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She studied her surroundings. The fence was too high. Even if she could climb it, she’d never get past the razor wire, not dressed in a pair of linen shorts.
Wondering where Jonah was, what he was thinking, she began searching for a weak spot in the bottom of the fence where the chain-link might already be bent or she could bend it enough to slide underneath. She wanted to get out of here on her own, would rather not put Jonah in the awkward position of having to come after her. But there was a chance she wouldn’t be able to avoid it. She couldn’t let Butch wake up tomorrow to find her here.
Deciding she might be able to create an opportunity along the back, far from most of the lights and myriad pathways that led through the cars, car parts and other salvaged items, she slipped deeper into the yard. But reaching the back fence was tricky. Butch obviously used this area to discard the stuff he wasn’t all that interested in. She had to skirt past piles of sharp metal chunks and pieces, tramp over old toasters and other appliances and push some rusty bicycles out of the way.
When a sticky web clung to her legs, she almost screamed. Black widows spun sticky, stretchy webs like that, and they loved the desert. Tarantulas and scorpions lived here, too. So did the most poisonous of all spiders, the wolf spider…
No telling what she might encounter out here in the dark, but she brushed off the web and continued. She had to get out of here, couldn’t let fear stop her for even a second.
The back fence wasn’t in good repair like the fence toward the front. Even in the low light filtering to the ground from the closest pole, she could see that it had been patched in several places. But those patches seemed solid. And the chain-link didn’t stop when it met the ground. Using the head of a shovel, which she found in a pile of rubbish behind her, she began to dig to see how far it extended and realized it was buried at least a foot.
Butch had this yard secured like Fort Knox. Why? Could he really be that frightened someone would steal scrap metal? She knew it had value. Some thieves went so far as to tear the copper plumbing out of new homes if they weren’t properly protected. But what Butch had in the yard wasn’t made of copper and it wasn’t that easy to haul away.
Rocking back on her heels, she let her breath go in an exhausted sigh. That fence went down too far for her to get beneath it. Digging wasn’t an option. It’d take all night to get that deep, especially in such hard, rocky soil.
She had to find a pair of bolt or wire cutters to cut the bolt on the gate. Thinking that was now her best option, she headed toward Butch’s office and the sheds nearby, where she thought he probably stored his tools—and almost missed the panties lying on the ground. Even when she saw them, their significance didn’t immediately register. She was several steps beyond them when she realized what they were and turned back.
Sure enough, the panties—presumably the same ones Paris had been carrying earlier—were only a few feet from Butch’s office. Paris must’ve dropped them, or thrown them at him while they were arguing.
Francesca curved her fingernails into her palms. Should she take them? She had to, didn’t she? They wouldn’t be admissible as evidence if Butch was brought to trial, but she couldn’t risk leaving them behind in case they disappeared forever. What if they belonged to yet another victim from the Dead Mule Canyon site? If the police could establish that, they’d know Butch was their guy.
Repelled at what might’ve happened to the woman who’d once owned those panties, and careful not to destroy DNA evidence, she bent and very gingerly put them in her pocket. Butch was such a poseur, with all his talk about Paris and how she didn’t care about his extramarital affairs. She cared, all right. Francesca had heard enough from Paris to be certain of that. She’d also noted his girlfriend’s name—Kelly Martin—and planned to talk to her as soon as possible. Since he’d supposedly broken up with Kelly, and been violent with her on at least one occasion, maybe she wouldn’t be quite as loyal as Paris. Maybe she possessed information that could assist the investigation and would be willing to talk.
Francesca pictured the insolent grin Butch had worn while shoveling all that bullshit her way in his office. “You’re such a liar,” she muttered, but then she heard a dog bark and felt every nerve go on high alert.
Unless that noise came from somewhere outside the fence, she had company.
* * *
Had Butch meant to lock Francesca in or out? Jonah couldn’t say. He only knew that if she was inside the salvage yard, she didn’t stand much chance of getting out on her own. He’d seen prison yards that would be easier to break out of. He planned to help her, but in order to do that he had to find her first—before Butch did.
Hoping that she’d come to the fence and stay put, he began walking the perimeter. He’d only gone a few steps, however, when he heard Butch and Paris on the porch with a dog and felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Jonah wouldn’t have been half as worried, except the dog wasn’t some friendly pooch. It was the mean Doberman that’d been chained up in the yard before.
“Shit,” he muttered, and froze, waiting to see what Butch would do.
“You can’t turn Demon out on her!” Paris trailed after her husband.
He sure as hell better not, Jonah told himself, but Butch seemed intent on doing just that.
“It’s not my fault if she trespasses on my property and gets attacked by my dog when I’m in for the night.”
“They’ll make it your fault,” Paris argued. “She’s a police officer!”
Jonah’s muscles tensed. Damn it!
“No, she’s not,” Butch said. “She’s a private investigator who’s not even from this area. She has no business here. And now she’ll pay the price. I’m well within my rights. She’s been warned before, and she already has a history of harassing me. I’ve got the scabs on my cheek to prove it.”
Jonah grabbed hold of the chain-link fence. Surely Butch wouldn’t really turn the dog loose, not in front of his wife, and with his whole family in the house—or would he?
Maybe he thought that would be the perfect cover.
Or he knew they’d stick by him, regardless.
Gazing up at the razor wire on top of the fence, Jonah felt his heart knock against his chest. How would he save Francesca if Butch sicced that dog on her? A dog like that could kill her in minutes, long before he could scale the fence.
“Butch, please,” Paris begged. “If Demon hurts her, they’ll put him down. You don’t want to risk his life. You love that dog. Just call the police. Hunsacker told you that if you mind your own business, this’ll all blow over. I heard him.”
Hunsacker had said that? Telling their number-one suspect to lie low wasn’t exactly sabotaging the investigation, but Jonah didn’t like the sound of it. It smacked too much of divided loyalties. Or did Hunsacker’s words bother him because he feared they might lull Butch into thinking he had an ally, into believing he might be able to get away with something like this?
