Killer Heat. Brenda Novak

I saw the body!” Francesca insisted.

      Hunsacker’s eyes matched his black hair. They moved in Francesca’s direction, then darted back to Finch. “You didn’t tell her?”

      “Not yet.” Finch frowned. “I want to make sure we’re talking about the same figure and the same tarp.”

      “Should we take care of that now?”

      Finch cast a glance at Butch. At least six feet six inches tall, he towered over everybody else like a giant lumberjack or the wood carving of Daniel Boone Francesca had once seen at a campground. “In a minute. Let me talk to Mr. Vaughn.”

      Hunsacker waved them past. “Be my guest.”

      “What didn’t you tell me?” Francesca whispered as they circumvented Hunsacker.

      “You’ll see.”

      There was no opportunity to press him for an answer. She had to deal with Butch, whose animosity stabbed her like a million invisible darts.

      Refusing to be intimidated, she held her head high, but found it difficult to remain calm, especially with everyone else studying her, too. The police and paramedics watched her with open curiosity; those who weren’t with the police watched her with hostility. The people clustered around Butch had to be his family.

      “Why’d you attack my husband?” Because the paramedic stood between them, Butch’s wife came forward before Butch could, but Jonah intercepted her.

      After what she’d already been through, Francesca couldn’t help being grateful for the shield he provided. But she was determined not to show it. A few minutes ago, he was the enemy.

      “I was only defending myself,” she replied coolly. “I came here to speak with Mr. Vaughn regarding—”

      “You were what?” Butch had overheard. “Did I sneak onto your property? Was I going through your stuff? No. You had no business here.” Stepping past the paramedic, he shifted his attention to Finch and adopted a far more plaintive tone. “I didn’t mean to make her think I was dangerous. I was only trying to figure out if she was stealing from me. Or if she’d come around hoping to sell me something.” He grimaced as he raised a hand to his cheek. “Maybe I surprised her, but there was no call for violence.”

      “She gouged him good,” the paramedic volunteered.

      Francesca nearly asked the medic to butt out but chose to ignore him instead. “What about the woman you murdered and stashed under that tarp?” she demanded, speaking to Butch. “Have you told your wife about that?”

      A pained expression, one that said she must be nuts for even suggesting it, settled over features as big and bold as the rest of him. He looked like a prizefighter, bulky but powerful. His dark hair needed a good trim—the front hung down practically to his eyes, and he had a wide nose that was slightly crooked, as if it’d been broken once or twice in the past. He wouldn’t have been attractive, except that his chin was strong enough to carry off such an intensely masculine face. “There is no body.”

      Francesca had no intention of backing down. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

      The old lady Francesca had noticed before pulled away from the man who’d been consoling her. “You don’t know what you saw. My son-in-law is a wonderful person. He’d never hurt a soul.”

      Only the slight man with a fair complexion and pale blue eyes standing beside Butch’s wife seemed to look on without agitation. What was his take on this? Francesca wondered.

      Butch drew the woman back. “Elaine, stay out of it. This lady is crazy. Who else would come onto a man’s land and nearly claw his eyes out?”

      Francesca had seen what she’d done to his eye and cheek. The pepper spray can she’d thrown had split his eyebrow and she’d scratched his face. But she hadn’t blinded him, hadn’t even come close. He was exaggerating his injuries, hoping for pity. “You came after me,” she said.

      “Give me a break! Do you really think I’d look like this and you’d look as good as you do if I’d wanted to hurt you?”

      “How dare you claim I’m the one who’s at fault here!” she cried, but then she felt Jonah’s hand at the small of her back.

      “Take it easy.”

      Take it easy? She was shaking, from rage and the memory of Butch wielding that bat. He’d intended to smash in her window; he’d been that determined to reach her. What reason could he have for going to such lengths except to hurt her? If he was truly concerned that she might’ve stolen from him, he could’ve jotted down her license plate number and called the cops. He knew she wasn’t getting away with anything. She’d even left her purse behind.

      The old lady wrung her hands. “This is so wrong! I don’t understand what’s going on. Everyone knows Butch wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

      “Calm down, Elaine,” the elderly man, presumably her husband, said. “All this upset isn’t good for you.”

      It wasn’t good for anyone. Struggling to control her emotions, Francesca filtered out everyone and everything except Butch, who was spinning the tale of the afternoon’s events to his own benefit. “What have you done with it?”

      His pained expression didn’t change. “With what?”

      “With the body. I saw it there. If it’s gone, you must’ve moved it. Where?”

      “I didn’t move anything! It was a mannequin. That’s what you saw. This is a junkyard, lady. You never know what you’re gonna find.” A mannequin? Could that be true? There was nothing else remotely similar to a mannequin in the yard. For the most part, Butch collected metal. A mannequin would’ve been an unusual item, even here. But that had to be what he’d shown Hunsacker. Otherwise, Finch’s partner wouldn’t have reacted so oddly when she arrived. You didn’t tell her?

      A hard knot formed in the pit of Francesca’s stomach. “No,” she said, shaking her head. She’d smelled death, hadn’t she? Yes. Maybe. Had she imagined it?

      Spreading his arms wide, Butch appealed to the cops as if to say, See? She’s irrational.

      “Stop it!” she snapped. “You know what happened here as well as I do.”

      “And I’ve told the truth. But if you won’t believe me, come on. Let’s go take a look.”

      He was too eager to prove himself. The knot in Francesca’s stomach grew bigger.

      Investigator Finch caught Butch’s arm as he started off. “Why don’t we let Ms. Moretti do the showing?”

      Butch didn’t appreciate being touched. His gaze lowered pointedly to Finch’s hand and a muscle flexed in his cheek. But as soon as Finch released him, he laughed and shrugged. “Fine by me. She likes to make herself comfortable on other people’s property.”

      “Spare us the unnecessary commentary,” Jonah growled.

      Butch seemed to notice him for the first time. Until that moment, he’d been looking only at Francesca—at least, when he wasn’t pandering to the cops. “Who are you?” he asked with apparent disdain.

      Jonah coolly assessed Butch, as he might look at a man with whom he was about to step into the boxing ring. “Jonah Young.”

      Butch’s eyes swept over Jonah as if taking note of his smaller but more defined body, assessing him in return. “A cop?”

      “A consultant.”

      “They bring in consultants for assault cases, do they?”

      Jonah’s lips curved into a thin-lipped smile. “I’m not sure this is an assault case.”

      That shut Butch up, told him that there might be at least one person present who wasn’t buying his act. When his nostrils flared, Francesca decided he didn’t like having a skeptic, any more than