Killer Heat. Brenda Novak
it all. If there was a body here, they would’ve found it.”
Hunsacker joined them just in time to confirm it. “That’s true.”
Francesca could feel Hunsacker’s support of Butch. Finch’s partner regretted being here. But she refused to let that shake her. She couldn’t imagine how Butch had sidestepped what should be coming to him, but…something wasn’t right.
“We appreciate your cooperation,” Finch said. Then he sent her a pleading look and straightened his tie. He was beginning to sweat, too. Small beads gathered on his forehead. She got the impression the weather wasn’t exclusively to blame. She felt a little dizzy, a little nauseous, herself. The only person in her corner seemed to be Jonah, and she guessed he was sticking by her out of guilt, or some crazy notion that doing so might redeem him for his actions of ten years ago.
Would she embarrass herself? Maybe. A mannequin, especially if it was covered and seen from such a distance, could easily be mistaken for a human. Plastic or wooden limbs would even explain the “rigor” she’d noted. But what about the stench? Hadn’t she smelled rotting flesh?
She couldn’t say for sure. She only knew she couldn’t have been wrong about the level of danger she’d sensed when Butch came after her. Just the memory of how he’d looked at her when she managed to lock him out of the car made her skin crawl. He’d wanted vengeance, pure and simple. And she believed he would’ve taken it.
The walk around the house and into the salvage yard seemed to drag on forever. With every step, tension hummed through her like the electricity passing through the high-voltage wires overhead. Butch’s wife carried their son. He and his family trailed behind her, along with Jonah, Finch, Hunsacker, the paramedic and his partner and the deputies. They formed quite a group and would provide quite an audience.
Butch’s confidence and swagger told her this wouldn’t end well, but she was stubborn enough to have to see for herself.
The dog was secured to his usual spot. As soon as they came into view, he barked and strained against the chain that held him as if he’d like to devour one of them, but Butch snapped a command for him to “shut his trap” and he did. He whined and danced instead of acting aggressive, but he watched with razor-sharp interest as they crossed in front of him.
The office where Francesca had hidden earlier wasn’t difficult to locate. Neither was the spot where she’d seen the body—because the body was still there. The sawhorses and pallets had been shoved to one side, making a path, but the tarp-covered figure remained.
Once again, she felt hesitant to approach. It looked so real. But this time she didn’t stop until she stood barely a foot away.
No scent of decay filled her nostrils, only the astringent smell of desert scrub, which grew between the wrecked car bodies and other odds and ends. She told herself this might mean April Bonner was still alive. But she didn’t really believe it.
Stepping forward, Butch pulled back the tarp, showing her exactly what he’d told her she’d see. A mannequin. “I keep it covered to protect it from the sun,” he explained.
Francesca had to squint against the glare of that sun, but now there was no mistaking what she was looking at. She’d jumped to the wrong conclusion earlier. Finding Janice Grey’s remains a year ago had set her up, made her think she’d solved April’s case the same way. But, obviously, this was very different….
Finch fondled his goatee, then dropped his hand. “I’m terribly sorry for the trouble we’ve caused you and your family,” he told Butch. “We’ll get out of here and let you return to whatever you’d be doing if you weren’t entertaining us. Ms. Moretti, shall we go?”
“I told you he was innocent!” Butch’s mother-in-law cried.
“And look what you did to his face!” his wife added. The dog braved a bark and, surrounded by so much animosity, Butch’s son began to cry. But, once again, the slight blond man seemed oddly detached from the whole scene. Did he know something he wasn’t saying? Possibly, but not necessarily. He attracted her attention simply because he was so…placid. “He attacked me,” she repeated, not taking a single step. Was she imagining it or was the color of the mannequin’s hair a little different from what she’d seen earlier?
Squeezing her eyes closed, she quickly corralled that thought. The hair color couldn’t be different. What were the chances that Butch had been able to trade out the real body so fast? Very small. She was grasping for any way to avoid the chagrin and embarrassment of having dragged the police out here with such a wild accusation; that was all. She’d never been in a situation like this, where the integrity of her work was called into question, didn’t even know how to react to it.
“Ms. Moretti?” Finch again.
“Just a minute.” I know you’re there…. What are you doing trespassing on my property? Don’t you have any manners…? Who are you…? What the hell’s wrong with you, lady? I just want to talk…. Butch hadn’t actually threatened her with violence, hadn’t said anything that suggested he might kill her. And yet she’d known she was in serious trouble. Or did her panic all stem from having mistaken this mannequin for a corpse?
Jonah came up beside her. Knowing that he’d had a front-row seat to what had to be her most embarrassing moment ever made her humiliation complete. She’d often dreamed of running into him again, but those fantasies had always included an element of satisfaction, of finding some proof that he’d lived to regret cheating on her. After what he’d witnessed here, he had to be glad they hadn’t ended up together. “You okay?”
Lifting her eyes, she found Butch waiting for her reaction, a victorious smile on his lips. There was something twisted in his expression. Was she the only one who could see it? Dared she trust her own instincts after this?
“I won’t press charges if you’ll give me an apology,” he said.
Part of her agreed she should be big enough to admit her mistake and say she was sorry so they could move on. But another part rebelled at the thought of making any concession. He was dangerous. She should know. She was the one who’d been alone with him. She’d seen what he’d been like, the sudden change that’d come over him when his wife and son returned. Maybe he hadn’t stated his intent, but she’d felt it down to the marrow of her bones.
“You’re still the last person to see April Bonner alive,” she said.
He blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“What did you do to her?”
“I don’t believe this shit!” The veins stood out in his neck as he appealed to Finch. “I’ve been as cooperative as I could possibly be. I’ve let your men parade around my property for almost two hours, treating me like I’m some kind of killer. I’ve proven that all her accusations are false—and you allow her to say this? Get off my property! Now! Every one of you! And don’t ever come back!”
Finch took hold of Francesca’s elbow. “Let’s go.”
She refused to budge. “I’ll leave as soon as he returns my purse.”
Butch’s gaze locked with hers. He hadn’t answered her question about April Bonner. Instead, he’d diverted attention away from the real issue by getting angry and playing the martyr. Why? She thought she knew, but he’d already won this round. There was no chance the police would believe her or act on her suspicions after this debacle.
He finally deigned to break the silence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My purse.” She spoke slowly, as if he didn’t possess the IQ to understand regular speech. “You grabbed it when you were chasing me and broke the strap. It fell on the ground and spilled—right over there.” She pointed to a bare patch of dirt closer to the back of the house. “What did you do with it?”
“I didn’t do anything with it. You must’ve lost it somewhere else, or had it stolen from your car, because you didn’t leave it here.”