No One Heard Her Scream

The FBI's National Crime Information Center contained computerized criminal justice information, available to law enforcement twenty-four/seven. And the state's Automated Fingerprint Indexing System had been created to store fingerprints from a myriad of sources, from the private to public sector. AFIS also linked with a national repository system maintained by the FBI, allowing law enforcement to perform national criminal record searches— all in the spirit of cooperation. But not every state participated in the effort. So even with the high-tech assistance, criminals still fell through the crack in this multijurisdictional computerized world. Becca made a note of Galvan's name in her casebook.

'I'll send over my findings. Anything else you need on this?' Sam asked.

As Becca listened, her request for the archived missing persons cases arrived. Two boxes were shoved onto a corner of her desk. After adding her initials to a receipt log, she smiled and waved to the delivery kid, keeping up her end of the conversation.

'No. Thanks for the quick turnaround. I'll do a little more digging on my own. Later.'

Now she had a name. Becca would cross-check it against other data sources to get a better picture of the man. She knew her search for Diego Galvan should take a backseat to the old case files, but it had become personal—and she knew it. Instead of going through the boxes right away, she got back on her computer, hoping to find greater insight into her mystery man. An hour later, she was no closer to answers.

'Damn it!' Another blind alley in her research into Galvan's background.

Becca justified the search as part of the case, but in her heart, she knew the truth. His dark eyes haunted her, dared her to dig deeper. The more Galvan eluded her, the more she dug, letting her stubborn streak get the better of her.

A New Jersey driver's license and two credit cards went back six years or so. Prior to that, he was a ghost. Becca peeled away layer after layer, and still she couldn't get a glimpse of any pertinent history. His tax records might reveal something, but that would take time to retrieve and a warrant signed by a federal judge. For a person of interest, she didn't have enough reason to justify the intrusion into his background, so she remained focused on the data at hand. No traffic citations or warrants outstanding. She had already learned that his current vehicle was registered in the name of Global Enterprises, but so was his insurance. Nothing to trace there. And to add to her frustration, for every record she uncovered, Becca found a different post office box.

The guy lived in plain sight but off the grid.

'You're good, Diego. Real good. Did Cavanaugh finance your disappearing act or someone else? Top-notch stuff.'

After running his prints without a hit, Becca had been stymied. His lack of a criminal record surprised her the most. She felt certain he had spent some quality time at the gray bar hotel, maybe under a different name. A jaded cop's instincts. But she came up empty.

'You haven't beaten me yet, Galvan,' she muttered. 'But I've almost got enough to pay a call on your benefactor, Hunter Cavanaugh.'

Still, a persistent question lingered in her mind. What was the purpose of Diego Galvan's warning against Cavanaugh? He had known who she was and staged the whole thing, right down to her late-afternoon addiction to cappuccino with cinnamon. A part of her hoped he might make an interesting ally, if it came to it. But she knew better than to be so gullible. In her line of work, trust had to be earned.

Heading north on I-10, Diego Galvan watched the late-afternoon sun glisten on the surface of a man-made lake at the gated entrance to The Dominion, a prestigious residential area located northwest of San Antonio. Mist from a shooting fountain cast a rainbow across a bridge made of Cantera stone. A beautiful setting, but one he'd grown to resent. Seeing it meant he was twenty minutes from the private estate of Hunter Cavanaugh. He tightened his jaw as his stomach churned. No matter how idyllic the scene, he reacted with his usual conditioned reflex, like one of Pavlov's dogs at the ring of a bell.

Get over it. You asked for this gig.

On the last leg of the trip, vast ranchlands stretched across the interstate, bordered by mesquite trees, sagebrush, and miles of barbed wire. Cattle lolled by flowing creeks, with abandoned hay bales weathering in the sun—the hill country of Texas in all its glory. But as a hawk made lazy swirls in a cloudless sky, held aloft by an updraft, Diego found himself envious of the bird's freedom. It reminded him of the police detective who'd seen through his subterfuge.

He knew by his outward appearance, most people would see affluence and success. The carefully orchestrated facade, conjured up by Cavanaugh, reflected more on him than Diego. Yet the colorful plumage of the rooster hadn't fooled Detective Rebecca Montgomery. Although he'd been pleased by her intellect, her honest insight had been an embarrassment. And he was to blame for that.

'Very perceptive, Rebecca.' Saying her name aloud summoned a memory of her face—spirited eyes, flawless skin, and lips that aroused his blood even now.

Don't go there, Galvan. The woman deserves better.

Jaw tight and eyes glued on the road ahead, Diego gripped the steering wheel of the Mercedes. He had taken the long way home, needing time to think. Rebecca's words stung like tequila poured into a gaping wound with a lime-and-salt chaser. If she hadn't been dead-on with her assessment, he might have laughed it off.

'Looks like he's made a hefty down payment on his investment,' she had said.

The attractive detective sized him up as a man who could be bought. Diego couldn't argue the point. Her sentiments reflected the dread in his own gut. The wealth surrounding him had taken some time to get used to. But now, the attached strings weighed heavy—an anchor around his neck. Somewhere along the way, he had turned a blind eye to his conscience, in complete denial of how much he'd changed over the years. Every day, a darker side of him emerged—and he had yet to draw the line. He'd convinced himself he couldn't afford to. So much had changed, Diego wasn't sure he could find his way back from the precipice. His only way out might involve a treacherous leap.

He turned onto Citadel Drive, minutes from the elaborate front gates of the Cavanaugh estate. A mantle of oak trees gave an air of timelessness to the shaded driveway dappled by the sun. His cell phone rang as he picked up speed. Diego reached into the pocket of his suit and glanced at the display.

With a grimace, he answered. 'Galvan.'

'I expected a report before now.' Low and intimate, the voice of Hunter Cavanaugh raised the hair on the back of his neck. 'Where are you?'

He thought for a moment and said what came to mind.

'I get paid to be thorough . . . not to report to you every five minutes like some mindless sycophant.' One day, Diego knew his sarcasm would get him killed. And it would probably be at the hands of the man on the other end of the line. With reluctance, he responded to the question. 'I'll be there in five minutes.'

Dead silence. Finally, a raspy whisper came through the cell phone.

'Why do you continually try my patience? One of these days, I might surprise you and grant your death wish, Diego.'

'If you put me out of my misery, people might think you've grown soft.'

The breathing on the other end of the line changed. A low, menacing noise turned into full-blown laughter, devoid of any real humor. Diego pictured the older man's face, aristocratic features tainted by fierce eyes of ice blue.

'You still amuse me, but don't take that for granted.' The contempt was hard to miss. 'I want a full report when you get here.'

The line went dead.

'What the hell are you thinking, Galvan?' he muttered, dropping the cell phone onto the passenger seat.

A death wish? An astute observation. For him to deal with Cavanaugh, a death wish made the job interesting, like playing catch using a live grenade. Yet, at some point, his insane game would come to an abrupt end. Diego could accept the consequences with only his life on the line. But Detective Rebecca Montgomery posed a problem.

She'd confront Cavanaugh on the arson fire, no wiser than dangling a red bandanna in front of a deranged