“Plenty of married men do that,” Finch said. “They can troll from the comfort of their own homes while their wife and kids are asleep.”
“Did he use his real name on that profile?” Jonah asked.
She dug at her cuticles while she talked. “No, a pseudonym. Harry Statham.”
“I guess a little insurance never hurt anybody—” Finch started to say but Jonah spoke at the same time.
“How did you connect Harry Statham to Butch Vaughn?”
“Before she left Saturday night, April told her sister, who’s my client, that she was going to meet her new love interest at a bar called the Pour House here in Prescott. Since that was the last time any of her friends or family heard from her, and she didn’t report to work on Monday, I went to the Pour House to see if she ever showed up. The bartender told me that while he was outside having a smoke he saw a woman fitting April’s description getting into a truck with Butch. He knew him as a regular and confirmed that he looked exactly like the guy in the picture I showed him from the dating profile. He said he couldn’t have gotten it wrong—the truck had a Prescott Salvage logo on the door.”
Jonah tried to piece it all together. “Why would he use his own truck?”
“Maybe he wasn’t planning on killing her when he picked her up. At the very least, he wasn’t planning on getting caught, right? A lot of murderers use their own vehicles.”
“But if Butch is married, he wouldn’t kill April and leave her in the salvage yard, where his wife could stumble across her.”
“Actually, if you saw the place, you wouldn’t find that idea so far-fetched,” she said. “The yard is ten acres. And it’s a maze. You could hide a dinosaur in there. I’m not even sure how I spotted the body with all the junk piled around it. He probably still plans on transporting it somewhere else.”
“With ten acres, he wouldn’t necessarily have to transport it off the property,” Finch said.
“True,” Jonah agreed but turned back to her. “So what happened when you first got to the yard?”
She scowled. “I’ve already been through it all with Investigator Finch. If you want to know, just have him debrief you.”
Finch loosened his tie and sat on the edge of his desk, straining the seams of his chinos, which were a little tight on the thighs to begin with, due to the bodybuilding regime he so often talked about. “I realize we’ve been through some of this. But Jonah has a lot of experience with these types of cases. Two months ago he helped Texas authorities bring down a hospice worker responsible for the deaths of six elderly men and women. That’s why we brought him in. I’d like him to hear the details from your own lips, if you don’t mind.”
Her displeasure didn’t ease, but she returned to her seat, crossed her legs and began to explain what he’d missed before he arrived.
The phone rang; Finch answered it while they talked.
“Did you see under the tarp?” Jonah asked when he understood that she’d gone onto the property and started looking around after no one answered her knock. “Were you able to make a positive ID?”
She didn’t seem completely comfortable with her response. Shifting in her chair, she admitted that she’d chosen not to go that far.
The urgency in the investigator’s voice interrupted them. “Son of a bitch. You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“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.