Merciless

by Diana Palmer

  Jon’s breath caught. “Right under our noses!”

  “We can’t prove anything,” she added quickly. “We don’t even have a reason to charge her.”

  “Plus, we can’t let on that we know her background,” he replied. “And her adoptive dad works for San Antonio P.D., with access to all sorts of records.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, at least now we have the beginnings of a real investigation. And some possible suspects.”

  She nodded. “Life just got a lot more complicated.”

  His hands were absently caressing her arms. “We were planning a graveside service, but Cammy’s arrangements call for a public one.” His eyes narrowed. “I think we might want to pay very close attention to who shows up.”

  “I was thinking the very same thing,” she agreed.

  13

  The funeral home’s chapel was very crowded. Almost all the employees of the San Antonio FBI field office who knew Jon showed up. Half the Jacobsville, Texas, police department was on hand and so were members of various other federal agencies who knew the very popular brothers.

  “I hadn’t counted on so many people,” Jon told Kilraven as they sat in the front pew with Winnie and Joceline.

  “Not to worry, I’ve got several people watching. And I’ve gotten court-ordered wiretaps, as well,” Kilraven replied quietly. “Now that we have some solid leads, we’re going to blow the case wide-open.”

  Joceline was looking over her shoulder. Her eyes almost popped. “I don’t believe it!”

  The others followed her wide-eyed stare. Harold Monroe was just walking in the door.

  “Son of a…!” Kilraven muttered and started to get up. His expression was homicidal.

  Jon pulled him back down. “Don’t you dare,” he said sternly. “Cammy would come back and haunt us both!”

  “He killed my baby girl,” Kilraven gritted.

  “He’s only been accused. Not convicted,” Jon reminded him. “You’re an officer of the law. You can’t touch him. Get a grip.”

  Kilraven subsided, but not happily.

  And then the oddest thing happened. Harold Monroe, shifty-eyed and uncomfortable, but determined, walked down the aisle to where the family was sitting and stopped in front of Kilraven.

  “I didn’t kill her,” he said in a low tone, glancing around to make sure he wasn’t overheard.

  Jon scowled. “What?”

  Monroe went down on one knee. He was flushed and nervous, constantly looking around the room. “I know, you think I done it all. I ain’t smart. I help some poor kids get work and you think it’s bad the way I do it, but listen, I ain’t never killed nobody! Especially not no little kid.”

  The brothers were just staring at him, dumbfounded.

  “And no ladies, either,” he added gruffly, glancing at the casket.

  “You bragged to another jailbird that you killed my daughter,” Kilraven said, barely restraining the urge to throttle the man in front of witnesses. “You even fingered the murder weapon.”

  Monroe lowered his voice. “Yeah. So they’d find it. I put it where I was told to. I was scared. But you tell them smart guys to look at the prints on the shells that was in it. I didn’t take the shells out, you see. I left them. I figured, when I got a chance, I’d make it right. That little girl. That poor little kid…!”

  A monster with a conscience? The spellbound audience was exchanging puzzled glances.

  “He said he’d kill my wife. She’s all I got. She’s smart. She works in a library. She never hurt nobody!”

  “He who?” Jon asked curtly.

  “You look at them prints on those shells. You’ll see who. And he’s got a kid. She’s crazy like him,” he added huskily. “He took her along with him, when…” He swallowed. “She wasn’t seen. He didn’t want her stepdad to find out. She could get information from him, see. But you check them prints, then you find out where she was the night your little girl got shot. You check where she was when…” He glanced at the casket again, and grimaced. “Well, you’ll see who. You’ll see a lot.”

  “You confessed on tape,” Kilraven said.

  “Yeah, I did. I knew the guy was wired.”

  “How?”

  Monroe shifted. “I can’t say. I said enough already. I set it up so I could be accused, then maybe they wouldn’t think I’d told on them. I could say, you know, that I was willing to take the rap for it, if they’d leave my wife alone.” He lowered his voice. “They’ll kill me in a heartbeat if they find out I told you this.”

  “Like hell they will.” Kilraven motioned to a man in a suit in the aisle. He came forward. “This is Harold Monroe,” he told the man. “If he dies, we come after you in a pickup truck at night wearing ninja gear. Get the picture?”

  The man chuckled. “Yeah.”

  Monroe’s eyes bulged. “You’re protecting me? I’m out on bond on a murder charge! I even confessed!”

  “We’ll get the charges dropped,” Jon said quietly. “You testify to what you know, we’ll see what we can do for you on the other charges. If you stop trying to exploit kids.”

  Monroe sighed. “I ain’t smart enough to make money any other way. But, hey, I guess I could move to Vegas and become a pimp.” He grinned, showing a missing tooth.

  Jon shook his head.

  Monroe leaned forward. “You want to do some checking with San Antonio P.D.,” he added in a whisper. “The guy whose fingerprints are on the shells in that shotgun, he’s related to Jay Copper. But I never told you that. You found it out.”

  Kilraven nodded. “God, Monroe, this is going to ruin your rep in local criminal circles if it ever gets out.”

  “You ain’t telling nobody,” he said coldly. “Got that?”

  Kilraven smiled.

  “We’ll do what we can for you,” Jon said. His eyes narrowed. “Why come forward now?”

  “I was gonna let the evidence on that shotgun turn the trick, but I was afraid it might fall through the cracks, especially when Mrs. Blackhawk got killed. Then I knew I had to say something. She was a great lady,” he said, nodding toward the casket. “See, my dad got sent to prison for murder a long time ago. He was young and his mom had cancer, and needed medicine he couldn’t pay for. When he got out, your family hired him, gave him a job, trusted him when nobody else would.”

  “Sloane Callum is your father?” Jon exclaimed, shocked.

  “Yeah, but he never married my mom,” Monroe said. “He wanted to, but she didn’t believe in that stuff. Kind of a hippie, see. Anyway, I made sure nobody knew, ’cause I didn’t want him to lose his job if you knew about me.”

  “He’s a good man,” Jon said quietly. He was still reeling from the inefficiency of the detectives who’d done the background check on Sloane Callum and missed this connection.

  “Yes, and she was a good woman,” Monroe said, nodding toward the casket again. “She made you hire him. She didn’t know about me, either, but she was good to my dad.” He closed his eyes. “If I’d known they were gonna do that, I’d have told my dad, and he’d have watched her.”

  “You made threatening phone calls,” Jon began.

  “Not me,” Monroe replied, and with evident sincerity. “You were just doing your job when you arrested me. No call to kill a man for that. I don’t hold grudges. That’s why I called you, to show you I didn’t hold it against you. I just wanted you to know I was out.”

  “Then who…?”

  “Check the prints on them shells,” Monroe said again. “That’s all I’m…oh, God.”

  He was looking toward the back of the church. A young blonde woman had walked in and was looking at him with cold eyes. He got to his feet, flushed.

  “Get him out of here,” Jon told the undercover agent, who herded a worried Monroe out the back door of the chapel. “Quick!”

  “He told us nothing,” Kilraven cautioned the others.

  The blonde came up to the family, looking compassionate and sincere. “I’m so sorry about
your mother,” she said, and seemed really honest.

  “Thanks, Phyllis,” Jon said with a subdued smile. “We appreciate your coming to the service.”

  “A lot,” Kilraven added. Winnie nodded.

  “Yes,” Joceline agreed, and smiled warmly.

  The woman gave them a shrewd appraisal. “Wasn’t that the Monroe man who was arrested for trafficking?” she wondered. “What was he saying to you?”

  “Gloating,” Jon said coldly.

  “Kilraven was going to punch him, but Jon wouldn’t let him,” Joceline added curtly. “After all he’s done, the nerve to show up here!”

  The young woman shrugged, but she couldn’t hide the gleam of relief in her eyes. “Well, I just wanted to say sorry, about Mrs. Blackhawk,” she added. “Such a pity. Gosh, your family has had some real tragedies, hasn’t it?”

  “Some real tragedies,” Kilraven said quietly. “And now one more to add to it.” He indicated the casket.

  “It must have been devastating,” she agreed. “Do they have any idea who might have done it? I mean, that Monroe man made threats, didn’t he? Betty told me about the phone calls,” she added quickly.

  “Lots of threats,” Jon said coldly. “And he’s going to pay for them very soon.”

  She smiled. “Good. I hope he does. I’ll see you all at the office, then.”

  “Yes,” Jon replied. “Thanks for coming.”

  “You’re very welcome.” She looked at the casket with an odd curiosity, smiled at them and walked back to have a seat in the back of the chapel.

  The Blackhawks looked at each other, but said nothing. Jon gripped Joceline’s hand tightly in his own as the music began and a clear, sweet voice began to sing Cammy’s favorite gospel song, “Amazing Grace.” Despite all his best efforts to keep his emotions under control, Jon’s eyes were wet as the last strong note ended on the song. But so were those of everyone else in the chapel.

  The crime lab was far ahead of Jon when he spoke to Alice Mayfield Jones Fowler, their chief investigator, about the prints on the murder weapon.

  “Sure, we got those prints first thing. Criminals always overlook something obvious. Monroe’s prints were on the barrel, but someone else’s prints were on the shells. Not too smart, to put them back in the gun after they’d been fired.”

  “Alice, you always put empty shells in the chamber when you store a shotgun,” Jon said gently.

  “Yes, I know that. I meant that he put back the same shells he’d used, with his fingerprints all over them.” She whistled. “I was just checking to make sure you knew that.”

  “Alice…”

  “Anyway, yes, there were prints, and they belong to Bart Hancock.”

  It was what Jon had thought all along. Harold Monroe was an idiot. He’d never killed anyone or even been connected with murders. Most criminals didn’t step outside their comfort zones. Monroe bought and sold children, which was reprehensible, but he wasn’t a killer.

  “Now what?” Jon asked, thinking aloud.

  “Now you get a search warrant…” she began. “Alice!”

  “Hey, I was just thinking aloud, honest, I know the FBI doesn’t need to be led by the hand in a murder investigation—” She chuckled, then sobered. “Sorry about your mother, by the way. That was such a shock. I mean, it never occurred to any of us that she’d be a target.”

  “It should have. I feel guilty.”

  “You’re human, Blackhawk,” she said gently. “Don’t beat yourself over the head.”

  “Yes. I guess so.”

  “If you can connect the murder weapon to Hancock, you’ve got a pretty good case on circumstantial evidence. Odd thing, there were other fingerprints on the shells, just a partial. But when we ran them through the database, we didn’t get even one hit.”

  “That is odd,” Jon agreed, curious. “Any ideas?”

  “None. If you can make Hancock talk, he might tell you. I ruled out Dan Jones, by the way. His prints weren’t on the shells.”

  “Even odder.”

  Jon was thinking, weighing clues. “I may have something even better to cinch the case.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not telling you. Next thing I know, you’ll be in Hollywood pitching a murder mystery to some producer.”

  “Dang. Foiled again!”

  “Are you working my mother’s case?” he asked.

  “Well, I thought I was, but they wouldn’t let me into the hotel room,” she said. “Marquez said they had another investigator working it.”

  Odd, he thought again. Marquez usually asked for Jones. Or Fowler, which was her married name. She’d married Harley Fowler, the son of a U.S. senator.

  “I guess I was late on the scene.” She sighed.

  “I guess.”

  “But if you need help…”

  “I’ll call. And thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  He was now certain that Hancock was responsible for Melly’s death and also for Cammy Blackhawk’s. What Hancock’s daughter had to do with either case was still nebulous, but Jon was going to make sure the man didn’t sleaze out of the new charges.

  So when he phoned Rick Marquez to request copies of the police report on his mother’s death, he was shocked to run into a brick wall.

  “No,” Rick said at once.

  “No?” Jon was taken aback. “Not yet.”

  “All I want is the preliminary report…”

  “Not yet.” Rick hesitated. “I know this case is personal with you. That’s why I’m not giving you anything, especially crime scene photos.”

  “I could get a warrant…”

  “Yes, you could, and I’d find a judge to deny it. Maybe the same judge who let Monroe out on bail. Speaking of Monroe, we can’t find him anywhere. Would you know anything about that?”

  “Who, me?” Jon asked. “Why would I know?”

  “He was speaking to you at the funeral home and then he vanished.”

  “Strange,” Jon said evenly.

  “Isn’t it?”

  Jon drew in a long breath. “I spoke to Alice Jones.”

  “Alice Fowler.”

  “Yes. She said they checked fingerprints on the shells in the murder weapon in the murder of my niece.”

  “That’s true. We’re compiling evidence right now for a warrant to arrest Bart Hancock.”

  “Good luck getting to him,” Jon said coldly. “Isn’t he at his uncle’s place in the Bahamas?”

  “We heard he was.”

  “Extradition is going to be a lengthy process, even with evidence.”

  There was a long pause. “Yes.”

  Jon felt alarm bells going off in the back of his mind. “What’s going on, Marquez?” he asked suddenly.

  “Why do you think something’s going on?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  “I can’t tell you anything.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both.” There was a pause. “What?” There was muffled conversation. “Sorry, got to go. I’ll keep you posted on the investigation. And I’m sorry about your mother.”

  “Yes, so are we,” Jon said heavily.

  “I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.

  Jon was slow putting down the phone. There was a click. With a slow smile, he reached for a button and pushed it. Things were beginning to look up.

  “I absolutely can’t believe Harold Monroe, coming up to us at the funeral and denying he was responsible,” Joceline told Jon that evening at her apartment, while they watched their son draw a picture of a camel he’d seen on a news program.

  “I can’t, either,” Jon replied. “But I’m glad.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I think we may solve more than one murder, when all the evidence is collected.” He shook his head. “I work for the FBI. So does my brother, intermittently. And neither of us knew that Monroe’s father worked at the ranch. If we had known, with his record, I’m sure we’d have blamed him for Cammy’s murder.�
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  “I can understand why.”

  “I suppose even criminals have some odd sense of honor.”

  She brushed her hand over Markie’s black hair. “You really can draw, my baby.”

  “Yes, you can.” Jon took the pencil away from him, picked him up and placed him on his lap. “You look somewhat like me,” he said in a deep, affectionate tone. “Amazing, that I never noticed before.”

  “You’re a lot bigger than me,” Markie said, and giggled when Jon tickled him.

  Jon hugged the boy warmly. “I love being a father.”

  “Ouch, Dad, you’re squeezing me!” Markie complained.

  Jon chuckled and let him escape, back to the table where his pencil and paper were lying. “Of all the surprises of my life, this was the nicest,” he said, sighing. He looked at Joceline, loving the sweetness of her expression, the familiarity of her. “You should have told me,” he added, but in a tender tone.

  “You know why I didn’t.” She caught his big hand in hers. “I thought it would destroy your life and hurt your career. And I knew your mother would do everything in her power to keep us away from you.” She grimaced. “She really was a kind person, under that gruff attitude. I was only just getting to know her. I’m so sorry I didn’t have the time.”

  “So am I.” His eyes were sad. “There’s a hole in the world.”

  “And in your heart,” she added. She sat down in his lap and hugged him. “Time will help it heal.”

  He held her close, burying his face in her throat. “Yes.”

  “Are you sad, Daddy?” Markie asked, coming up on one side. “It’s because my grandma died, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Jon smiled at him. “It hurts.”

  “She was mean at first, but then she bought us ice cream.” He sighed. “Now I won’t have a grandma anymore.”

  “She would have spoiled him rotten,” Jon said when Markie had gone back to his drawing. “Yes.”

  He shifted her on his lap with a sigh. “I wonder what Rick Marquez is up to?” he murmured.