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“Like Dean,” Hunsacker replied. “If he’s somehow following Butch around, he could certainly have come across April after Butch left her.”
“He can’t even drive,” Finch pointed out.
“Legally,” Hunsacker clarified. “That doesn’t mean he never gets behind the wheel. I’ve seen him at church and other places by himself, plenty of times. I’ve never wondered how he got there, but I’m telling you he seems to get around okay.”
“Question is…does he have the presence of mind to hide his crimes?” Jonah asked. “Because whoever’s doing the killing is pretty damn good at covering his tracks. Look how long he’s been active. Some of the remains we’ve unearthed at Dead Mule Canyon have been in the ground for five years. Going undiscovered for such a lengthy period isn’t typical of someone who kills due to hearing voices or some other mental problem. Those killers act out and move on and generally don’t do a good job of cleaning up, if they even try.”
“Maybe he’s not good at hiding what he’s been doing,” Hunsacker said. “Maybe it’s just that everyone already assumes he’s incapable, so they look past him.”
Jonah’s eyes locked with Francesca’s. “That’s possible.”
Covering her face for a second, she tried to imagine Butch as a benefactor. “Whether it’s Butch or Dean doesn’t make much difference to me. They both have my address.” She dropped her hands. “They have the addresses of all my friends and family, too.”
* * *
Standing back, well out of reach, Adriana peered through her partially opened front door. A man with a slight build and a heart-shaped face, made pointier by a patch of beard growing on the end of his chin, stood on her stoop. With large blue eyes and fine blond hair, he appeared to be no older than twenty-five, and he looked innocent, completely unthreatening. But she knew his baby face could hide more than his age. “Who are you again?” she asked.
“Dean. Dean Wheeler.”
That was the name she’d thought he said, the one Francesca had mentioned with Butch Vaughn’s on the phone last night. Knowing this man was connected to someone Francesca believed had murdered quite a few people, Adriana tightened her hand on the door handle in case she needed to slam it fast, and was glad she’d been cautious enough to leave the chain in place. Fortunately, she’d put the boys down late for their nap, so they were still sleeping, although it was close to dinnertime. Otherwise, if they were up, they’d be running around, maybe even playing in the front yard, making it very difficult for her to feel she could protect them. “Butch Vaughn’s brother-in-law?” she said.
“That’s right.” He smiled broadly. “You know Butch?”
“Francesca told me about him.”
His smile dimmed a bit. “What’d she say?”
“Not much.”
“They don’t get along,” he explained.
She let her breath ease out. “Right. She told me that.”
“Did she tell you she thinks he’s a murderer?”
How should she answer this? “Is he?” she asked.
“Oh, no. My brother-in-law can seem formidable, but he’s really not what Francesca thinks.”
The heat was beginning to overpower her air conditioner. Adriana wanted Dean to go away so she could close and lock her door—then call her husband and ask him to come home early. “I hope you’re right.”
“Did she mention me, by any chance?”
This question surprised Adriana. Why would he suppose Francesca would mention him? “Um, she said you had her purse, if that’s what you mean.”
“I don’t have it anymore. I gave it back.” The satisfaction in his voice indicated he was very pleased with himself.
“That was nice of you.”
“I’m always nice.” Craning his neck, he tried to look into the house. “Where are your kids?”
Her heart began to beat faster. “They’re not here.”
“Are they with your husband?” Dean didn’t seem in any hurry to go.
“Yes, yes, they are. But they should all be home soon. Any minute, actually.”
He turned around, studied the yard. “What does Stan do for a living?”
