style="font-size:15px;"> “What is it?” Jonah asked.
Finch held up a hand; he wasn’t finished with the call. “No, I’m bringing her and Jonah out there now. Don’t let anyone go anywhere until then.”
Feeling the same alarm he saw in Francesca’s face, Jonah waited for the investigator to slam down the phone. “Well?”
“Vaughn wants us to file charges against Ms. Moretti.”
“For what?”
The gold chain Finch wore around his neck disappeared as he buttoned his collar and tightened his tie. “Assault.”
Francesca came to her feet. “What about the body?”
He grabbed his sports jacket from the back of his chair and herded them out of his cubicle. “Hunsacker can’t find a body.”
3
At Butch’s place, four police cars and an ambulance cluttered the sides of the road. As Investigator Finch slowed to a stop, Francesca caught sight of a young paramedic treating Butch’s injuries right there in the front yard. Already sporting a bandage over his left eye, presumably where she’d hit him with the pepper spray canister, he allowed the medic to dab some antiseptic on his cheek. But Francesca got the distinct impression that he was trying to make her look bad.
Somehow, in the short span of time since she’d driven off, he’d hidden April’s body. Now he was playing up his injuries as if Francesca had attacked him for no reason.
His wife, another man far slighter in build who looked just like his wife, and an older couple stood beside him while his four- or five-year-old son played in the yard. Francesca wasn’t sure if the older people and the smaller man were friends, family or neighbors, but the way they rallied around him made her think they were close, probably family. All the adults glared at her as Finch wedged his sedan into a spot not far from where she’d parked her BMW less than two hours ago. But it was the hatred in Butch’s eyes that unnerved her.
“He’s a murderer,” she muttered.
Finch shoved the gearshift into Park. “Yeah, well, we need proof. So let’s find it.”
Jonah made no comment but, even as upset, distracted and worried as she’d been, Francesca hadn’t been able to forget that he was the man who sat behind her in Finch’s car. She hadn’t seen him in ten years and yet her reaction to him hadn’t changed. It was as if she had some sort of internal radar that pinged at regular intervals when he was within range. Obviously, basic attraction couldn’t be trusted. He wasn’t the type of man she ever wanted to be with. After what he’d done, there was no question about that. So why did her heart skip a beat every time she looked at him?
Refusing to acknowledge the emotions Jonah made her feel, she got out of the car. One situation at a time. She was going to lead Finch to April Bonner’s body, then get the hell out of here. She’d go home, strip off her dirty clothes and sink her scraped and bruised body into a nice hot bath, where she’d soak until she was as wrinkled as a prune before diving into bed. Tomorrow would be another day—hopefully, a day she could spend at her newly remodeled office with the assistance of Heather, her receptionist, as she delved into her work. A day with no dead bodies or homicidal maniacs.
Investigator Hunsacker approached them first, wearing a tan-colored lightweight suit with distinct rings of sweat at the armpits. Although it was nearly five o’clock, the temperature hadn’t dropped more than a degree or two from the high of one hundred and eight; Hunsacker’s weight obviously made it difficult for him to tolerate the heat. Only five foot seven, no taller than Francesca, he had to weigh three hundred pounds. Sporting long Elvisstyle sideburns to go with his slicked-back hair, he wasn’t much to look at. He didn’t move well, either. He’d worn the sides of his mahogany-colored wing tips so far down on the outside edges that his feet appeared deformed.
“There’s no proof of Mr. Vaughn having done anything illegal,” he told Finch as soon as he was close enough to speak. “Certainly no proof of murder.”
“But I saw the body!” Francesca insisted.
Hunsacker’s eyes matched his black hair. They moved in Francesca’s direction, then darted back to Finch. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Not yet.” Finch frowned. “I want to make sure we’re talking about the same figure and the same tarp.”
“Should we take care of that now?”
Finch cast a glance at Butch. At least six feet six inches tall, he towered over everybody else like a giant lumberjack or the wood carving of Daniel Boone Francesca had once seen at a campground. “In a minute. Let me talk to Mr. Vaughn.”
Hunsacker waved them past. “Be my guest.”
“What didn’t you tell me?” Francesca whispered as they circumvented Hunsacker.
“You’ll see.”
There was no opportunity to press him for an answer. She had to deal with Butch, whose animosity stabbed her like a million invisible darts.
Refusing to be intimidated, she held her head high, but found it difficult to remain calm, especially with everyone else studying her, too. The police and paramedics watched her with open curiosity; those who weren’t with the police watched her with hostility. The people clustered around Butch had to be his family.
“Why’d you attack my husband?” Because the paramedic stood between them, Butch’s wife came forward before Butch could, but Jonah intercepted her.
After what she’d already been through, Francesca couldn’t help being grateful for the shield he provided. But she was determined not to show it. A few minutes ago, he was the enemy.
“I was only defending myself,” she replied coolly. “I came here to speak with Mr. Vaughn regarding—”
“You were what?” Butch had overheard. “Did I sneak onto your property? Was I going through your stuff? No. You had no business here.” Stepping past the paramedic, he shifted his attention to Finch and adopted a far more plaintive tone. “I didn’t mean to make her think I was dangerous. I was only trying to figure out if she was stealing from me. Or if she’d come around hoping to sell me something.” He grimaced as he raised a hand to his cheek. “Maybe I surprised her, but there was no call for violence.”
“She gouged him good,” the paramedic volunteered.
Francesca nearly asked the medic to butt out but chose to ignore him instead. “What about the woman you murdered and stashed under that tarp?” she demanded, speaking to Butch. “Have you told your wife about that?”
A pained expression, one that said she must be nuts for even suggesting it, settled over features as big and bold as the rest of him. He looked like a prizefighter, bulky but powerful. His dark hair needed a good trim—the front hung down practically to his eyes, and he had a wide nose that was slightly crooked, as if it’d been broken once or twice in the past. He wouldn’t have been attractive, except that his chin was strong enough to carry off such an intensely masculine face. “There is no body.”
Francesca had no intention of backing down. “I saw it with my own eyes.”
The old
