Deadlock

by DiAnn Mills

  Never had she heard one scrawny woman talk so fast. “Not today. The memorial service takes precedence.”

  “Alicia would have done it all.”

  “I’m not Alicia. Perhaps you should find someone else to lead out in this.”

  Dorian touched her arm, and Bethany pulled back. “Oh, I’m sorry. You know me. Crazy Dorian. Guess you don’t like anyone in your personal space.”

  Talk about over-the-top. “When the service is over, we need to talk.”

  “Now’s fine.”

  “I prefer later.”

  Dorian lifted her chin. “I may be busy when you have the time.”

  Instantly Elizabeth stood by Bethany’s side. “Let’s get started,” she said. “Dorian, I’d like for you to keep the children occupied. If they get restless, please take them outside.”

  “I want to speak to Bethany privately now,” Dorian said.

  “After the service.” Elizabeth pointed to a group of children, and Bethany watched Dorian slump toward them.

  Bethany craved a few feel-good moments before confronting the woman about the text to bail her friend out of jail.

  Elizabeth spoke to the residents about Alicia Javon’s volunteering, her incredible giving, and how much everyone at Noah’s Loft missed her. For the next forty-five minutes, the residents gave testimonies of how Alicia had blessed their lives. She’d brought new clothes for the women and children, along with books, toys, and games. Two of the women no longer lived at the shelter but were supporting themselves and grateful for Alicia’s tutoring and support.

  Dorian stood, her eyes wild.

  Elizabeth stopped speaking. “Is there a problem?”

  “Yes. Can’t you see? I forgot my vitamins.” She whirled around and raced to the door, knocking over empty chairs.

  Once the confusion settled, Elizabeth continued. “I have a six-week Bible study to help us through this difficult time. Attached to the study is a list of affirmations. I encourage you to read these every day. Next Saturday we’ll begin our first study. Bethany and I will be facilitating it. If you’d like to speak privately to either of us about your experience with Alicia or if you have a prayer request, we’ll remain here for the next few minutes.” Elizabeth gestured behind her, where two sets of chairs were positioned. “We have apple crisp in the dining room, and I invite you and your children to enjoy it. Fresh coffee and hot chocolate are available too.”

  Dorian slipped back into place with the children as though she hadn’t disrupted the group with her vitamin outburst.

  Bethany wished Noah’s Loft wasn’t so desperate for help.

  When the number of ladies in the room dwindled, Bethany walked to the back, where Dorian waited. She danced on her toes and glanced around the room. How could the woman interrupt a solemn occasion and not utter an apology?

  Dorian approached her. “Today was great. Some of the women were laughing and others were crying. Even the kids, but I doubt if they have any clue what a murder looks like. Wow, what a way to have closure with Alicia’s murder. Do you suppose the killer is one of the residents? Wouldn’t that be a killer?”

  Bethany flinched at the choice of words. “What I want to discuss is critical. You texted me, and your message was highly—”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t text you. How could I without your number?”

  “Please, do not interrupt me until I’m finished.”

  Dorian planted her hands on her hips like a pouting toddler.

  “Yesterday afternoon you texted me.” Bethany showed Dorian the saved messages.

  Dorian read the messages, all the while shaking her head. “I swear to you, this is not me. I have no clue who hates me enough to send such an awful message. I don’t have any friends in jail anyway.” She glanced up. “Why a Galaxy instead of a cooler iPhone?”

  Frustration rose from the bottom of Bethany’s feet. If Dorian had Asperger’s or Tourette’s or ADD, then she needed help. “Stay on task. If you aren’t the sender, who is?”

  Dorian pulled an iPhone from her jeans pocket. “I’m innocent of your nasty accusations. Look at my cell. It’s an iPhone 6. See, it has the latest features, not like yours.”

  Bethany wanted to grab her shoulders and rattle her teeth. “Dorian, if you ever send me a text again, you’ll regret it. The fact that you obtained my phone number without permission is enough for me to ensure your volunteer work is ended.”

  “I’m innocent!” Her voice trilled throughout the room. “You hate me. You’re jealous the residents like me so much. I bet you sent the text to yourself to make me look bad.”

  Bethany took Dorian’s phone and checked the number and texts. Nothing indicated she’d been the sender. “Is this your only phone?”

  “Why would I have two phones?” She held up her hands as though Bethany was pointing a gun at her, which wasn’t far from the truth. Dorian raised her shoulders. “You really are a sick woman to make accusations like this. Someone ought to tie you to a psychiatrist’s chair. I promise you, Elizabeth will ensure you no longer work with these women.”

  Bethany was in no mood for a verbal battle. She had too much to do working a tough case to busy herself with a crazy woman who had the attention span of a goldfish. She walked away. Dorian wasn’t worth the bother.

  Do your job, Bethany.

  Do your job.

  CHAPTER 28

  6:24 P.M. SATURDAY

  At precisely 6:24, Thatcher received permission to enter Bethany’s gated community. A chill came with the evening and the scent of a few fallen leaves from the oak trees outside her apartment building. He’d chosen a sweater and jeans for a casual get-to-know-each-other-better evening. He rang the doorbell and rubbed his hands on his jeans. His reaction was embarrassing.

  She opened the door wearing jeans, a deep-red sweater, and a smile that deepened her dimples. He reminded himself this was his partner, who had no clue he was attracted to her.

  “You look great,” she said. “We must have gotten the same clothes memo.”

  “You look better than I do.”

  She laughed. “Thanks. I won’t analyze that if you won’t probe me with way-out questions.”

  “You haven’t told me the best day of your life.”

  “Oh, someday. Come on in. I want you to meet Jasper.”

  “I’d almost forgotten about him.” He stepped inside, and she gestured toward a huge cage in the corner of the living room. A gray parrot twisted his head.

  She reached inside the cage, and he climbed onto her hand. “Jasper, I want you to meet somebody.”

  “Lookin’ good, girl.”

  Thatcher joined her. “I’m a guy, Jasper.”

  “Be nice, Jasper,” she said. “He’s a guest.”

  “What’s up, taco?” Jasper said.

  Thatcher chuckled. “Never a dull moment here.” He stuck his finger toward the bird.

  “Watch it—he bites,” she said. “And he’s the jealous type.” Her brown eyes sparkled. “We’ve been amigos for eight years.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Thirty, and he’ll live to fifty or more years old.”

  Thatcher started. “Didn’t know that. Where did you find him?”

  “At a parrot sanctuary. He just looked lost.”

  Jasper whistled the Hawaii Five-O theme.

  “Okay, clown.” She placed him inside his cage and grabbed a blanket.

  “Please, not this,” Jasper said.

  “Sorry, buddy. We’re leaving. I’m starved.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Thatcher said. “Bye, Jasper. Nice meeting you.”

  “Bye, gringo.”

  Bethany wagged her finger at the bird. “Behave yourself while I’m gone.”

  Outside, Thatcher debated opening the car door for her. When they ate out during the week, they were partners. But his mama had raised him right, so he opened her door.

  “Aren’t you the gentleman?”

  “I might not have enough mo
ney to pay for dinner, so I’m laying the groundwork.”

  She smiled, revealing those incredible dimples, and he questioned his sanity. They drove to Brio talking about Jasper, their day’s work on the case, and their favorite country-western singers.

  Once seated at the restaurant, and after their beverages had been delivered along with a basket of warm Italian bread, he relaxed. Bethany was his partner, a friend. They chose their food and decided to add a side of risotto with chicken and sweet potatoes.

  He dug deep for guts. “I have motive for dinner tonight.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do I need my weapon?”

  “You might. This is tough but needs to be said. You were great in opening up and telling me about your family. I’m a private person, but it’s time I reciprocate and crack my exterior.”

  “I’m listening, and I don’t judge. Most of the time.”

  Bluntness was one of those traits he admired about her. “Remember on Monday I told you the best day of my life was a few weeks ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “And remember I said I meet with Laurel Evertson’s fiancé on Saturday mornings?” When she nodded, he continued. “Happens to be the same guy who saved my life. He’s no longer with HPD but in law school. Those meetings have been a Bible study, and a few weeks ago, I took the plunge and became a Christian.”

  “Wonderful. Why were you hesitant to tell me?”

  He chuckled. “My bad-boy reputation. I want to show my faith, not spout it.”

  “Makes sense.” She took a sip of her standard drink, Diet Dr Pepper. “I’ll keep your decision to myself, and I respect your feeling comfortable with me to talk about it.”

  Now he felt foolish. “Okay, phase two.”

  “The case?”

  He narrowed his gaze. “Yes, the case. I was hard on you about Lucas.”

  She held up her hand. “Those were things I must face. Unfortunately a lot of truth.”

  “I’m not apologizing, just wish I’d been a little easier on you.”

  She stared at her drink, then back to him. “Don’t hold back on me. Because I’ll never do it to you.”

  “Fair enough. Do you have any idea how tough it was to speak openly about my faith?” he said.

  “I really understand. Oh, the stories I’ve heard about you.” She sobered. “None of which I’ve seen. So . . . what church are you attending?”

  “None yet. Thought about it but didn’t know where to start.”

  “You could try mine. It’s nondenominational, contemporary music. Incredible preaching.”

  “Okay. I have nothing to compare it to. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” She wrote down an address. “Here, if you decide to join me. Nine thirty.”

  He slipped it into his wallet.

  “You know why my family and I are at odds,” she said. “What about yours?”

  Okay, Thatcher, you’re on. “Dad and I never got along. I was into music, had my own band. Add drinking and girls. Dad thought I should be in law enforcement before I broke the law and wouldn’t qualify. I was interested in psychology. Still am. Did my grad work and entered practice. Enjoyed it, but I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life seeing patients. Dad offered ten grand if I applied to the FBI.” He shrugged. “Hard to turn it down.”

  “You’re a great agent.”

  No condescension in her tone or eyes, and it warmed him. “Thanks. I despised my dad’s nagging, hated him for it. But he saw in me what I didn’t. Short story, he died of a stroke before we made amends.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. Life seldom fits together the way we predict. I’d like to think he died knowing I loved him.”

  “I bet he was extremely proud of you.”

  “Possibly. Enough talk about me. We’re investigating a case.”

  She reached for her glass. “The memorial service touched all of us. I saw Alicia’s file. Nothing there but the basics. Pastor Lee wrote a glowing recommendation letter about her and Paul’s work in the church. Thought I’d gag. What about your day?”

  “Met with Daniel this morning. Worked out hard. And read everything documented on the Scorpion cases—multiple times. Made notes for us to follow up on.” The server delivered their food. “Great, now we can eat.”

  She wiggled her shoulders, something he hadn’t seen. “This is amazing, and I’m starved. Can I ask more questions between bites?”

  “Of course. We’re here to work, right?”

  From the look on her face, her feelings for him were headed in the same direction as his.

  Ten minutes into dinner, her cell alerted her to a text. She paled.

  Dread punched him in the gut. “Lucas?”

  She nodded. “‘I have u on my schedule.’”

  “This is no way to live,” he said.

  “Tonight, this very minute? I’d rather be on the front lines fighting to stay alive than allowing him to think he’s frightened me,” she said. “Soon.”

  CHAPTER 29

  8:25 A.M. SUNDAY

  Bethany cut the price tag from a knee-length brown-and-orange jacket and tossed the tag into the trash. The colors blended perfectly with a tan sweater and slacks set for church this morning. She’d purchased it last season along with boots and a chunky necklace to match and forgotten they were in the back of her closet. One of her many vices. She picked up a pen beside a calendar on her nightstand. Day twenty-seven without going shopping. Somewhere there was an anonymous group for addicted shoppers. She also needed a twelve-step program to help her deal with a brother who was a criminal.

  Her thoughts turned to last night’s dinner . . . more on Thatcher than the case. The man gave un hombre guapo new definition. But referring to Thatcher as one good-looking hombre didn’t change the FBI’s recommended conduct policy, and she was definitely a rules girl.

  When her phone rang, she expected the caller to be Thatcher declining church. In fact, it would be better if he’d changed his mind. Spending every day with him created havoc with more than his method of solving cases. But the number wasn’t familiar and she answered.

  “Agent Sanchez, this is Anita Cooke. We haven’t heard from Carly. She was supposed to be home by four yesterday afternoon, and we’ve heard nothing. This isn’t like her to worry us. There’s more.” Her voice broke. “I suspected Paul might have arranged to pay his bail, so a moment ago I called his cell phone. He answered. I panicked, just thinking of what he could do to her.”

  An image of Carly’s battered body landed in her mind. “Did you talk to him?”

  “Yes. He said he didn’t keep track of her. When I asked if she’d been there, he hung up. He can get so angry.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. What’s the license plate of her car?”

  While she pressed in the information on her phone, dread crept through her. Had Carly risked her life to find her mother’s killer? Bethany should have been more insistent she stay away from her father’s house. She focused on what little she knew about the young woman. “Where was she going?”

  “She told me she had something to do at her father’s house while he was in jail. I wanted her to wait for her uncle, but she wanted to handle the situation herself.”

  Carly hadn’t tossed aside the private investigator role. “I’m assuming you’ve tried calling her.”

  “Yes, and texted her too.”

  “What about Shannon or Carly’s friends?”

  “They haven’t heard from her either. Carly’s such a good girl, and she gave me the numbers of several friends in case I couldn’t reach her.” She drew in a breath. “My husband wants to confront Paul.”

  “Mrs. Cooke, that’s not a good idea. I suggest you wait there for my call or Carly’s return.”

  “All right. I’m really frightened.”

  Bethany needed a clear head, and responsibility for Carly’s welfare scratched at her conscience. While dressing, she called Thatcher and quickly explained Anita Cooke’s call along with confirmation of
Paul Javon’s release from jail.

  “I’ll meet you at Javon’s house,” he said.

  She snatched her keys. “I’m leaving now. Doubt if we make church on time.”

  At the Javon home, the drapes were open in the living room to reveal the harp and grand piano. Thatcher pulled in right behind her at the curb and exited. They walked up the sidewalk together, and he rang the doorbell three times.

  “Do you suppose he saw us?” she said. “Or isn’t at home?”

  “We don’t have a warrant. No legal reason to be here.” Thatcher pressed the doorbell one more time. “We’re wasting our time.”

  Her cell rang, and this time she recognized Anita Cooke’s number. “Carly called us from a friend’s house. She’s pretty shaken. Her dad came home with a woman and caught her going through her mother’s closet.”

  Bethany seized Thatcher’s attention. “Is she all right?”

  “We’re going to pick her up now and take her to the ER. She thinks he broke her fingers.”

  “Which hospital?”

  “Houston Methodist at the Medical Center.”

  “We’re on our way.” Bethany relayed the conversation to Thatcher. “If she can identify Javon’s girlfriend, she could be in more danger than broken fingers and a battered body.”

  At the hospital’s ER, Carly sat with a couple whom she introduced as Anita and Ken Cooke. Anita resembled her sister and nieces. Ken Cooke, a heavily bearded man, reminded Bethany of a rabbi. Make that an Old Testament prophet who spit brimstone and fire.

  “I want Paul Javon behind bars for good,” Ken said.

  “We’ll do our best to help you,” Thatcher said. “Your niece is a brave girl.”

  Bethany glanced at Carly’s right hand. Even under an ice pack, the swelling was evident. A fresh bruise beside her mouth indicated more mistreatment.

  “Thanks for coming.” Tears splattered Carly’s face, the lines deepening in obvious pain. “I’m not as smart as I thought.” She grimaced. “Wouldn’t be surprised if my wrist is broken too.”

  “Any idea how long before you’ll be treated?” Bethany said.