Killer Heat (34 page)

Maybe she'd tried….

With a surge of purpose, he dialed his ex-girlfriend's cell phone.

“This had better not be who I think it is,” she whispered.

“Kelly, listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me,” she interrupted. “How dare you
call me again! You said it was over. You said I couldn't contact you, that Paris was on to us, that she meant more to you than I could ever dream of meaning. And now you're crawling back?”

He hadn't been especially kind when he'd broken things off. He'd needed her to realize he was serious about stopping all contact. “I was—” he still couldn't wrap his mind around what he suddenly believed “—just wondering if you've heard from Paris, if she's ever tried to call you.”

“Of course she's tried. But I won't pick up. Do you think I'm stupid? What would I say to her? ‘Sorry I've been sleeping with your husband'?”

He pressed the phone tighter to his ear. “Has she ever come by your place?”

“She's sat out there, watching the house a time or two. Once she even came to the door. She wanted me to go for a ride with her. Said we needed to talk. But Matt came home right then, and she left.”

“Don't go anywhere with her,” he said.

“Why not?”

He didn't answer. He'd just thought of something else. There were other women he'd slept with that Paris hadn't killed. Was it because she didn't know about them? Or because, like Kelly, they'd been too careful to let her get that close?

And what about Sherrilyn Gators? She'd gone missing even though he'd never slept with her.

But the day Sherrilyn had come to the house he'd been the one to help her when her car wouldn't start. He'd thought she was attractive enough for a quick fling, but she'd barely spoken to him. She cared about Dean and only Dean. Had Paris taken the fact that he'd replaced
her car battery as more than simply the favor it'd turned out to be?

The smell of coffee was making him sick. He had to shut it off. No way could he eat or drink right now.

“What's wrong with you?” Kelly complained. “You're acting like you're…on drugs, spacing out.”

She'd been talking to him and he hadn't responded. “Just don't go anywhere with her,” he said, and disconnected. He expected Hunsacker to call him back any moment to say they'd identified Sherrilyn's remains. Butch had no doubt she was out there. Somewhere, if not in Dead Mule Canyon. Rotting like the others. All because Paris believed they'd had a sexual encounter.

Why couldn't Paris understand that those women meant nothing to him? They were good for a cheap thrill, nothing more than that.

Actually, now they did mean more. They were dead because of him. And unless he could get Paris to stop, Kelly, or any woman he looked at, smiled at or passed on the street, could be next.

Blotting the sweat on his forehead with a paper towel, he returned to the bedroom. He had to confront his wife, had to hear the details so he could help her. Concealing what she'd done was the only way to save her, the only way to keep his family together. Maybe he'd have to take her and Champ to Mexico. Killing as many people as she had, she'd probably get the death sentence….

He chuckled bitterly. Elaine had no idea what she was doing when she revealed Paris's complicity in Julia's death. Would she have done it if she'd realized? Probably. She wouldn't protect Paris from the consequences of murder. Even Elaine had her limits. But Butch didn't. Someone finally loved him; he would never let anyone take that away.

The door squeaked as it swung open. He stepped inside, then locked it behind him. With the blinds down, it was difficult to see, so he concentrated on the lump in the bedding. “Paris?” No response.

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Hey, you need to wake up. We have to talk.” He didn't want to hear her answers to the questions he had to ask, didn't want her to confirm the worst. But if she denied what she'd done, he knew he wouldn't believe it. He finally understood how deeply angry he'd made her and the lengths to which she'd go to appease that anger. He also knew what she'd done with her time while Champ was in preschool. It wasn't the shopping she'd claimed.

“Paris?” He reached out to nudge her shoulder but the bedding gave way beneath his hand. He'd touched a pillow. She wasn't in bed.

Standing, he whirled around and noticed that her purse, which she'd left on the dresser when he brought her home last night, was gone. Her cell phone was missing, too.

Heart pounding, he rushed to the window and raised the blind. So was the Impala.

F
rancesca didn't usually drink, at least not more than a glass of wine at dinner. Inhibiting her ability to think clearly or move without stumbling seemed counterproductive. She didn't enjoy the blinding headache and cottonmouth of the morning after, either. But she'd gotten drunk last night. That old bottle of tequila Roland had left behind had provided a way to dull the pain of sending both Jonah and Adriana away. A few drinks beat calling her parents, didn't it? She was getting a little old to turn to them whenever she got hurt.

“Maybe calling my parents would've been better,” she grumbled as she squinted against the light filtering around the edges of her blinds. It was morning, time to get up and face the day. But the prospect was hardly tantalizing.

Considering how much she hated the taste of tequila, she should've gone to the store for something else. But she hadn't wanted to leave the house at midnight any more than she wanted to leave now.

She was thinking about staying in bed all day when her cell phone rang. Afraid it might be Jonah—she definitely wasn't ready to talk to him, not in this condition—
she supported her pounding head with one hand while reaching for her phone.

She didn't recognize the number.

Curious, she answered, and tried not to sound as under the weather as she felt. “Hello?”

“Francesca? This is Paris.”

Stifling a groan, Francesca managed to prop herself up. She couldn't imagine why Paris would be calling her, but she wanted to find out. “What can I do for you?”

“Dean isn't as innocent as he'd like you to believe,” she announced.

Had Elaine's choice upset Paris enough that she was now willing to share details about her brother? Something that might break the case?

Regretting her alcohol binge even more, Francesca pressed two fingers to her temple. “Why do you say that?”

“He killed all those women in Dead Mule Canyon. I know he did.”

Fortunately, Francesca's high level of interest helped override her physical distress. “How do you know?”

“I have proof.”

At this, Francesca scrambled off the bed. But she'd moved too quickly and her vision dimmed to black; she had to double over to avoid passing out. “What kind of proof?”

“I'll show you. Can you meet me?”

“Where?”

“Halfway?

“You mean somewhere along Interstate 10?”

“No. Dean might be coming to look for me.”

Taking a deep breath, she slowly stood. “In what car?”

“He takes my parents' sometimes.”

“But what are the chances he'd find you on such a busy thoroughfare?”

“I don't want to risk it. Now that I've got what I got, I'm scared of him. I'd rather he didn't know we've talked. He'll tell my parents, and they may not like it. They've protected him his whole life.”

What had she discovered? Physical evidence? “Where, then?”

“I was thinking Wickenburg.”

Francesca had never been to Wickenburg, but she'd lived in Arizona long enough to know it was an old mining town. They wouldn't have much trouble meeting each other in such a small place. “Fine. Is there a Starbucks?”

“I'm not sure. I'll call you once I arrive. Then we can pick a more specific location. Are you bringing that guy with you? What's his name?”

“Jonah? No. Do you want me to?”

“I'd rather you didn't. This isn't easy for me. Dean's my brother, after all. It's not like I want a big audience.”

“I understand.”

“See you soon.”

“I'll be there.” Tossing her phone aside, Francesca dragged herself to the kitchen, where she downed a couple of painkillers before heading to the bathroom. Once she was out of the shower and dressed, she considered calling Jonah or Finch to let them know about this latest development. But after the way she'd behaved last night she was reluctant to speak to Jonah. It was probably her turn to apologize. And she was afraid calling Finch would blow her rendezvous with Paris. He might mention it to Hunsacker, who'd could pass the information on to Butch, who could act to squash the idea. There was no way he'd want to help
her.

She decided to call Finch when she had Paris's “proof” in her hands, which would also give her time to figure out how to approach Jonah.

In a further attempt to ease the jackhammer in her head, she put on her sunglasses. Then she found her keys and hurried out the door.

 

The little Jonah had slept had been in the Jeep Cherokee he'd rented, which he'd parked a mile or so away from the salvage yard after driving back from Chandler last night. He'd spent most of his time watching the house and drafting Lori's character reference on his laptop. He'd finally realized he didn't have the right to hope Francesca would ever forgive him if he couldn't forgive Lori, so he'd just e-mailed it—

He sat up. Something was wrong…

Grabbing his binoculars, he took a closer look at Butch's house. With Dean being released from jail and Paris charged with manslaughter and subsequently posting bail, he hadn't expected Butch or Dean to be active. They'd gotten in late. But he hadn't been willing to bet Francesca's life on that, either. Regardless of how she felt about him, he still loved her, and if he couldn't stay with her to keep her safe, he'd protect her some other way, even if it meant watching Butch and Dean until he could determine, for sure, that they weren't a threat to her anymore.

Now he was glad he'd made that commitment….

Although the results of his surveillance had been un-remarkable until several minutes ago, when he'd seen Paris drive off, that no longer held true. There weren't a lot of people moving around, but the way Butch came in and out of the house, making several trips to his truck and pacing the front yard, reminded Jonah of an anthill
after a stick had been jammed into it. Butch seemed to be reacting to a recent and rather upsetting change. But what?

The binoculars revealed him unshowered and un-shaven, an intense expression on his face and his cell phone jammed against his ear. He hung up, dialed again, hung up and threw his phone. Then he raked his fingers through his hair, recovered his phone and had to replace the battery that'd gone flying when it hit the ground. A second later he got into his truck and drove away.

Debating whether to follow him or take advantage of his absence by talking to Dean or Elaine, Jonah decided to try the house.

Once Butch was out of sight, he drove closer and went to the door.

Dean answered. Judging by the hair sticking up on one side, he'd just rolled out of bed. “Hey there! What's going on?” he asked as if they were now good friends.

Jonah glanced in the direction Butch had gone, toward town. “That's what I want to know.”

“Excuse me?”

“What's up with Butch this morning?”

Dean didn't seem to realize Jonah had been watching the house. Apparently, he assumed Jonah had tried to speak with Butch and been rebuffed. “Who knows?” he said with a shrug. “But don't let it bother you. He can get like that sometimes.”

“He didn't say anything before he left?”

A wry smile curved Dean's lips. “Does ‘fuck' or ‘damn' count?”

Jonah couldn't help chuckling. “As long as you can give me a reason he might be using those words.”

“It has to do with Paris. He doesn't know where she went.”

“That's it?”

“Plus, he's afraid she might confront his girlfriend. I heard him call Kelly and tell her Paris could be on her way over. He said that she wasn't to open her door and to contact him immediately if she tries to get in.”

Jonah arched his eyebrows. “Tries to get in? You think she might be that aggressive?”

Dean yawned but spoke through it. “She's pretty tired of him cheating.”

“Does she know about
all
the women he's been with?”

“A lot of them. I once saw a list in her purse.” Now that they were “friends,” Dean seemed eager to confide whatever he knew.

“How do you know it was a list of the women he's cheated with?”

“I'm not positive because I just saw the top of it before she shoved it back in. But Kelly was on there. So was Wanda Erickson, who used to be a masseuse in town. I stopped by once in a while, but Butch went there every chance he got. I saw his truck in her driveway all the time. No way my sister would've missed it.”

Jonah's heart skipped a beat. “You're sure? It was Wanda Erickson?”

“Yeah, but her name had a line through it, probably because she moved back to Nevada.”

Wanda hadn't moved back to Nevada. Dr. Price had called Jonah late last night to say they'd managed to identify more of the remains. Wanda Erickson was one of the victims. “Any chance you can give me Butch's cell phone number. I'd like to see if I can help,” Jonah said.

“Sure, no problem,” he replied and rattled it off.

Dean shut the door as Jonah walked slowly back to
his car.
She's pretty tired of him cheating…. I once saw a list in her purse…. Her name had a line through it….

Bits of the forensic profile also came to mind:
Beating someone to death is intensely personal. I believe the man you're looking for has reason to hate his victims and feels justified in violence.
The
man
they were looking for? What if they weren't looking for a man at all? What if it was a woman? A woman who thought her victims deserved the worst possible treatment? A woman who used a bat to make up for what she lacked in size and strength? A woman who'd already attacked one rival in a jealous rage? Maybe if Julia hadn't been killed accidentally, in front of Butch, she would've been killed on purpose, behind his back. Like the others…

“Shit!” The killer was associated with the salvage yard. They'd been right about that. But they'd been looking past the real culprit. And, if Jonah had his guess, Butch had figured it out, too, or he wouldn't have called to warn Kelly….

Taking his phone from his pocket, Jonah dialed Finch's number. They had to find Paris—before she attacked anyone else.

 

Paris slowed to make a U-turn. This had been a good choice; Wickenburg was the perfect place. She'd been scouting towns since she left home early that morning. Now all she had to do was travel back toward Prescott until she found a desolate spot….

After twenty minutes, she felt she'd gone far enough. She was in the middle of nowhere, precisely what she wanted. Only a handful of cars passed by. Since it was noon, most people were inside, working a day job, not
driving from one small town to another in the middle of the Sonoran Desert.

Spotting an alcove where she'd have the cover of some scrub brush and palo verde trees, she turned around so she'd be facing in the right direction, and pulled to the side of the road. Then she got out and went to the trunk, taking out the hammer and nail she'd put there.

Would the nail be long enough? Frowning, she held it up. If not, she'd have to find something else. She hadn't had much time to prepare for her encounter with Francesca. But she wasn't particularly worried. It wasn't that difficult to pop a tire.

Wincing against the blistering heat, she circled the Impala while deciding which tire to flatten. Francesca would be more prone to believe her “crippled car” predicament if she could see the problem immediately, wouldn't she?

That made sense, so—when there was no one else on the road—Paris crouched beside the front right tire.

She'd just finished hammering the nail through the rubber, could hear the hiss of escaping air, when her cell phone rang. It was her husband. Again. He'd called more than a dozen times. She hoped he'd been in touch with Champ's friend's mother, made arrangements to pick him up, because she couldn't answer the phone and remind him. He'd be upset with her for leaving and would try to talk her into going home.

She'd call him when it was all over, she told herself, after Francesca got what was coming to her.

But what if Francesca proved to be more of a challenge than the others? Dean hadn't been able to overpower her, had he? No. She needed to make her plans accordingly. Fortunately, she wasn't as stupid as Dean. And she'd done this before. Only Sherrilyn had given her
any real problem, but she'd managed to overpower her. They'd find her remains in Dead Mule Canyon with the rest, if they hadn't done so already. She knew they were still looking and had two more to find.

Returning to the trunk, she gathered up the rest of her tools, including the one that would cause the most pain. Maybe Francesca hadn't slept with Butch, but she was a whore all the same and deserved the treatment Paris saved for the women she hated most.

Finding a nice spot in the shade, she sat down and went over every aspect of her plan while awaiting Francesca's call.

 

By the time she reached Wickenburg, Francesca had her headache under control. She was grateful for the cessation of pain; her nerves were difficult enough to deal with. Paris claimed to possess evidence that would blow the Dead Mule Canyon case wide-open. As far as Francesca was concerned, that couldn't happen soon enough. But she was still reluctant to believe it was Dean who'd been murdering people. Despite those macabre drawings, he didn't seem to have the killer instinct.

Fortunately, Paris said she had proof. If that was true, they'd no longer have to rely on intuition or profiling or anything else.

As she passed an old schoolhouse painted bright red, obviously a historic building, she called Paris's number. “I'm here.”

“I've been trying to get hold of you.” Paris sounded discouraged.

“You have? Nothing's come through.”

“Coverage is spotty out here.”

“Out where?”

“I'm stranded along the highway. And, God, is it hot. I wish I'd brought some water.”