Deadlock (27 page)

12:01 P.M. SUNDAY

Bethany maneuvered the FBI’s loaner car through the busy streets of Houston and considered the idiocy of driving with sleep deprivation, a gunshot and broken arm, and the aftereffects of arsenic. But agents had picked up Melanie Bolton, and Bethany intended to be there for the interview. A question needled her: where had the woman been during the night? It was none of Bethany’s business, but it bothered her when she expressed so much dedication to the homeless. She’d have a conversation with Ms. Bolton in less than thirty minutes and hopefully put together a few pieces about the previous night’s shooting. How ironic, the shooters could have heard the gospel last night.

Thatcher’s mother had arrived at the hospital shortly before noon. A tall woman with light-brown, shoulder-length hair and features similar to her son’s, especially the brown eyes. No tears. Stoic. Over the years, Bethany had observed people handle tragedy in a variety of ways. She put on her agent-logic face, and Mrs. Graves obviously kept her emotions bottled up. The woman had passed the nurses’ station and disappeared before Bethany could greet her. But she had things to do, and Thatcher was in far more capable hands with his mother.

Who was she fooling? Any attraction to Thatcher had to be deposited in a place never to be visited again. Her phone alerted
her to a text. Some days she wanted to toss the device into the street and run over it. Several times. At a traffic light, she took a look.

Heard Graves pulled thru. How sad. What a pity if another FBI special agent was wiped off the taxpayers’ payroll.

Lucas or Scorpion? She’d send a mouthful of responses into a text, but why bother? She grasped her Diet Dr Pepper and took out her fury on a giant gulp. Once the word was out about her and Thatcher being off the case, maybe things would ease off. Maybe.

At the next light, she texted SSA Preston with the text’s contents. Let him do with it what he wanted.

Get through the day. Find answers. Visit Thatcher. Sleep. And fill the pain medication prescription in her purse.

At the FBI office, Special Agent Grayson Hall joined Bethany outside an interview room where Melanie Bolton awaited them. According to Preston, Grayson had requested being a part of this interview. But he worked bomb squad, so she doubted he’d be the agent assigned to Scorpion. She finished her drink and dropped the container into a trash receptacle. Caffeine jarred her body and mind into action. Unfortunately Diet Dr Pepper didn’t lessen the agony in her arm like a painkiller or three extra-strength Tylenol, her new best friend.

“Good to see you,” she said to Grayson. “I imagine both of us would have preferred better circumstances in the last several hours.”

“We all took this personally.” Sincerity emanated from his ice-blue eyes, and his square jaw tightened.

“Thatcher and I have only been partners for a short while, but considering what has happened, it seems longer.”

“He’s tough. My guess, he’ll be back before we have time to miss him.”

They stared at Ms. Bolton through the one-way window. The woman sat straight, sipping coffee. Face free of stress. No shaking.

“What’s the word on bringing her in?” Bethany said.

“Agents waited at the Lighthouse for hours until she returned and dressed for the interview. It would take dynamite to remove her makeup. Juxtapose the cement on her face with a skinned-back ponytail, black jeans, and a black T-shirt, and I expect her to expose fangs.” He paused. “Sorry. In a bad mood. She conducts a valuable service for the city and deserves my commendation. Looks like she’s worked with strange people for so long that she now resembles one.”

“She likes cats and is protective of those who use her facility. A strange personality who responds well to kindness when she believes she’s in charge. Flatter her. Dive into her sympathies for the poor and needy. I picked up a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. Saw some on her desk.”

He shot her a look of admiration. “You take the lead on this.”

“I’m on pure adrenaline, but I’ll do my best.” They stepped into the interview room, and the woman stood to greet them. “We appreciate your agreeing to this interview.” Bethany introduced Special Agent Hall.

Melanie shook their hands before Bethany and Grayson seated themselves across from her. “I’m sorry it took a while to find me. Around eleven thirty last night, I received a call that one of our regular guests was threatening suicide. I had a difficult time locating her and not only talking her down but sobering her up. When I returned to the Lighthouse, agents were there.” She sipped on a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and the lipstick stain looked like blood. She was much more congenial than the previous night. “They were kind to wait while I showered. You cannot imagine the smell
 
—the poor woman vomited on me.”

“We’re glad you’re here. Looks like we all had a rough night.”

“How’s Agent Graves?” She shuddered.

“He’s stable. Resting. The doctor says he’ll pull through.”

“Please give him my sympathies. Does he have family?”

“Just his mother, who’s with him now.”

“Tell him several of us are praying for him and you too. We’ll
start a fund-raising campaign to install proper lighting for the parking lot. I told the agents I didn’t see anyone. Heard the shots. But by the time I found you and the other agent, the firing had ended.”

Bethany had relived the incident over a dozen times in an effort to remember any detail. “Was there anyone unfamiliar at your facility last night?”

“No.” She touched her heart. “Do you think the serial killer waited for you agents?”

“Ms. Bolton, we don’t have the killer’s identity, but your safety is important to us.”

“Call me Melanie. Makes me feel more comfortable.” She wrapped her fingers around the coffee cup. “I’m guilty of negligence. This is my fault for not paying attention.”

“Not at all, Melanie. We’re all working for the same end. Everyone who walks through your door is now a possible suspect or victim.”

“Even me? It’s ridiculous I’d be in danger.” Hysteria mounted in Melanie’s voice.

“Even you. Have you been threatened in any way?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m assuming you have means of protecting yourself?”

“I have a handgun locked in my desk drawer and my office has a keyed entry. I can’t risk anyone stealing what little I have, and I need a place to keep my kitties.”

Great. Her cats. “I understand. How do you access your residence?”

“Through my office. Under normal circumstances, I seldom leave the shelter.”

“Are the shelter’s doors secured at a certain time?”

“No access without a key. If not, people would pour in all hours of the day for a meal and bed. I only have room for so many.”

Bethany observed her grasping her right wrist under a bulky sweater. “What about fights or arguments among those using your shelter?”

She closed her eyes. “Many disagreements. Most of these people have mental issues. They live in their own world, and when someone steps into their space, they explode. Irrational is the norm. I told you some of them would kill for what others toss in the garbage, but no, I don’t believe they’d commit violence for the sake of drawing blood.”

“For your own safety, you need to keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bethany turned to Grayson. “Special Agent Hall, do you have questions or comments for Melanie?”

He folded his hands on the table. “Considering the dire situation surrounding the Lighthouse, would you be willing to close the doors until this is resolved?”

Melanie stood. “If I close the doors, who will take care of my people? They’ll be hungry. Subject to the elements while you’re sleeping in a comfortable bed in a safe home.” She paced the room, stomping the floor like a four-year-old. “You know Houston has these crazy regulations in place about feeding the homeless. We’re one of the few facilities who’re licensed to help.”

“I have total admiration for what you do, Ms. Bolton,” he said. “We
 
—”

“I simply can’t close. My people wouldn’t have showers or a means to seek medical attention. How could I make a decision that would devastate so many?”

“Please sit down.”

She narrowed her eyes, then slid into the chair. After the past several hours, Bethany wasn’t in the mood for tirades either.

They waited while Melanie appeared to gain control of her emotions.

“The FBI is working through sensitive information,” Grayson said. “We all want the serial killer found. From Scorpion’s history, socioeconomic conditions don’t play into his kill list.”

“Yes, sir. I apologize for my outburst.”

Grayson nodded. “Melanie, we must be able to contact you at any time. Is that a problem?”

“No, sir. I’ll give you my cell number before I leave. Please understand the Lighthouse is my ministry. My purpose.”

“A fine one too. We don’t want your sense of duty to get you killed.”

Melanie’s face reddened. “Aren’t you supposed to provide me protection? Keep me safe from some wild killer? Part of the FBI’s mission statement is to protect and defend.”

She’d read their mission statement, probably online. “A specific threat has to be made before we can place you in protective detail.”

“Oh, so if you find me with a bullet in my head and a scorpion on my chest, you can arrange for agents to escort me to the morgue?” She closed her eyes. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll cooperate, beginning with having security cameras installed. They’re expensive, but I can approach a generous donor.”

Bethany analyzed Melanie’s body language. One minute she was rational, and the next drowning in the deep end. The one good aspect was she’d agreed to help. Too many of her actions reminded Bethany of Dorian. At least Melanie was more rational.

“Anything else, Agent Sanchez?” Grayson said.

“Not at this time.” Bethany smiled. “We’ll be in touch, and please be careful.”

“I will, and I’ll contact you immediately if I see any of the men you’re looking for.”

Bethany escorted her to the parking lot, being diligent to ask about her cats and thank her for her help and obtain her cell phone number. Back inside, she talked with Grayson. “What are your thoughts about the interview?”

“Melanie Bolton is highly intelligent. On a mission. A bit eccentric. My guess is she knows more than she’s revealed. Have to look at the situation from her viewpoint. If she admits to knowing more, the welfare of the homeless is at stake. Easier to deny it and keep herself and them alive.”

“Can’t blame her for being frightened.”

“Or protecting him unknowingly like she does the others.”

Processing in fuzzy-brain mode frustrated her method of operation. Bolton’s agreement to help had been the first real perk.

And to think SSA Preston believed she was finished with Scorpion.

1:30 P.M. SUNDAY

Thatcher sensed Mom’s hand firmly holding his own. He inhaled her upscale perfume while forming the words to ease her fears. Just when he was ready to speak, he dozed off without voicing his appreciation for her presence. Easier to manage the pain when he pressed morphine into his veins and allowed medically induced sleep to spare him from thinking about what happened at the Lighthouse. But not until the agony became unbearable. The thought of Bethany’s brother opening fire on them filled him with anger and confusion. He had no siblings, and his family’s relationship had been far from ideal. Their battles had been verbal, not with bullets.

Tomorrow he’d think through what happened last night. Put together what he’d been missing.

Tomorrow he’d not use morphine.

Tomorrow he’d have a long talk with Bethany about Lucas.

Tomorrow he’d fight sleep.

Tomorrow he’d get out of bed and walk.

And Tuesday he was heading back into the investigation.

“Mom,” he whispered.

“I’m right here, Son.” Her voice was strong as he expected. “What can I do?”

“Order a steak, medium rare, baked potato, loaded, Caesar salad, and banana pudding.”

“Take a nap, and I’ll have it ready when you wake up.”

He smiled but couldn’t bring his eyes to focus on her. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’m staying until you run me off.”

“My apartment’s a mess.”

“When isn’t it?”

“True. Should have hired a maid to clean up.”

“Thatcher, give in to sleep. I’ll cook and bake whatever you want.”

“I’ll get fat and slow on the job.”

“Son, you nearly died.”

“That’s why I have to get out of here. Pray for me.”

“What?” She drew her hand away from his. “Not sure I know how. You’ve never asked for such nonsense.”

“I changed.” He blinked and forced a glimpse at her.

“Last night?”

“A few weeks ago. I’m a Christian now.”

She startled. “You’ve never been one to use a crutch. This job has muddied your thinking. Is your job so stressful that you had to find religion?”

He chose not to reply. Too much conflict. Daniel told him to tell someone, but he should have stuck with Grayson and Bethany.

If God was a crutch, then bring him two. From what he’d heard from the doctor, it was a miracle he was alive.

3:30 P.M. SUNDAY

The prescription pain meds and antibiotic sat on Bethany’s kitchen counter. She’d played hero agent long enough. Her mind and body needed sleep to heal and focus. First she’d phone the hospital to make sure Thatcher was recovering, then eat a bowl of soup and take her meds, and last shower and crawl into bed.

By habit, she double-bolted the lock and turned on the lamp that shone through the living room window to the parking area. She walked to Jasper’s cage.

“Hey, buddy,” she said.

“Call the cops,” Jasper said.

“Not a bad idea.”

“You’re looking good.”

“Then you’re blind.” She almost laughed, but that took too much energy.

“Lucas wins,” Jasper said in a male voice.

Bethany froze, her senses paralyzed. Jasper learned phrases when they were repeated . . . which meant Lucas had been in her apartment more than once.

Sinking onto her sofa, she felt horror rush through her. She glanced around as though Lucas were in the room. For several minutes, she curled up on the sofa, hugging a pillow and weeping. It started with Lucas and her family, moved to the victims’ families and their sorrow, and on to Thatcher’s injuries. When her eyes finally dried, she got down on her knees.

God, I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry I blamed You for the shooting. Please help me to do my job. Not to be afraid. Not to cower. Show me how to help end these killings.

With a deep breath, she reached for her phone and contacted the nurses’ station about Thatcher.

“Mr. Graves is sleeping and remains in stable condition.”

“Is there anyone in the waiting room from the FBI?”

“Hold on. I believe so.”

A moment later, SSA Preston responded. “Bethany, he’s doing better. The doctor claims it’s a miracle. I’m not into those things, but this is good. You’re at home?”

“Yes, sir. Moving toward the bed. But I’ve found evidence that Lucas has been in my apartment.”

“Nothing was revealed in the sweep. What do you have?”

“My parrot said
 
—”

“Your parrot? Like that would stand up in court.” He paused. “Look, you need rest. You’re not thinking clearly. Please, let us handle this.”

She agreed verbally, but not in her heart.

Scrutiny of every situation helped her survive as a child, and although a psych eval might use it against her, the trait played into her logic. The only person Lucas would ever trust came in the form of a woman. In the past, he came to trust a couple of women who nurtured and loved him while fulfilling his physical and emotional needs. He’d never trust a man because that man could become more of a bad guy, diminishing Lucas’s ego.

A girlfriend? One smart enough to equal his intelligence? Feed into his selfishness? Knowing Lucas, he’d escort her like an arm ornament. Show her off to the world because it would be more about him than her.

She texted the FIG. They didn’t know she was no longer on the case.

Have we received the list and camera footage that shows who visited Lucas Sanchez in jail?

Monday

Not the time for a nap. She had an idea.

She could volunteer to serve at the Lighthouse tonight
 
—single-handedly. Make friends with the homeless, the other workers, and Melanie Bolton. This would be like helping Elizabeth at Noah’s Loft, not working an investigation but helping others. Nothing for SSA Preston to file a complaint about.

She gathered up her volunteer paperwork and drove downtown. Near the shelter, she parked the loaner, a black Mustang sure to impress Thatcher. A public parking garage had availability, but it meant a four-block walk to the Lighthouse. Once at the facility, she noted the door was locked. But she had Melanie’s number. A moment later the woman answered.

“This is Special Agent Bethany Sanchez. I’m at your front door. Do you have a minute?”

“I’m rather busy, but I did give my word to help the FBI. I’ll be right there.”

The door opened. Melanie still had purple and black going on.

“I had a couple of free hours and wanted to see if I could
volunteer.” Bethany lifted her casted arm. “Maybe something in the kitchen.”

Melanie gestured her inside, and they walked to the dining area. “We have health department regulations.”

The room could use a good cleaning. “No problem, an easy fix. I volunteer at Noah’s Loft, so my TB test and chest X-ray are up to date.” She handed Melanie her paperwork. “My background check is clean.”

Melanie smiled. “Surprised to see you with so much happening, but please don’t mention your investigation to the staff. The knowledge could frighten them.”

Which was exactly why she wanted to volunteer, but she’d find a way around it. “Of course. What can I do?”

“You’re a bit handicapped, and I’d get frustrated watching you make beds or clean.”

“Anything in your office for me to do?” The cat smell would be horrible.

“Not really. The FBI has my hard files. I have a few things to do before dinner, so I guess I’ll send you to the kitchen.”

In a huge industrial-type area, two Hispanic women busied themselves over simmering pots. The chatter and enticing smells reminded her of being with family.

“We have a volunteer. She’ll do whatever you need,” Melanie said, then turned to Bethany. “Thanks for helping out today. Who knows? You might find Scorpion tonight.”

While Bethany clumsily cleaned and swept, she noted the two women rarely spoke. “Excuse me. Do you have a moment?” she said.

When the elderly woman smiled, Bethany showed her a pic of Lucas. “I’m looking for my brother, and I wonder if he’s been here.”

The woman looked at the picture and stepped back. She returned to cutting carrots.

“Por favor.”
Please.

The woman pointed to the door. “Leave now. I don’t know this man. We have work to do. Your arm is no use.”

“Back to work.” Melanie scowled from the doorway. “You heard me.” She twisted an oversize watch and pushed it up her arm, as Bethany had noted before.

“This is my fault,” Bethany said. “I posed a question if these ladies had ever seen
 
—”

“I fully understand what you’re doing, upsetting my staff. This was not a good idea. I suggest you leave.” Her eyes cast a cold stare. “These women are busy. They don’t have the luxury of running about town on taxpayers’ money. I’ll show you out.” She lifted her chin. “Investigating a crime in this part of town could get you shot again. A smart agent like you should realize the danger.”

Bethany wove through evening traffic on the way home, her mind weighing Melanie’s volatile personality. In the middle of a jam, she scrolled through her cell for the latest news. Her attention went to an e-mail directed at her. She wanted to scream. Couldn’t this guy find another topic? The e-mail pointed to yet another post about Houston’s FBI. The title made her want to crawl back into bed
 
—“When FBI Agents Kill.”

SSA Preston is covering his rear big-time. Makes me question his relationship to Special Agent Bethany Sanchez, but I have no proof. She is cute. Does it surprise you that Special Agent Thatcher Graves was the one nearly killed in Saturday night’s firefight? Sanchez escaped with a few stitches and a broken arm. I bet Preston removes Sanchez and Graves from the case. What does DC think about the unsolved killings and the information on Sanchez? Here’s my question for you citizens: Where was Sanchez during the killings? Unless Preston and Graves can provide an alibi, you’ll learn she doesn’t have one for any of Scorpion’s murders.

Who was the source of info here? Had the media announced her and Thatcher’s status?