Page 54 of Fatal Strike
“Deal. Can’t picture you in a dress anyway.”
She widened her eyes. “As if I never wear one? Keep it up and I’ll find the right moment to use you for target practice.”
The teasing and the bantering relaxed her, and she needed a stress reliever. Would she grow tired of Jon’s company? She shouldn’t dwell on the other possibility. An update alerted her, and she read it aloud. “The barista at Warren Livingston’s shop is clean.”
“One more person to cross off our list.” Jon pulled his truck into the driveway of the Greer home. A corner lot on a country road. A pasture with a few horses on one side of the property and thick woods on the other. The one-story home looked like it was built in the seventies with recent updates to incorporate a tin roof and front porch.
She and Jon greeted a dog of mixed variety and rang the doorbell. A slender woman with light-brown hair checked their identification and invited them inside to a living room that held a restored upright piano and family photos.
Once seated and past the pleasantries, Leah opened the conversation. “Our condolences in the loss of your husband.”
Mrs. Greer pressed her lips together. “Thank you. Zachary, I mean Chief of Police Everson, told me you might call.”
“Yes, ma’am. Agent Colbert and I have reviewed his report. Your husband and Judge Mendez had been friends for years.”
“Since they were kids.” A slight smile met them.
“Were you friends with Rachel Mendez?”
“Not really. We run in different circles. I’m more of the country type. Mrs. Mendez is a fine woman and has contributed much to the community.”
“Were you friends with Marcia Trevelle?”
“Our mothers were close friends, and although I was older, she became a dear friend.”
“I’m sorry for your losses.”
“Some moments are harder than others. Zachary told me he didn’t think our closeness had a thing to do with the murders. Anyway, you have a job to do, and I’m grateful, thankful to God, there are people like you to keep killers off the streets.”
“Your husband was a courageous man. I’m sure you’re proud of him.” Leah stole a look at Jon. “I see you have two teenage daughters. How are they holding up?”
“Not well. Their father and Marcia were dear to them, too. We have a family reunion in October, and I can’t bear the thought of going without Ian. Promise me you’ll find who’s killed good people.”
“We won’t give up until we do. Can you tell me if your husband, Ms. Trevelle, and the judge were investigating a case together?”
“They did work together and shared like interests. Give me a minute to think.” She tapped her chin several times. “They usedto meet for breakfast. For the past month or more, those breakfasts were more frequent, twice a week. I was thinking about it yesterday and wondered if there could be a thread that I needed to mention to Zachary. My Ian was restless, preoccupied.”
“Did he mention what they’d been discussing?”
“Ian seldom told me about a case. I learned more from the media than my own husband. He didn’t want to worry me.”
“He must have cared for you very much.”
On their way back to Houston, Jon cleared his throat, and Leah waited for him to speak. “So we’ve confirmed Ian Greer, Marcia Trevelle, and Judge Mendez met for breakfast periodically, no doubt to discuss whatever they were investigating.”
“And apparently kept these meetings and what they might have discussed secret—even from their spouses. Do you think Everson knows anything more than what he’s told us?”
“I think he would have shared it.” Jon continued. “Will Rawlyns could have ordered a hit from his cell.”
“He didn’t strike me as the type to exact vengeance in this way.” But Rawlyns’s cryptic comment about rattlers lingered in Leah’s mind.
“If he isn’t responsible, we’re back to square one: find Dylan Ortega.”
36
JON UNLOCKED THE DOORto his home, dark and empty. Some days he wished for a dog, but the animal would starve on Jon’s schedule. His ten-acre gentleman’s farm south of Houston held a stocked pond, thick woods, and lots of wildlife. The quietness usually soothed him, helped him unwind and think through critical information. Tonight, restlessness poured into his bloodstream. Dylan Ortega remained at large. Elena James was missing. Aaron Michaels was dead. Landon Shaw, a newly identified player, also lay in the morgue. A message on Jon’s phone reported the speedboat from the Venenos’ escape had been found in a vacant slip—and was reported stolen earlier in the week.
Jon’s inability to make progress on the case reminded him of an out-of-control wildfire, and more people were bound to behurt or killed. A mother who was frantic. A priest who wanted to save the world. Not good signs.
