by Mary Burton
“Who is she?” Jo asked.
“Her name is Ginnie Dupont. She’s a big fan of Smith’s. She’s been writing him letters since his trial. She dreams of being buried alive with him.”
A shudder passed through her body. “And she comes to this funeral because Christa was murdered like Smith’s victims? She’s delusional.”
“That’s being kind.”
Jo watched the woman wring a handkerchief between her hands. “I didn’t see her at the church.”
“She’s not fond of crowds.”
“She’s not broken any laws by being here?”
His jaw tensed. “Not yet.”
When the casket was lowered into the grave each searcher placed a single red rose on it. In minutes red rose petals covered polished walnut.
Jo watched the casket lower into the ground. A shiver raced down her spine. “I never want to be put in the ground.”
Brody raised a brow and stared at her. “When you’re dead, does it really matter?”
“My colleagues would argue that I’m trying to maintain control over life even after I’m gone. Which I suppose is true.”
“But logic doesn’t communicate too well with emotion.”
“No. And it’s an irrational fear . . . being trapped in a small space. But the fear is there, and I don’t want to be buried.”
“Well, here’s hoping you have a long and happy life, and when the end does come years from now, if there’s breath in my body, I’ll see that you don’t end up in the ground.”
She arched a brow. “You can’t keep a promise like that. Who’s to say where you’ll be?”
“Doesn’t matter. If I’m alive, that promise will be kept.”
An odd calmness warmed the chill. She trusted Brody would keep his word. “Only fair I return the favor. Any final requests?”
He looked toward the spot where Ginnie Dupont had stood. She was gone. “Don’t care what you do with my carcass when I’m gone. Fact, I don’t want any fuss made. If you’re still kicking, have a toast in my honor and make a donation to your favorite charity.”
“You really don’t care.”
“Not a damn bit. Let the dead bury the dead.”
Jo wasn’t watching the streets carefully when Brody pulled away from the gravesite. She’d been preoccupied with dissecting the reactions of the mourners. The sense of loss and grief had been palpable, but as she’d told Brody, no one really knew what drove the visible tears. It could easily be remorse as well as loss.
When he stopped at a street corner and a horn honked she refocused her gaze. She studied the tree-lined neighborhood. “Where are we?”
“I need to make a quick side trip.”
She checked her watch and thought about her six o’clock appointment. “Where?”
He kept his gaze ahead, his body relaxed as he made another turn. “My folks’ place.”
“Your parents’ home?”
“That’s right.”
Unease rolled through her, tightening her muscles. She’d never met Brody’s parents and she never wanted to. “Perhaps you should drop me off at my office first. I shouldn’t tag along for this.”
His gaze searched hers. “Why not?”
“I would rather not.”
“Why?” His gaze sharpened.
She shoved out a deep breath. “Brody, when we were married, you kept making excuses why you couldn’t introduce me to your parents.” She swallowed a lump in her throat that she’d not expected or wanted.
His jaw tightened. “I was an immature prick when we were married.”
“What does that have to do with this introduction now?”
He arched a brow, half amused by her directness. “I’ve been stowing a few boxes at their place that need to be picked up, and it wouldn’t hurt for you three to meet.”
“Yes, but why?”
He shook his head, his exasperation evident. “Does there have to be a deep psychological need behind my actions?”
She shrugged. “Most of us are driven by something under the surface.”
He parked in front of a white one-story with a neat front yard and faced her, his expression hawkish. “What is driving you now? Why are you hesitant to meet my folks?”
Jo stared sightlessly out the windshield. “I carried their grandchild, and you were ashamed.” The inside thought came out before she thought to censor. “It took me a long time to get over all the emotions that stemmed from that time. I don’t want to go back.”
He shut off the engine. “You did nothing wrong. The baby was an accident. I know that now. I’m ashamed of the way I acted during that time. I thought marrying you was enough, but I can see now you deserved better.”
She closed her eyes as tears clogged her throat. “Why are we doing this now, Brody? It’s been fourteen years. And I really, really don’t want to travel down memory lane.”
He was silent for a moment. “A debt is a debt, Jo. And I owe you.”
Her left hand curled into a fist as she faced him. “You don’t owe me anything.”
He opened his car door. “Yeah, I do.”
A growing sense of panic clawed at her as she imagined meeting Brody’s parents. A foolish reaction, her mind pointed out. Fourteen years was a long time ago. The past was dead and buried. And here were emotions pulling at her as if it were yesterday.
Brody opened her car door. “Come on, Jo. I never figured you for a coward.”
Her temper rose and she swung her legs out of the car and stood. “It takes a big brass set, Sergeant Winchester, to call me a coward.”
He laughed. “That a girl.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Brody slammed the car door and the two walked side by side to the front door. He rang the bell and seconds later the door snapped open to a tall woman with short, gray hair and Brody’s dark eyes.
The woman grinned and pushed open the screen door. “Brody!”
Jo stepped back as Brody hugged his mother. She thought about the dozen other places she’d rather be right now. Even listening to her sister talk about her beauty pageant days was preferable.
“Mom, I’d like you to meet Jo Granger,” Brody said. “Jo, this is my mother, Del Winchester.”
Jo extended her hand to the trim woman with keen eyes and smiled as if she were interviewing a stranger or testifying in a court of law. Polite, simple, impersonal. “Pleased to meet you.”
Mrs. Winchester’s brows knotted as she eyed Brody. “Jo Granger. Your Jo Granger, Brody?”
Your Jo Granger. Damn. Somewhere along the way he’d told both his parents about them. Great. Just great.
Brody removed his hat. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Winchester’s smile was as warm and welcoming as it had been when she’d first looked at her son. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Jo.”
Jo wasn’t sure if she should extend her hand, nod or smile.
Mrs. Winchester settled it when she hugged her. At first, Jo remained stiff and unsure, but to her surprise her tension eased. This was the kind of hug she could have used fourteen years ago when she’d been scared. “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Winchester.”
What else could she say?
Mrs. Winchester squeezed her tight before releasing her. “Call me Del. And you two come on inside. I’ve got some iced tea made. Brody, Jo and I can visit while you and Daddy load your boxes in the car.”
As her brain screamed Run! Jo walked into the small, modest home. It was neat and orderly and the walls were covered with pictures of Brody. The images spanned his infancy all the way up to a recent valor awards ceremony.
“Nick!” Del shouted. “Brody’s here, and he’s brought company.”
“Be right there.” Nick’s voice emanated from somewhere upstairs.
“He’s putting shelves in the attic,” Del explained. “I’ve been after him to do it for years. Had not a bit of interest. I might as well have been talking to a tree outside. Of course, Brody calls, Nick starts rummaging for boxes in the atti
c and decides it’s time to get organized.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s all his idea now.”
A loud thump sounded from upstairs.
“Maybe I better go check on Dad,” Brody said.
Del didn’t look worried. “Might not be such a bad idea. All I need is for him to cut off a finger or break a toe.”
Brody smiled at Jo. “Be right back.”
She stared up at him, doing her best to send evil intentions without giving away her frustration to Del. “Sure.”
He winked, amused as if he could read each of her dark thoughts. “Be right back.”
He’d barely vanished from the room when Del said, “Come on in the kitchen, Jo, and let’s have some tea. I also made cookies this morning when Brody called.”
Jo followed Del into the kitchen, willing herself not to glance at the pictures on the wall. “Brody called this morning?”
“Said he’d be close by, and it was time for him to grab his belongings.” Del pulled two glasses from the cabinet. “He didn’t tell you he was coming, did he?”
“No, ma’am. He did not.”
Del chuckled. “My guess is he figured you wouldn’t come with him if he did. That boy is a sly one.”
Jo accepted the glass. She’d never been good at dancing around difficult subjects in her work and refused to now, even though the stakes were personal. “What has he told you about me?”
Del didn’t bat an eye. “I’m thinking all of it, seeing as he did not paint himself in such a good light.”
She sipped her tea, savoring the cool liquid on her dry throat. She remained silent, not sure what that meant.
“He told me about the baby that you lost.” She shoved out a breath. “He told me you two married, but he wasn’t much of a man during that whole time.”
Indignation on Brody’s behalf reared. “He was twenty-one.”
“That’s a man’s age. His dad and I both told him we were disappointed. I wanted to track you down after the divorce, but he said no.”
To know strangers talked about one of the most personal and painful moments of her life unsettled her. “When was this?”
“When he filed for divorce he needed money for the lawyer. He came to us and told us everything. It was right before he went in the service.”
She stared into the coppery depths of her drink. “I’d forgotten he’d agreed to cover all legal expenses.”
Del snorted. “That was about the least he could do, considering how good and well he mucked things up.”
“It was not all Brody’s fault, Del.” No false modesty here but the truth. “We both should have been more careful.”
“Bad things happen to us all. That’s par for the course. It’s how we handle those bad things that measures our worth.” She sipped her tea as if she needed a break from the emotions. “But I will give my Brody credit. He’s done his level best to be an upstanding guy.”
“I know.”
“Polite and polished, you are. But you don’t believe those words.” Del smiled. “I suppose Brody aims to fix that too.”
Before Jo could ask for clarification, Brody and his father returned to the kitchen. Son favored father in height, weight and bearing. Only the elder’s gray hair and sun-etched skin set them apart as father and son.
Nick Winchester extended his hand to Jo. “Real glad to meet you, Dr. Granger.”
She took his hand. “Jo, please.”
Nick cleared his throat. “I hear you two were at the funeral of Christa Bogart.”
Jo glanced to Brody.
“Dad used to be military police and did twenty years with Austin police. He follows my cases,” Brody said.
Nick accepted tea from Del. “I’d bet my last dollar the killer was there today. Too much fuss and attention made over the poor girl for him to resist.”
As Brody accepted tea from his mother, Jo accepted the shift in conversation with gratitude. Work was safe. She could distance herself from the emotions. “I agree. He’d be enjoying tremendous satisfaction knowing he was the cause of it all.”
Nick studied her closely. “Any theories on who might have done it?”
Jo shook her head. “I wish I did know. I suspect whoever did this is driven by lots of strong emotions, including a need to win his father’s approval and a need to make his own mark in the world beyond his father’s identity.”
Brody sipped his tea. The easy, relaxed charm had hardened into a hunter’s steely determination. “Got folks rooting around in the key players’ pasts. If any of these guys were Harvey’s protégé, there’d be missing time in his past. Harvey kept the kid hidden for several years and that would have created a hole in his history.”
“You think you’ll really find this guy?” his mother asked.
“You can bet your life on it.”
He’d not meant to hunt today. He’d only cruised the Austin city side streets because he’d been restless, and the four walls of his office were crushing. Even his skin squeezed so tight he couldn’t draw in a deep breath.
It was the funeral that had thrown him off. So much sadness and grief.
He lacked remorse for Christa and her idiot fiancé, but the casket had conjured images of Harvey lying in a box. Harvey had never wanted to be buried. He’d wanted to be cremated. His mother had instilled a fear of burial in him. But the news reports had said he was to be buried in the graveyard reserved for the unclaimed bodies of prisoners.
How he’d wanted to travel to the prison and claim Harvey. Wanted to see his ashes strewn on the open land filled with bluebonnets. But to claim Harvey would mean undermining everything. And Harvey, for all his faults, did not want his protégé arrested and put in jail.
However, knowing he was doing the right thing and feeling it were two different matters. The logic his brain spouted didn’t soothe his heartache.
And so he’d pushed away from the computer, showered and carefully dressed in jeans and a dark hoodie.
When he’d gone into town to see Hanna he’d driven the red truck each time out of habit. Now he saw the folly of the move and knew the red truck could not leave the barn for a long, long time to come. So, he’d chosen a ’79 brown Ford four-door. He’d maintained the car well enough so that the engine ran smoothly and quietly, and fired each time he cranked the ignition. Reliable but not conspicuous that people might remember it.
As he drove into town he thought about Jo. He’d have taken her but with that Ranger shadowing her these days, he understood the wisdom of waiting.
No Jo today. But soon.
When he reached the street, he slowed the car’s pace and studied the girls on the street. They all dressed like whores. Short skirts. High heels. Makeup so thick it might as well have been a mask.
The girls were getting younger and younger. Some so young, they held little interest for him. Hanna’s womanly curves and full figure, for instance, had fooled him. He’d thought she was seventeen or older. It wasn’t until later when he’d taken the gold heart charm from around her neck that he’d seen the inscription with her name and birth-date. She’d been fifteen.
As he approached a light he spotted the woman he’d been watching for a couple of months. She wore a tight, short skirt, a halter and thigh-high black boots. She was a blonde, though he suspected the hair was a wig.
Glancing in his rearview mirror for traffic, he pulled to the curb in front of her. The windows in the car weren’t electric, so he had to lean over the passenger side and manually open the window.
The woman spotted him immediately but she didn’t approach the car. He leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. “Sadie?”
Her head cocked.
He smiled. “Jo Granger sent me.”
Wariness gave way to curiosity. “You know Jo?”
“She said you could help me find my sister. She’s on the streets for a couple of weeks, and I’m desperate to find her. Jo said you might be able to help.”
She pushed off from the wall and moved toward him. She sm
elled of soap. “What is your sister’s name?”
He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a photo. He’d snapped the picture of one of the girls in Jo’s support group. “Her name is Kelly. She’s fifteen. And she’s pregnant.” The false story spun from him as if it were the truth. “My mother is frantic to find her. She’s a good kid. Just met a bad guy.”
Sadie took the picture.
“I heard about Jo’s group and I went,” he continued. “She’s really great. So calm. Makes me think I’ll find Kelly.”
“I think I’ve seen her,” Sadie said.
“Really?”
“A few blocks from here.”
“Look, I’m from New York. I don’t know anything about Austin. Jo said you’d help me.”
Her jaw tightened and released as she studied his car and him. Getting into his car went against every bit of her nature. But he could see the mention of Jo’s name had touched her.
She opened his car door. “I’ll tell you how to get there.”
He grinned, his relief real. “That would really be great.”
“It should only take us a few minutes.”
Or maybe a little longer.
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday, April 16, 5:00 P.M.
The drive from his parents’ house to Jo’s office had been quiet, but the underlying tension that had simmered between them for the last week and a half had eased. Small progress, but progress nonetheless.
Brody hung his jacket on the back of his door, tossed his hat in a chair. As he rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie, he stared at the victim case files in the center of his desk.
His phone rang. He picked it up. “Winchester.”
“This is Elaine Walton from Social Services. You asked me to search records for a Nathanial Boykin.”
He sat forward in his chair. “That’s right.”
“Search was a little tougher than I’d imagined. We had a fire about a decade back. Not so much damage from the flames as the overhead sprinklers. A lot of files were ruined.”