by Mary Burton
I don’t want the wedding to be formal. Wear what you want.
Lara’s words, delivered to Jo with such kindness, now haunted her as she made her way during her lunch hour through the mall, searching for a “greenish” bridesmaid dress—her only mandate. As wedding tasks went, this was one of the simplest, and yet as her fingers skimmed the fabric of another unwanted dress she wondered if she’d ever find what she needed.
She had no practice with fashion and weddings, and she wanted to get it right. But worries over making a mistake had kept her from buying any dress. She’d fallen into the perfection trap.
A sleek saleslady had tried to help Jo initially but Jo’s indecision had sent her back behind her counter to wait.
“Dr. Granger, what a pleasant surprise. Shopping for a special occasion?”
Dayton’s smooth voice had her turning, the watered silk still clutched between her fingertips. An answer to his question could create the threads of a bond she did not want. “This is unexpected.”
He looked delighted. “It is odd that we would run into each other here.”
He wore a hand-tailored blue blazer, crisp white shirt that set off his tanned skin and black trousers. All spoke to his need to project affluence.
His cool, calm smile shouldn’t have set off any alarm bells. By all appearances this was a chance meeting. In fact, many ladies would have sought out or welcomed his attention. Not Jo. Her senses peaked at full alert. “What are you doing here?”
He regarded the boutique, his gaze not reflecting real interest as he pulled a pack of yellow gum from his pocket. “I was happening by and saw you. I thought it would be appropriate to say hello.”
Though she’d interviewed countless sociopaths and liars it never failed to surprise her how they could be so utterly charming. “It’s not appropriate, Dr. Dayton, considering our recent conversation.”
A smile tweaked the edge of his lips. “It was an interview, not an interrogation, Dr. Granger. There’s no reason for us to be unfriendly to each other.”
She released the dress sleeve and faced him directly. “We have nothing to say to each other.”
His smile held, though it took on a chill. Carefully, he unwrapped a piece of gum. “I’m trying to be neighborly.”
“No, Dr. Dayton, you are trying to manipulate and to control.”
He laughed. “You have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you, Dr. Granger? You’ve dealt with so many criminals that you see them everywhere.”
“Not everywhere.” But she did here. “Now, if you will excuse me.”
“By the way, that shade of green is not your color, Dr. Granger. You’d do better to stay with earth tones—olives, browns. They’ll set off your red hair nicely.”
The saleslady approached, her smile wide and warm, as her gaze bounced between Dr. Dayton and Jo. “Any luck, hon?”
“I think the olive silk is the way to go,” Dr. Dayton said to the clerk. He popped the stick of gum in his mouth and folded the wrapper in half.
The saleslady’s gaze brightened. “With her porcelain skin and red hair it would be perfect.”
Jo straightened, irritated that Dayton had insinuated himself into her life. “I must go.”
“You really should try on the dress, Dr. Granger,” he said.
Instead of answering, she turned and left, the saleslady’s comment about rude behavior trailing after her.
Bob Killian’s construction crews had been working on the new housing development west of Austin for several months. Most days they were on-site and working by seven, but today there’d been all kinds of delays and no work. To top it off, the cement truck had broken down and been delayed.
Finally, by three o’clock the truck had arrived at the site. There was only enough time to dump a truckload of cement, which amounted to one foundation. But one foundation was better than none.
“We’re burning daylight,” Killian yelled to the Mexican day workers. “Get inside the foundation and be ready to spread mud.”
As the Mexican foreman translated Killian’s words, the workers grabbed their shovels as the cement truck backed into place. The ding, ding, ding of the vehicle’s backup alarm was punctuated by the laughter of the men who’d been sitting the better part of the day waiting for the truck.
Killian calculated all the money lost today as he reached for an antacid in his coat pocket. The housing market was getting murdered, and if he didn’t hustle and get these houses built he stood to lose a fortune.
The driver leaned out the back of the driver’s side window and shouted in Spanish for a couple of the men to step back as he lowered the chute.
One of the workers, a young man with a short, stocky build, stepped back and stumbled. His arms waved wildly as he tried to catch himself but he lost his footing in the soft soil and fell right on his ass. His coworkers laughed and pointed as the young guy struggled to stand in the soft earth.
Killian popped another antacid. “Get moving!”
The worker had righted himself when one of the other men stared at the ground where he’d fallen. Seconds later he pointed and screamed in Spanish, “La mano! La mano!”
Killian moved toward the men, his patience wearing paper-thin. What the hell were they talking about now? La mano. Hand. Had the son of a bitch hurt his hand? He swiped his own hand across his neck, a signal for the cement truck driver to halt while he investigated. “If you are fucking around, I am going to have your ass.”
He stepped over the foundation’s wooden form into what would one day be the crawl space of a two-story house. As the distraught crewman scrambled to get away, Killian spotted what he had been shouting about. Sticking up from the wet earth were three pale fingers.
Killian motioned for the men to step back before squatting by the object. The fingers were curled in a clawlike manner. Stunned curiosity pulled him closer. The hand’s small nails were painted with purple polish that was chipped. Three tarnished silver bracelets dangled from the wrist.
He brushed away the dirt to find the arm of a young woman. His stomach tumbled and he rose slowly, doing his best to remain calm when all he wanted to do was run.
Chapter Eleven
Tuesday, April 9, 6:00 P.M.
When Brody and Santos arrived at the construction site, the uniformed officers had already roped off the crime scene. The lights from several Austin PD and DPS marked cars flashed. Forensics had arrived and the technician was shooting pictures of the scene.
Brody pulled rubber gloves from his coat pocket. He and Santos stopped and greeted several officers. One officer, Sergeant Gary Danner, had been stationed in El Paso about the same time as Brody.
Gary stuck his hand out to Brody. “I heard you’d dragged your sorry ass back to Austin.”
Brody grinned. When they’d been in their twenties the two had torn it up more than once in El Paso, closing a couple of cantinas. “That’s right. Slunk into town.”
Danner cocked a brow. “And you haven’t stirred up any trouble?”
He’d worked nonstop since he’d arrived. “Been doing my best, but I’m getting a little too old to live like I used to.”
Gary shook his head. “Winchester, the day you’re too old will be the day the sun stops rising.”
Brody had been a hell-raiser in his twenties and he still liked to have fun. But the days of pounding back too many beers or shots were over. “Heard you got hitched.”
“Sure did.” Gary grinned. “Second baby is on the way.” He lowered his voice a notch. “Marriage is great, but don’t tell my wife, Elaine. Don’t need her getting a swelled head.”
“I’ll take it to my grave, partner.” The forensic tech’s camera flashed in Brody’s peripheral vision. “Like you to meet Sergeant Rick Santos. He and I are working this case.”
Santos extended his hand. “Danner. I think we’ve crossed paths before.”
“Sure did. That bank robbery in San Antonio last year.”
“That’s right. Hell of a mess, that one.
”
“Yes, sir, it was.”
Santos nodded toward the crime scene. “You first on the scene, Gary?”
The laughter eased from his eyes. “One of the first.”
Brody rested his hands on his hips, glancing toward the opened mound of dirt. “Fill me in.”
“The construction crews were preparing to lay the foundation when one of the workers spotted an oddity. The foreman did a little digging and found a hand, which turned out to be attached to a woman’s body. She wasn’t more than a foot under the ground and by the looks of it hadn’t been in the ground too long. The medical examiner’s assistant has already had a look at her and thinks she might have died of asphyxiation in the last twenty-four hours. Forensics is doing their job now.”
Brody pulled on his gloves. “The boys that found her have more to add about what they saw or heard?”
“No. They were running behind because of mechanical delays and were focused on getting the foundation in the frames. They might remember details when you talk to them. The foreman is out here a good bit, he says. He might have seen someone yesterday or the day before. He’s a little shook up.”
Brody eyed the slim, grizzled man who leaned against his truck, his arms folded over his chest and his eyes closed. “He looks okay to me.”
“Says he needs to do deep breathing exercises.”
Brody muttered an oath. “Let me have a look.”
He moved over the muddy earth, and when forensics urged him forward, he ducked under the tape and stepped over the foundation frame. He squatted by the body.
The pale hand stuck up from the earth. As he moved closer he could see fingers bent forward as if reaching for a lifeline. Nails were painted with purple polish. The ring and pinky fingers sported silver rings.
The technician came up behind him. “I can clean the face off now if you’re ready.”
He rose. “Yeah. Let’s see who we have here.”
As she knelt and slowly moved the dirt from the face, Brody stood with hands on hips. A long time ago, he’d learned to armor himself from the horrors of crime scenes. Over the years in DPS and in the Rangers he’d seen gruesome sights. Most he could handle, but child deaths still penetrated his hard outer shell.
Using a paintbrush, the tech brushed away the last inch of dirt, moving carefully and slowly in deference to evidence that might be on the body. Soon he saw a shock of blond hair with dark roots and a forehead.
She kept brushing, uncovering the eyes and a mouth taped shut with duct tape. The technician brushed more dirt away. Her hands had been handcuffed together. There’d been enough play in the cuffs for her to raise one hand and dig. Just a little. But not enough to save herself.
He studied her face. Pale skin. A sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Big hooped earrings.
Just a kid.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Jo didn’t end up buying a dress. After seeing Dayton she’d been angry at his intrusion and frustrated that he’d left her so rattled. She’d driven straight back to her office and soon was swept up in the buzz of evening appointments.
Minutes before eight, when the last patient had left she had time to sit back and really think about Dayton. He’d been all smiles. He’d made no threats or given any hint that he was dangerous.
But that had all been surface. She dug out the file Dr. Anderson had given her on Dayton from her overflowing in-box and scanned it. A brief peek below and she saw all the telltale signs that she might have a problem. Sheila Dayton had vanished. Neighbors had reported seeing Dayton berating his wife. His wife never spoke much when the two were in public. Always tense. Worried. And she had confided in a friend that she thought he was going to kill her.
But there’d been no signs of physical abuse. And no physical evidence linked Dayton to his wife’s disappearance. He had a solid alibi for the day she vanished.
And yet there he was at the mall in a shop that catered to women, only chatting with her.
Jo released the breath she was holding. The guy had set out to fluster her, and he’d done it.
She drummed her fingers on the desk, reminding herself that she’d dealt with men like him before. How many prisoners after an interview had promised to find her when they were released? How many had made lurid suggestions? Trouble was part of this territory. Dayton would not get in her head like Smith.
Despite the late hour and Brody’s morning text about Smith’s health, she picked up the phone and dialed the West Livingston prison. She asked the switchboard operator for the warden’s voicemail. Jo listened to his brief message, identified herself, and reminded him of her visit days earlier. She hung up, not expecting to hear from the warden until morning. When her phone rang minutes later, she was surprised to see the prison number on her caller ID.
“Dr. Granger,” the warden said. “What can I do for you?”
It didn’t surprise her he worked long hours. There was always some matter to be dealt with in such a big prison. “I was hoping you could give me the status of Mr. Smith. I understand he has been too ill to receive visitors.”
“He’s resting comfortably right now, Dr. Granger. Had a better day, meaning more restful, according to the staff nurse. But he’s very weak.”
She deliberated on tomorrow’s calendar, wondering how much she could clear so she could get to West Livingston. “Is he conscious?”
“In and out. He was amazingly lucid the day you came. The nurse thinks he reserved all his energy for it.”
She traced circles on her blotter with a ballpoint pen. “I still don’t understand why he showed an interest in me.”
The warden hesitated. “We searched every inch of his cell but found nothing. Brody told me that you and he were married. Brody believes Smith is using you to get to him.”
The comment caught her by surprise. Their marriage was no secret, but discussing it was awkward. “Logically, that makes sense.”
“And searching for logic in an insane mind is a fool’s errand.”
So true. “If Mr. Smith improves will you call me?”
“Certainly. I had this same conversation with Winchester this morning and last night. He’s explained the stakes and the importance of talking to Smith again.”
A last-minute thought occurred to her. “Could Smith be faking? I remember during his trial he faked a heart attack.”
“Six months ago I might have said yes, but not now. The disease has progressed too far. It’s a matter of days, maybe weeks for him.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She hung up the phone. The clock on the wall read seven fifty-eight. Her mother was taking her last salon appointment of the day, which meant Jo could swing by. With a day or two under their belts her mother might be more open to conversation.
The drive took less than a half hour in evening traffic. When she parked in front of the salon, the lights in the shop were on, but the CLOSED sign dangled from the door. Arlene, one of the salon’s stylists, was finishing up a late-appointment client, but Jo knew her mother well enough to know that she was still on the property. Her mother was always the last to leave and lock up the doors.
Jo knocked on the front door and the stylist, Arlene, glanced up and smiled when she recognized her. She crossed to the door, her wedge heels clunking as her black smock billowed around her jeans and Texas rhinestone T-shirt. Arlene had worked for her mother since Jo was in grade school.
Arlene flipped the dead bolt. “Well, little Miss Jolene. What brings you our way?”
Jo smiled. “Came to see Momma.” The women hugged. “How you doing?”
“Can’t complain,” she said, grinning. “Need to rinse out this last perm before my man and I go dancing tonight.”
“Sounds fun.”
“You should come out with us sometime. There are lots of good-looking men who’d love to take you for a spin on the dance floor.”
Jo grimaced. “My sister inherited the dancing gene. I’ve two left feet.”
Arlene winked. “Baby do
ll, with that figure of yours and that red hair, it don’t matter if you can keep time or not. There’s gonna be some fella that wants to take you for a spin.”
Jo laughed. “I can’t remember the last time a man took me for a spin.”
Arlene waggled her brows. “Well, all the more reason to come with us sometime. We’ll be going out again on Friday night.”
“I have a rehearsal dinner this Friday,” she said. “But I might take you up on that offer.” She’d not been good at having fun, a trait she’d been trying to change.
“Good girl. Now go and check in with your momma. She’s in her office doing the receipts.”
Jo found her mother sitting at the small, neat desk in the back of the shop. In front of her was a pile of cash, another with checks and the third with credit card receipts. A lit cigarette sat in a crystal ashtray, its smoke trailing toward a popcorn ceiling.
“Momma,” Jo said.
Her mother turned in her swivel chair and smiled. “You visit twice in a week. The dear Lord can take me now.”
Jo kissed her mother on the cheek. “I thought you quit smoking.”
“I did,” her tone sincere. “It’s just the one a day now.”
“That’s not exactly quitting.” Her Texas twang always deepened when she spoke to her mother.
“About as close as I’ll get, baby doll. What are you doing here in the middle of the week?” She turned back to her stacks, took another drag on her cigarette and pulled out a deposit slip.
Jo sat on a box of beauty supplies sitting by the desk. “I called West Livingston prison today and tried to arrange another meeting with Mr. Smith.”
Candace’s fingers stilled for an instant while she counted the cash but she didn’t raise her gaze. “Why’d you do that, Jo?”
“What he said is bothering me, Mom. Look deep inside yourself. It keeps rattling in my brain.”
Candace reached for her cigarette, flicked the ash from the tip and inhaled deeply. She released the smoke from her lungs slowly. “He’s a crazy man, Jo, who likes to stir up trouble.”