Deadlock (29 page)

7:15 A.M. TUESDAY

Bethany drove to see Thatcher
 
—to work on a case they’d been booted off of and instructed to leave alone. Protocol she understood, but her life’s convictions rode the priority roller coaster. The FIG’s security video footage of who’d visited Lucas in jail arrived as she drove through Starbucks to bring Thatcher his Pike Place coffee. They’d view it together. SSA Preston and whoever was assigned to this case would analyze it too.

She despised not being at the office.

She touched her cast, and what it symbolized deepened her resolve. Her arm merely ached, an improvement over the past few days, thanks to Tylenol. She looked forward to seeing Thatcher, yet suspicions of a surveillance team kicked in when she approached his condo. Opposing the forces of those who attempted to control her life was not a foreign concept. As a teen, she’d followed Lucas and eavesdropped on his friends’ conversations. Her parents would have grounded her for a month at the thought of her invading his privacy. But she’d always confirmed her distrust for Lucas, and it looked like her path was there again. The commitment to stop her brother from any more crimes overrode the fear of forfeiting her career to find him and learn the identity of Scorpion. She’d deal with the backlash when the time came.

She drove to the exclusive loft condos where Thatcher lived.
Very nice. His fashionable, high-rise condo suited him. Austin stone blended with brick four stories high within a gated community. She spotted what looked like familiar FBI agents. Waving crossed her mind, and she did. When had she become so rebellious?

The security guard phoned Thatcher, and moments later she stood at his door. She rang the doorbell. Slowly it opened, and her pulse blew past the speed limit. Hadn’t she chosen to ignore the attraction? Ever since he was shot, she’d tried to squelch her feelings. But her efforts were proving futile.

“Hey, partner, I brought you something.” She handed him a bag of red licorice.

He looked inside and grinned. “You remembered.” He looked incredibly pale and weak, and his attempt at a smile would have been better painted on. “Good morning. Come on in.”

She stepped inside his home. “Thatcher, you have no business working. You’re going to fall on your face and end up back in the hospital.”

“And miss all the fun?” His half grin did little to mask his injuries.

“I tried to convince him of his foolishness.” Mrs. Graves’s voice sounded behind him. She handed Bethany a small plastic bag filled with meds. “Make sure he takes all of these according to the directions.”

“Yes, ma’am. The wounded lion needs to heal.”

“Sounds better than crip,” he said.

“You two have fun. I have to catch up on my reading.” Mrs. Graves disappeared down the hall.

Thatcher hobbled to a chair in a living area to the left of them, and she set his coffee beside him. He nodded his thanks.

A white stone fireplace with bookcases on both sides took up an entire wall. An adjacent wall displayed floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the bayou. Guitars were mounted on another wall, collector’s instruments. Each one had a small metal plate with information about the original owner. His own guitar rested
against a stool in the corner. To the right was a pristine kitchen with contemporary white cabinets, black granite countertops, and high barstools. Very much the Thatcher she’d come to know.

“This is so you,” she said. “My
papá
collects Spanish guitars.” Unfortunately Thatcher would never see them, between the estranged relations with her parents and her vow to force him out of her heart.

“Thanks. I’m ready to work. So you got the FIG’s report too?”

“I’m praying for a revelation, since the women who visited Lucas used aliases.” She slipped onto a chair across from him in the living room. “It feeds into my theory about a woman manipulating him. When I take what you’ve explained to me about behavior and juxtapose that with Lucas, a woman has to be a part of Scorpion. But questions keep pelting my brain. I know a foursome goes against historical serial murder cases, but I can’t let it go. But if Lucas, Deal, Groundhog, and Scorpion are working together, why?” She clicked on her phone for the videos while Thatcher did the same with his laptop. “We need a break here. We’re walking a tightrope.”

“Watch this with me. Bigger screen.”

Carly’s observations about Bethany’s feelings for him streamed across her mind. Had his mother picked up on it too? “Sure.” She dragged a chair beside him. Even wounded, he smelled fresh and . . .
Stop going there.

For the next hour, they viewed Bethany’s parents’ and sisters’ visits to Lucas and a monthly visit from a priest whom she recognized. Three separate times women were in the video. Each time the woman hid her face, but none appeared to resemble the others.

Bethany pointed to the screen. “Freeze that section. Look, here one of the women is wearing heels. Another has tennis shoes, and this one is in four-inch spikes. If all were without shoes, they’d be the same height.”

He handed her his laptop, and she configured the height of the women without shoes.

“The same woman,” he said. “She walks differently in each one according to the persona, but her build is the same.”

“Unfortunately, she’s been successful in avoiding the camera.” She stood and paced the room. “Let me see one more time.” She took his laptop and viewed the three separate images, then watched the woman in action. “Why didn’t I see this before?”

“What?”

“In each visit, the woman periodically holds on to her right wrist. Sometimes she holds it, and other times she pushes something up her arm. Melanie Bolton has the same habit.”

“The director of the Lighthouse?” He studied the screen. “You’re right. She had access to each victim, though she denied knowing Ruth Caswell.”

Bethany eased back in the chair with his computer resting on her lap. She recalled Melanie’s proclamation of how much she cared for the homeless, her protectiveness. If she’d been a part of the killing, then why?

“Do you have the photos taken at the crime scene of each victim?” she said. “I have a hunch.”

“Another one?”

She smirked. “I stuck with you about scorpion traits, so give me a little slack. I’m assuming HPD’s and our reports are there too.”

“Right. What’s your idea?”

“Crazy, I know. But I want to see if watches or timepieces play into the killings. We already know Ansel Spree was homeless and wearing a broken watch.” She studied the details in his report. “We assumed it was the actions of an eccentric man.” She lifted her gaze. “It was set at 11:17.”

“Most people use cell phones these days.”

“I know, Thatcher, but the thought won’t let me go.”

He gave her the file name of Scorpion.

She clicked on a subfolder for Eldon Hoveland. “He wasn’t wearing a watch.” She continued to read the report. What else?
She zoomed in on the body found in the kitchen. “How did I miss this? The clock on the stove was stopped at 11:17.”

Thatcher straightened. “You have my attention.”

She pulled up Ruth Caswell’s folder and read for the next several minutes. “Here it is,” she said. “Ms. Caswell’s watch was on her dresser, set at 11:17. The investigator thought the battery had run down.”

Shaking, Bethany clicked on Alicia Javon’s file and looked for specifics on her death. Reading every detail, she almost gave up. Then, “I found it. Remember Alicia was heating water to cook lasagna? The digital timer beside the burner was set at 11:17.” Blowing out a pent up breath, she turned to Thatcher. “Do you want to make a bet about Tyler Crawford?”

“Check his file. I believe he was wearing a watch.”

Bethany opened Tyler’s report. “You’re right, and it stopped at 11:17.”

Her stomach fluttered as a critical piece of the case hovered over her. “Each victim had a timepiece on or near them when they were found. Thatcher, the killer intended for the victims to appear as though they all died at the same time, but what does it refer to?”

“Melanie Bolton . . . 11:17.” He picked up his cell and typed. “I’m informing Preston. They’ll pick her up. This whole thing could be ended today.”

Bethany typed into the FIG requesting anything to do with eleven or seventeen: a time or a date or even an address.

“I can see how stumbling onto Paul Javon’s abuse and affair shoved aside any evidence pointing to her.” She closed her eyes. Finally. She breathed in a taste of satisfaction. “I want to talk to Aiden about the numbers. See if eleven or seventeen means anything to him.”

“I’m ready.”

She frowned. “You aren’t in any shape to travel or conduct an interview.”

He struggled to stand. “I’m still the senior partner here.”

She didn’t deliberate her feelings because they were all over the place. “I vowed after you were shot
 
—”

“
We
were shot.” He punctuated each word. “If you’re going to wear the jersey, then you have be active in the field.”

A few moments later, she linked arms with him to walk to the door and onto the elevator. “By the way, my rental is a black Mustang. Thought I’d warn you.”

He chuckled. “Go figure.”

“You’re moving much better than I expected.”

“I’m in excellent physical condition. Been practicing my stride.” He pushed the button to the first floor, although she flinched with his difficulty. How quickly they took simple movements for granted. “Just say it,” he said. “I know you’re enjoying this far too much.”

Honestly? She peered into his face. “I think you’re one courageous and determined agent.”

His eyes flashed surprise. “Thanks. Mutual admiration here. Before this is over, we might be cell mates.”

Reality had a way of sobering the most honorable of intentions.

If Thatcher were discharged from the FBI, he could get his doctorate in counseling or step back into the music world. But what would she do?

“I don’t want you hurt,” he said, once they were in the car. “In case you haven’t figured it out, my potential as a defender is almost zero.”

“Imagine your potential when you’re not a wounded lion.”

“As in a pain-crazed animal?”

“You’re in a witty mood.”

“Could be a good thing. I could scare Aiden into a confession.”

“Should I give you a mirror?”

“Spare me. My lady-killer status might go south.”

“Trust me, it would.” She aimed a smile at him. “Can’t sing or dance in your condition.”

“With you either? Because I’d sure like to try.”

She kept her attention on the road. “What do you mean?”

“The elephant plopping its big rear in the car between us.”

She gripped the steering wheel. “Do you want to feed it peanuts? Take it for a walk?”

“I want us to talk about it.”

“I’d rather deposit it at the zoo, where it belongs.” Her pulse sped.

“It won’t go away because you ignore it.”

Stop before it’s too late. You can be a professional.
“We can’t.” Her voice softened when she wanted to sound resolute. “Impossible.”

“So we live in denial?”

“If we don’t, one of us could be killed. We’re already off the case, unable to work for two weeks.”

“What’s new?”

“Thatcher.” Her gaze flew to his. That’s when she saw in his eyes what she felt. “Look at what has happened since we started working together. The odds would be more against us if we . . . acted on your feelings.”

“Mine? I’m not blind, Bethany.”

“Maybe I should ask for a transfer.”

“And what would that accomplish? Unless you’re thinking we can explore our relationship if we’re not partners.”

She pressed on the gas. “We’ve already broken enough rules for Preston to end our careers.”

“Answer my question first.”

“Have you forgotten I have diabetes?”

“And that means what? Oh, I have ingrown toenails.”

She frowned. “If we survive the bullets, ugly accusations, being removed from the investigation, and whatever else Scorpion tosses our way, we can talk about you and me.”

He reached across the car and touched her arm. “In the meantime, I have no control over myself while under meds.”

She forced a laugh into a situation that wasn’t funny. “From the office chatter, you’ve always had a problem ignoring women.”

“Maybe so, but this time I’m in quicksand.”

“A moment ago you wanted the zoo. I really need to turn around and take you home.”

“After we talk to Aiden.”

She sighed, wanting to discuss the case and not their trivial attraction.

“Bethany, you didn’t deny feelings for me.”

She whipped to him. “You’re in no mood to be rational.”

He chuckled and closed his eyes. “Oh, the sting of truth.”

10:39 A.M. TUESDAY

Thatcher fell asleep while Bethany drove to the safe house. She had no plans to wake him. The last time they spoke with Aiden, Thatcher had said all the right words. Now it was her turn. She had years of experience in handling Lucas, the mistakes and the victories. The farther she ventured into the rural area outside of northwest Houston, the more she relaxed. Here some of the trees were trimmed in vibrant oranges and golds. Holidays approached. Where would she spend them? In the past, she’d accompanied Elizabeth to her parents’. She dreamed about where she wanted to be, then pushed the thought away as quickly as it took root.

If they lived through this, if their careers weren’t destroyed, they still had no future.

She swung a look at her wounded lion. Mouth agape. Nothing romantic about his pose. But his heart had captured hers.

She neared the horse farm where Aiden was living. The wife had begun schooling him, and according to her, he was exceptionally bright. No surprise to Bethany. His intelligence had kept him alive.

Leaving Thatcher in the car, she found Aiden in the horse barn brushing down a quarter horse.

“I hear you enjoy riding,” she said.

His face revealed a calm young man. “I do. When she runs, it’s like flying. Best high I ever had.”

She patted the sleek mare. “Makes coming down easier. You look good, Aiden.”

“Thanks.” He continued to brush the horse. “I like it here. Not like other foster parents. These people are honest, blunt.” He shrugged. “Seem to care.”

“Tyler would have been pleased.”

“I think so too. Where’s your partner?”

“Asleep in the car. We got ambushed on Saturday night.” She held up her cast. “I’m the lucky one.”

“Deal?”

“Maybe. Maybe Scorpion. Look, Aiden, I need your help. I have video of a woman who could lead us to your brother’s killer. These were taken when she visited my brother in jail, and we think both of them are connected to Scorpion.”

He stared at the brush. “Okay.”

She showed him the three captured pics of the unknown woman. He shook his head and returned her phone.

“Looks like my crazy aunt,” he said.

“Dorian has a sister?”

“Half sister. They’re both crazy.”

“What’s her name?”

“She goes by Melanie Bolton, but it’s not her real name.” He shrugged. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard it.”

“Any other siblings?”

“I have no idea.”

“Can you tell me anything about your aunt?”

“Not really. Tyler said she was bad news and not to trust her. She’s in charge of the Lighthouse.”

“Have you any information about my brother, Lucas Sanchez?”

He shook his head. “Never met him.”

“Will you help me finish this so you can go on with your life?”

He looked at the brush in his hand. “These people asked me if I wanted to stay with them. Permanent.”

“Good.”

“I don’t want them hurt because of my mistakes. What do you want?”

“Confirmation on what Thatcher and I believe is true. Tyler found out about the hit-and-run aimed at me and stopped it.”

“Yes. But I don’t have names.”

She blew out her response. “Did your mom and Tyler argue?”

“Big-time. Tyler didn’t want to be mixed up with any crimes. The next thing I learn, he’s missing.”

“But there’s more, right? The list Tyler saw.”

He slowly nodded.

“It’s why Scorpion is after you. I need the list, Aiden, before anyone else is killed.”

“I’ve been thinking about it. Whoever killed my brother has to be stopped.”

“Do you have the list here?”

“Shredded.”

“The FBI has software to put the pieces together. Digitize them and run them through a computer program.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the right thing. It’s what Tyler would want you to do.”

Aiden stared at her for a long moment, then finally removed his left tennis shoe, ripped at a worn side, and pulled out a small plastic bag filled with shredded paper.

Bethany walked to her rental car. An SUV was parked behind her. She made her way to the driver’s side, and Grayson opened the door.

“Are you expecting a bomb here?”

He shrugged. “Not my favorite assignment. Looks like Thatcher’s asleep.”

“He should be in the hospital.”

“Before he kills himself. What part of ‘off the case’ did Preston not make clear?” Although his words were gruff, his eyes held compassion.

“This is personal business and not short-term.” She handed him the plastic bag. “Scorpion’s hit list.”

1:00 P.M. TUESDAY

The moment Bethany headed toward Houston, Thatcher woke. She quickly explained Aiden’s confession and Grayson’s appearance. “He promised to text or call with the latest updates.”

“And I slept through it all.” He moaned. “I talked a good talk back at my condo.”

“We made a huge dent, partner. For certain, Tyler did his best to shelter Aiden.”

“I have unanswered questions, like how your brother fits in. How about something to eat?”

“Your mother’s making tortilla soup.”

“I can’t have her hearing details about the case, and I feel even worse chasing her to her room.”

“I’m sure she understands confidentiality,” Bethany said. “We can’t go to my apartment because I’m concerned Lucas hid a bug in a place where I haven’t looked.”

“Okay.” He closed his eyes.

She should take him back to the hospital, but he’d probably unload his Glock on her. “Preston will hear about our ventures and won’t be happy.”

“We’re not off the grid, and besides, we’ve given him an ace. Have you always been such a rules girl?”

“Go back to sleep.”

Home sounded good, but not practical. First on her list this week was a new lock with a sophisticated alarm system. Too bad Jasper couldn’t alert her, but he’d done well in repeating the Lucas phrase. Oh, the irony.

She remembered their meds. A task when they reached his condo.

Once inside his garage, he opened his eyes. “I’m ready to climb
Mount Kilimanjaro.” He looked pale, but she thought twice about mentioning it.

In his condo, the aroma of tortilla soup made her stomach growl. Mrs. Graves’s face blanched. “Do I need to call an ambulance for both of you?”

“I’m fine,” Bethany said. “Thatcher needs to sleep.”

He protested the whole way as Bethany helped him to his room. “Men are such horrible patients,” his mother said, then softened. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing. Wake me in about thirty minutes for the soup.”

The doorbell rang and his mother left to answer it.

SSA Preston stood in the doorway of Thatcher’s bedroom. “Hello, you two.”