this?”
They both shook their heads. “No, we haven’t.”
Shit, Win. As much as she hated it, she was actually worried for him.
She excused herself to use the restroom, giving Baldwin an “I’m fine” look as she left. She crossed the parquet floors, the heels of her boots thudding dully. She stopped at the glass-fronted fireplace for a moment, warming her hands and watching a thoroughly New York woman who was lingering briefly at the entrance to the restaurant so she could be admired. Glossy black hair, dark jeans tucked into chocolate suede boots, a white cashmere scarf wound around her neck-Taylor blinked and the chic girl was in motion, whipping the scarf off, coat and sunglasses gone, and she was across the room and being greeted by her party. Effortless. Not a word Taylor often used to describe herself.
The hotel’s asymmetrical floor-to-ceiling windows, frosted glass with leaves pressed between the panes and the occasional cobalt square, looked out onto Lexington Avenue, which was teeming with people getting ready for the holidays. Even the cars and buses and police cruisers radiated good will. The hustle and bustle of the city was depressing Taylor. There was something sinister about this place now. Just knowing that Edward Delglisi, L’Uomo, was involved with her father in any infinitesimal way horrified her. She wondered if Win was still alive, wondered if he was in hiding from something bigger than them all. If Mars had been a target, it stood to reason Win was, too.
She used the restroom and returned to her seat. They’d been talking about her; the conversation ended abruptly as she sat down. To cover her discomfort, she took a bite of the pear, amazed at its sweetness, the grainy texture welcome in her now-tart mouth.
Callahan looked at Taylor strangely, obviously trying to imagine what it must be like for an upstanding cop to have a father who was associating with the lowest of lowlifes. Her brows knitted as if she couldn’t quite make the leap. Taylor decided to save her the trouble.
“Win Jackson has been a crook since day one, Emily. Don’t worry yourself over it. This is all gelling for me. Now, if we could just wrap up the Snow White case. Baldwin, was there any more news about the Macias girl?”
Eldridge nearly jumped out of his chair. “What Macias girl? What are you talking about?”
Taylor raised an eyebrow. “We had a girl go missing last week, during the height of all the Snow White killings. Fit the vic profile for the Snow White. Her name is Jane Macias.”
“Holy shit!” Callahan and Eldridge exchanged looks. Taylor held her hands up.
“What, what is it? Do you know where she is?”
Eldridge had gotten pale. “No, but I know who she is. She’s a reporter, was a reporter, at least. Did some articles last year about Delglisi’s operation. Her dad owned a restaurant up here, in Little Italy. It’s the same old story-Delglisi’s goons hit the place up, offering protection. Macias said no way in hell. They made it clear that if he wanted to stay open, he’d comply. He must have gone along with it eventually. They usually do. About a year ago, Macias had an accident. Slipped and fell in the kitchen of the restaurant, managed to get the knife he was carrying buried to the hilt in his stomach. His daughter found him.
“Word on the street was he tried to get out, and Delglisi ordered his murder. Jane Macias was working for the New York Times, a junior cub reporter. She bylined a story about the corruption in the restaurant business, how the foreign mobs are taking over the city.”
“Where’s the mother?”
“The Maciases were divorced. She’s remarried, name is Ayn Christani. I don’t think she lives in the city, though I remember something about her moving to Boston a few years back. So Jane has gone missing in Nashville? What’s she doing there?”
“She’s working for the Tennessean, our daily. She disappeared last week and she fits the profile. We’ve been assuming all along that she’s a casualty, that we just haven’t found her yet. But with this new information, it seems like we’re off base. Delglisi’s cleaning house.”
Taylor thought about Frank Richardson, and the photos of Jane Macias. Her father. That silky voice who promised to hurt her if she didn’t look the other way. Anger built in her chest.
She looked at Baldwin. It was time to go home.
Forty-Two
Baldwin made a quick series of calls. One to the FBI offices in New York that handled money laundering and RICO matters, one to the pilot of the FBI plane sitting at the ready at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, the closest private airport to Manhattan. He arranged for a car service to pick them up, then they checked out of the hotel.
Standing on the sidewalk waiting for the car to arrive, Taylor mentally replayed the taped message from the cell phone. Her father’s voice. God, she hadn’t heard it in so long. It had been so easy to go along with everyone’s assumptions that he was dead. To ignore the sense of wrongness in her gut. But the voice on the tape certainly seemed to dispel that theory.
What in the world could her father have to do with Edward Delglisi? Was Burt Mars the key?
She must have made some sort of noise, because Baldwin quickly hung up his cell phone and took her hand in his.
“Want to talk about it?”
She smiled.
“I don’t even know where to begin. There’ve been a few revelations this morning, haven’t there? I’m just trying to understand Jane Macias’s role in this. I can’t imagine it’s a coincidence. Can you?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. What if Snow White took her purposefully to calm things down between him and Delglisi? Jane may be a tool to broker peace. If someone is killing in Snow White’s name, under his sanction, but went against the plan and hit the massage parlor, Jane could have been taken to appease Delglisi. Deliver the girl who caused him trouble, get on his good side. Trade one for the other?”
“That’s…who knows. Might be what’s going on. But how does my father play into all of this? Do you think he’s working with Delglisi?”
Baldwin ran a hand through his hair. “Yes. I think you need to prepare yourself that he may be involved with Delglisi.”
A black Lincoln slid to the curb, and the driver came around to greet them. He got them settled and pulled away. He spoke over his shoulder as he tapped the horn and jerked the wheel, a perfect imitation of a taxi driver, just wearing a black suit and driving a nicer vehicle.
“Sorry, boss, but we’ve got to take the tunnel. There’s some sort of protest going on at the GW bridge, traffic’s all backed up. Won’t take but half an hour, boss, promise.”
Taylor looked out the window, watching as they passed by all the familiar landmarks, Rockefeller Center, Times Square, on to the West Side before they hit the Lincoln Tunnel exit. She was astounded, as always, by the sheer number of people moving through the city at any given time. Gone was the oppressive night. She wondered how long that was going to last. She put her head back against the soft leather and closed her eyes, finally answering.
“You may be right, Baldwin, but I hope to God you’re not.”
Baldwin’s phone rang as they boarded the Gulf-stream. He answered, then turned to Taylor, who was already seated with a cup of tea in her hand.
“It’s Lincoln.”
She took the phone, a smile actually reaching her eyes. “Hey, Linc. How’s it going?”
“Taylor, we’ve been missing you, girl. Are you on your way home?”
“We just closed the doors on the jet and the plane is moving. We’ll be there in a couple of hours. What’s happening back there?”
“Well, I’ve been doing some snooping around. Found a connection you might be interested in. It’s about our missing girl, Jane Macias.”
