Thread of Fear (5 page)

Suddenly her brow furrowed. “Did you say you weren’t in charge when this was done?”

He cleared his throat. “I was working property crimes in Houston at the time.”

“How long ago was the abduction?”

“Eleven years.”

She went still. The only sound inside the truck was the low-humming heater.

Jack cut a glance at Fiona. She stared at him, mouth agape, her eyes wide with disbelief.

He looked back at the road. The Arrellando property lay up ahead, just beyond a set of railroad tracks. Jack pulled off to the side of the highway and parked beside a barbed-wire fence.

“Eleven years,” she repeated.

He turned to face her. Saw the color rising in her cheeks. He’d thought she’d be pissed, but he realized now he’d underestimated the extent.

Nothing to do now but have it out with her.

“That’s right.” He nodded. “Eleven years.”

She laughed, but there was no humor in it. In fact, he was pretty sure those were tears glistening in her eyes.

“I can’t believe you did this,” she muttered. “Does Nathan know about this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does
Nathan,
our mutual
friend,
know you dragged me here under false pretenses? That you lied to me and lured me down here on some wild-goose chase?”

“It’s not a wild-goose chase.”

She turned in her seat to face him straight on. “
Not
a wild-goose chase. You’re deluded, you know that? You’ve pinned your homicide investigation to a fantasy. I
cannot
provide you with a usable drawing based on an eleven-year-old memory!”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Do you have any idea—”

“I’ve been doing some research. Someone drew that famous sketch of the Unabomber based on a sighting that was seven years old. It was a good sketch, too. They went back and superimposed it on Ted Kaczynski’s photograph and—”

“
Seven
years is different from
eleven
years!” Her cheeks were flaming now, and she had some freckles on her nose he hadn’t noticed before. “Even if I got a good sketch—which is a huge if—I’d have to do an age progression—”

“I hear you’re good at that,” he cut in. “You did one on that kid up in Idaho. Helped his mom track him down after the stepdad took him.” Jack hoped flattery was the way to go here. Everything else he’d said seemed to be fueling her anger.

“Don’t you dare pull that crap on me.”

Or maybe not. “What crap?”

“That false flattery crap!”

“It’s not false if—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” She folded her arms over her
chest and turned to face the windshield. “You purposely misled me. You smooth-talked me into coming here.”

“You’re right, I did.” He watched her profile. “I didn’t think you’d take my case if you knew how much time had elapsed since the other crime.”

“You were right. This is crazy. What you want is impossible.”

“I don’t believe that, and neither do you. I think you want to try, but you’re scared of failure. Scared you’ll ruin your track record.”

She turned toward him, her eyes sparking again. “I can’t believe you said that. You don’t know anything about me!”

“I know you’re good,” he said firmly. “You’re the best at what you do. Like it or not, you’ve got a reputation. Especially with rape victims.”

Jack looked through the windshield and saw the gray tin roof of the Arrellando house less than a football field away.

“Lucy went through hell,” he said. “For years afterward—”

“Who’s Lucy?”

“Maria Luz.” Jack glanced at Fiona. She was listening. “She goes by Lucy. One of the worst parts of her ordeal was that so many people didn’t believe her. They thought she made up some tall tale, created the whole thing for attention.”

Fiona’s eyebrows shot up. “A tall tale? You said she was beaten and choked—”

“She was.” Jack paused, trying to figure out how to phrase it. He couldn’t believe he was trying to defend the town that had done this to one of its own.

Of course, not everyone felt like he did—that all the
people who considered themselves part of this community actually belonged here.

“Lucy was pretty rebellious growing up,” Jack explained. “Her parents, they’re strict Catholics. They were always real religious, especially her dad. Just before the abduction, Lucy had a fight with him. Stormed out of the house. She wasn’t seen for two days, and I guess plenty of people figured she ran off. When those hunters found her, some folks didn’t believe she’d been held against her will. They thought she’d taken up with a rough guy, maybe even gotten what she deserved.”

Fiona shook her head and looked away.

“You could say Lucy got a raw deal. From the cops. From the people around here.” Jack clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Even from her dad. I don’t think he’s ever believed her. It was her mom who made her fill out the police report, and that was days after the fact. Too late for a rape kit.”

Fiona leaned her head back against the seat and sighed. “And you want
me
to fix all that. Now. Eleven years later. That’s impossible.”

“Fiona, look at me.”

She looked at him, and he knew that he still had a shot. His words had affected her—he could see it in her eyes.

“I strongly believe—no, make that
know
—Lucy’s case is related to this other homicide,” he said. “I’ve got too many similarities to ignore. And you know what that tells me? That tells me some guy with ties to this community is a rapist and a killer. And he thinks he can hurt girls around here because they’re soft targets. Maybe they’re illegal or their families don’t trust cops or they slip through the cracks some other way. But I think he’s experienced. I think he’ll
do it again. I need to catch up with him before he does.”

Fiona looked down.

“Just come talk to her. Hell, we’re practically at her house. Give her an hour. If nothing comes of it, you can go back home and forget this whole case. No hard feelings.”

She bit her lip.

“Please?” As the word left his mouth, he realized just how rarely he said it.

She nodded slightly.

“Thank you.” He blew out a breath and thrust the truck into gear. “You’ll be done with all this before you know it.”

Lucy Arrellando lived a stone’s throw away from a railroad crossing in a white clapboard house with a corrugated roof. A dusty black Cavalier sat in the driveway. The small yard was surrounded by a chain-link fence, and Fiona immediately noticed the beware of dog sign attached to it.

Jack unlatched the gate and held it open for her. He seemed unconcerned by the prospect of a dog, unlike Fiona. She’d had a deep-rooted fear of dogs—even little yappy ones—ever since a Scottish terrier had bitten off a chunk of her neck when she was a child. She stayed close to Jack’s heels, resisting the urge to hold on to his jacket, as they made their way up the gravel path to the door.

The home was a typical postwar tract house, similar to the neighboring ones paralleling the railroad tracks. The row of houses stretched for miles, it looked like, their tin roofs packed together in an orderly line. The closely built structures seemed out of place in the midst of so much open space.

Fiona glanced anxiously around the yard. No dog. No barking. Just a giant pecan tree that shaded the property.
From its lowest limb dangled a tire swing, and at the base of the tree sat a rusted red wagon. Fence or not, she hated to think of a child playing so close to the tracks.

“We’re pretty early,” Jack said, climbing the steps. “The men are at the refinery, though, so it shouldn’t matter.”

Fiona was just digesting the implications of his words when the screen door squeaked open. She looked up to see a stunningly beautiful young woman standing on the threshold with a baby on her hip.

The woman cast a quick glance in Fiona’s direction before settling her brown eyes on Jack.

“You’re early,” she said sourly.

“Is that okay?”

“I guess it’ll have to be, won’t it?”

They exchanged a look loaded with meaning, and Fiona instantly felt uncomfortable. There was some subtext she wasn’t getting here, but she couldn’t very well ask about it.

The baby squirmed and filled the silence with a wet gurgle.

The woman’s gaze returned to Fiona. She gave her a brief up-and-down appraisal before stepping backward into the house and nodding for them to come inside.

When they were all three standing awkwardly in the hallway, Jack cleared his throat. “Lucy, this is the artist I told you about, Fiona Glass.”

Lucy shifted the baby to a front carry, effectively precluding the possibility of a handshake. Fiona was good at reading body language, and Lucy’s was loud and clear.

She turned her back on her guests and walked to the rear of the house. Jack followed, seeming to know exactly where he was going.

Fiona hitched her attaché case higher up on her shoulder and trailed behind them.

Why did it matter that the “men” were gone? Who lived here besides Lucy, and what sort of threat did they pose to this meeting? Once again Fiona felt her chest tightening with frustration. Jack had kept just a few too many things secret about this job, and she didn’t appreciate it one bit.

They ended up in a bright, spacious room at the back of the house. It looked like an add-on that was being used as some sort of workshop. A tabletop sewing machine occupied the far corner. Shimmery white fabric cascaded from the machine and pooled onto the carpeted floor. Behind the sewing table, bolts of white, ivory, and pale pastel material were arranged neatly on a unit of plastic shelving. A varnished plywood table filled the room’s center, and lined up to one side of the smooth work surface were plastic trays, each containing an assortment of beads, sequins, and pearls.

“Sebastian’s napping,” Lucy said, settling the infant into a playpen near the sewing station.

No one bothered to introduce the baby, who wore a lavender fleece sleeper and matching cap. As soon as Lucy put her down, she snatched up a teething ring and brought it to her mouth. She was probably about nine months old, Fiona speculated, watching her sit up among her toys. She was a beautiful baby, wide-eyed and alert.

“Jack!”

Fiona whirled around just as a dark-haired little boy charged into the room. He hurled himself at Jack’s knees and wrapped his arms around them.

“Hey, sport.” Jack mussed his hair. “Thought you were sleeping.”

The boy grabbed Jack’s hand and tugged. “You wanna see my Nintendo DS? I got it for Christmas!” The child, who looked to be about four or five, gazed up at Jack with unabashed adoration.

“Sounds good,” Jack said, making eye contact with Lucy. “Where’s Dolores?”

“Working. They all are.” Lucy turned to Fiona, addressing her for the first time. “I assume you want to do this in private?”

“That’s usually best.”

“Then Jack can watch Sebastian.” She nodded at the playpen. “Vanessa won’t bother us.”

Jack conveniently left the room with Sebastian before Fiona could pull him aside to explain a few things.

Such as, how come this felt like a hostile interview?

Fiona turned to face Lucy. They were about the same age, but Lucy dressed much younger. She wore tight jeans with frayed cuffs and a gray T-shirt that conformed to her generous breasts. She also wore half a dozen silver studs in her left ear, a silver chain belt, and ballet flats, also silver. Her straight hair hung to her waist, and Fiona wondered how she kept it out of her way while she was sewing.

If, in fact, this was her workroom.

“Are you a designer?” Fiona asked, glancing around.

Lucy tipped her head to the side and looked at her a moment before answering. “Seamstress.”

“But you do your own designs?” Fiona eyed the drawings lined up neatly on the table beside a box of well-used Prisma pencils.

“Yes.” Lucy followed Fiona’s gaze. “Most of my girls want something custom. So that’s usually what I do.”

Fiona stepped toward the table and set down her attaché case. “May I?”

Lucy nodded.

Fiona took a closer look at the gowns that had been sketched with a skilled hand.

“Wedding dresses?”

“Quinceañera.”

Fiona nodded. She’d heard that a girl’s fifteenth birthday was an important milestone in the Mexican culture, much like a coming-out ball.

“These are beautiful,” she said, studying the elaborate beadwork and draping involved. “Expensive, too, I’d imagine.”

Lucy shrugged. “I make a living.” She walked across the room and retrieved a Sunkist out of the minifridge beside the back door. “Want one?”

Fiona nodded, more to be sociable than because she was thirsty. She tried to avoid sugary soft drinks—if she was going to consume empty calories, she preferred them in the form of chocolate.

Lucy handed her a cold orange can and then walked over to the padded office chair behind her Singer 6000. Fiona picked up her case and decided to take a seat on the low beige sofa just across the room. This arrangement put Lucy at a higher vantage point, which Fiona hoped would make her feel more in control. She also hoped Lucy’s proximity to her work would provide a good distraction. Rape victims tended to avoid direct eye contact during the interview and sometimes wanted something to occupy jittery hands. Although Fiona didn’t ask them to detail the attack itself—just the perpetrator—many volunteered the infor
mation anyway, which could make for a highly emotional conversation.

Of course, this attack occurred eleven years ago, so Fiona was in uncharted waters here.

She popped open the Sunkist and took a sip. The too-sweet flavor reminded her of middle school and agonizing hours spent alone at the end of a lunch table. She placed the drink on the floor at her feet.

Lucy flipped the light switch on her sewing machine and scooted her chair close to the table. “Sebastian and Vanessa are my sister’s kids. I usually watch them while she’s working.”

“You all live here together?”

Lucy nodded. “My sister, my brother-in-law, my older brother. Plus my parents. Everyone’s on shift today.”