“You’ll go to the Schultzes’ cabin.”
“I will?”
“Yes. Right away. You remember it, don’t you?”
“Yeah, sure. That place we rented last Christmas? Where we taught Champ to shoot a pellet gun?”
“That’s the one.”
“That was so fun,” he said. “But won’t the cabin be locked?”
“Since when is any lock a problem for you?” Butch asked.
“It’s not. But I thought… I mean, you want me to break in?”
“If that’s the only way.”
“Then what, Butch? How long do I stay?”
Standing, Butch set his glass in the sink and put the Jack Daniel’s back in the cupboard. “Once you get there, sit tight, Dean. Someone will be coming for you shortly,” he said. Then he hung up and called Hunsacker. “It’s me.”
“Butch? What’s up?”
Judging by the thickness of Hunsacker’s voice, he’d been sleeping. Butch gave him time to collect his wits before continuing. “I know where you’ll be able to find Dean.”
“You do?”
“Yes. He just called here, looking for our help.”
Hunsacker’s next words sounded much more alert. “You were smart to contact me. Turning him in is for the best, Butch. The only way.”
He was right about that. “Do you have a pen and paper?”
“I— Yeah, sure. Go ahead,” Hunsacker said, and Butch gave him directions.
30
“I can’t believe we haven’t been able to get hold of Finch,” Francesca complained. “It’s been hours since we heard from him.”
Jonah hovered over her fax machine. After his un-productive attempt to find whatever Butch had left at or near the Schultzes’ cabin, he’d spoken to Winona Green, the profiler who was studying the Dead Mule Canyon case for him. She’d indicated that she was finished with her research and would e-mail her notes in the morning, once she’d had a chance to type them up. Unwilling to wait, and knowing he’d be going to Chandler—he refused to let Francesca spend another night alone—he’d asked Winona to fax her handwritten version to Francesca’s office. But there was nothing in the bin when they arrived, and they’d already been there twenty minutes. “Let’s hope it’s because he’s had a major break in the case.”
“I’m dying to know what that might be. What else did he discover at the salvage yard?” She’d spent the early evening at the sheriff’s station, trying to determine Julia’s last name, but he and Hunsacker hadn’t returned.
“They must’ve found something interesting, or we would’ve heard from them, if only to ask whether or not you’d obtained more information on Julia.”
“I’m frustrated that I haven’t been able to come up with a name,” she said.
He was aware of that. They’d spent the two-hour drive to Chandler on the phone together. They’d started out discussing the garbage bag Butch had removed from the salvage yard, the farmer who’d helped Francesca figure out that Julia had once lived with Butch and the many police departments in California she’d called looking for a runaway who matched Julia’s first name and description. But it hadn’t been long before they’d ventured on to other subjects—her parents, his parents, Department 6, his condo in L.A. The comfortable companionship that had developed over the course of that call made him feel closer to her than was probably wise. He’d be a fool to allow himself to fall back in love with her. But it seemed to be happening, anyway….
“Did she say she’d send the fax right away?” Francesca asked.
“She certainly gave me the impression it’d be tonight,” he replied. “But…maybe she dozed off.” He was about to do the same. It wasn’t very late—only eleven o’clock—but it’d been weeks since he’d had a decent night’s sleep.
Francesca didn’t appear to be any fresher. She sagged onto the edge of her assistant’s desk, tired but prettier than ever. He wished he didn’t find her so damn attractive, but every time he looked at her he felt a strong reaction. The years they’d been separated hadn’t changed anything.
“This isn’t a bad place to work,” he said, glancing around. He’d complimented her on it before, when she first showed him through, but small talk distracted him from the condoms in his suitcase, which seemed to be screaming his name from the trunk of his car.
She put back the picture she held of her assistant, Heather, and Heather’s little boy. “I like it.”
A renovated old house fronting Chandler Boulevard, it contained a reception room, a small kitchen, two bathrooms, a storage area and Francesca’s private office. Decorated in burgundy and blue, the place had expensive-looking black shutters, hardwood floors covered with traditional area rugs and mahogany bookcases. He couldn’t resist feeling a sense of pride at what she’d accomplished. It wasn’t easy for an independent P.I. to make a living, but she’d created a situation that was very different from the “barely making ends meet” stereotype so often portrayed in the media. Francesca had done very well for herself.
“You’ve built your business working missing persons?”
“Background checks are still our bread and butter and probably always will be—that and helping one spouse prove the other’s cheating. But missing persons is the challenge that keeps me interested.”
Outside, the wind picked up, and he wondered if they were about to experience an early monsoon. The weather in Arizona didn’t usually change much this time of year, vacillating between hot, dry and sunny, and hotter, drier, sunnier. Until August. Then a series of giant dust storms swept through the area, breaking up the monotony of “perfect” weather by bringing visibility to zero, uprooting trees or breaking off limbs and dumping leaves, twigs and dirt into the swimming pools in the valley. Occasionally, these storms also brought thunder, lightning and rain.
“How long is your lease?” he asked.
“I don’t have a lease,” she replied. “I own it.”
He nodded, impressed. “Nice. Good investment.”
Silence fell. He consulted his watch. If the fax didn’t come in the next ten minutes, he’d call Winona again.
He scrambled to come up with more small talk, something he could say that was safe and far from what was really on his mind. But before he could utter a word, he caught Francesca watching him—and the expression on her face made the blood rush straight to his groin. “I love it when you’re this tired,” he said.