save them.
Now was the time. She left the hotel room with a bounce in her step, understanding innately that the old man and the young one, would need her more now than ever.
Thirty
S now White was in the midst of a coughing fit when he saw the news on the television. The Jackson bitch was missing. He caught his breath, watched the story unfold. Rubbed his hands together painfully, massaging and massaging and massaging.
He knew what had happened, of course. He couldn’t blame the boy. Jackson needed to be silenced. Things were going to come to a head now. It was just a matter of time before his apprentice’s impudence and recklessness flashed back on them all. A systemic cleansing was the only way to assure their safety.
Damn that Charlotte. It was all her fault. If she hadn’t brought the young pup, hadn’t dangled the glory of his past in front of him. She was brilliant, he gave her that. And sentimental. Finagling his ring out of police evidence and back to its rightful place on his right hand was the single nicest thing she’d ever done for him.
His crooked finger traced the outline of the magnificent ring, the crest, the ornate, raised F. It used to mean something. It was a badge of honor, of courage. It was his legacy. It gave him immutable strength, an insatiable desire to feel the life bleed from a body. He wondered about his predecessors, whether when they placed the ring upon their hand, they felt the lifeblood flowing from the metal, felt the nubile bodies calling for release.
All he knew was that when the ring was lost, so went his desire for blood. Of course, the ring was lost because he’d begun losing weight, losing strength. The disease was upon him, and he was racked with desire and no ability.
The ring was back on his finger, no danger of slipping off because of the impossible, unnatural angle of the fourth digit. He had a surrogate to stroke the feeble flesh into action once again, to slip the blade through that flesh, two hands working as one. There were moments that he was his old self.
And everything was in jeopardy now. He’d chosen poorly, allowed Charlotte to muddle his brain. His apprentice would be the death of him. He no longer cared.
He shuffled his way from the room, the cane clunking in front of him, and climbed, higher and higher into his house. There was a girl, he could smell her, taste her, and he wanted her. Nothing would stop him now. He must fulfill this destiny.
Thirty-One
Nashville, Tennessee Sunday, December 21 6:00 p.m.
T he homicide office was bustling with activity. Fitz poured out the dregs of yet another pot of coffee and made a fresh one. They’d gone through four pots in the past two hours. Everyone was wired and cranky, and despite all the artificial stimuli, tired. Marcus, forehead resting on his palm, scrolled through page after page of computer screens. Baldwin was on the phone with the airlines. No one had slept, everyone was fixated on their main lead-the limousine driver who’d pulled an international disappearing act.
Lincoln was on the phone with a contact he had in the Mazatlan area-a man he knew only as Juan. He’d met him at a forensic computing conference four or five years back. His gut feeling told him Juan wasn’t the man’s real name, but that didn’t matter now. He’d sent him an e-mail earlier in the day, asking for help. They were doing the obligatory catch-up dance before they got down to business.
“?Hola??Este Juan? Es Lincoln… Si, hombre, ha sido mucho demasiado largo… No, mi espanol no es mejor. No tenemos las mujeres aqui digno de practicar encendido.”
A bawdy laugh pulsed through the phone. “And I thought Nashville had a vibrant Latino community.” Juan’s voice was deep and cultured. Lincoln didn’t know his whole story, but thought that perhaps he’d been some sort of Argentinean or Bolivian spy. He was just too plugged in to be regular law enforcement, though he was currently serving as a chief in Mexico’s fractured police department. No, a spy would be a more romantic notion.
Lincoln answered in English, relieved to switch back to his native tongue. “We do have a lot of very fine Latinos, but they smell me out from twenty paces. No one wants to get involved with a cop, you know?”
“Ah, yes, my friend, I do. On to more important things. I have found your suspect.”
Lincoln gesticulated to the rest of the homicide office. “Juan, I’m putting you on speakerphone.” He hit the speaker button and the disembodied voice raked through the air.
“Your suspect was found on the beach. Specifically, by a cabana on the beach in front of the Pueblo Bonito Hotel. It is a very nice hotel. They did not take kindly to the intrusion, I tell you that. From a distance, it seemed he was passed out drunk on a chaise longue. Upon closer inspection, the flies gave him away.”
“He’s dead?”
“I am sorry to tell you this. His throat was cut. Very nasty. The hotel people were quite upset. They had to close their beach to their guests. He’s not been moved. Do you want him back?”
Baldwin spoke up. “This is John Baldwin. I can have an FBI forensics team on-site shortly to retrieve his body.”
“Yes, removing the body, this would be a very good idea. I believe I’d rather not know why you have a team positioned to operate so quickly so close. My government is not happy with this imposition. This is about your woman, Lincoln tells me?”
Baldwin took a step closer to the phone, his voice cracking. “Yes. This man was our only lead.”
“There will be other leads, amigo. Do not lose hope.”
Baldwin sat heavily in the chair by Lincoln’s desk. Lincoln shot him a look, then picked up the handset, ending the speaker connection. “Thank you for your help, Juan. I appreciate it.”
“I’m sure there will be an opportunity to repay the kindness. Adios, mi amigo. Espero que encuentres las conchas dulces y calientes. ”
It took Lincoln a moment; he repeated a few words aloud. Baldwin looked at Lincoln and for the first time in hours, cracked a smile. Juan had very crudely wished Lincoln warm and wet sexual encounters.
Lincoln finally got the gist of what Juan had said, laughed and hung up the phone. He looked at Baldwin, who had gone back to his original position, his head in his hands.
“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”
“I dabble in several languages. Just so you know, your friend isn’t Mexican.” His tone didn’t brook an invitation to find out more. Lincoln took the hint, tried another tack.
“I’ve suspected that for a while. Is there someone in particular you’d like me to get in touch with to get this taken care of?”
Baldwin raised his head, a slight glisten in his green eyes. “No, that’s okay. Let me make the call. I know the team leader down there, he’s working the Juarez case. He’s vacationing in Puerto Vallarta for Christmas, he can get everything squared away for us quietly.” He stood, then gestured apologetically toward Taylor’s office door. No one said anything. What was there to say? Baldwin nodded slowly, a man condemned. He went into her office and closed the door behind him.
He refused to crack. She would be so pissed at him if he fell apart now. He sat on the guest side of her desk; couldn’t bring himself to take her chair. The office smelled of her, lemongrass and gun oil. He shook it off, dialed the number. Garrett Woods answered his cell on the first ring.
“Baldwin, is there news?”
“Nothing good. We’ve tracked down the limo driver. He’s dead on a beach in Mazatlan. Throat cut. Think you can finesse it for me? Burke Webb is down in Puerto Vallarta, he can manage it, I’m sure. The Pueblo Bonito Hotel.”
“Of course. I’ll get on it immediately.” There was the sound of a pen scratching on paper and a few snaps of his fingers. His voice dropped an octave. “How are you? Seriously. Are you holding up?”
There was no bullshitting Garrett. “As best I can. I can’t imagine that she’s really gone. I have to keep hoping
