tared at the phone in his hand. Rage, his constant companion these days, wormed through his brain. He climbed to his feet and walked to the window. It was getting dark and he was restless, had to do something. Anything. He just couldn’t sit around this motel room another second.
Snagging his keys from the top of the desk, he headed outside to the parking lot where the security lamps were humming and insects hovered near the bulbs. The heat of the day hung heavy in the air, with no breath of a breeze to bring down the temperature. As people walked in and out of El Ranchito, Latin music and conversation drifted into the night.
Travis paused at his truck and looked across the street. The silver Ford Taurus was missing, the detectives assigned to watch him having been pulled off the case. Or…His gaze swept the surrounding area, half-expecting to see another unmarked vehicle parked in the shadows.
None was visible and he didn’t really care anyway.
He eyed the spot where Mary Beth Flannery so recently had rested her hips against her husband’s silver sports car, the key dangling from her finger, the threat of violence in her eyes.
A few hours later, after leaving with Robert, she’d been killed, her house torched and Dani’s backpack left at the scene of the crime.
Why?
What the hell did Dani have to do with Robert Flannery’s wife? Shannon’s sister-in-law?
Shannon.
Dani’s mother.
Travis expelled a slow breath. She’d been on his mind from the moment he’d met her. He’d wanted to hate her. To distrust her. To prove that she’d somehow been involved with the stealing of his child. But that wasn’t the case. Oh, she was involved all right, but at a different level. She, too, was a victim, if what he’d witnessed here in California could be believed.
Things aren’t what they seem, you know that. Don’t trust her, just use her.
The muscles in the back of his neck tightened. For a second he saw her as she’d been this afternoon: sunlight touching her green eyes, her slightly sexy smile—a smile that showed off a hint of white teeth—on lips that glistened a soft pink. She was intelligent, determined and confident as she’d worked with the dog. Travis had noticed the way her jeans had pulled over her buttocks as she’d squatted near the rescue dog. He’d been way too conscious of the skin on her lower back as her shirt had lifted to show just a tantalizing hint of flesh.
It seemed improbable, or even damned impossible, that he should be attracted to her, given the situation. So she was beautiful. Hadn’t he learned his lesson about gorgeous women? Hadn’t Jenna Hughes slam-dunked him? And this…The mother of his kid, this was out of the question.
Just use her.
He shook his head. It seemed not only unfair but unwise. She was still recovering from a beating, the bruises on her face not yet disappeared. She’d been through so much in her life and she was trying desperately to help him find his child. Wasn’t she? Certainly it wasn’t an act. But he couldn’t be certain. Though he no longer believed she was a part of Dani’s abduction, she was still certainly a player, albeit unwilling.
Shannon Flannery was the link.
So use her…You know she’s attracted to you. You felt it today, didn’t you? Don’t wimp out.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled, feeling a bit of sweat along his forehead. He kicked at a pebble, sent it careening into the hubcap of a dented minivan.
Angry with the world and himself, Travis climbed into his truck, fired up the engine and pointed the nose of the pickup toward the street where traffic, thinning with the night, rushed by.
He crammed the Ford into drive and hit the gas.
Chapter 23
Paterno switched off the ignition. Armed with as much information as he could plumb about the Carlyle and Flannery families, he, along with Rossi from the arson division, had driven to Shannon Flannery’s little ranch. He’d already interviewed all of her siblings and Mary Beth’s family and friends before calling on the infamous widow of Ryan Carlyle.
In his mind all the crimes were linked. The old Stealth Torcher business, Ryan Carlyle’s murder, Dani Settler’s abduction, the new fires and the murder of Mary Beth Flannery. As he’d looked into old information, he’d found out a few other skeletons hanging out in the Flannery and Carlyle closets, strange things that had remained unexplained for decades.
Just like the number six in the weird symbol left at the crimes, Shannon, whether she liked it or not, was at the center of what was happening.
“Let’s go,” he said to Rossi and they climbed out of his car. The grounds around the place were well-enough tended. There were lights blazing in the house, but the apartment over the garage was dark and the only vehicle he spotted was the truck registered to Shannon Flannery. He made a mental note that the guy who lived on the property, Nate Santana, wasn’t around tonight. The little ranch, though not far from town, had a serene, rural feeling. One security lamp illuminated the gravel lot where her truck was parked and several buildings rimmed the lot. One had been burned to nearly nothing, yellow crime scene tape still surrounding its perimeter. A tall barn nearby had been scorched, its paint blistering on the side nearest the charred debris, some of the windows boarded up.
Paterno walked across the lot. A dog barked from inside the house and before he reached the stoop a porch light blazed on. The door opened and a small-boned, athletic-looking woman stood in the frame. A mottled-colored, shaggy dog, every muscle tense, hackles raised, stood beside her and glared up at Paterno with mismatched eyes.
“Shannon Flannery?” he asked, flipping open his badge, keenly aware of the dog. She nodded. “Detective Paterno, Santa Lucia Police Department. This is—”
“Detective Rossi,” she said icily. “We’ve met.”
Paterno ignored the frosty glare she sent to the younger detective. “We’re investigating the death of Mary Beth Flannery. If you don’t mind, we’d like to come inside and ask you a few questions.”