As Jonah put away his phone, he gazed at all the cracked skulls and jawbones around him. Because teeth followed predictable maturation patterns, they were a fairly reliable indicator of certain biological characteristics, such as age. They could also help in identifying an unknown victim via dental records. Jonah couldn’t wait for these bones to be connected with names, which could then turn into leads pointing to Vaughn—or someone else. He wanted to keep pushing forward here with Dr. Price so he’d have something to run with. He hated to pull out until the job was done.
But he wasn’t about to leave Francesca vulnerable while he measured femurs. He’d seen the glitter in Vaughn’s eyes when he’d been questioned about April Bonner. Maybe Francesca had screwed up and called a mannequin a body, but she claimed Vaughn was the last man to see April alive. It was entirely possible that he’d killed her.
Picking up the tibia he’d recently measured, Jonah turned it over in his hands, noting a fine-line fracture. Maybe Butch was responsible for the death of this poor woman, too.
Purposely avoiding Dr. Price’s curious stare, he raised his eyes to take in the entire room full of bones. Maybe Butch was responsible for all of them. And now that Francesca had drawn his attention, she might be next on his list.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, and jogged out to the car he’d rented when he arrived in Arizona.
6
Jonah found Francesca sitting on her front porch with a butcher knife in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Judging by the weariness that hung on her like an oversize coat and her general dishevelment, she hadn’t slept—or showered. But it was early, only five-thirty. The sun was just creeping over the horizon. None of her neighbors were up, so the windows around them remained dark, the street quiet. The one other person Jonah had spotted so far was the newspaper man.
“You look like hell,” he said while he carried her paper across the lawn. That was a bit harsh as greetings went. But he had to compensate for the sudden jolt the sight of her, so skimpily dressed, gave his system. She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath that baggy T-shirt. He’d clued into that at first glance. Then there were the short cutoffs that made her legs look like they went on forever….
Her eyes narrowed as he reached her. He half expected her to use that knife to chase him off her property. Lord knew he deserved nothing less. But Finch and Hunsacker were so pissed off about the way everything had gone down yesterday, he was her only ally when it came to Vaughn, and she must’ve realized it because she dropped the knife on the round table beside her and took a sip of coffee.
“Rough night, huh?”
She swallowed before answering. “He thinks he can get away with terrorizing me.”
Sitting in the chair across from her, he examined the pepper spray on the table between them. “You’re sure it was Butch?”
“Who else would it be?”
The faint purple of a bruise blossomed on her right knee, and her lip was still swollen, but even at her worst Francesca was classically beautiful. That hadn’t changed. “Are you saying you did or didn’t get a glimpse of him?”
“It was dark and he wasn’t that close to the window. But I saw someone the same size and shape as Butch, no question. After he cut the phone line so I couldn’t call for help, he sat at the pool throwing rocks at my window.”
Stretching out his legs, Jonah crossed them at the ankle. “Not exactly the stealthy approach one might expect from a serial killer.”
“It wasn’t stealthy, but it was effective.” She ran a hand through her hair, combing it with her fingers. “He scared the shit out of me.”
“Ah, just the reaction he was looking for.” Picking up the knife, Jonah pressed his thumb to the blade, which wasn’t that sharp. “Is this your defense? What you use to chop tomatoes?”
“For your information, that’s a carving knife. And it’s the best weapon I’ve got, since I don’t own a gun.”
He knew why she was reluctant to own a firearm. Her father had gotten caught in the cross fire during a drug bust. Jonah might’ve urged her to buy one in spite of all that; he had no confidence that she’d be able to fight Butch off with a kitchen knife. But he didn’t want her to fight; he wanted her to run. “You could’ve stayed someplace else, like I told you to.”
She raised a hand. “Don’t start. I can’t hide out and hope this problem will take care of itself. If I do that, Butch will just be waiting for me when I return—if he doesn’t catch up with me sooner.”
“So how do you solve the problem?” He wanted to add without getting killed, but figured she was traumatized enough.
“By bringing him down, of course.”
He turned over the knife in his hands. “That might be better left to others, Fran.”
She blanched. “Don’t call me that.”
“Isn’t that your name?”
“That’s what my friends call me. It’s Francesca to you.”
“Not Ms. Moretti?”
“I’m feeling generous,” she said with a shrug.
Setting the knife aside, he considered his options and decided to tackle the past. It was the only way she might let him help her. “Look. I know I’m not your favorite person. I don’t blame you for hating me. If you want another apology, I’ll—”
“I don’t want anything from you,” she broke in. “I don’t even want to see you.”
Although he’d expected a harsh response, the vehemence behind her words lacerated some part of him he hadn’t realized was still vulnerable. “I get that, too,” he said. “But let’s not allow the mistakes of the past to make what’s going on now that much worse. If we’re both mixed up in this thing, we might as well pull together, get through it the best we can.”
“And how do you suggest we ‘pull together’?” She hugged her legs to her chest. “By pretending you didn’t do what you did?”
“You could forget about it.”
“What?”
He folded his arms. “Unless there’s some reason you can’t.”
He definitely had her attention now. “Like…”
“Like you’ve never gotten over me.” Knowing she’d rise to that bait, he arched his eyebrows in challenge, and she laughed without mirth.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”