Thread of Fear (15 page)

Fiona glanced at Courtney. How could he know that?

He crossed his arms and seemed to be looking at her strawberry blond hair. “I could see you with something Celtic. Maybe a cross. Or a tree of life.”

“I don’t want a tattoo.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Yeah, why not?” Courtney echoed.

Fiona floundered for a reason.

“She thinks they look trashy,” Courtney said in a stage whisper.

“I do not!”

Her sister rolled her eyes.

“It’s just that it’s too permanent,” Fiona explained. “I get bored with my shower curtain after six months. Plus, I’m a wimp about pain.”

The man smiled. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

“Yeah, I barely felt my last one,” Courtney said. “But we could always get you drunk and come back. There’s a shot bar next door.”

Fiona gave her sister a pointed look. “I came here to ask questions.”

“See what I mean? Much too serious.” She sighed. “I’m going to look around.”

Courtney wandered off, and Fiona turned back toward the man.

“Go ahead.” A smile spread across his face. “Ask me anything you want.”

Jack hated the stereotype, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And besides, Sunrise Donuts had great coffee. Jack was on his second cup of the morning—and his third chocolate-iced doughnut—when his cell phone buzzed.

“Did you know that one of the largest tattoo parlors in the nation is less than an hour away from you?”

Jack pulled the phone from his ear and checked the number. Yep, it was Fiona. “You want to repeat that?”

“I said, one of the country’s largest tattoo parlors—well, actually, they call it a
studio
—it’s off I-35, not fifty miles away from you. I spent my whole morning there, and it was
fascinating
.”

“Is that right.”

“Some of the piercings would make you lose your lunch, so I spent most of the time looking at tattoos. They do everything—exotic animals, tribal designs. You can even copy something from a famous celebrity. Did you know the Rock has a Brahma bull on his right biceps?”

Jack steered through downtown, noting it was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning. He chalked it up to weather. “Are we talking about the wrestler?”

“That’s the guy. The bull symbolizes virility. It’s an extremely popular tattoo design in central Texas, I’m told.”

“Very interesting, Professor. Course that probably has nothing to do with football.”

“With what?”

Jack sighed. “Never mind. Hey, if you’re thinking about body art, I should warn you that place has been slapped with fines by the health department for using dirty equipment.”

But Jack knew she wasn’t interested in a tattoo. In fact, he knew exactly why she’d hauled her pretty butt all the way down here. She was running down the swastika lead.

He pulled into the parking lot at the station and slid his truck into the chief’s space. “I thought you were planning to paint all weekend.”

“I was. I will. I just started thinking about something, and I wanted to follow up.”

Jack cut the engine and stared through the windshield. He dreaded going inside. His desk was stacked a foot high with paperwork, and he didn’t give a shit about any of it. All he wanted to do was solve the Natalie Fuentes homicide. It had been a focus before, but now that he had the victim IDed, it was becoming more like an obsession. Natalie had been a vivacious, energetic young girl, much like Lucy had been before her attack.

“So you spent your Saturday morning at Texas Ink.”

“Yes.”

“And let me guess,” he said, “you took some drawings with you and flashed them around.”

“Nobody recognized him. But I have a lead for you.”

Jack gritted his teeth. It wasn’t just the logjam of work that was bothering him. It wasn’t just that Fiona had told him she needed to spend the whole weekend painting, and then obviously had changed her mind. It was that her involvement in this case was starting to make him uncomfortable.

Hell, it made him more than uncomfortable. He hated it. He wanted her to stick to oil painting and leave the investigating to the investigators.

“Jack? Don’t you want to hear about my lead?”

“Let’s hear it.”

“There’s a guy over at Texas Ink. They call him Viper. I don’t know his real name, but I’ve got an address. The official policy over there is that they won’t do neo-Nazi stuff, but if you track down Viper, he’ll set you up. He works privately out of his house, apparently.”

“Sounds legit.”

“It’s probably not,” she said. “But he gets a lot of traffic. Listen, here’s the good part: the woman I talked to said she recognized the swastika.”

“The one with the arrows?”

“That exact design. She said she’s been to Viper’s studio, and he’s got it posted up on the wall.”

“Fiona, did it ever occur to you that our guy
might
not have gotten tattooed locally? There are thousands of other places he could have had it done, starting with the state pen.”

Silence. Shit, he’d hurt her feelings.

“Look, I know you’re just trying to help—”

“It’s a
lead
. That’s all I’m saying. Now do you want it or not? If not, I’ll head over there myself—”

“Give me the address.” Goddamn it.

“Do you want company?”

“No.” Which was a complete lie. He wanted her company in the worst way, but he didn’t want her anywhere near Viper or his pit.

“Fine, then. He’s at 2200 Dry Creek Road. That’s in Borough County, north of you.”

“I know.”

“She said the house is hard to see from the road, but you can’t miss it. The mailbox is painted with a Confederate flag. Are you sure you don’t want help with this?”

“Completely.” Jack got out of his truck and slammed the door. If he needed help, he’d enlist Lowell or Carlos. Or even Sharon the greenhorn.

“Thanks for the offer, though,” he added diplomatically.

“Well…I guess I’ll get back to work, then. Bye.”

She disconnected before he could try to talk her into having dinner with him sometime in the next century.

Jack mounted the steps, eyeing the portly Latino man standing beside the entrance. He wore jeans and a lightweight windbreaker, and he was probably freezing his ass off if he’d been standing out here any length of time.

“Chief Bowman?”

“Yes?”

He stuck out his hand. “I’m Father Alvaro from Blessed Sacrament Church down in Hamlin.”

Jack shook his hand, noting the black and white collar peeking out from beneath his jacket.

“Everyone calls me Father Al,” he said, smiling.

“What can I do for you, Father?” Jack couldn’t believe this guy had driven all the way up here. Hamlin was more than eighty miles south, and Jack had zero to do with Natalie Fuentes’s funeral arrangements.

“I need to talk to you about one of my parishioners.”

“Miss Fuentes?”

“No.” He frowned. “I’ve heard of Natalie, of course, but I’m sorry to say she never joined our church.”

“Come on inside,” Jack said, opening the door.

Father Al cleared his throat. “Actually, I was hoping you would come with me.”

“Come where?”

“To Hamlin. I’d like to introduce you to some people who live in one of the
colonias
down there.”

“Okay.” Jack didn’t like where this conversation was heading. The
colonias
were slums north of the border, where many immigrants lived. “Who are they?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

Jack arched his brows.

Father Al looked apologetic. “They’re not comfortable with police officers, and they want to make sure they can trust you before they ask you to help them.”

“Help them what?”

“You see, they saw you on the news last night, and they’re hoping you can help them find their little girl.”

J
ack jerked open the door to the Grainger County Sheriff’s Office and stepped inside. The place was empty except for the potbellied deputy talking on the phone and the pit bull guarding Randy’s office.

“Afternoon, Myrna.” Jack approached her desk, which sat strategically in front of her boss’s door. “The sheriff in?”

She chewed frantically, swallowed. Jack had caught her biting into a Hostess Cupcake.

“He’s left for the day.” She cast a disapproving look at Jack’s shiner. “I can take a message for him, if you like.”

“Funny thing. His wife thought I’d find him here.”

“You just missed him.” She glanced at the envelope Jack was carrying and held out her hand. “Got something to drop off? I’ll see that he gets it.”

Jack pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed a few numbers, and a buzz emanated from behind the sheriff’s door.

“Well, what do you know? Sounds like he’s in.”

Jack strode past Myrna and yanked open the door. The sheriff was leaning back in his chair, boots propped on the desk.

He scowled. “Goddamn it, Jack. You can’t just burst in here.”

In two strides, Jack was looming over the sheriff’s desk. He flung the envelope at his chest.

“What the hell is this?” Randy sat up, his face reddening.

“Veronica Morales.”

“What?”

“Veronica Morales,” Jack repeated. “Nineteen-year-old from Hamlin.”

Randy squinted at him and tossed the envelope on his desk. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Shit, I guess not.” Jack plunked his hands on his hips. “Let me refresh your memory. She went missing New Year’s Eve six years ago. Last seen at Three Forks Barbecue in Grainger County. Her parents reported her disappearance to you, and you told them to take a hike. You remember now,
Sheriff
?”

Randy glanced past him, and for the first time Jack noticed someone else in the room. Bob Spivey was lounging comfortably on Randy’s sofa, cowboy hat beside him, brim up. The gray felt Stetson—which he swapped for a white straw one every summer—was the mayor’s trademark.

Jack nodded. “Bob.”

Spivey quirked an eyebrow. It probably wasn’t good politics to have a throwdown with Randy in front of his father-in-law, but Jack didn’t particularly give a fuck at the moment.

He turned his attention back to Randy. “You should check out that file there. It’s chock-full of good information. This girl’s parents talked to two people from the restaurant who saw Veronica get into a gray sedan around
six p.m. on New Year’s Eve. That was the last anyone ever saw her.”

Randy had recovered some of his composure, but his cheeks were still splotchy. He waved a hand at the envelope. “They should have filed a missing persons report.”

“No shit? That’s what I said, too. Thing is, they tried to. Repeatedly. Until one of your lazy deputies got annoyed and threatened to call INS.”

Randy leaned back in his chair. “That didn’t happen.”

“Didn’t it? You might want to check out that file. Turns out, mom and dad thought to write down the deputy’s name. They also went back to Three Forks every day for months after Veronica disappeared and took down the license numbers of every gray sedan they could find. They visited hospitals, homeless shelters. Unfortunately, they didn’t visit any more police stations because they were scared their whole family would get deported.”

“More where they came from,” Spivey said. “Whole damn border’s like a sieve. Our social services are collapsing under the weight of these people.”

Randy opened the envelope and sifted through Mrs. Morales’s handwritten notes. “Shit, this is all in Spanish!” The sheriff came to a photograph of Veronica and paused briefly. “Hell, I remember it now. Gray sedan. She got in the car with him.”

“Exactly my point,” Jack said.

“Jack, this doesn’t amount to shit. This
woman
got into a man’s car of her own free will. She’s an adult. She can go wherever she gets a mind to.”

“Did you ever stop to think this disappearance might be related to my homicide case?”

Randy propped his feet up again, like he was ready to hear a good yarn. “How’s that?”

“My victim is a teenage girl. Hispanic. Her body turns up one cold winter morning in Grainger County. Veronica Morales is a teenage girl. Hispanic. She goes missing one winter evening in Grainger County. Last seen getting into a gray sedan. Lucy Arrellando is a teenage girl. Hispanic. Abducted one cold winter night in a gray sedan. You seeing a pattern here?”

Randy shared a knowing look with his father-in-law, and Jack had to battle the urge to sock him in the jaw.

“You sure this isn’t personal?” Randy asked.

Jack took a deep breath. “I guess in the sense that I
personally
try to do my job, then, yeah, it’s personal. Looks like you don’t know anything about that. Fact, looks like Veronica’s parents have done your job for you. They took a glance at the evening news, connected the dots between three separate incidents. Kinda like police work. Maybe you should give them a badge, fire some of the dead weight around here.”

“Better watch it, Jack.” This from the sofa.

Jack turned his attention to the mayor. “You got something to add, Bob? You want to tell me how to run a homicide investigation?”

Spivey stood up and positioned his hat on his balding head. “You’re skating on thin ice here. Running your mouth off about cold cases and sloppy police work. Calling press conferences. Getting half the town all riled up. Getting in bar fights—”

“Hoyt
assaulted
a woman in a parking lot!”

Spivey’s eyes sparked. “And what did you do about it, huh? Did you respond like the chief of police? No, you tried to bash his skull in! I’m hearing noise about police-brutality lawsuits!”

“That’s horseshit,” Jack said. “Hoyt Dixon can’t even spell ‘police brutality,’ much less file a lawsuit. And the guy’s been brawling in bars since he could see over the counter.”

Spivey walked to the door and turned around. “You get a grip on yourself, Jack. You’re not in Houston anymore. We like things nice and quiet around here, and we don’t need you running around stirring things up, causing a panic.” He jabbed a finger at Jack. “And Hoyt Dixon might not know how to spell ‘police brutality,’ but you can bet your ass his lawyer does.”

Fiona exited APD headquarters and hunched her shoulders against the wind. She blew out a sigh, and her breath turned to frost.

What was up with this
weather
? Texas was supposed to be mild in the winter, yet she’d been freezing for the past two weeks. She was getting tired of pants and boots and itchy wool scarves. And if that weren’t bad enough, she was developing a severe allergy to her sister. Fiona squinted her eyes against the wind and wished for a warm front.

And a hot cup of coffee.

And a week of uninterrupted sleep.

She tried not to stumble as she made her way down the concrete steps. Her eyes felt gritty and swollen from fatigue. She’d stayed up until 1:00 in the morning painting. Finally she’d crashed—fully dressed—on top of her bed, only to
be awakened three hours later by Nathan, who apologized for calling so early, but who could sure use her help on a robbery-homicide.

Fiona had gone. She didn’t know why, really, after all the noise she’d made convincing him she was giving up police work. Maybe she’d never make her choice stick because she didn’t have the guts to say no to anyone.

See Exhibit A, her sister, who had been living in her apartment for a week and had contributed nothing in the way of groceries or housework, but who
had
spent a remarkable amount of time downloading music onto her iPod.

Or maybe Courtney was right. Maybe she hadn’t managed to quit because, in her heart of hearts, she didn’t really want to.

Fiona approached the parking meter and rummaged through her art case with numb fingers. Forget coffee, she’d just go straight home and tumble into bed. The only thing more heavenly than sleep, at this point, would be a warm body to tumble into bed with.

“Morning.”

The familiar voice had her whirling around. She looked Jack up and down, and for a moment it seemed as though he’d popped right out of her daydream. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got a meeting with Nathan.” He sat back against her trunk and crossed his ankles.

She stepped toward him and reached up to touch his eyebrow. “Looks like my home remedy didn’t work. How’s it feel?”

“Fine.”

She dropped her hand and clutched the handle of her
art case so she wouldn’t be tempted to touch him again. Nathan hadn’t mentioned a meeting with Jack. Maybe the detective wasn’t clued in to the fact Fiona had taken more than a professional interest in his friend.

“Why are
you
here?” Jack asked.

“Nathan called me in on a robbery-homicide.”

Jack frowned and looked at his watch.

“Convenience store,” she explained.

One of the cops upstairs had made a crack about the twenty-three-year-old clerk working the graveyard shift, and Nathan had politely asked him to shut the fuck up.

“I should warn you, he’s in a terrible mood.” She noticed the thick manila folder tucked under Jack’s arm. “You’re here to talk to him about your case?”

“Yep.”

“Any new developments?”

“Not really.”

She glanced away, hoping to hide her expression. She didn’t know how she knew he was lying, but she did.

Jack sighed and stared over her shoulder at the police station. He looked as exhausted as she felt. This case was clearly getting to him.

“You know, he’s pretty swamped up there right now,” she said. “You want to get some breakfast or something? Wait until things die down?”

He seemed to consider it for a moment. Then he checked his watch again. “I wish I could.” He stepped away from her car. “But I really need to get on this.”

He
did
have a new lead, he just didn’t trust her enough to share it. Some detectives were like that—very guarded with details around outsiders.

She hadn’t realized Jack still thought of her that way.

“Well.” She managed a smile. “See you later then.” But when? When would she ever see him later? That was the whole problem. That, and a severe lack of sleep. Her nerves were ragged, and she was being hypersensitive. She fished her keys from her art case and punched the button to unlock the car.

Jack opened her door for her, and she tossed her attaché inside. He looked like he wanted to say something, but she needed to leave before she got emotional, so she started the car.

“Bye, Jack. Good luck with your investigation.”

Sleep wouldn’t come, so Fiona gave up and decided to paint. She pulled on her favorite old jeans, slipped into a tank top, and selected a CD. Maybe the Cowboy Junkies would mellow her out. She picked up the canvas she and Courtney had stretched, which she’d painted with a coat of gesso yesterday afternoon. The canvas was ready now, all stiff and white and pristine. It was time for the big one. No more procrastinating. She could feel that hum in her veins that told her today would be the day she created something good.

The canvas was too large for her easel, so she leaned it up against the wall and sat down cross-legged in front of it with her paints.

A blank canvas. It was both daunting and exciting. This was to be the focal point of the Blanco River series, so she combed through her supplies, looking for sap green, olive, and raw umber.

But her gaze was drawn to the hot colors. She picked up cadmium red and scarlet. The colors felt emotional to
her—both angry and beautiful, volatile and passionate. She spotted ultramarine blue and indigo and thought of Jack’s eyes as he’d sat beside her on that bar stool the other night. He was an impressive man. She could admit that now, in the privacy of her solitude. Jack Bowman impressed her. She respected his persistence, his dedication to his job. She respected his moral code, or whatever it was that made it impossible for him to think of a victim in his town as somebody else’s problem.

And he was attractive. She remembered his hands on her last night, the heat of his mouth. She remembered the way her body had warmed to him, like it was stirring awake again after a long nap alone. Suddenly she knew what she wanted to paint, and it had nothing to do with the Blanco River, and it was going to be amazing.

She squeezed some ultramarine onto her palette and added linseed oil, then a touch of turpentine to thin it out. She would use the “fat over lean” method, layering the glazes, making sure each layer was oilier than the one before. The effect would be a vibrant, shimmering field of color. She selected a wide, sable-hair brush and stroked it over her cheek. It felt silky and sensual, and she couldn’t wait to saturate it with blue.