She rolled her eyes at him. “I’ll pass you the pages.” She opened the file. “Okay, Frank. Show me what was so important that it cost you your life.”
Black and white. Frank Richardson was a journalist. He had deep contacts, many people he could turn to if he needed a confirmation. He was old-school-two sources or he wouldn’t go to print. His diligence had won him the Pulitzer. And a seasoned journalist like Frank Richardson would have hit upon this immediately. The paperwork didn’t lie.
Anthony Malik was indeed Edward Delglisi.
There was more. Buried seven pages into the printouts, which were covered in scribbles, block capital letters and speculations, most of which they’d already figured out, there were three words. Two words, really, and a phone number.
Sex. Video. 212-555-3457.
She went back to the page and read it again, and again. She handed it to Baldwin. His eyes lit up.
“Call the number. Put it on speaker.”
She dialed, and they sat back. A prerecorded voice cut through the air. “You’ve reached the offices of New York State Attorney General Conrad Hawley. Our offices are now closed.”
Taylor clicked the phone off. That was all they needed to hear. She and Baldwin shared a long look. The shit was about to hit the fan.
She stood and stretched. “I’ve got to get out of here. Let’s walk.”
He followed her out and they left the building, trudging up to Second Avenue until they came to the Hooters on the corner.
“This’ll work,” she said, and they went in. “I’m hungry, anyway. Let’s get a couple of beers and burgers and talk this out.”
They ordered and Taylor waited until she had a beer in her hand to talk again.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Frank wasn’t killed because he discovered Edward Delglisi is Anthony Malik. He was killed because he tracked the whole sordid business to a significant person, someone who could hurt and be hurt. Saraya Gonzalez told me she was filmed having sex with very important men. If all of this is true, if Frank’s theory is right, there might actually be a highly inflammatory videotape showing the attorney general of New York State having nonconsensual sex with an illegal immigrant named Saraya Gonzalez. That might be enough to kill a few people to get hold of. If Delglisi, sorry, Malik had that tape, and was holding it over the A.G.’s head-”
“And someone else got their hands on it-”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
“One problem. Where would this mythical tape be?”
“That’s the last piece of the puzzle. I think I might know. The massage parlor that the Snow White copycat hit. We seized a ton of pictures and video. I’m assuming that there’s going to be more than a few compromising shots among the evidence. If one of them was Conrad Hawley, I’d say we’ve discovered Malik’s ace in the hole.”
“And now we know why he wanted you to turn your head. This is big, Taylor. Bigger than us. I’ve got to let Garrett know. He can work with the team of agents who have been tracking Malik, get them involved in this.”
Their food arrived and she took a big bite of her burger instead of answering. Win Jackson’s voice ran through her head. Then Malik’s joined the fray. Before she could stop herself, she was back in the memory of the party. The image of the four men flashed in her mind. Some fog had cleared; she saw the light, the reflection, the men, gathered at the foot of the stairs, laughing, and the man coughing…
Their names came to her in turn. Anthony Malik, Burt Mars, Win Jackson and the man with the signet ring… Fortnight.
“That’s it!” she screamed. Eric Fortnight. How had it not come to her before now? No matter, that was Snow White’s real identity.
“What, what?” Baldwin nearly upset his pint glass.
“Eric Fortnight. That’s Snow White’s real name, Baldwin, I’m sure of it. Oh my God, it was right there in front of me all the time. The memory I keep having, of the New Year’s Eve party. Eric Fortnight was the man wearing the signet ring. His wife’s name was Carlotta. She was German or something, foreign. Very dramatic. I think she was actually some kind of countess or something. She was wearing my mother’s costume.”
Taylor shut her eyes to better access her recall. “Carlotta Fortnight. She died. She died giving birth, I remember that now. My mother was horrified, that’s why I don’t have any siblings. Dad always wanted another kid. Kitty was having nothing of it. There were all kinds of rumors at the time. The child was sick, I think. I don’t know if it lived or not. I think they might have had another kid, too. But Carlotta definitely died. And Baldwin? She had long black hair and always, always wore bright red lipstick.”
“Are you sure?” Baldwin asked, but Taylor was already out of her seat and tossing money onto the table.
“Yes, I’m sure. Baldwin, I know where he lives.”
They ran the three blocks back to the homicide offices, both on their respective cell phones. Taylor was talking to Price, asking him to assemble the SWAT team, and Baldwin was talking to Garrett, apprising him of the new information Frank Richardson had uncovered. If they knew who Snow White was, it negated a large part of the role Win Jackson would need to play in their game to take down Anthony Malik. They needed to reset the strategy, make sure they could still trade the name for Win Jackson.
The homicide offices were buzzing with life when they burst through the doors, out of breath and chilled. Price was there, Fitz had returned from the Renaissance, Lincoln and Marcus were standing by her office door. All four men were smiling.
“We have a surprise for you.” Lincoln beamed.
“Okay.” Taylor stopped. “Surprise me.”
Marcus threw open the door, and Taylor looked in. There was a girl inside, dressed in blue police-issue sweats, her black hair pulled into an unruly ponytail.
“Taylor, meet Jane Macias.”
Forty-Eight
Nashville, Tennessee Tuesday, December 23 8:30 p.m.
They had the house surrounded. Taylor was right behind the SWAT detail, ready to make entry with them. She hoped for an easy arrest but was prepared for the worst. Who knew what kind of fortification Snow White had put in place? And if L’Uomo had warned him of an imminent betrayal…no, that wouldn’t have happened. If her theory was correct, Malik was furious with Fortnight for letting his apprentice hit the massage parlor, killing two of Malik’s girls and allowing the videotapes to fall into the hands of the police. Fortnight no longer mattered to Malik. They had nothing to lose.
Taylor gave the go sign and the black-clad human weapons flooded the estate.
The apprentice had secreted himself in the bushes toward the back of the estate while he staunched the flow of blood from his side. It was an easy wound to treat, not terribly deep. The bullet had grazed him, startling him with the intensity of the pain. That fucking blind imbecile had shot him and ruined his plans. He knew he was well hidden; no one could see him behind the dead log in these woods, despite there being no leaf cover. The bleeding had nearly stopped when he heard the fury start, the cars, the silent footsteps, the hushed commands. They knew. They’d found them. He must move now if he had any hope of escape.
The girl, Jane, must have led them here. He knew it was a horrific mistake to leave her alive after that first night. He had begged to be allowed to kill her. It was more than the release; she was a liability. Snow White had refused. He wanted to play with this one, to reclaim some of his former glory. But he wasn’t strong enough to hold a knife, much less his own dick.
Once Snow White realized who she was, well, the whole plan fell apart. The shit hit the fan with that New
