by Mary Burton
“It’s my time to waste. I want to see with my own eyes. I’m happy to drive myself.”
Brody shook his head. “Not a good idea.”
“You can’t keep me from going.”
He raised a brow. “I sure as hell can.”
Hearing the steel behind the words she retrenched. “The guy summoned me there for a reason. I’m mixed up in this somehow, and I need to figure it out.” She tightened her jaw. “Come on, Brody, please.”
Please sounded as if it had been torn from her throat, but it accomplished her goal. “If you go, you won’t be driving out there alone. I’ll pick you up.”
“That is not necessary. I have a sense of the area that he was describing and can find it on my own.”
“You won’t get inside the perimeter, not tomorrow anyway, without me. Jim Beck is sending in all the troops. You ride with me, or you stay behind.”
She frowned and he sensed she wanted to argue. “When should I be ready?”
“Seven.”
After Brody dropped Jo off at her house, she called her neighbor, Rucker, to let him know she’d returned and then quickly fed three hungry and vocal cats. In her bedroom she stripped off her suit and uncoiled her hair. She turned on the hot water in the shower and let the steam rise before stepping under the hot spray. Though she’d showered this morning, she was anxious to drown the scents of the prison. She washed her hair twice, scrubbed her skin until it was pink before toweling off and dressing in an oversized T-shirt and a thick, blue robe.
In the kitchen she heated up a can of soup and made herself a cheese sandwich before settling with both on the couch. She clicked on the television and switched to the news.
As she ate, her cats settled around her, waiting and hoping for a pinch of cheese. When Atticus nudged her she smiled. “You’ve eaten. And I promised the vet I would not feed you too much.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You are getting fat.”
Atticus stared at her as if miffed. He meowed loudly several times. Shaking her head, she gave him and the others small pieces of cheese.
Jo studied a picture on the coffee table taken of herself, her sister and her parents. The picture had been snapped five years ago when she’d graduated from her PhD program. It had been the last picture taken of all the Grangers as a family. Several months later her father had died of a heart attack.
Jo stared at her dad’s smiling face. So many times that day he’d said she made him proud. She’d been the first Granger to not only attend college but to earn an advanced degree. Her sister, Ellie, three years younger, had been in her early twenties and had opted to forgo college, attend beauty school and work in their mother’s hair salon.
That day she’d been excited for her accomplishment and edgy and nervous for the parents who looked at her as if she were a freak of nature. They simply did not understand why she’d wanted a PhD or why the salon hadn’t been good enough. She simply did not fit into her family mold.
Look deep inside yourself.
Smith’s words had her shifting her gaze to her mother’s face. Tall, blond and stunning, Candace Granger had often questioned Jo’s decision to take AP classes in high school. Each time she made the dean’s list, Candace had an extra drink at dinner. She was always trying to add highlights to Jo’s red hair. And her mother had been really unhappy when Jo was awarded the scholarship to UT.
She loved her mother, but when they tried to talk to each other they never quite connected.
“You need to be more like Ellie,” Candace used to say. “You could win those beauty contests if you’d try a little harder. Your piano playing has got the talent licked, and you are quick on your feet when asked questions.”
“I hate them, Mom. I don’t fit.”
Jo replaced the picture carefully back on the table. “Why wasn’t I good enough, Mom?”
Jo considered calling her friend, Lara Church, but the two had only known each other a year and Lara was in the final days of planning her wedding to Jim Beck. Jo considered calling her sister, Ellie, then rejected the idea. She didn’t need the drama.
Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed her mother’s number. The phone rang once, twice and by the fourth ring the answering machine picked up. “This is Candace. Can’t take your call right now, baby, but leave me your info and I’ll get back to you.”
Jo closed her eyes and for an instant, wondered what she should say to her mother. Serial killer said to look deep inside myself. That’s right. A serial killer. But the thing is, when I look inside me all I see is your disappointment.
“Mom, it’s Jo. This must be your Bible study night. Thought I’d check in. Call me when you get the chance.”
She hung up and padded into the kitchen. She rinsed off her bowl and plate and put both neatly in the dishwasher. The clock on the wall chimed ten times as she eyed her reflection in the polished, stainless-steel refrigerator. Red hair curled around her face and without makeup her freckles peppered her pale complexion.
“How did he know I never feel like I fit? How did he know?”
Brody hung his jacket on the back of his door and tossed his hat in the chair. As he rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie, he stared at the collection of dusty boxes containing Harvey Lee Smith’s case files.
After Smith had been convicted, he’d packed up the files and moved on to the next case. There’d been unanswered questions but there’d been other cases that needed his attention. As much as he’d wanted all the questions answered, he’d had to accept that cases rarely were completely wrapped up.
He chose the box labeled number one. When he’d boxed up the files after Smith’s trial, he’d had a gut feeling that one day he’d double back around. There’d been no reason to give him cause, but he’d sensed Smith couldn’t go to his grave silently.
And Smith had not disappointed.
Brody set the box on his desk and tossed the top aside. The first file contained every bit of biological information he’d amassed on Smith.
Smith had been born in Texas to a father who was a long-haul driver and a mother who waitressed part-time. His parents had originally hailed from west Texas but had settled in the Austin area when Smith, their only child, was a baby. By all accounts his childhood had been normal. He’d done well in school. He’d played baseball. His parents held steady jobs and appeared to have a happy marriage.
At fifteen, Smith’s father died in an automobile accident. The father’s sudden death had left mother and son financially ruined. They’d moved from their country farm to a city apartment. Harvey had been forced to quit school and work, so he drove trucks. The money had been good enough and the two had gotten by. Smith continued to study and earned a GED. He’d also applied to Oklahoma University and been accepted. The boy’s mother had died suddenly and he’d been free to study full-time.
The mother’s untimely death had been a red flag to Brody, and he’d spent a good bit of time digging into her death. But the coroner’s findings had been clear-cut. Mae Smith died of a heart attack.
After graduation, he took a job as a substitute teacher. Several schools had wanted to hire Smith but he’d refused all offers. He’d never married and seemed to be just another normal guy.
Until the recent discovery of Smith’s oldest kill. The first known victim had been Sandra Day, a twenty-one-year-old waitress in Houston. According to Smith’s statement later, he’d taken Day on a date and instead of returning her at the end of the day had kept her in his house for the next three months before he’d buried her alive. He’d not intended to bury her alive. But she’d fought him hard, landing a hard punch to his nose. He’d hit her back and stunned her enough to get her to the grave. She was about covered with dirt when she’d startled awake and realized what was happening. Excited by her panic, he’d quickly covered her face with dirt.
Brody shifted through the victim profiles and made a list of the children. There’d been nine children between the five women. Five boys and four girls. He searched the na
mes of the boys. Two were in prison. One dead. One living in Seattle and working as a cop. And the last . . . unaccounted for. The boy’s name had been Nathanial Boykin. Nathanial, not Robbie. He’d been placed in foster care after his mother’s death and then there was no more mention of him. He’d be in his early thirties now.
Brody typed up a request for Social Services and sent it out. Maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe Robbie still lurked somewhere in the system.
Chapter Four
Sunday, April 7, 4:00 A.M.
Jo woke up to the pitch black of night. Though she tried to coax herself back to sleep for at least another half hour, she was tossing and turning. Her active brain wouldn’t be silenced. Sleep wasn’t coming back her way anytime soon.
Out of bed, she dressed in dark jeans, a dark turtleneck and vigorously brushed her hair, hoping to smooth out at least some of the curls and tangles. When her hair refused reason she coiled it back in her customary bun and pinned it in place. Knowing she’d be going to the crime scene, she took time applying her makeup as if it were a business day. Since she’d been a small child her mother had talked about the importance of makeup. “A smart lady looks her best all the time.”
Jo had not inherited her mother’s sleek, blond locks but thanks to makeup she could look more like a professional woman rather than Pippi Longstocking.
After coffee and a breakfast of eggs and toast, she checked her cell for a text from her mother. No message.
Jo still had an hour before Brody was to arrive, giving her enough time to drive to her mother’s salon. For all the differences that divided Jo and her mother, she could honestly say she’d inherited her mother’s work ethic. Candace worked seven days a week, often ten or twelve hours a day, and Jo was no different.
She grabbed her purse and a backpack prepped for a day in the field and ran out into the morning chill to drive the three miles to her mother’s salon. As expected she saw lights on and Candace inside painting a purple wall blue.
Jo knocked on the door, making Candace jump. When she saw Jo she smiled, climbed off her stepladder and crossed to the front door.
Candace opened the front door with one hand while keeping her blue-tipped paintbrush away from her spotless shirt and ironed pants. Her blond hair was blow-dried straight, and she wore makeup and perfume.
“Hey, baby doll. What are you doing here?”
“I called you last night.”
“Saw the message but figured I’d call a little later in the morning. You come here to help your old mamma paint?”
“Sorry, no.” Jo kissed her mother on her cheek. “How is it you never drip a speck of paint?”
“Pays to be careful, baby girl.” She kissed Jo on the cheek. “I swung by your place yesterday afternoon to tell you about your sister’s news.”
“News? That man she’s dating finally gonna give her a ring?”
“No. In fact they broke up. Ellie ended it.”
Ellie had dated a string of losers, but Jo had learned to keep thoughts like that to herself. “I thought he was gonna give her a ring?”
“No. Said he wasn’t ready to commit. So she broke it off.”
“I’ll give Ellie credit. She knows what she wants.”
“I’m not torn up about it. The ink on the divorce papers isn’t dry, and she was already in love again. Too fast leads to trouble.”
Jo and Brody had fallen hard and fast for each other. At the time the attraction they’d shared had made perfect sense. But her mother was right. Fast didn’t last.
“As long as she’s not knocked up, she’ll move on fine.”
Jo winced.
Her mother cocked a brow. “You better than anybody should agree.”
Jo didn’t respond, not wishing to stir up an argument.
“Of you two girls, Ellie was always my open book. Not like you. The girl with the secrets. Sometimes I think gypsies dropped you off on the back stoop.”
An edge had crept into her mother’s voice. “Where did that come from?”
“I spoke to your neighbor yesterday. Mr. Rucker.”
“Why were you talking to my neighbor?”
Candace set her paintbrush carefully in the paint pan. “Because I came by to see you. Mothers do check on their daughters from time to time.”
“Since when? Is everything all right with you?”
The lines around her eyes had deepened and her skin had paled. “I’m fine.”
“Really? You’re not working too hard?”
“Don’t deflect the conversation to me. This is about you.”
“And my secrets?”
“That’s right. Mr. Rucker told me you were spending the afternoon with a guy.” The frown lines around her mother’s mouth deepened. “Said you were with a tall guy named Winchester.” Her mother drew in a breath. “Please tell me it wasn’t Brody Winchester.”
Jo let a breath hiss slowly from her lips.
Her mother’s lips flattened. “It is Brody Winchester.”
“It’s not like that.”
Green eyes narrowed. “What’s it like, Jo? Didn’t that man do enough damage in your life?”
“As I remember, we accomplished much of the damage together. And we’re not dating. Definitely not dating. We’re working a case.”
“Case? Last time you hung out with Brody Winchester, you said it was about tutoring and homework. All that led to a whole heap of trouble.”
“I’m not eighteen, Mom. And I’m not a wide-eyed girl anymore.” She stopped herself. “This is not why I came to see you this morning.”
Candace picked up a rag and wiped her clean hands. “I don’t want to fight, Jo. I don’t. But it would make me sick to know you and Brody Winchester were seeing each other again.”
“We are not seeing each other. Yesterday was the first time I’ve spoken to him in fourteen years.”
Candace lowered her voice as she did when she was upset. “Fourteen years isn’t enough to make me forget, honey.”
“I haven’t forgotten, Mom. Can we let this go? Please. Brody and I were working a case.”
“He’s not the reason you came by?”
She’d been unsettled since yesterday and now wondered if those feelings stemmed from Brody or Smith or maybe both. “No, I wanted to see you.”
Her mother raised a brow. “It is not like you to stop by and talk, honey. You’re self-reliant like me. Ellie is a chatterbox like your daddy. But not you. What is the case you’re working on?”
“We went to West Livingston yesterday.”
“To the prison.”
“That’s right. We went to interview Harvey Lee Smith.”
Her frown deepened. “Isn’t that the killer that’s dying?”
“That’s right.”
Her mother again rubbed her clean hands with the rag. “Why does he have you so turned around?”
“At the end of the interview I asked him why he wanted to make his last confession to me. He said, ‘Look deep inside yourself.’ It didn’t make any sense. Why would he say that?”
She rested her fist on her hip. “Honey, how am I supposed to know why a crazy man says what he says?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I thought the statement was odd, and there’s no one that knows me as well as you, I guess.”
Some of Candace’s tension eased. “He’s a lunatic, honey. He’ll say or do whatever suits him. And my guess is that he wanted to upset your applecart to watch you squirm.”
“That’s what Brody said in so many words.”
Candace glanced at her manicured red nails and then at Jo. “You don’t worry about Smith. From what I read, he’s an egghead who doesn’t have many more days on the earth.”
“Egghead. That’s what Dad used to call me.”
Her mother’s face tensed. “Honey, your dad was a good, hardworking man, but he wasn’t a big thinker. He didn’t understand why I wanted this shop and why I wanted to work for myself. He’d have been happy to see me doing sets and perms in the garage like I
did when you girls were little. You wanted more, like me. Daddy didn’t understand.”
“Your idea of more for me included winning beauty contests and coming into the business to work.”
Candace lifted her chin a notch. “Both are honest pathways to a good life.”
“I wanted different than you.”
“Jo, what is going on with you?” She shook her head. “That Harvey Lee Smith has gotten under your skin.”
Jo sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I’m out of sorts.”
“Honey, I don’t want to fight. If I could help you I would. And I’m sorry for needling you about Brody Winchester. I don’t have much use for the guy.” She shook her head. “When you were having the miscarriage and he was off with his buddies getting drunk—”
“Please, Mom, he didn’t know I was miscarrying.... Look, I don’t want to rehash old news.”
“As long as it stays old news, baby, then I won’t bring it up again.”
Jo checked her watch. “Mom, I’ve got an appointment.”
“What kind of appointment would you have on a Sunday morning?”
“It’s police stuff.”
“Not with Brody.”
Jo hugged her mom. “You don’t need to worry about Brody. He’s history.”
Brody was a half block from Jo’s house when he saw her driving from the opposite direction and pulling into her driveway. Out and about early on a Sunday morning. And without meaning to, he found himself wondering where and with whom she’d spent the night.
Gut tensing, he parked his Bronco behind her and watched as she scrambled out of her car, grabbed a backpack from the backseat and hurried toward him. She slid into the seat, tucked the pack at her feet and clicked her seat belt.
She straightened her jacket. “Thank you for the ride.”
“Sure.” He put the gearshift in reverse and backed out of the driveway. “Where’d you come from?”