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Francesca peered around a stack of bumpers in time to see Paris shake her head. “You don’t get it. You have no idea what’s at stake here. What you’ve done,” she said, and started off again.
“Francesca Moretti, the police, they have nothing on me,” he called after her.
“That doesn’t mean they’ll stop trying to get something.”
“They’re wasting their time.”
“Tell that to the people who are watching our house right now.”
He jogged after her, but she kept going. “What are you talking about?”
Pivoting to face him, she said, “We’re under surveillance, Butch. My parents called after I hung up with Kelly or whoever that was. They said the van I spotted when I was with them earlier is back, less than a quarter of a mile away.”
He glanced around. “Where?”
“There.” She pointed in the direction of the van, even though it was too dark to see. “It has two people inside, watching our place, waiting for you to make a mistake. And having them there is driving me crazy.”
“That’s it.” Grabbing a piece of lead pipe from a pile of rubbish, Butch hurried through the gate.
“Butch? Wait! What are you going to do?”
He didn’t answer.
Francesca would’ve hurried out right after him. Now that he knew about the van, he’d start looking for its missing occupants. Anyone would. She needed to get off the property. But Paris stood by the open gate, crying as she gazed after her husband.
* * *
As soon as he saw Butch coming out of the salvage yard, Jonah dropped to the ground. He preferred to avoid a confrontation, if possible. All he wanted to do was find Francesca and get the hell out of there, but that was much more difficult than he’d expected. Although he’d circled the property three times, he hadn’t yet found her. And he was beginning to suspect the reason. If she wasn’t on the outside of the fence, and she wasn’t back at the van, she had to be in the salvage yard.
But where, exactly? And why? Didn’t she realize she was risking the whole investigation by trespassing?
As Butch disappeared into the darkness, Jonah got to his feet. But then he noticed a car approaching the house and had to drop down again so he wouldn’t be seen. Butch’s in-laws were returning; he’d watched that same vehicle leave earlier with Butch’s father-in-law at the wheel.
Shit. More anxious with every passing second, he waited for Butch’s family to go inside. He couldn’t do anything while they were out, couldn’t even get into the yard. And they weren’t the only ones in the way. The headlights of the old couple’s car silhouetted a woman standing at the gate. Paris. Jonah knew it was Butch’s wife because, once the engine died and the doors opened, she called out to her parents.
“Did you see anyone inside it?”
“Inside what?” her mother responded.
Three doors slammed. Jonah wasn’t sure who the third person was, but someone had gotten out of the backseat.
“The van,” Paris said. “The van you called me about a few minutes ago.”
Her father came around the front of the car and was the first to start across the lawn. “Not a soul.”
His wife followed him. So did the third person. The old folks blocked Jonah’s view, but he figured it had to be Dean. They must’ve picked up their son at the bus stop. They’d been gone too long for such a short errand, but they could’ve had dinner or done any number of other things while they were out.
“How close did you go?” Paris asked.
“Close enough to see that it was empty. There were people in it earlier, though. I saw them when we left. I didn’t think anything of it until the same van was there when we came back.”
“Who?” The third person’s voice confirmed his identity. It was Dean, all right. “What’s going on?”
Paris answered him. “The cops. They’re watching the place.”
“Really? Are they hoping to prove Butch killed that woman?”
“Don’t sound so excited, Dean,” she snapped.
