The Cursed

by Heather Graham

  He didn’t say it, though. He knew he had to believe in his fellow agent’s ability to do the job.

  He realized something more than speaking with the dead had been going on that morning; Kelsey and Hannah hadn’t talked about their plan to stay, yet they had both known it. Maybe he should have, too.

  He nodded curtly. “Kelsey—”

  “You’re on speed dial, Dallas. And you’re lead. I’ll ring you before Logan if there’s the slightest reason. And remember, this is Key West. You won’t be far, just over on North Roosevelt.”

  He turned to Hannah. “Just one thing, then. Don’t let anyone in while I’m gone. Got that?” She nodded, and he said to Logan, “I’m ready, then—as soon as that patrol car sets up out front.”

  * * *

  Watch the house. Well, that was easy enough for him to do.

  Machete watched.

  And as he watched, he kept praying that his phone wouldn’t ring.

  The two men left the house, which meant the two women were alone inside. But, of course, one was armed.

  The Wolf had been making mistakes recently. Until recently he’d been in control, never setting a foot wrong. But every order he’d given lately had only made things worse. Machete could have handled it all so much better. He wouldn’t have made a commotion everywhere. He would have taken care of the undercover agent in a very different way.

  Instead, the Wolf had caused a mess.

  He was losing control.

  Machete took out his phone, which seemed to burn in his hands. He knew he should call the Wolf. He should tell him that the women were alone.

  Machete had been contemplating his situation for a while now. He’d forced himself to admit he was obsessed with Hannah O’Brien. He warned himself that, if it came to his life versus hers, he didn’t want to die.

  But he was worried. He didn’t want to end up like the man who had died on the bridge last night. It used to be that people only died if they were disloyal or if they failed.

  Now...

  Now they were all disposable. Send them out, let them die. None of it touched the Wolf.

  The Wolf was out of control.

  But...

  His phone continued to burn in his hands. Call the Wolf?

  Or just keep watching—and wait for the Wolf to call him?

  * * *

  There were at least forty officers gathered in the conference room at the station. Dallas spoke first, telling everyone how long the FBI had been tracking the Wolf and Los Lobos and how hard it had been to even know when a case involved them.

  Katie had come in early with Liam and her husband to work with a police artist and they’d created a new image of the man she was nearly certain she had seen at the bar on the night of Jose’s death and again on the ghost tour last night. Copies of the image were passed around, along with the FBI file on the case.

  When Dallas had finished presenting all the information he had, Liam stood to give his report on what the police had discovered in the wake of Yerby’s death. Every person on every dive boat that had been out at the time had been questioned. None of them had seen anything. The dive captains and the fishing charter captains had all been questioned, as well, but none of them had seen anything unusual, such as an unfamiliar craft or a dive boat anchored without a flag. Liam looked over at Dallas when he finished. “In short, everyone out there was accounted for, and none of them are our killer or killers.”

  Dallas thanked him and turned to the assembled officers again. “Someone may still know something they don’t realize they know. Use the fact that we’re a small community. Use all your relationships. Engage with both tourists and locals whenever you can. Remember, most members of Los Lobos are isolated. They communicate with the Wolf by cell phone, using a number that changes constantly, but if we can get just one person’s phone, we’ll be a few steps closer.”

  One of the officers cleared his throat, “Dave Levin, police diver,” he said. “I have a boat at the wharf—I’m berthed next to the boat our victim went out on. I also interviewed the married couple Yerby was partnered with, since she was alone on the dive. They swear she was with them when they went by the Jefferson, then, when they turned around, she was gone.”

  “And they didn’t go back for her?”

  “They didn’t realize she was missing ’til they were back on the boat. They’re pretty devastated. I told them that they’d be questioned again and they’re more than willing to help.”

  Dallas thanked him.

  A beat cop explained that, as yet, the knife Jose Rodriguez had wielded against his attacker hadn’t been found, but they were still searching the area, going through trash and brush and everything else.

  Another officer stood next to tell them he’d investigated Robert Brown, the man who’d been shot down on the bridge. Amazingly, that had turned out to be his real name. He had a record for petty theft; he’d served time but been out for over ten years. He worked occasionally on construction. His apartment, however, was on Fort Lauderdale Beach—about a hundred and fifty miles north of the scene of the accident—and cost several thousand a month. He’d been living far beyond his apparent means but wasn’t carrying any debt. Not married, no children, and—according to his neighbors—he kept to himself.

  No phone had been found on him.

  “He was probably ordered to ditch it right before the accident,” Liam noted. “And that’s one of the most important things. If you apprehend anyone suspected of being a member of Los Lobos, do anything you can to get hold of his phone.”

  “We’re sure they’re buying prepaid burner phones,” Dallas said. “But our tech experts can learn a lot from them anyway, so let’s get what we can.”

  As soon as he finished, Logan motioned to him from the rear of the room. Dallas thanked the attendees and walked over to join him.

  “Something?” he asked.

  “They’ve got him, the guy who was at the bar and on the tour. He’s in an interrogation room now—spouting his civil rights and demanding a lawyer,” Logan said. “Go see what you can get him to spill. We may not have much time if we can’t find cause to hold him.”

  * * *

  Hannah was glad she had chosen to stay at the house with Kelsey and that Dallas hadn’t fought her decision.

  She needed time to do what needed to be done business-wise, and maybe, if there was time, just try to calm down, chill out. She was determined not to analyze everything she had done or what she was feeling, not to mention what she thought she should or shouldn’t be feeling. And she definitely didn’t want to try to analyze what he was feeling. Besides, she was afraid she might not even have a future, so the analysis of anything was moot. Better just to keep moving.

  She called her service and found out that tonight’s tour was full. In fact, they’d been turning down reservations for hours. It was always popular, but her tour was the hottest thing in town these days.

  She didn’t go outside, and she and Kelsey were keeping the house locked, so they would hear anyone trying to enter.

  “I like your guy,” she told Kelsey after her cousin had done one of what she called her walk-arounds, moving through the house, checking on the patrol officer on the street and peeking out back.

  “My guy? You mean Logan?” Kelsey asked, and smiled.

  “You work so well together. Are you really going to get married?”

  “Really.”

  “You don’t wear a ring.”

  “I do.” She produced her engagement ring, which she wore on a chain around her neck. It was a beautiful stone, but a sapphire, not a diamond. Hannah noted that there was a second ring on the chain.

  “My favorite,” Kelsey said, indicating the stone.

  “Bucking tradition.”

  “Actually, I am pretty traditional. I beli
eve in marriage.”

  “And you went off and got married without telling anyone—if I’m reading this right,” Hannah said.

  “We still plan on doing something special with our friends—soon. We haven’t announced that we’re married. I think our close friends have figured it out, though.”

  “Will the FBI let you continue working together once they know you’re married?”

  Kelsey smiled and nodded. “We’re all handpicked. There are dangers, yes, and we have to follow a lot of extra procedures. But because we’re a special unit, we’re not subject to all the same rules as everyone else. Unlike the standard field office, we’re not limited to a particular territory. Since we’re an offshoot of the behavioral analysis unit, we’re on call, ready to go wherever we’re needed. And while we’re not officially ‘the unit that talks to ghosts,’ it’s common knowledge that we handle ‘special cases.’ Our director knows that people like us aren’t the norm, so he doesn’t mess with what works. Logan and I work well together.”

  “But...?”

  “But what?”

  “Do you ever feel a conflict? Like...it must rip you to pieces when you’re both in dangerous situations,” Hannah told her.

  Kelsey was thoughtful for a minute. “A little. But no job comes with a guarantee. You can play it safe and never take chances, and then a car jumps a curb and crashes through a storefront, and it kills you and half a dozen others. You can die a thousand natural deaths—hurricane, earthquake, tornado, blizzard—”

  “Falling piece of the space shuttle, asteroid collision?” Hannah said.

  “Anything can happen,” Kelsey said softly. “We had an agent survive cancer, and she was hit by a bus the week after she finished chemo. There are no guarantees. I want to make a difference and so does Logan, so...

  “Everyone in the Krewes winds up being very close. We’re different from other people, but we share that difference with each other. It’s like the kinship between robotics geeks or animal trainers or...jugglers or specialists in any field. You speak the same language. So we tend to get emotionally involved with each other. For us, it works.”

  Hannah was listening to Kelsey so intently that when she heard a knock at the front door, she nearly jumped out of her chair.

  At the same time, Kelsey’s phone rang.

  Kelsey held up a hand, warning Hannah to wait, as she answered the phone. Then she said, “That was the cop out front. He says there’s a woman at the door—an attractive blonde.”

  “Oh, hell. It’s Valeriya Dimitri,” Hannah said. “I should have called her.”

  “And Valeriya is...?” Kelsey asked.

  “My housekeeper. She usually comes mornings, and we clean up the place together. I’d like to talk to her. I haven’t spoken with her since right after I found...Jose.”

  Kelsey nodded. But she didn’t leave her gun on the table. Instead, she slid it into the back of her jeans and let her light cotton jacket hide it.

  They walked to the door together.

  Valeriya looked delicate, but she could whip through a room like no one else and change beds in the blink of an eye. Once a month, Hannah had a local cleaning crew come through to give the house a thorough going-over, but on a daily basis she and Valeriya easily handled it together.

  “Hannah!” Valeriya said, her eyes wide. “I hadn’t heard from you since—well, you know. I was starting to worry.”

  “Come in, Valeriya,” Hannah said. “This is my cousin, Kelsey O’Brien. She used to live here in Key West.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Kelsey said.

  “There’s a policeman out front,” Valeriya said. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, trust me,” Hannah assured her. But was she?

  “This is very scary,” Valeriya said. “I came to America to be safe.”

  Hannah glanced at Kelsey. Safety was in short supply at this house right now.

  “Valeriya, with everything that’s going on, you don’t need to come to work today. I don’t even have any guests other than my cousin and her fiancée. I thought she was bringing people with her, but it turns out it’s just the two of them.”

  “I heard you’re secret agents,” Valeriya said breathlessly to Kelsey.

  Word was out, Hannah thought. Key West was nothing but a small town when you got right down to it.

  Valeriya turned to Hannah. “Hannah, please. I have to work. I can’t afford my rent if I don’t work.”

  Hannah looked at Kelsey.

  “Okay, Hannah. We’ve only been using three of the bedrooms, so—”

  Valeriya smiled. “I will get to work right now.” Still beaming, she left them and went upstairs.

  “I can’t let her starve,” Hannah said when she caught Kelsey’s dubious glance.

  “No, but her behavior is pretty strange. I know you, though—you’d pay her whether or not she worked the hours.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “So why is she staying and working?”

  “Maybe she’s scared,” Hannah suggested. “She saw the body in the alley. And if she can’t make a living and has to leave the island, I’ll be in trouble when this is over and I start taking guests again,” Hannah said. If this is ever over, she added silently.

  And Valeriya’s behavior was strange. Very strange. She had a child. Her mother lived with her and was her childcare provider. Why was she here when she could be with them?

  Whatever Valeriya’s reason, Hannah decided, if working was that important to the woman, she could work.

  “I guess you’re right,” Kelsey said.

  “Besides, I’m afraid, too.”

  “Of?”

  “What if someone decides Valeriya knows something, or that I told her something?”

  “First, people know she works for you, so she’s in danger already. Second, we won’t let her go home until Logan and Dallas get back, and then one of us will see that she gets there safely,” Kelsey said.

  “Yes, but she needs to go shopping and things—she has to keep living. I should have called her. I should have told her to stay away,” Hannah said.

  The words had barely left her mouth when they heard a long sharp scream from upstairs.

  Followed by a massive thump.

  12

  The young man sitting sullenly in front of Dallas had neatly clipped brown hair and hazel eyes. He was tanned and fit, like someone who spent his days playing in the sun. Or working in it.

  But he didn’t have the hands or fingers of a working man. His palms were baby soft, and his fingertips were callus free. He had the look of many South Floridians; Dallas was pretty sure one of his parents had some kind of mixed Northern European background, while the other had hailed from Cuba or one of the other islands, or Central or South America.

  His first words to Dallas were, “You have no right to keep me here.”

  “No? Actually, I can hold you for twenty-four hours without charging you. I understand you demanded an attorney, then decided you didn’t want one after all,” Dallas said.

  Liam laid a file down in front of Dallas, then stepped to the back of the room and leaned against the wall, just watching. The plan was for him to stay there, silent, unless Dallas asked him something.

  Logan was watching from the other side of the one-way mirror.

  Dallas opened the file. “Martin Garcia. Born Miami Beach, Florida, 1991. Hmm. I’m looking at a couple of drug busts here.” He looked up at the young man. “Why do I get the feeling you’re lucky you were brought in for possessing the stuff rather than selling it?”

  Martin Garcia smiled at him. “You can think anything you want.”

  “What I want is for you to tell me about the murder of a man the other night—a man you were with until he was attacked.”

 
Garcia tried to keep up his cool, belligerent manner. He was leaned back in the chair, legs sprawled forward. Dallas ignored that and watched his eyes. As soon as the kid lowered his lids and looked to the side, Dallas knew they had him.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garcia said.

  Dallas leaned closer to him, shrugging. “I think you do. And, at this point, you should talk—and you should stay here just as long as we let you. Because I’m pretty sure the Wolf kills those he suspects of disloyalty—which would certainly include giving the police any information on him. And if you leave here, I’m going to hold a press conference and announce that we’re close to finding the Wolf because of information we’ve received from an informant.”

  The blood drained from Garcia’s face, and he turned a sickly shade of taupe.

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” he said quickly. He tried to regain his composure. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about. Los Lobos. Yeah, I’ve heard of them—everybody has. So what?”

  “Tell us about the Wolf,” Dallas said.

  “I don’t know anything about any wolf!” Garcia protested.

  “Well, then,” Dallas said, sitting back and turning around to look at Liam. “We might as well just release him. He doesn’t know anything about the Wolf. He won’t wind up like Jose Rodriguez or Yerby Catalano or, more importantly, the man who died on the bridge last night. Admittedly, the Wolf didn’t kill him. The poor bastard committed suicide by cop. He’d rather have us shoot him than face what he knew was coming from his boss.”

  “Sure. We’ll let him go right now,” Liam said. “Littering—what were my guys thinking, picking him up on a charge like that?”

  Everything about Martin Garcia changed then. He shook his head. “Don’t. You can’t. I’d tell you what you want to know, but I don’t have anything to tell you. Really.”

  “See?” Liam said. “He can’t help us—really. We should just let him go. I mean, I’d offer him protection, a bunch of cops to stand around keeping an eye on him all day, but we don’t have that kind of manpower. He got himself into whatever, he can get himself out.”

  “No!” Garcia was on his feet. “You don’t understand. I don’t know who the Wolf is. I got mixed up in the whole thing because of my cousin Billie.”