by DiAnn Mills
Bethany closed her eyes. “Let’s address both and deal with them before sending to SSA Preston.”
That was the agent who had her act together.
She pressed in a number on her phone. “My parents have to be warned.” She left a voice message explaining they were in danger and should consider protection. “Please, call me back,” she said and dropped the phone into her purse.
“The new post,” he said. “I’d like for you to detail where you were during each of the killings.”
Pulling out her phone again, she sighed, and he doubted she was even aware of it. “The victims were murdered at different times. Give me a few moments.”
Thatcher studied the parking lot. No one suspicious. But serial killers didn’t wear T-shirts announcing their occupation across their chests.
“Thatcher, from the estimated time of deaths, I was at home alone. I’m about to be relieved of my role, aren’t I?”
“Not if I can help it. If you’re removed, it sends a message that the FBI believes there’s truth in the post. If you’re allowed to remain, it tells the sender that the FBI has no use for lies. My vote is to trash journalism.”
“Wish I felt as positive,” she said.
“The low-life agenda has been sending investigators searching through web onion sites.” When she lifted a quizzical brow, he continued. “It’s a system that ensures the information provider and the person accessing the information are difficult to trace. Lucas can’t be doing all of this alone.”
“Wish we had the list of those who visited him in jail,” she said.
“The FIG will send it as soon as it’s available. With the weekend, it’ll probably be Monday.”
“Somebody should tell Lucas and Scorpion to take the weekend off.”
“Hey, I have an idea. Let’s drop your truck off at the office, have lunch—”
“I’ll drive.”
He could take over if needed. “Okay, just this once.”
“And stop by my parents’ before heading to the Lighthouse. I want to ensure they’re safe.”
“You read my mind. I’ll contact the surveillance team.”
“This could get ugly.”
He gave her an incredulous look. “Bring it on. My partner’s honor is at stake.”
CHAPTER 47
1:50 P.M. SATURDAY
Bethany drove her truck to the northeast side of town. Thatcher sat on the passenger side. She argued her stomach felt better on the left side and won the debate, or at least she thought so.
She craved some semblance of control, and Thatcher most likely knew it.
She parked at the curb while regret filled her for what she’d never had growing up. The neighborhood hadn’t changed much. About half of the residents took care of their property and the rest used trash as yard ornaments. Her parents were wealthy. Papá had done well with his business and made sound investments, but they stayed in this community to make a difference, providing a service and jobs. Shaking off the depth of her emotions, she scanned the area. Her purpose was the well-being of her parents. She touched the Glock at her waist and released the seat belt.
“Ready, partner?” she said. “Everything looks normal. Mamá’s at home. Papá’s truck isn’t in the driveway, which means he’s at the shop.”
Family matters could be disastrous, and this one could be the worst.
They walked up the sidewalk. The familiar steel bars across the front door brought back memories of attempted break-ins and a drive-by. She rang the doorbell. In the past, she could hear someone inside the house walking across the tile floor. Now silence greeted her.
She rang again.
“Not at home?” Thatcher said.
“My bet is Mamá saw us drive up and won’t answer.” She smiled. “I’m a pretty stubborn Mexican.” She counted to ten and pushed the doorbell again.
This time, the clip of her mother’s shoes moved toward the door, and it slowly opened.
Mamá looked weary, a tiny, gray-haired woman with a heavy burden, and telltale lines dug across her forehead. “You’re not permitted here.”
“Hola, Mamá.” Bethany wanted to embrace her. “Is Lucas inside?”
“You are FBI now and not my daughter.”
“I’m both, Mamá. We’re looking for Lucas.”
Mamá waved her away. “You make sure there’s a warrant out for your brother’s arrest, then show up with demands? You try to trick us by saying he might hurt us?”
“He’s in serious trouble, and I didn’t lie to you. I received a text threatening Oscar and Maria. Who knows those names but family? If he gives himself up, I can help him. But if he’s hiding and still breaking the law, the outcome will be bad.”
Mamá’s eyes blazed. “Don’t come to see me again. If it’s FBI business to see inside my house, send other agents. You’ve destroyed your relationship with the family. As your father said, you are no longer a Sanchez. I hate this for you, but you make your own choices.” She slammed the door.
Bethany drew in a breath. “Mamá, I forgive you,” she whispered. “I pray God keeps you and Papá safe from your son.”
CHAPTER 48
4:45 P.M. SATURDAY
Thatcher worried about Bethany, although he’d been told worry meant a lack of trust in God. He’d rephrase his thinking to “concern.” She was quiet, preoccupied while she drove to the Lighthouse.
No surprise there after the reception her mother dished out. He and Dad had argued but not with the coldness he’d witnessed at the Sanchez home.
Bethany should have stayed home and let him ask another agent to assist with the interview. Not his girl. “I’m really sorry for what happened back there.”
“I’m okay. We’ll get the job done and end these senseless killings.”
His mind raced with the critical situation surrounding the five deaths. Who had been in Bethany’s apartment and planted stolen goods from Scorpion’s victims? The security cameras at her complex showed a man of average build who wore a hoodie and avoided the cameras. Online sources hammered the FBI’s inept handling of the investigation. The newest post had gone viral within two hours. Results would end the killings, not cheap words. The media coordinator would make a statement before the closing of day.
“I called Mamá again,” Bethany said. “Went to voice mail. Not sure what I’d have said.” She focused on him with a vulnerable gaze. “You’ve heard more about me than anyone on the planet, even Elizabeth.”
“Honesty builds trust.” He had no intentions of betraying her like those she loved. Soon he’d label his own feelings in the Bethany arena. Right now this case and her brother’s criminal activities took all their energies. Grayson had drenched him in the truth, forcing him to maneuver the ruts in the road of an agent falling in love with his partner.
“Have you found any trust in me?”
He smiled. “We’re there. In fact, we’re going to make it.”
She gave him a look he couldn’t read . . . unless she was riding the same four-wheeler over a treacherous path. He needed to get off the metaphors. Made him feel like a weak-kneed schoolboy.
“The Lighthouse interview will take a while,” he said. “I want to search their files all the way to the graffiti on the bathroom walls. I’ll lead out with the director if you don’t mind. But if she’s hostile, you go for it. Waiting for a search warrant gives Scorpion time to make another notch on his gun.”
“Got it. You know I analyze everything I hear, then twist it dry. Here go my random thoughts. Scorpion’s afraid we’ll catch him, and he’s feeding off the media’s response to the derogatory info. Most of the media is generally on our side, but a disgruntled reporter could have his own issues. Negativity spreads like wildfire. In any event, the killer is definitely motivated by discrediting the FBI, namely you, SSA Preston, and me. Makes him look impregnable.” She gripped the steering wheel. “My brother used to write letters to the editor for the high school paper. Vicious. I’m rattling and going over the same thin
gs repeatedly to see what I’m missing.”
“Your thinking is almost out-of-the-box.”
“Heaven forbid.” She laughed lightly, a sweet sound. “Lucas could not have been involved at the restaurant hit-and-run at the same time we were talking. He’s never worked with anyone else in his crimes and has no reason to start now. Not sure I can blame Scorpion for that incident when he uses a 9mm hollow-tip bullet to the forehead to eliminate his victims. Not running them over.” She pounded the steering wheel. “So where do Tyler and Dorian fit in all of this? Tyler died because of a list Scorpion and Deal want. Dorian is nuts, but she may be playing us. And all our victims are linked by the Lighthouse.”
Thatcher had picked up on her body language since they’d left her parents’ side of town, dark depression. “You’re watching the road like it’s going to swallow you up, and you’re sitting like rigor mortis has set in. We’re heading to an interview that has huge potential in identifying our killer.”
“You’re right. I need to get my professional agent face on. Sorry.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened today with your mom?”
A smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thatcher, I’ve always been a private person, and yet I continue to unload on you. Makes me uncomfortable, like what’s happening to me? Have I become paranoid in this new role? So, yes, Mamá made me feel like week-old enchiladas, but I expected it. Nothing new.”
Bethany pulled into the Lighthouse parking lot. The shelter modeled its organization after other facilities in the city that provided rehabilitation and educational opportunities for the homeless. Within a year, the board of directors planned to open a drug and alcohol rehab for men and women. Construction was under way for the housing units. Thatcher admired those who committed their lives to helping others. Assisting the homeless was definitely near the top of gold star careers, right under FBI special agents.
Outside the weathered brick shelter, a line of people clutched plastic bags to their chests stuffed with meager belongings. Others pushed flimsy shopping carts loaded with what most people crammed into garbage bags. When he’d been with Grayson, he zeroed in on playing the role and failed to realize the helplessness of so many. A woman sat on the sidewalk muttering . . . crying.
“Got a few dollars?” a toothless old man said. “I’m hungry now.”
“Dinner will be soon, buddy,” Thatcher said.
Teens dressed in black huddled together, wearing misery like body piercings and tattoos.
A little girl clothed in a dirty dress stared up at him. Her eyes still sparkled. A look at the young woman holding the child’s hand and sitting on the pavement told a different story. She couldn’t be much more than seventeen. Her protruding stomach indicated a dismal future unless she grabbed life by the horns.
Bethany bent to the young woman. “Do you need help?”
Red flooded her cheeks. “Lost my waitress job. Hadn’t worked long enough for unemployment. No money for anything.”
Bethany pulled out her cell and pressed in a number. “This is Bethany Sanchez. I’m at the Lighthouse, and I have a young mother who needs help.” She handed the young woman her phone and stood. A few moments later, the phone was returned.
“The lady said she’d arrange for someone to pick me and my little girl up. We’re going to a place called Noah’s Loft.” A tear-filled smile graced the young woman’s face.
“They’ll provide a home for you and your child until you can get on your feet.”
“You’re an answer to prayer.”
Bethany touched her thin cheek. “Glad I could help.”
The more he saw of Bethany, the more he admired, respected. Cared.
After talking to the director, Melanie Bolton, they’d mingle with those looking for a clean bed, a shower, and a hot meal. Some might remember a victim. The director was expecting them, and she’d expressed her desire to cooperate.
Ms. Bolton, a heavily made-up woman of medium stature with long, dark hair, ushered them into a well-organized office. In the corner were three cats but no litter box. The smell was worse than the ammonia permeating the inside of the building. Thatcher introduced himself and Bethany.
Ms. Bolton picked up a tabby cat on her desk that probably weighed as much as she did. “I hope this won’t take long.” She pointed to a worn love seat. “You can sit there. Earlier in the day would have been more appropriate. We’re close to the dinner hour, and that’s always hectic. Normally not a problem, but today we’re shorthanded.”
“We’re not the health department.” He attempted to cover his annoyance. “This is a murder investigation that points to victims associated with the Lighthouse, either as one who stayed here or as a donor or a volunteer.”
She petted the cat while her light-brown eyes shot bullets into his face. “This is a homeless shelter. We cater to the displaced persons of the city and do our best to meet their needs. Some of them would kill for what you dump down your garbage disposal. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave and come back another time.”
Thatcher was tired, but the obvious disrespect for the law made his temper flare. To speed things up, he’d swallow his pride. “If you’re called away, we’ll wait. Your facility helps the homeless to survive, a noble calling.”
“The work never ends. This is also my home. I have small quarters in the back.” She stiffened. “Special Agent Graves, we’ll both need patience this evening. I didn’t ask for a search warrant because I want to help. Please excuse my rudeness.”
“No problem. If it were possible, we’d change the appointment.”
Ms. Bolton didn’t wear a wedding ring. According to the website, she’d taken over the facility two years ago after the death of her father, who considered the shelter a ministry. Thatcher couldn’t criticize her for dedicating her life to a worthy purpose. They kept records of all the men and women who used their services. What if the woman found a dead body, someone who’d been the target of a killer? Would she be protective of her people then? He nodded at Bethany before he exploded into a stream of sarcasm.
Bethany smiled. “Ms. Bolton, I understand those people outside depend on you, and I applaud your generous heart.” The gentle tone appeared to relax the woman. “We’ll work around your schedule. We’d like to talk to your guests during supper and speak to them when they’re assembled.”
She glanced down at her cat. “Before or after the church service?”
“During and after. Special Agent Graves will speak with the pastor to enlist his support.”
The woman arched her back like a cat. “Are you using God for your own agenda? This is when someone could make a decision to let Him lead their lives instead of the despair that stalks them like hunger.”
Bethany didn’t miss a beat. “God’s in the business of stopping killers. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“You’re right. As long as you’re sensitive to my priorities, I can encourage my people to speak openly.”
“Wonderful.” Bethany tilted her head. “Beautiful cat.”
“Thank you.” She pointed to three more, a tabby and two calicos. “These are my children.”
“I can see why,” Bethany said. “I had a calico when I was a little girl. She was my friend.”
Ms. Bolton kissed her pet. “I love cat people. Okay, where do we begin?”
“If you have a moment, we’d like to show you a couple of photos. Agent Graves, do you mind showing Ms. Bolton what we have?”
Bethany had definitely pulled out her empathy and was doing a mighty fine job. He opened a hard file and displayed photos of all the victims.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Most of these are autopsy photos. All we have.”
“I’m used to dirty people, not those covered in blood.” She pointed to Ansel. “He stayed here a few times.” She touched her heart. “I want to cooperate. The Lighthouse’s mission statement is to restore lives, and that means saving people from a serial killer.”
“What about the others?”
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“Alicia and Tyler volunteered. I don’t recognize the other man or the older woman. Their names are unfamiliar too.”
She failed to recognize the name or the face of a huge donor?
“Do you work every day?”
“I used to have an assistant, but she neglected my people. I don’t trust anyone to take care of those who use the shelter but myself.”
“Oh, my,” Bethany said. “You don’t take any time off?”
“Rarely. I’m happiest here, which is why I live in the back.”
“Caring individuals like you are rare. Do you remember anything specific about any of our victims?”
Ms. Bolton’s eyes brightened. “Alicia was wonderful. Mostly she served food. Sometimes her daughter joined her. I was sad when she began spending her extra hours at Noah’s Loft.”
Bethany turned to Thatcher. “Would you show Ms. Bolton a photo of Dorian Crawford?”
Thatcher complied.
“I remember the woman. She stayed here on occasion.”
“Thank you. Agent Graves, do you have a pic of Lucas Sanchez and an artist’s sketch of the man known as Groundhog?”
Thatcher again complied.
Not a muscle moved on Ms. Bolton’s face. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen either of these men.”
Thatcher subtracted a few points from her personality portfolio for lying to a federal agent.
“Both are persons of interest in our case. Have you heard of a man called Deal?” Bethany said.
“No, I haven’t.”
“If you see either of them, please contact us immediately or call 911. Both are dangerous.” She handed the woman her business card.
She shuddered. “I will. Sort of frightening. I mean, some of my guests have records and some can become unruly, but murder is unthinkable. Hope I’m not being naive.”
“None of us wants to think about others taking innocent lives.”
Bethany turned to Thatcher, who’d cooled down.
“The building is in need of repairs,” he said. “How does the board of directors view this?”