend?”

  Shannon blanched. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told the judge—I never heard Dad mention another woman.”

  “Did he have unexplained time away from home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did your father abuse your mother?”

  Shannon squeezed her fingers into her palms. “I refuse to answer such a question. You have Carly’s statement. No matter how I respond, I hurt a family member.”

  “Do you believe your father had your mother murdered?”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Are you insane?”

  Bethany bored the young woman’s face with a firm gaze. “Yes or no.”

  “My father is all I have left. Conversation ended.”

  CHAPTER 22

  11:30 P.M. THURSDAY

  Thatcher closed his garage door. The rental was so small his hair brushed against the roof. Shattered windows in his Mustang, still in the FBI shop, ground at his nerves. Remembering his new partner’s initial reaction to the shooting made him question what would happen the next time. Not an if but a when. This had nothing to do with requalifying with their firearms on a regular basis, but everything to do with a clear head. He walked to the elevator and finally into his home. As soon as his keys landed on the kitchen table, his cell phone rang—SSA Alan Preston. Not good.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Scorpion’s daring us to find him.” Preston’s flat tone indicated the killer had struck again.

  “Another victim?”

  “Right. Got a call from HPD. This time a homeless man by the name of Ansel Spree, found with a bullet hole to the forehead and a plastic scorpion on his chest. The scorpion is identical to the other two, as though the killer bought a pack of them. HPD is sweeping the crime scene and agents are en route.”

  Could the killer have gotten sloppy this time? “When did it happen?”

  “Estimation is between nine and eleven. I’m sending you the report now. I need you and Agent Sanchez on the scene ASAP.”

  Thatcher jotted a few notes about the victim and the address where he’d been found. “Have you contacted Bethany?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Sir, I’ll call her and explain the situation. She left about thirty minutes ago.”

  “Find a link. Both of you in my office at eight in the morning with evidence, not a deer-in-the-headlights look.”

  Maybe they’d have this figured out by then. “Yes, sir.” When they finished, he phoned Bethany.

  She answered on the first ring. “Is this another copycat like Alicia Javon?” she said after he gave her the update.

  “Seriously? Get rid of that theory. Scorpion must have a list. Just wish we had his parameters. I’m sending you the initial report. The victim was found off Elgin in the Third Ward.”

  “Text me the address, and I’ll meet you there.”

  Thatcher met her at the crime scene amid flashing red lights and two unmarked cars that he recognized as agents’ vehicles. Bethany stepped from her truck, dressed in jeans, boots, and a black leather jacket, with her hair swept back in a ponytail. Undeniably attractive.

  “I read the report on the way here,” she said.

  “While driving?”

  “Good call, but I read at lights. When I have a chance, I’ll see if Ansel’s connected to Ruth Caswell.”

  What a stubborn woman. Protocol all the way.

  They walked to the police officer posted by the crime scene barrier and displayed their badges. The dead man lay on his back to the right of the sidewalk, his position similar to the other two deaths.

  Thatcher bent and she knelt beside him. The victim had been shot in the forehead with a hollow-tip bullet like the others. African American. Dirty and tattered. On the man’s bloodstained chest sat a small brown plastic scorpion. A senseless killing.

  Thatcher visibly examined the body and area of the crime scene. “We have a homeless man by the name of Ansel Spree. No family. HPD arrested him for robbing a dry cleaner’s four years ago. He did two years. Unemployed. ID was on him. And a watch. Obviously theft wasn’t a motive.” He and Bethany moved away from the body. “Has to be someone who cares he’s gone.”

  “He’s a man who was murdered, and we care.”

  He valued the compassion in her tone. “Bethany, this case is taking a wider spectrum. Ansel Spree adds a dimension we’ve obviously overlooked with the other two.”

  “We can add his stats to the spreadsheet and graphs. Behavioral analytics is on it, but their report takes time.”

  Outside the tape, people gawked at the crime. Here in the Third Ward, too many residents didn’t need an excuse to kill, and most often the killer stood in the crowd. Victims in the neighborhood wore the wrong colors, tats, tennis shoes, or filled a killer’s quota. But Ansel Spree’s death fell under another category—a serial killing.

  “I’m going to mingle with the crowd,” he said. “Might be an honest citizen among them, or one who could be bought.”

  “Your faith in humanity is inspiring.” She stopped typing into her phone. “Be careful. Those aren’t choir boys and girls. They . . . I’m not telling you anything new.”

  “I’ll be back in a few.”

  “Wait while I type the findings and snap a few pics.”

  “Cops are everywhere,” he said, irritation with her methods of investigation wearing through him.

  “Go ahead, but you aren’t the right color. Neither am I.”

  She’d made a good assessment, but his theory on facing fear kept him on the job. He knew how to handle himself. “Someone saw or heard something.”

  “Right.” She aimed her phone over the body and moved around the victim, snapping more photos at various angles—some over the body and some from the sidewalk level. Although HPD had their photographer, Bethany was thorough. Not much got past her, which was why he respected her attention to detail.

  He worked his way outside the crime tape to the onlookers. Eighty percent of them carried guns and knives, and those were the women and children, but he wasn’t there to pat anyone down.

  A teen, probably around fifteen, stood alone in the shadows observing the scene.

  Thatcher moved beside him. “Did you see that guy get shot?”

  The kid swore. “Got in the way of a bullet.”

  “Hear the gun?”

  He sneered and pointed to earbuds wrapped around his neck.

  “When did you see the body?”

  He shrugged and stuck the earbuds into place.

  “Where do you stay?” Thatcher said.

  “None of your business.” He muttered a phrase Tha
tcher couldn’t make out.

  Three older teens stepped beside him. Great, Thatcher had approached the 103 Boys—100 percent Third Ward African American gang. They flashed their sign, and the younger teen told Thatcher what he could do.

  “I’m looking for information on this murder.”

  “We don’t know.”

  Another teen joined them, numbering five now in the group.

  “Have you seen the dead man before?”

  The younger teen pointed to the crime scene. “None of you belong here.”

  Thatcher sensed someone beside him, and he swung to Bethany.

  “Hey, babe. Aren’t we finished here? I came along for the ride, but I have plans.” She snuggled in close to him.

  “Better listen to your woman,” the same teen said.

  “He always does.” She kissed his cheek and wrapped her arm around his waist. “Come on. Finish with this mess and let’s go where it’s quiet.” When she tugged on him, he nodded at the teen and thanked him for his time.

  Back at the crime scene, she released him. “Are you three-quarters stupid? They could have cut you down and left you to bleed out. And the cops wouldn’t have known you were dead.”

  “I was just getting acquainted.”

  She jabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t forget where I grew up.”

  “You might be right . . . this time.” Not a smart move. One of his weaknesses was to go where the adrenaline flowed.

  She clenched her fists. “Next time I might not be around to save your rear. Hate to see you covered in blood.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, partner.”

  “I’d heard you managed a few out-there, dumb moves while on a case. This just proves it.” She stopped herself. “Guess we’re even in the stupid moves arena.”

  He’d acted on impulse and deserved the wrath of Bethany. Yet even her anger caused his admiration for her to grow. Where would these feelings take him? Eventual trust or something he wasn’t ready to label?

  CHAPTER 23

  3:20 A.M. FRIDAY

  Bethany and Thatcher drank bad-tasting coffee at the FBI office. The vending machine was empty of Diet Dr Pepper, or she’d be filling up on it. She’d swung her chair into his cubicle. Both were too wired to consider going back to bed. They’d devoured a pizza . . . and since they couldn’t agree on toppings, her half was spicy sausage and cheese, and his half was Canadian bacon and mushroom.