Deadlock (12 page)

9:05 A.M. FRIDAY

Bethany and Thatcher entered the upscale dry cleaner’s near the Galleria, the one Ansel Spree had robbed. The business had a plush lounge area in warm brown tones, complete with a coffee bar, bottled water, and fresh fruit. Those who frequented the establishment had the income to pay a substantial price for services and in turn expect preferential treatment. Bethany desperately wanted to give SSA Preston and the community something solid from this interview. She despised the editorial letter casting doubt on the FBI’s reputation.

Jafar Siddiqui, a gray-haired man of Middle Eastern descent, greeted them as the owner of the dry cleaner’s.

Thatcher introduced himself and Bethany, and the two displayed their badges. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Ansel Spree,” he said.

Siddiqui stiffened. “He robbed me a few years ago and went to prison.”

“Are you aware he’s dead, a probable victim of a serial killer?”

“Yes, sir.” He rubbed his forehead. “What does his death have to do with me?”

Thatcher showed him the photos of Ruth Caswell and Alicia Javon. “Are either of these women familiar?”

The man examined both pics, then asked their names and
typed them into his computer. “I don’t recognize them, and neither woman is in our client history.” He swallowed hard. “No one deserves to die at the hands of a killer.”

“We agree, sir.” Thatcher dropped his phone into his jacket pocket. “Can you tell us what transpired at the time of the robbery?”

Alarm flashed across his face. “It’s all in the court records.”

Bethany recalled Thatcher’s theory on body language. The man was either nervous or hiding something.

“If you don’t mind, we’d like to hear it from you,” Thatcher said.

“Is there a problem? I’m a law-abiding man. Pay my taxes. And this Scorpion . . . will he come after my family?”

Bethany complimented the decor in an effort to calm the man. Did he think he was a suspect in the murder case? “This is not about you, sir. We’re seeking additional information about Ansel Spree. We have no family for him. Perhaps something you remember will help our investigation.”

He relaxed. “I’m sorry. I’ve been reading about the killings, and I’ll do whatever I can to help. My memory isn’t as accurate as when the robbery occurred.”

Bethany smiled and caught Thatcher’s nod to continue the questioning. “We understand. According to your testimony, approximately four years ago Ansel Spree robbed you at gunpoint. The unusual aspect is you stated Mr. Spree apologized for the crime.”

“A peculiar thing,” Siddiqui said. “While he waved a gun in my face, he told me he didn’t want to take my money, but he had no choice.”

“Did you ask why?” she said.

“No. My wife and granddaughter were with me, and I was concerned for them. Afraid for myself too. I believe the court report said Mr. Spree wished there’d been another way.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” she said.

He slowly shook his head. “Mr. Spree came to see me about
two months ago. Apologized and claimed he’d never break the law again. Brought my wife flowers. Very interesting. Never heard from him again until I read about his murder this morning.”

Bethany pulled out her business card. “If anything else comes to mind, would you please contact our office?”

The man’s fingers trembled as he reached for the card.

Bethany met his gaze. “What are you not telling us? We want to help.”

He gripped the counter. “Mr. Spree said something else when he apologized and brought the flowers.” He stared at the counter, then regained eye contact. “I should have asked him what he meant. Maybe I could have prevented his death.”

“What did he say?”

“He wanted to make up for the wrongs before he was killed. He said he’d rather die than rob anyone else.”

Bethany didn’t believe Spree’s remark was flippant. “Thank you,” she said. “We appreciate your time.”

“Do you think my family needs to take precautions?”

Thatcher stepped forward. “Sir, we see no reason for you and your family to be afraid. Thank you for your assistance.”

Once in Thatcher’s loaner car, Bethany studied the dry cleaner’s storefront. “If Spree knew he was about to be killed, did the other victims?”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Thatcher started the engine. “I want a background on Jafar Siddiqui.”

“Why? He repeated exactly what was in the original report. It’s not necessary.”

“Maybe in your opinion.”

She bit back a retort. “What are you thinking?”

“How many violent crimes have you solved?”

She’d angered him again. “None, and I’m sorry.” She pulled out her phone and typed in the request.

Thatcher drove toward the office. Fifteen minutes later, the FIG responded to both phones.

“This is rich,” she said. “The week after Ansel Spree was sentenced for the robbery, Jafar Siddiqui was investigated for money laundering in connection with a terrorist group in Pakistan. He was later cleared for lack of evidence.”

“What about his family? Shouldn’t take long to have the FIG get back with us. Would you send them the request?”

“This has nothing to do with the Caswell or Javon cases,” she said.

“Maybe.”

She obeyed but failed to understand his reasoning. By the time they reached the office parking lot, they had the report on Siddiqui’s family. His brother had fled the country when Jafar fell under investigation. The case had been reopened.

“Ansel might have stumbled onto more than a few dollars out of Siddiqui’s money drawer,” Thatcher said. “I’m staying on this.”

“There’s no remote connection between a Pakistani terrorist group and Scorpion.”

“In your opinion.”

She chose to say nothing.

1:05 P.M. FRIDAY

Thatcher had the virus called ineffectual. Talking heads were all over the media with their profile of Scorpion, but these so-called professionals were nothing more than reporters attempting to gain recognition. The editorial letter from earlier went viral, like someone had opened a scab on every FBI agent in the city.

Law enforcement sought a small man. He could have faced a stigma because of his size and not feel like a real man. By breaking the rules of society, killing could offer him a sense of power and control.

Thatcher’s stomach had rumbled since midmorning, and ignoring it didn’t make the pangs disappear. Bethany had to be hungry too and just as exhausted. He found her at the squad board, arms crossed over her tiny frame as she studied the victims’ faces.

“I owe you an apology.”

She avoided him. “Accepted. I can be difficult at times too.”

He smiled. “Have you solved it?”

“I wish.” She turned and gave him a smile. “Thinking about scorpion characteristics. Again.”

Were those lashes for real? “And you’ve determined we’re crazy?”

“Not exactly, even though it’s not my normal method of analyzing an investigation. But a serial killer works his own psychosis. Not ready to write it into a report for SSA Preston.”

“Are you as hungry as I am?” he said.

“Yeah. I did a PowerBar at ten thirty, but it’s worn off.”

“How about Mexican food?”

“I’m not in the mood to cook.” Her finger traced Alicia Javon’s face as though the answer lay in the touch. “But I’m open.”

“What about Pappasito’s?”

“Perfect. Love their food.”

They left in Thatcher’s car for the restaurant and within five minutes were pulling into the parking lot. He rubbed his eyes. “I could sleep for hours.”

“Me too. Let’s hope the food does the trick, and we don’t fall asleep at our desks.”

“After lunch, I want to talk to the medical examiners who performed the autopsies on each victim.”

She grimaced. “That might have been a better stop this morning.”

“And here I thought you’d want to see their tools.”

“Not my idea of a post-lunch field trip.” She sighed. “What do you do when you hit bottom?”

“I meet with my bud Daniel, the guy who’s now engaged to Special Agent Laurel Evertson. We get together most Saturday mornings for breakfast. I unload then. What about you? Are you close to your mom?”

“Depends on the time of day. She believes in being submissive, so when she does contact me, it’s usually about Dad’s agenda and not pleasant. The director of Noah’s Loft, Elizabeth Maddrey, is my good friend, so we talk a lot. Do you see your mother often?”

“No, but I call her once a week. She’s lonely.”

“I can see you’re being supportive. You’ve been great with Carly.”

He opened the car door. As they walked toward the restaurant, Bethany’s cell rang.

Her face paled, and she covered the phone. “Go on in and get us a table. I’ll be right there.” She returned to lean against the car
while he walked inside the restaurant. He hoped her news wasn’t bad. A prayer swept through him. What he hadn’t told Bethany about the Saturday morning meetings with Daniel was that they spent the time exploring the Bible.

He and Daniel Hilton had discussed law enforcement and the issue of why God failed to intervene and stop the bad guys
 
—many times. More and more of what Thatcher once thought was confusing and didn’t make sense now had clarity through the lens of the Bible, the one book he’d sworn he would never read. Three weeks ago, he’d prayed with Daniel to ask the Lord into his life. But he hadn’t told anyone yet. Thatcher needed to digest his decision because for the first time, his out-of-the-box method of living had God in charge. Combine his old self with a love of psychology, and he could fill a volume with questions. But understanding would come. He had to acquire the trait of patience.

He was seated near the window where he could see Bethany, although her face was turned away from him. She dropped her phone into her purse and kicked the tire. He chuckled. Oh, she could be formidable. Heading his way, she swiped beneath her eye.

A dark-green Volkswagen sped straight toward her.

He pounded on the glass, frantically begging her to hear his warning. A young man rushed from between parked cars and dragged her to safety as the Volkswagen zoomed by.

Thatcher blew out his relief and hurried outside the restaurant to join them. The man was young, muscular, which accounted for his fast reflexes.

Thatcher reached out to shake the young man’s hand. “Thanks for saving my friend’s life.”

“Glad to help.”

“Oh yes, thank you.” Bethany shook her head. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

The young man tugged on his baseball cap. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Working on lack of food and sleep makes one stupid.”

“That was too close,” Thatcher said. “But I got the license plate number. Did you see the driver?”

“No, I’m sorry,” the young man said. “The driver probably has a record and no insurance.”

“I saw nothing but a blur of green heading straight for me,” Bethany said.

The young man took a step back. “Take care.”

“Wait a minute,” Bethany said. “What’s your name?”

“Zack Adams.”

“Can I do anything for you?”

“No. I was supposed to meet someone here, but they forgot.”

“I see. Are you a student?” She pointed to his U of H T-shirt.

He beamed. “Junior at the University of Houston.”

“In case HPD needs a witness to what happened, can I have your cell number?” she said.

As Zack rattled off his cell number, gut reaction kicked in, and Thatcher lifted his phone to snap the young man’s pic. But Zack whipped his attention to the street before disappearing through a mass of vehicles.

Inside the restaurant, Bethany and Thatcher’s table had been taken, and they were reseated away from the window. Bethany stared at her hands, a sign of inner turmoil, as he’d noted on other occasions. The phone call or the near hit? “What are you thinking?”

“The call was my brother, and when I refused to give him money, he exploded.”

“You have enough on him for an arrest.”

“Not yet. The case comes first.”

“You have nothing to prove to me.” His gaze lingered on her face.

She moistened her lips. “Thanks. My mind is on what just happened.”

Thatcher didn’t believe her for a second.

She pulled her cell from her purse and pressed in a number. A moment later she set the phone on the table. “Zack Adams’s
phone number is bogus. He was standing outside a Camry when we pulled up. If I’d been paying attention to my surroundings, I wouldn’t have nearly been run over.”

Thatcher waved his hand in front of her face. “Back up. What are you saying?”

She picked up her phone and typed. “I want to know if the FIG has anything on him, and who owns the runaway Volkswagen.”

He gave her the license plate number. She was hungry and tired, running on fumes. But it appeared her actions backed up his suspicions.

“Would you forward me Zack’s pic? I’m sending another inquiry.”

Midway through Thatcher’s pulled pork enchiladas and Bethany’s beef fajitas, both phones alerted them to a message.

Thatcher grabbed his first. “The Volkswagen’s license plates belong to a car reported stolen a month ago. There’s no Zack Adams at the University of Houston. Neither is he enrolled in any of the Houston area colleges. The cell number he gave you doesn’t appear in any college or university directory. No facial recognition with the baseball cap, and he turned just before I took it. Doesn’t exist, which means no record either. Pull out your notepad. Let’s figure out what just happened.”

She took another bite of her fajitas and pushed the pad and paper toward him. “You write, and I’ll talk.”

He nodded. “Fire away.”

“Poor choice of words, partner, but here goes. As I said earlier, Lucas called. He requested we talk privately, and I thought he was about to admit his poor choices. Dumb me. Once the phone clicks in my ear, I set out to join you, and a stolen car nearly hits me. I’m saved by a stranger who lies about his identity and doesn’t want me calling him.”

Thatcher carefully formed his words. “Here’s what I think. Your brother followed us from the office. He set you up for a hit-and-run, and you’re looking for a way to excuse him.”

Her eyes blazed. “That’s ridiculous. A stunt like this would land his rear back in jail, most likely prison.”

He wanted to shake her. “You’re doing the same thing as your family. ‘Poor Lucas. It’s pure coincidence his actions seem to parallel a potential hit-and-run.’”

She rubbed her forehead. “After this case is closed, I’ll do something.”

“Be an idiot if you want, but I’m not looking forward to writing ‘I told you so’ on your tombstone.”

She tossed her napkin on the table. “Our case is not about Lucas.” Her eyes shot arrows at him while fury sped through his veins. Tears welled in her eyes, and she stared down at her half-eaten food. “My family is no concern to you. I’m an agent, and my personal life isn’t up for discussion.”

“Family problems are the worst. I’d rather face a dozen bad guys unarmed. You’re right
 
—the case isn’t about Lucas, but he’s interfering with a good agent’s investigation.”

Confusion and reality met him as Bethany looked up. “Let’s find Scorpion. Then I’ll deal with Lucas.”

What spoke the loudest to him was what she didn’t say. Her response about handling Lucas later was fast becoming a worn excuse.