Thread of Fear, page 9
part #1 of The Glass Sisters Series
“Courtney?”
She stepped into the kitchen and looked at Fiona across the counter. “Aaron was here for a little while.”
“Courtney!”
She rolled her eyes. “What was I supposed to do? Kick him to the curb?”
“Yes! That’s exactly what you should have done!”
“Well, I tried to, okay? But he’s persistent. He says he misses you and he wants to apologize.”
“I can’t believe you let him in here.”
“I didn’t. He still has a key.”
Fiona’s cell phone started ringing, and she pulled it out of her purse, which was on the floor. She didn’t recognize the number—not a good sign.
She flipped it open. “Fiona Glass.”
“Fiona, it’s Garrett.”
She paused, trying to place the name.
“Garrett Sullivan? FBI?”
“Of course! Sorry, I just—” She watched Courtney rummage through the junk drawer in the kitchen. “What?”
“I need a nail file,” Courtney whispered.
“Top of my dresser.”
“Excuse me?” Sullivan asked.
“Not you. Sorry.” She took a deep breath and tried to collect her thoughts. Special Agent Sullivan. This would be bad news. “Did you find her?” Her chest tightened as she asked the question.
“No. But we have a suspect now, thanks to you.”
Fiona let out a breath. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious. And he’s a dead ringer for your drawing, too. Have you seen the news this morning?”
Fiona flipped on her only television, a thirteen-inch Sony that sat on her kitchen counter, and switched it to CNN. It was a weather report, but she watched the scrolling headlines on the bottom of the screen, knowing it would come on sooner or later.
“Our man’s name is Keith Janovic, aka Ron Jones. His employer recognized him from your drawing and called it in.”
Sure enough, the headline started crawling across the bottom of the screen: “Authorities are seeking Birmingham resident Keith Janovic for questioning in the Shelby Sherwood abduction case. While not officially calling him a suspect, an FBI spokesman said he is a ‘person of interest’…”
“He’s not a suspect?”
“It just became official,” Sullivan said. “The media hasn’t caught up yet. But we’ve matched prints at his workplace to a partial found on the Sherwoods’ doorbell. He’s the man. Now we just have to locate him.”
Courtney sashayed toward the door and grabbed her black trench coat off a hook in the foyer. She blew a kiss at Fiona as she made her escape.
Fiona shifted her attention back to the television. “And what’s his story?”
“Twenty-five. Loner. Busted a few years ago for some rubber checks, but no history of violence.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Lives in a rat hole. Collects child pornography. Hasn’t been seen in ten days.”
Fiona sighed and sank onto a bar stool. She hated these cases. “How’s Colter?”
“A little better, from what I hear. He’s talking to our shrink some, at least. Mom says he’s having nightmares, though.”
Fiona fidgeted with the woven bracelet at her wrist. Colter had given it to her Monday, and Annie had insisted she keep it, saying her daughter would want her to have it. Shelby loved making them for friends, apparently.
“Anyway, I called to say thank you,” Sullivan said. “This is a major breakthrough, and it wouldn’t have been possible without your work.”
Her stomach fluttered, and she knew what was coming. She waited a few beats.
“Is there something else you need me to do?” she prompted.
“Do?”
“Yeah, I mean…you just called to thank me?” If so, it would be a first. Investigators rarely bothered to thank her. Or if they did, it usually happened right before they hit her up for help on another case. She didn’t take it personally, really. She knew how overworked they were.
The silence stretched out.
“Fiona?”
“Yes?”
“You really have no idea how talented you are, do you?”
She didn’t know what to say. Guilt tugged at her.
“I hope you’ll reconsider your career plans,” Sullivan said. “We really need you out here in the field.”
Fiona watched the TV screen, where coverage had shifted to a podium crammed with microphones. The Atlanta police chief stood behind them, looking haggard but hopeful as he answered reporters’ questions.
She was reminded of one of the reasons she did this work. She liked putting that flicker of hope back in people’s eyes.
The flip side was seeing it fade away in the weeks and months from now when it became evident Shelby Sherwood wasn’t coming home. Even Keith Janovic’s capture, if they ever did capture him, couldn’t make up for that.
Fiona turned off the television. “Thanks, but I meant what I said about moving on.”
“Let me know if you change your mind,” Sullivan said, and she heard the disappointment in his voice. “It was a privilege working with you.”
“Thanks.” She squirmed in her seat, not liking the favor she was about to ask. Sullivan was on a high-profile case, which meant exceedingly long hours. He probably had way too many balls in the air to be worried about making extra phone calls. “Would you mind getting in touch again? If you find out anything about Shelby?”
It had become personal at some point. Fiona had tried not to let it, but that never worked out.
“We’ll find her,” he said somberly.
“I know.”
Jack stared at the ME’s report on his desk, trying to glean any kernel of information he’d overlooked. Until the labs came back, this was the best he had to go on in terms of physical evidence. The cast of the tire tread, the green twine, and the biological evidence collected during autopsy all had been sent out for analysis. Now it was time for some low-tech, back-to-basics detective work.
Fortunately, that was just the sort of work Jack excelled at. Fitting the puzzle together. Finding missing pieces where no one else had thought to look.
Unfortunately, he had very few pieces to work with at the moment.
Still no ID on the victim, although he fully expected Fiona’s postmortem drawing to solve that problem. She’d managed to translate a mutilated corpse into a smiling portrait. Someone would recognize her, and when they did, Jack would have an insight into the killer’s mind. How did he select his victims? Where did he operate?
In Lucy’s case, she’d just been wandering down the road on a bitter December night. She’d been cold, distracted. Too emotional after another fight with her parents to think about her personal safety.
What about Jane Doe? Had she simply been out walking alone near Graingerville? The clean, bare soles of her feet, plus the conspicuous lack of evidence in the field where she’d been dumped, told Jack the murder most likely had occurred elsewhere. Reinforcing this theory was the ME’s conclusion that the victim’s injuries had been sustained over the course of several hours, meaning the killer probably had held her captive somewhere else. But where? And why would the murderer dump the body on the outskirts of a town where someone might spot him coming or going? It was a ballsy move, and it bothered Jack.
He wondered where the killer had found her. Probably not a bar. As Fiona had pointed out, the girl looked young, maybe even younger than the ME’s report concluded. She wouldn’t have gotten served anywhere around here.
She could be a runaway, or a prostitute, or both.
But the physical findings didn’t bear that out. She’d been healthy, with the obvious exception of her final hours. She’d been well nourished, free of sexually transmitted diseases. She’d had straight white teeth and a cavity that had been filled at some point.
She was young. Hispanic. And beautiful, if Fiona’s picture was accurate. Those were three traits Jane Doe shared with Lucy, three traits Jack couldn’t get out of his mind. The similarities gnawed at him, made him uneasy for the simple reason that this was south Texas, a place where cultures collided, where tempers and resentments flared hot, especially during hard times. If beautiful Hispanic girls were being targeted around here, Jack knew this wasn’t a simple sex crime. They were dealing with something more complicated. And whatever it was, he felt sure the ramifications were going to rock his world.
As if they hadn’t already.
Jack rubbed his fingers over his eyes and tried to focus. Pipe dreams of a lunch break at Lorraine’s had faded hours ago. Now the best he could wish for was something from the vending machine to reenergize him for the mountain of neglected paperwork he faced this afternoon. For the past week, he’d virtually ignored everything unrelated to the Jane Doe homicide.
“Edna Goldby’s out here. She wants to file a complaint with the chief of police?”
Jack glanced up to see his youngest officer, a woman fresh from the police academy in San Angelo, standing in the doorway. She wore a neatly pressed uniform with all the right gadgets and weaponry clipped into place. Regulation female hairstyle. Shiny black shoes. She’d obviously been paying attention when they taught Cop 101, but she’d missed the class on Gatekeeping.
“Handle it, Sharon,” he said testily. “It’s probably her neighbor again. The guy’s Weimaraner keeps getting at her chickens.”
“I already told her you were in.”
“Tell her I’m on the phone,” Jack said. “Hey, did Lowell ever track down that list from TPWB? He was supposed to get it to me yesterday.”
“You mean that thing with the hunting licenses? It’s in your in-box.”
Jack shuffled through his tray and found the list beneath a few neglected case files. The damn printout was at least an inch thick. He sighed.
“So…about Mrs. Goldby?”
Jack glanced up. “Take her statement. Then pay a visit to the neighbor at the end of your tour.” Maybe a little grunt work would teach Sharon how to prioritize.
Jack’s phone rang, and he reached for it gratefully. He dismissed Sharon with a nod.
“Bowman.”
“J.B., it’s Mary Ellen down at the school.”
Jack smiled. The principal of Graingerville Elementary School was one of the few people Jack liked calling him J.B. The fact that she’d given him her virginity in the back of her father’s Chevy Suburban twenty years ago probably had something to do with it.
“What can I do for you, honey?”
Mary Ellen was married, but they still flirted on the rare occasion they crossed paths.
“I’ve got a fourth-grader sitting outside my office. His teacher brought him in right before bus pickup.”
Shit, what next? Was he going to be called out to settle fights on the playground? After years scraping bodies off the streets in Houston, the realities of small-town policing were pretty amazing.
“His name’s Brady Cox,” she continued, “and I’m afraid he’s in some trouble.”
Jack frowned. This wasn’t Mary Ellen’s typical friendly tone. “What’s going on?”
“Well, I’m hoping you can tell me. I’m looking at his drawing here on my desk. Done with colored pencils? It’s really quite good. Remarkable, in fact, given his age—”
“Mary Ellen—”
“It’s a naked woman, J.B. She’s wearing green handcuffs and lying in a field. You want to come have a look at this?”
CHAPTER 6
Thank God she was home.
Jack rapped on Fiona’s door for the second time, doubting she’d be able to hear him over the music blaring inside her apartment. He didn’t know what he’d expected her tastes to be, but hip-hop hadn’t made the list.
He glanced at his watch and cursed. Then he tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked.
“Hello?”
He stepped into the foyer, scanning the messy apartment for any sign of Fiona or the offending stereo. It was a one-room loft, with high ceilings, Mexican tile floors, and a big wrought-iron bed situated on the far side, beside a window.
“Fiona?”
She came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a few scraps of black lace. She let out a shriek, and Jack realized two things: this woman wasn’t Fiona, and he’d made one hell of a mistake letting himself in here.
“Who are you?”
Jack jerked his attention to her face. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Fiona Glass.”
Shit, was he in the wrong apartment? He darted his gaze around, looking for clues.
“She’s not home.” The woman plunked a hand on her hip. “You want to tell me who you are?”
“Jack Bowman.”
She turned and flipped off the stereo, startling him with a full view of her shapely butt.
Jack turned around and pretended to check out Fiona’s kitchen. “You know where I can find her?”
He heard shuffling behind him and hoped she was putting on some clothes. The afterimage filled his brain: leggy redhead. Pale skin. Full breasts.
If this woman wasn’t related to Fiona, he’d eat his badge.
“You can turn around now.”
Jack did. She’d pulled on a short black robe.
“She’s at work. She should be home soon, if you feel like waiting.”
Did he feel like waiting? No, but he’d driven an hour and forty minutes just for a conversation, so he might as well. Otherwise, he’d wasted an entire evening in the midst of a homicide investigation.
“I’ll wait.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “If you don’t mind.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
He turned his back on her again and wandered into the kitchen. A bowl of fruit sat on the counter alongside an open bottle of red wine.
“You’re a friend of Fiona’s?”
“I’m her sister.”
Jack looked over his shoulder again. Fiona’s sister wasn’t in much hurry to get dressed.
“You both live here?” He’d only noticed one bed.
“Just visiting.”
He felt her watching him as he continued his tour of the kitchen. Taped to the refrigerator was a Far Side cartoon and a postcard from Florence, Italy. It showed a famous painting of a naked woman with wavy red hair standing on a seashell. The woman reminded Jack of Fiona, and he had to fight the urge to flip the card over and see who’d sent it to her.
“You want a drink?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “No. Thank you.”
Jack made his way to the corner of the apartment, where a large canvas rested on a paint-splattered easel. The loft seemed to be divided into quadrants by functions: cooking, sleeping, lounging, and painting. The floor in this corner was covered by a heavy drop cloth.
Fiona’s sister sauntered up beside him and looked at the picture. “So what do you think?”
He studied the painting. It was blue. And green. And plenty of colors in between. There were concentric circles that reminded him of ripples on water, but the picture was too abstract for him to know for sure what she’d been aiming for.
“I like it,” he said truthfully. Something about the colors, all those greens and blues merging together, felt peaceful. “Is it finished?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.” She turned to look at him, tilting her head to the side. “You’re a cute one. Where’d Fiona meet you?”
“Mutual friend.”
“So you’re a cop, huh?” She stepped closer, and he smelled her perfume over the paint thinner.
He held his ground. “What makes you think I’m a cop?”
Her lip quirked up at the corner. “You’re all cops.” She turned back to face the painting. “So, I suppose this means Fiona’s off the wagon. I should have guessed.”
“Off the wagon?”
“You know, working again. She said she planned to quit, but she’s said that before. She always goes back.”
Jack stared at her, intrigued. She smiled up at him and lifted a brow. “She’s addicted to saving the world. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Jack looked back at the easel. Behind it, a much larger canvas leaned against the wall. This one was heavier on the green and showed reflected grass, like you might see at the edge of a river or lake. He decided he’d been right about the water thing.
“So, Jack.” Her voice turned sultry as she eased between him and the painting. She shifted her shoulders, and the robe parted, giving him a view of skin and lace. “Are you a detective?”
“Yes.” He kept his voice cool, his attention glued to her face. She had hazel eyes—like Fiona’s—but hers were outlined in black. She looked like a sexed-up version of her sister.
“And has Fiona seen your gun yet?”
Jack frowned down at her. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.” She trailed a long, copper-colored fingernail down the front of his flannel shirt. It came to rest on his belt buckle.
“What’s your name?”
“Courtney.” She shook her hair back, and her robe parted some more.
“Listen, Courtney—”
Jack heard a noise and whirled around. Fiona stood in the doorway, holding a briefcase and looking perplexed.
Shit.
“Hi, there.” He forced a smile and wondered why he felt guilty. He hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Hey, Fi.” Courtney turned toward her sister, and Jack noticed she’d finally managed to tie her belt.
Fiona gave Jack an apprehensive look. “What brings you here?”
“I came to take you to dinner.” He walked over to her. “I owe you a rain check, remember?”
She set down her briefcase beside the door. Then she shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the hook in the foyer. She wore another one of those tax attorney outfits, a navy blue blazer and slacks. Her hair was pulled back in a braid again.
“I’m not really free tonight. I was planning to get some work done.”
Unbelievable. He’d just driven two hours. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You’d have more fun with me.”
