“We’re getting to that,” Dean said. “Jeez, can’t you let me talk to a pretty girl now and then?”
With a grimace, Paris folded her arms. “Pick one who hasn’t scratched up my husband’s face. Pick one who isn’t as crazy as you are.”
“Excuse me?” Francesca said, but Dean interrupted.
“Isn’t Champ supposed to be at his little league game about now? You know how angry Butch’ll be if he’s late. ’Cause if he’s late, the coach won’t let him play. And Butch doesn’t like it when his little boy sits on the bench.”
“Like you used to do?” she said. “Game after game? That won’t happen to Champ. My son’s a good athlete. He takes after his daddy. He’ll play.”
Dean motioned for his sister to butt out. “Ignore her,” he said to Francesca in a loud whisper. “She’s not happy with me for inviting you over. She doesn’t like it that you’re better-looking than she is.”
“Get her purse, Dean, and get her out of here,” Paris said.
Before Dean could respond, the back door slammed. Someone else had just come in.
A flicker of fear replaced the anger in Paris’s eyes. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and pulled car keys out of her pocket as she hurried to the front door. “Champ, grab your bag!” Francesca heard her call as she went out.
“Seems Butch always gets his way around here,” Francesca said.
Dean whistled. “Like I said, you’re smart.”
A shadow darkened the place where Paris had first entered the room, and Francesca glanced up to see Butch filling the entire doorway. She’d thought he looked big outside. Inside was a whole other story. He had to duck beneath the door frame just to pass from room to room. Of course, the doors in this old house were lower than most, but still.
“I’d like to talk to you,” he said.
Francesca felt her eyebrows go up. “I’m all ears.”
“Not here. Not with this retard listening in. Let’s go out to my office.”
Francesca wasn’t feeling quite as safe as she had when she first went into the house. The people she’d considered insurance—Paris and Champ—were gone. Butch obviously had no respect for Dean, who might not have the sense to intercede if something went wrong, anyway. And she hadn’t seen the old folks. Were they in their apartment? If so, there was a better chance they’d hear her scream if she stayed put.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He gestured at Dean. “Get her purse.”
“Where is it?”
“Wherever you put it after playing with all her stuff.”
Dean squirmed uncomfortably. “I didn’t play with your stuff,” he mumbled, his face red. “I was just…admiring it.” He slanted an accusing glare at Butch. “And Paris had it last.”
“Then it’s probably in the bedroom. Get it, fruitcake. Now,” Butch snapped, and Dean scrambled to obey.
“Is it really necessary to treat him so badly?” Francesca asked.
“Live with him for a day, then see what you have to say about how he’s treated.”
She refused to back down. “He’s your wife’s brother.”
“Are you sure you want to waste your time talking about my crazy brother-in-law? Because he’s my problem, not yours. And I thought you’d be more interested in hearing about April Bonner.”
At the mention of April’s name, Francesca’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you have to say about April?”
Footsteps indicated that Dean was already on his way back. “Not here. In my office. You coming?”
The opportunity was too good to pass up. She was wearing a wire and could get the whole conversation on tape—although she highly doubted he was about to confess. More likely he’d make up some story to cover being with April last Saturday night. But maybe in the midst of telling that story he’d slip up. Catching him in a lie could help break this case wide-open.
“Here.” As Dean handed over her purse, Francesca noticed that his mood had changed drastically. Gone was the friendly Dean, the childlike Dean, even the embarrassed Dean. Now he seemed angry—brooding and angry. But, considering how he’d been treated, she found those emotions justified.
“Go take your medication,” Butch said. “I can always tell when you try to skip.”
Dean glared at him again, then turned on his heel and left the room.
“So what’s it gonna be?” Butch asked.
Francesca didn’t bother to check her purse for her phone or her wallet. What was there was there. She had bigger concerns. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she raised her chin. “Where’s your office?”
13
As she’d expected, Butch’s office was the ramshackle building she’d hidden behind when she’d first spotted that mannequin and thought it was a corpse. About four hundred square feet, it had two doors, four windows, a large metal desk, a few office machines and an old air-conditioning unit, which sounded as if it was leaking water, hanging out the window closest to Butch’s chair. A tiny apartment sat off to one side, an obvious addition. Francesca could see part of a bed through the open doorway, but she didn’t have the impression the apartment was currently occupied.
The scent of cigar smoke clung to the cheap wooden paneling and brown shag carpet. Francesca could also smell dog, even though the Doberman was currently chained up outside. A pot of coffee sat on top of a makeshift minibar constructed of wooden planks and cinder blocks. Everything around her pronounced Butch king of the junk heap.
“Sit down.” Shoving a pile of newspapers off a chair of cracked vinyl, something he’d probably pulled in from the yard, he waved her into it. Then he helped himself to a cup of coffee without offering her one, took a seat across from her and propped his feet on the desk.
“What?” she said when he scowled at her without speaking. “You wanted me here for a reason.”
He gulped down some coffee. “We got off on the wrong foot the other day. But I won’t apologize for that. You had no right to trespass on my property.” He touched his cheek as if remembering the moment she’d gouged him. “Or scratch my face like a damn hellcat.”
“Unlike what you told the police, you were chasing me!” she argued.
“I was just trying to figure out what you wanted.”