Deadlock (22 page)

2:45 P.M. FRIDAY

Thatcher was up to his eyeballs in comparing autopsy reports when Bethany called.

“I need help.” Her tone was soft, unsure.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“Thatcher, someone has been in my apartment. Stolen items from Scorpion’s victims are on my bed. I’m not sure what to do. I haven’t touched a thing, even with my latex gloves.”

“Get out of there.”

“I have my Glock. I don’t think he’s here.”

“You don’t know for sure. Do me a favor and step outside. I’m on my way now.” Thatcher grabbed his keys and phoned SSA Preston while rushing to his car.

Scorpion could be inside Bethany’s apartment. In her state of mind and with the aftereffects of the poisoning, her brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

In the short time it took him to drive to her apartment, police cars had swarmed around the building. An officer stood outside her door. This smelled like disaster.

Yanking out his ID, Thatcher exited his car and approached the officer. “This is the home of an FBI special agent,” he said. “What’s the problem here?”

“We received an anonymous call that the serial killer Scorpion lived here, and the proof was inside.”

Thatcher entered and called for Bethany. He expected a pale face, but what he saw when she emerged from the hallway was pure anger. “Calm down,” he said. “The officer outside told me what happened. They have a warrant, right?”

She nodded. “Signed by the same judge we use. Thatcher, I feel like a fool. Can’t even think straight.”

“Security cameras should give us a face.” Injustice left a fiery trail through his body. Accusing an FBI agent of a serious crime would spread like a plague through the media.

“What did Preston say?”

“He’ll straighten it out, and I’m to bring you in.”

She crossed the room and eased onto the sofa. Exhaustion wore at her face. “Am I under arrest?”

“For an obvious plant in the home of an agent assigned to the case? Preston needs to hear your side. The texts you’ve been receiving are from Scorpion, and this proves it.”

“The only thing I can think of is he and I crossed paths somewhere.”

Not necessarily so, but he’d not argue it.

“Call the cops. Call the cops,” Jasper squawked.

“You’re no help.” Bethany covered his cage with a thin blanket. “Thatcher, the evidence planted here discredits my role as an agent and sets me up as an accomplice in five murders. I’ve studied behavior and worked hate crimes. Yet I’m crippled with this.” She swung around, but not before he saw watery eyes.

“You’re made of stronger stuff than to let him think he’s won.”

She lifted her head. “Thanks. This is like hand-to-hand combat with the devil.”

Thatcher watched the turmoil on her face. “Grayson and I will do our best to make an arrest tonight.”

“I’d ask for a promise, but I’m too logical.”

He offered a sad smile. “This could be the time Scorpion got
sloppy. He’ll slip. And with HPD sweeping your apartment, they’re bound to find a trace of DNA.”

She paced the room until he grew tired of watching her. She stopped and swung to him. “I’ve figured it out.”

“Your brother?”

“No, our victims’ link. In chronological order of their deaths
 
—Eldon Hoveland, Ruth Caswell, Alicia Javon, Ansel Spree, and Tyler Crawford. All but Ruth Caswell have used or volunteered at the Lighthouse. Call Nick Caswell. See if his mother ever volunteered there.”

He phoned the man and hoped he wasn’t with a patient. “Nick, I have a quick question for you. Did your mother have any dealings with the Lighthouse?”

“One of their biggest donors until cancer put everything on hold.”

Thatcher thanked him, truth spreading hot and cold. “Bethany, you’re right. Every victim has a tie to the Lighthouse.”

“You have to find a lead tonight.”

His phone rang. SSA Preston.

“Thatcher, you’re with Bethany?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I expected you here by now. Bring her in immediately.”

He looked at her. “Yes, sir. We’re on our way.”

“Until the case is ended, we can move her to a safe house or assign agents outside her door.”

Thatcher doubted she’d comply with either one, but they’d just put together a common thread. “I’ll inform her.” He dropped his phone into his pocket.

“What did Preston have to say?”

“He’s offering protection, either housing you in another location or agents
 
—”

“Forget it. I’m in this fight, and I won’t desist.”

“Can I sleep on the couch?”

“Nope.”

“Outside your door?”

“Nope.”

“Bethany, you’re shaking hands with two dangerous men. Has your brother ever spent time at the Lighthouse?”

“I doubt it.
Mamá
and
Papá
would be horrified.”

“I think this weekend will give us solid answers.”

9:30 P.M. FRIDAY

Thatcher regretted leaving Bethany in her apartment for the second trip to the Lighthouse. If she were feeling 100 percent, maybe his uneasiness would shrink. But not with arsenic still finding its way out of her system.

SSA Preston had taken one look at Bethany and sent her home until morning, nine o’clock in his office. Thatcher would be there too. He doubted Bethany had ever faced squarely the depravity of her brother.

After the Lighthouse’s church service, he had waited by the Dumpster like the previous night.

“What a waste,” he whispered to the agents over his mic. “Our killer just thinks he won’t get caught. Let’s get a BOLO out for the man who goes by Groundhog. He could also be a man known as Deal. Sending Groundhog’s description now, and I’ll search through photos once I’m at the office.”

9:13 A.M. SATURDAY

Bethany tapped her foot on the floor of SSA Preston’s office. She’d canceled her volunteer work at Noah’s Loft, and the acting director vividly expressed her disappointment since the shelter was shorthanded. But Bethany’s first priority was ending the serial killings. Lucas hadn’t been picked up. Neither had the man who went by Groundhog. Dorian refused to talk, and Bethany was facing the man who wanted Scorpion arrested yesterday.

“The connection at the Lighthouse looks solid. We’ve taken the artist sketch that Thatcher helped compile last night of the Groundhog character and placed it on billboards.” Preston glanced at his computer. “Serial killers usually work alone. But male and female teams aren’t uncommon.”

“Dorian Crawford has stayed at the Lighthouse,” Bethany said. “She has the MO to hook up with a killer, and she was at Noah’s Loft when Elizabeth Maddrey was attacked.”

Preston turned from his computer to the agents. “How would Groundhog or Deal fit with Scorpion, even if the two are the same man? Motive is the key here, and it has to be money.”

“Sir,” Thatcher said, “in my opinion, there has to be more on the line than money. How could anyone trust a serial killer when that person could be the next victim? Also, we have a face-to-face with Melanie Bolton this afternoon. We plan to inform her of our
suspicions and request permission to go through her files. Her cooperation is in our best interest, especially if we can eliminate the time it takes to obtain a search warrant.”

“I want an update when you leave there.” SSA Preston’s gaze penetrated Bethany’s soul. “If Lucas Sanchez is charged with anything leading to Scorpion, you’re off the case.”

“Yes, sir. Earlier I requested a list of all Lucas’s visitors while in jail. Since the murders occurred before and after he was released, if he’s involved in this, the killer would have made contact with him then.”

“I have the list of text messages presumably he sent. Is that all the correspondence?”

She explained about her grandmother’s missing brooch. “It had no monetary value and was the only item taken. Also, I believe he flattened my tire at Noah’s Loft. I have the note left on my windshield.” From her purse, she pulled the slip of paper fastened around the rusty nail. “I haven’t shown this to anyone. I thought about running prints on it, but too many other things took priority.”

While SSA Preston slid the rubber band from the nail and read the short note, she glanced at Thatcher. He offered a faint smile and she relaxed.

“Bethany, I understand you believe your brother is a family problem and at the time not relevant to an FBI case, but this is a threat to a federal agent.” He frowned. “‘You have no idea what I can do.’ Has he threatened you since then?”

She inwardly cringed. “Yes, and Thatcher.”

“Why haven’t you addressed this? A hit-and-run and a poisoning? Hasn’t it registered that your brother may have information regarding our killer’s ID?” Preston’s voice rumbled low, but the irritation surfaced.

“Lucas is like a hungry dog. He feeds on intimidation, an effort to frighten and make me look bad. He’s done it all our lives. My only reprieve is when he’s locked up. I’m sure he’s taken media information to use against all of us.”

Preston handed her the items. “We can lock him up, but he has to be apprehended first. Would your family conceal him?”

“Yes.” From the look on his face, she imagined what was going through his head. “I gave agents a list of the women he’s had relationships with. Doubt it goes anywhere because once he’s finished with a woman, he’s on to the next one.”

“Then we have the self-proclaimed Scorpion sending texts. Two men who are targeting you. What does that say to you?”

She swallowed a baseball-size lump in her throat. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Results, Sanchez. Follow protocol, which was once your procedure in every case. Makes me wonder if you’ve been around Thatcher too long.” The hard look in his eyes didn’t show humor.

After the meeting, Bethany and Thatcher met for coffee.

“I want to know everything about your brother,” he said. “I’ve read his files, but I want to know why and your perspective.”

Thatcher deserved to have the whole story after all he’d done for her
 
—from carrying food in his car for her diabetes to chasing a nurse down the hall for a bedpan.

“Where do I start? The beginning?”

He gestured, and she crawled inside her soul to tell him what no one comprehended but God. “
Pap
á
’s first wife died, leaving him with three daughters. He married
Mamá
, and I came along. My stepsisters complained
Mamá
wanted to take their mother’s place and she favored me, which was so far from the truth. Lucas was born,
Pap
á
’s first son, the boy he’d always wanted. My sisters spoiled him horribly.

“Lucas wasn’t always cruel. Spoiled but not mean. When we were kids, we were inseparable. Me and my ultra-serious, ultra–rules girl philosophy, and Lucas with his fun-loving, daredevil attitude.” She took a sip of coffee and prayed she revealed everything. “When he was ten and being chased by some bullies, he climbed a tree to get away and fell. Hit his head. The doctors said the temporal lobe was damaged. They prescribed medication, but
Papá
refused. He said Lucas was fine. From then on,
Papá
catered to
him even more. But I saw a rise of aggression in my brother. He seemed to enjoy inflicting pain on others, animals too. Lies. Ugly accusations.” She remembered those days, the constant chaos.

“Bethany?”

She glanced into Thatcher’s dark eyes. No malice, only kindness. “Sorry. I got caught up in my own story. Lucas claimed rules were to be broken, and remorse occurred only when he was caught. Teenage years were the worst. He joined a gang. In and out of juvie. My family accepted his every excuse for breaking the law. The scenario repeated: Lucas got caught, gave a ridiculous excuse, went to confession.
Mamá
and
Papá
fought to eliminate or reduce the consequences, and then he broke the law again. My parents rejected teachers, the priest, nuns, and well-meaning friends who tried to tell them he was headed down a dangerous path.”

“But you still love him.”

She smiled. “Not many understand unconditional love, and nothing’s changed. I pray for him to realize God wants so much more for him than another jail sentence, but a purposeful life.”

“You told me a friend had been caught in the middle of a drive-by, and you chose law enforcement as a result.”

“A few days before my friend died, I witnessed Lucas kill a boy. It cemented everything.”

“Erased from his records?”

“Right.” She breathed in deeply. His hand crossed over the table as though he planned to take hers. She dropped her hand into her lap and continued. “When he was fourteen, he got into a fight with another boy and killed him. I was there. Saw the frenzied rage in my brother. The boy called Lucas a bully, which was the truth. Lucas had taken whatever he wanted for a long time. My brother got in his face and threatened to kill him. The boy wouldn’t cower. I tried pulling Lucas off, but he sliced my arm with a knife. Then used it on the kid.” Swiping beneath her eye, she stiffened, praying strength into her words. “He claimed to have taken the knife from the boy, and it was the boy who’d cut
my arm. I pleaded with
Papá
to believe me, but Lucas cried like a baby. Said when the boy hurt me, he jumped in to take the knife away and somehow the other kid was killed.”

“Manipulation.”

“Exactly. My relationship with my family worsened each time I refused to give Lucas money or sided with the police for enforcing laws. Sending him to jail sealed my fate with them.” She shook her head. “I’m whining.”

“No, you’re telling me about Lucas, and it hurts. My belief is that kindness is an asset when the recipient responds positively. Not so with your brother. His records show psychological evaluations that recommend medication.”

She hated reliving family drama. “
Papá
always pays for Lucas’s attorney fees and fines. One of his stipulations is Lucas can never use temporary insanity or mental illness as a plea. The other is for him to go to confession.”

“Why wouldn’t he want Lucas to be mentally healthy?”

“
Papá
could never handle his only son being termed as unstable, as though he’d failed as a father.”

“Family dynamics can be devastating.”

“And we both have fathers who disappointed us.” She shrugged. “
Pap
á
’s father spent the last ten years of his life in a mental hospital. Figure that’s why he protects Lucas.”

“Here’s a reality check. Can you pull the trigger on your brother?”

“God help me, but I’d have to. It’s who I am.”

Maybe she should have chosen an easier profession. Like a preschool teacher.

11:39 A.M. SATURDAY

Thatcher walked Bethany to her truck. Telling her brother’s story coupled with the arsenic lingering in her body had left her visibly exhausted. Tiny lines of stress etched from her pretty brown eyes.

Her phone sounded, and she moaned. “He’s on a roll. ‘Oscar & Maria r on the short list.’”

“Who are these people?”

“Only close friends call my parents Oscar and Maria. They go by their middle names.”

Lucas and his sidekick Scorpion.

Both phones buzzed with an e-mail. “We have another anonymous post,” he said.

“‘Is the FBI Covering Up Crimes?’ Yesterday afternoon, HPD received an anonymous tip that Special Agent Bethany Sanchez had evidence leading to the arrest of Scorpion, the city’s serial killer. Better than that, the tip said she
was
Scorpion. Officers took a warrant to her home and discovered items stolen from Scorpion’s victims. Agent Sanchez is either the stupidest agent in the bureau or a genius. SSA Preston, our local gorilla, tosses his weight into the mix and she’s back at work. Come on, people. Haven’t you had enough? If we’d been caught with stolen goods, we’d be in jail. Who are the bad guys? Seriously? Makes me wonder if Scorpion wears a badge.”

Bethany closed her eyes. “Let’s address both and deal with them before sending to SSA Preston.”

That was the agent who had her act together.

She pressed in a number on her phone. “My parents have to be warned.” She left a voice message explaining they were in danger and should consider protection. “Please, call me back,” she said and dropped the phone into her purse.

“The new post,” he said. “I’d like for you to detail where you were during each of the killings.”

Pulling out her phone again, she sighed, and he doubted she was even aware of it. “The victims were murdered at different times. Give me a few moments.”

Thatcher studied the parking lot. No one suspicious. But serial killers didn’t wear T-shirts announcing their occupation across their chests.

“Thatcher, from the estimated time of deaths, I was at home alone. I’m about to be relieved of my role, aren’t I?”

“Not if I can help it. If you’re removed, it sends a message that the FBI believes there’s truth in the post. If you’re allowed to remain, it tells the sender that the FBI has no use for lies. My vote is to trash journalism.”

“Wish I felt as positive,” she said.

“The low-life agenda has been sending investigators searching through web onion sites.” When she lifted a quizzical brow, he continued. “It’s a system that ensures the information provider and the person accessing the information are difficult to trace. Lucas can’t be doing all of this alone.”

“Wish we had the list of those who visited him in jail,” she said.

“The FIG will send it as soon as it’s available. With the weekend, it’ll probably be Monday.”

“Somebody should tell Lucas and Scorpion to take the weekend off.”

“Hey, I have an idea. Let’s drop your truck off at the office, have lunch
 
—”

“I’ll drive.”

He could take over if needed. “Okay, just this once.”

“And stop by my parents’ before heading to the Lighthouse. I want to ensure they’re safe.”

“You read my mind. I’ll contact the surveillance team.”

“This could get ugly.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Bring it on. My partner’s honor is at stake.”