Deadlock

by DiAnn Mills

  “Give us his name.”

  “I don’t know who he is. A demon told me about him when I was asleep.”

  Dorian was truly delusional. Talking to her went against everything Bethany believed as logical.

  “We’re taking you in for questioning,” Thatcher said. “You’re withholding evidence.”

  “This makes no sense.” Dorian whirled to Bethany. “You lied to me. Said you’d help with my boys, and Tyler’s still missing. What do you have to say for yourself, you worthless—?”

  Bethany had been called worse. The woman desperately needed medical help. No wonder Aiden held such animosity toward his mother.

  “I know my rights and want a lawyer.”

  “Everyone should have proper legal representation,” Bethany said. “We’re leaving now. Will this be peaceably or in cuffs?”

  “I’m going.” She spit a mouthful of curses, and one more time, Bethany was ready to strangle her.

  In the hallway, the cook and three of the children met them. One of the children held a small paper plate of cookies slipped into a plastic bag, and the cook carried another.

  “One for both of you,” the cook said. “Elizabeth and I talked about doing this for you the other day, and the children wanted to help.”

  “Thanks so much, but remember I’m diabetic,” Bethany said.

  The cook offered her plate to Bethany. “These are sugar free.”

  “How very thoughtful.”

  “If you like them, I’ll give you the changes in the recipe.”

  Bethany didn’t want to upset the children with Dorian in custody, so she took the cookies and bent to the children. “Thank you. I can’t wait to eat these.”

  Dorian shook her finger at the cook. “You don’t have any business giving away these cookies.”

  The cook huffed. “You’re not in charge, and you knew we planned to give Bethany a few special ones.”

  The cook handed the second plate to Thatcher. “These are regular, buttery chocolate chip cookies. The kids helped with these too.”

  Thatcher took the plate.

  They did smell good. Bethany wished someone would offer a plate of information to further sweeten their day and end the string of crimes.

  CHAPTER 39

  7:05 A.M. THURSDAY

  Thatcher stole a look at Bethany. This morning she’d chosen oatmeal at Starbucks, and she drank coffee instead of nasty Diet Dr Pepper. He’d make a genuine violent crime agent out of her yet.

  They’d worked together for over a week, and he was thinking about her too much of the time.

  “What did you eat for dinner last night?” he said.

  She startled. “Are you keeping tabs on my food intake?”

  “I don’t want you crashing on me.”

  “Just this once, Special Agent Graves. I had scrambled eggs with chilies and cheese. Jasper ate the leftovers and grapes.”

  Her tone indicated he shouldn’t ask about her diet again. “Okay, partner. Dorian’s in custody. Any thoughts there?”

  “Sometimes I think she’s incredibly intelligent, and other times I don’t think she could stack blocks.”

  “Figuring out a person comes with a price.” How well he knew that.

  “Tyler hasn’t been found, and we have a briefing at eight.” She stirred three packets of Splenda into her bowl of oatmeal. “Tell me about this evening at the Lighthouse. How do I dress? What am I supposed to do?”

  He blinked, snapping himself out of her secret admirer club. “A long red wig, lots of makeup. Earrings to your shoulders. Short skirt, low-cut—”

  She waved her arm. “I get it. A hooker.”

  “They get hungry too.”

  “But they have their own place to do business at night.”

  He laughed. “Okay. Keep the wig. Big clothes, preferably those that haven’t been washed for a while. Broken English. Use your imagination. I’m going to ask for Deal, say I was referred to him by Ansel Spree.”

  Her eyes brightened. “This actually sounds fun.”

  He pointed to her bowl. “How’s the fiber trip?”

  “Oatmeal is good for you.” She gave him a smile that nearly dislocated his heart. “But a blueberry muffin sounds delish.”

  “Speaking of delish, did you try your cookies? Mine were great.”

  “Brought mine for a snack this morning.” She pulled the plastic bag from her purse. “I think I’ll have one now.” She bit off a chocolate chip–filled morsel. “Pretty good.”

  Their cells alerted them simultaneously. The notification punched fire into his gut.

  “Oh no,” Bethany said.

  “HPD found a body dumped in the Buffalo Bayou. Tyler Crawford. A 9mm bullet to the forehead. Duct tape covered his mouth. A scorpion taped to his chest. Death occurred between one and three this morning.”

  She buried her face in her hands. “I don’t look forward to telling Dorian, but I feel obligated to. And then there’s Aiden. We should tell him ourselves.”

  He nodded, his thoughts on the report. “The duct tape didn’t appear on the other victims. A warning to any others to keep quiet.”

  “Like Mae, Dorian, and Aiden.”

  “I’m not convinced Aiden doesn’t have the list. Deal thinks so.”

  “Do you ever feel this case is so messy we’ll never figure it out?”

  “Our job is to clean up messes.”

  Her cell rang, and she grabbed it. “Hi, Shannon.” Bethany caught Thatcher’s attention. “I’m so sorry. Yes, we can meet you there.” She said good-bye and turned to him. “Shannon Javon is on her way to our office. Says Scorpion murdered her boyfriend—Tyler Crawford.”

  7:45 A.M. THURSDAY

  SSA Preston postponed the briefing until Bethany and Thatcher finished with Shannon Javon. Bethany ached for the young woman, the obviously frail daughter of Alicia and Paul Javon.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said, her eyes red. “First Mom and now Tyler. Both killed in the same horrible way. Two people I loved most in the world. I went to sleep last night dreaming about the weekend with Tyler.” She paused. “At least Dad was in jail.”

  Bethany believed Shannon accepted the truth about her dad’s temper. “What about Carly?”

  She nodded. “I called her first. I’m going to my aunt’s after I leave here.”

  “Good. You shouldn’t be alone. When was the last time you saw Tyler?”

  “We had lunch yesterday.”

  “Did he seem upset?”

  “No, ma’am. He had this great attitude about life. No matter what happened, he chose to be a better person for it. We talked a lot about Mom and the situation at home.”

  “You cared for him very much.”

  “We’ve dated for about a year. We were going to get married.”

  “What did your dad think about him?”

  She sobbed. “Dad never met Tyler. He’d come unglued about the race thing.”

  “And hurt both of you?” Bethany handed her a tissue.

  Shannon lifted her head. “Tyler wanted me to move in with him. I planned to talk to Mom about it after the concert the night she died.” She paused. “He wanted me to convince Mom to kick Dad out.”

  “Shannon, you’ll be okay. You can get through this.”

  Her lips quivered. “How do I arrange a funeral by myself? His mother’s a mental case, and his brother is somewhere on the streets.”

  “I’m sure Pastor Lee will help you.”

  She bit her lip. “I forgot about him. Where is my mind? Is this my fault?”

  Bethany turned to Thatcher. His psychology background could best respond to this.

  His face softened, a tender look she’d come to respect. “The one at fault is the person who killed your mother and Tyler. Not you.”

  She rubbed her face. “I feel like the killer has stabbed my heart and twisted the knife. I just want it all to go away, for Mom and Tyler to be alive.”

  “Where are you emotionally, Shannon?”
/>   Her eyes watered. “I’m afraid for me and my sister.”

  “Let’s call your aunt to see if she and Carly can come here to get you. Being alone is not in your best interests.”

  She nodded, and Thatcher made the arrangements.

  Bethany’s stomach tightened as though she might shed a few tears. Seeing him with Shannon reminded her of what she wanted someday: a man who truly cared.

  CHAPTER 40

  10:35 A.M. THURSDAY

  Thatcher noted Bethany’s pale face when they entered SSA Preston’s office. The case was in shambles with pressure from the city on law enforcement taking the brunt of criticism, and the clues leading nowhere. The scowl on Preston’s face indicated he had nothing new to offer either. Thatcher’s and Bethany’s findings, along with the combined task force, hadn’t produced a name in the city’s database of offenders. Only Deal. A mysterious man. No one had seen his face.

  “Tyler Crawford is murder number five. Wake up. What are you missing? No one rests until this is solved. Understand?”

  Frustration with the lack of progress pounded him too. He glanced at Bethany. She pressed her fingers against her temples. Twice she’d excused herself from the meeting, irritating Preston. Had her sugar level dropped?

  Bethany stood. “Excuse me, sir. I’m not feeling well. Seems—” She wobbled, and Thatcher caught her.

  When she revived, she questioned her whereabouts. Weak pulse. Clammy skin. Her eyes fluttered open . . . dull, then drifted shut. He failed to keep her awake. That’s when he called 911.

  “Sir, I’m following the ambulance,” he said when Bethany disappeared with the paramedics.

  “You are on a case.” SSA Preston seldom raised his voice.

  “This is my partner.” He hoped Preston was aware of her medical condition. “I haven’t noticed any heavy perspiration or shaking. My mother is diabetic, but I’m no doctor.”

  “You have a responsibility to the people of Houston and the victims of the serial killer.”

  Thatcher held back his ire. “Sir, I’m not much good without my partner.”

  Thatcher waited in the emergency examining room at Memorial Hermann Northwest Hospital. He’d given the nursing staff what little he knew about Bethany. At times she was coherent, but then she’d slip back. Moans about head and abdominal pain escaped her lips. Those complaints ventured off the path of diabetic shock.

  A doctor stepped into the room, reading her chart. “Is Miss Sanchez pregnant?”

  “I have no idea.”

  The doctor offered a professional smile, the kind photographers hated and FBI agents labeled as fake. “When did these symptoms start?”

  “Not sure, but she fainted around ten forty-five.”

  “Has she ever experienced this before?” The doctor continued to write with about as much bedside manner as a fish.

  “Not to my knowledge. I’m her partner. We’re FBI agents.”

  “That means you’re together more than eight hours a day.” He shone a light into her eyes. “Could she have eaten something? She’s not vomiting, but this could be food poisoning.”

  Instinct washed over him. . . . Elizabeth’s attack and Bethany’s sudden illness. “She told me scrambled eggs with chilies and cheese for dinner, and I was with her at breakfast. Oatmeal at Starbucks. But what concerns me the most is she was given some sugar-free chocolate-chip cookies last night. She’s diabetic.”

  Bethany moistened her lips. “Please, Doctor, fix whatever it is.”

  “We’ll get an IV going to manage the pain until we know the source.”

  Thatcher bent over her, his mind heading down a suspicious path. “Bethany, how many of those cookies did you eat?”

  “I think . . . two.” Her eyes closed, dark lashes resting against her cheeks.

  “All this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to test one of those cookies just in case there’s a link,” the doctor said.

  Thatcher picked up her purse, where she’d placed them earlier. He handed the doctor a small plastic bag with two remaining cookies.

  “We’ll test these immediately. I’ll order blood work. If you think she might have been poisoned, I want to do a tox screen, which will take care of detecting most poisons.”

  Courtesy of the kids’ baking project . . . Could Dorian have added a poison when she left for the kitchen? “Yes, it’s highly possible.”

  “I’ll order a twenty-four-hour urine test too.”

  “Could this be a diabetic reaction?”

  “Not at all. We’ll have some answers soon. Please call the source of these cookies just in case they’re the problem.” The doctor gave Thatcher his first eye contact. “Miss Sanchez isn’t coherent to respond to critical information. I hope you can help me here. Has she ever had her stomach pumped?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “I should have a test completed within the hour that will confirm food poisoning.” He excused himself with a slight nod.

  Thatcher grabbed his phone and texted SSA Preston with an update.

  When Preston heard about Bethany’s possible poisoning and the source, he asked to be kept updated on her condition. Thatcher texted his reply.

  Ok. Working from hospital

  Thatcher pressed in the number for Noah’s Loft and explained the situation to the board member overseeing the shelter’s activities. “Special Agent Sanchez might have been poisoned by one of the cookies given to her last evening. She ate the sugar-free ones.”

  A few minutes later, he learned Bethany was given all the specially made cookies.

  He understood his warning might be premature, but he was furious. “If anyone becomes ill, seek medical attention immediately.”

  “No one here is sick. Please keep us updated and I’ll alert the residents.”

  12:30 P.M. THURSDAY

  Bethany’s stomach convulsed. What was wrong with her? When would she have test results?

  Thatcher sat beside her. He’d made calls and typed nonstop into his phone.

  “You don’t have to stay here,” she said. “Scorpion’s running the streets.”

  “That’s the seventeenth time you’ve said that.”

  His smile was incredible, and he’d witnessed her vomiting. Not to mention the call for help when diarrhea hit. Mortified best described her.

  “I want to talk about the case. Keep my mind off my stomach.”

  “Hush and rest.”

  How could an order sound, well, endearing?

  The doctor walked into the room, his clipboard attached to his hand. “Hello again, Miss Sanchez. Are you comfortable?”

  “Not really. What’s the verdict?”

  “I have the lab results. Traces of arsenic poisoning were found in your stomach and the remaining cookies.”

  Bethany’s head swam, but she hated the thought of the cook poisoning her. “How else could I have contracted it?”

  “Well, it was in the food you ingested. But other means are drinking from a well contaminated by arsenic or coming into contact with insecticides.” He placed his hands and chart behind his back. “Have you been in contact with lumber that could have been treated with preservatives?”

  She shivered, refusing to believe the facts. “I’m a city gal and work close to home.”

  “Also shellfish.”

  “I don’t care for it. Shellfish can contain arsenic?”

  “It’s not harmful, but it can show up in a test.” He turned to Thatcher with rock-hard professionalism. “I’m not one to tell you how to do your job, but if Miss Sanchez had eaten another cookie, someone would be planning her funeral. Foul play might have entered into this.”

  Confusion hadn’t been erased from her mind, and she fought to clear it. “Thatcher, the cook would never poison me, and how do you explain the children?”

  “Dorian excused herself for a few minutes when we first arrived. The cook asked for chocolate chips. Add attempted murder to Dorian’s list of crimes.”

/>   Bethany had to recover in the next few hours. “What’s my treatment?”

  “After a few more IVs to balance your system, I’ll release you around five this afternoon.” He held up a finger, almost comical. “You need to feel better. At this point, I want to keep you under close observation. Your best defense against the effects of arsenic are to eat a healthy, well-balanced diet and drink lots of water. Include selenium, antioxidants, and folate. Avoid sun exposure, and follow up with your regular doctor.”

  Once the doctor left, Bethany fumed. “Thatcher, I’m not happy with Dorian.”

  “You even tried to help her kid.” He typed into his phone. No doubt an update to SSA Preston.

  “I want out of here now. All the work we have to do, and I’m stuck in a hospital bed.”

  “Do you want the flip side of arsenic poisoning?” Lines deepened around his eyes.

  She pressed her lips together, fighting tears like a wimp. “Less than two weeks on the job, and I’m poisoned. I want a face-to-face with Dorian.” Then she remembered. “We haven’t told Aiden about his brother. Will you visit him? Not call him?”

  “Yes. I need the kid to open up.”

  She nodded. “I hope this doesn’t make us late to the Lighthouse this afternoon.”

  “Not sure where that’s going, but I’ll keep you posted.”

  Would he work undercover without her? “Thatcher, we’re a team.”

  He took a deep breath. “A serial killer is running loose. I’m not letting the clock run out on another victim. I’ve talked to Grayson Hall in the bomb squad, and he’s going with me tonight. We’re old friends from Quantico.”

  Urgency trickled through her. “Give me a moment to get out of this hospital gown.”

  “So you can pass out when I need a partner who has her head and body together? No thanks.”

  She hated it when he was right, but selfishness had a hold on her logic. “All right. I’ll take a taxi home.” She shooed him with her hands, making the pain in her head intensify to nearly a ten. “Call when you can.”

  “Will you be all right alone?”