“Would you be willing to give me the context?”
“If you tell me what you are looking for, I would be happy to confirm or deny based on my discoveries at this point. Perhaps you will enlighten me, and I will enlighten you in return. ¿Bien?”
“Sí.” Baldwin scratched his head, trying to decide where to start. “Are you seeing a great number of cases of forced immigration? Illegals being imported into America for illicit activities?”
“Sex trade? Yes. Quite a bit. Human trafficking. The Border Patrol is corrupt in certain pockets, as are a few of the Immigration and Naturalization officers. There were many cases last year of both organizations’ employees exchanging immigration status for sex or money. Foreign governments are participating in this scheme, as well. It has become highly lucrative, yet it seems your government is looking the other way. Illegals smuggle illegals, bad men import little girls to sell. It is a very appalling state of affairs.”
“Do you have Edward Delglisi on your radar?”
“Yes. He has been under investigation by the Venezuelans, the Brazilians and the Argentinians, yet no one can touch him. He has a system that insulates him. False names, constant moves, safe houses, sophisticated accounting. We cannot get our hands on the cash.”
“We just had a run-in with him in New York. Does he keep the cash hidden there?”
“Oh, no, he is much too smart for that. He ships the money out of the country. He is an old-school criminal, does not use electronics to help hide his money. No, he physically moves cash from New York. We have not had any success catching him until recently. We seized a boat in the Caribbean. You may have heard of this situation.”
Baldwin stopped taking notes and leaned back in the chair. “A boat in the Caribbean. Was it called THE SHIVER?”
“Sí.”
Oh, Taylor was going to hit the roof.
“What does the Mexican government have to do with this?”
“Ah, mi amigo, you know how these things work. You sometimes need to look one way, while you are moving in another.”
“The boat you speak of. Am I safe to assume the connection is sound and has been corroborated?”
“You are safe to assume that. We took nearly four million dollars off that boat. We did not capture the man sailing it, he was able to get away.”
“And you have this man’s name.”
“We do. Winthrop Jackson. The fourth, I believe. That is your woman’s—”
“Father. Yes. She doesn’t know.”
“Well, I wish you the best of luck breaking the news.”
“Thank you. Let’s talk about the chauffeur. What have you found out about his killer?”
“Only that we have a very dead American who was shipped back to the authorities in your country. It seems to be a case of mistaken identity.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“I do not. But that is the most convenient theory for the moment. He is not important to the bigger picture, if you understand my meaning.”
A dead American national not of concern to the security services in Mexico meant they simply didn’t care to investigate.
“There was one piece of information that was relevant. An American flew into Mazatlán on the same flight as our dead friend and caught the evening plane to New York City. His name was unfamiliar to us. Dustin Mosko.”
Dustin Mosko. That was the name of the man Taylor had killed in New York.
“His name is not unfamiliar to me. And for the record, he’s no longer with us. But he worked for Delglisi.”
“Ah. Then your puzzle is complete, yes?”
They talked for a few minutes more, then Baldwin wrapped up the conversation. This was news he’d suspected, but didn’t particularly want to deliver.
His next call was to Garrett Woods.
After getting reamed for not phoning in about Charlotte’s demise sooner, Baldwin went over the details of his call with the mysterious Juan. Woods would take it from here. They had an opportunity, a chance to right so many wrongs. They discussed ways to apply pressure, to stop at least one bad guy from hurting the innocent anymore. But it would cost, and cost dearly. Baldwin didn’t know what Taylor would think, how she would react.
When they finished, Woods relayed the information he’d been trying to give Baldwin over the past few days. Charlotte Douglas’s legacy wasn’t looking bright. Woods was infuriated as he gave the details.
“We’ve been through all of her files. It looks like she wrote a sophisticated program that filtered both obscenely violent crimes and the accompanying DNA to a private site for her perusal. When she found something she liked, she’d assign herself the case.”
“That’s how she found the copycat?”
“Yes. The DNA should have matched with the California files when the Denver cops put it into the system. Instead, the information was sent directly to Charlotte. She’d been watching this maniac’s spree across the country. We don’t know the extent of her relationship with him, only that she was obviously in contact. Whether she was just another one of his victims or was a part of his plan, I guess we won’t know until we catch him.”
“Why did she choose to reveal the information about the multiple murders when she did?”
“She had no choice. She was playing a very dangerous game. The IT department confirmed that she called last week to see if they had accidentally discovered her Trojan horse. They hadn’t. They had rolled out an upgrade, rekeyed the entire system. The new database didn’t have Charlotte’s special codes, so the real information made it through to the proper channels. If she didn’t come forward, people would have gotten suspicious. This could have gone on indefinitely.”
Baldwin felt sick. “How could she do that? And how in the hell did she pass the psych profiles and get into the Bureau in the first place? She was always very enthusiastic about deviant behavior, but I never saw any signs that she could have gone this far over the edge.”
“I can’t tell you that, Baldwin. Believe me, we’re looking for the answers here. We’ve launched a major internal investigation. Oversight of the department has been in Stuart Evanson’s hands. I hate to say it, but he may have to go. He’s the one that brought her to her current position as deputy chief. As I recall, you pointed out that she wasn’t fit for that position when you transferred. You and I are fine. Evanson probably isn’t.”
“That will be a loss.” They shared a moment of sarcastic happiness. “As long as you’re insulated, that’s what’s important to me. Evanson’s a prick.”
The industrial-grade clock on Taylor’s wall clicked loudly, announcing it was nearly five o’clock. He rang off with Woods, promising to answer his phone if he called again.
Charlotte Douglas. He’d known the woman was poison.
Shaking his head, pushing away his own feelings of betrayal, he gathered his coat. It was time to seek Taylor out, run through the afternoon’s bombshells with her.
Forty-Five
The library was a bust. Taylor combed through the records, but didn’t find the face of the man she remembered from her parents’ party. Frustrated, she took a drive in the cold, hard winter air, trying to clear her head. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself at the apartment buildings where Frank Richardson was killed.
Oh, who was she kidding? She knew exactly what she was doing. Paying penance to the dead. Would anyone feel that for Charlotte? Was there a soul who would watch for her, pray for her, remember her fondly?
She climbed the stairs to the apartment and saw the door was cracked. She drew her weapon and slipped to the wall, left shoulder flat against the doorjamb. She listened hard, then put the gun away. The cleaners were here.
A horrific job they had, too. Following behind crime and avarice, cleaning up the messes made when a life ends, a heart ceases to beat, by choice or by violence. They were the lost ones, the unnoticed and unknown, the creatures who stealthily eradicated the signs of death.
Taylor looked into th
e apartment. She recognized the cleaner, a stout lady name Stella, who smoked like a chimney. She claimed the constant cloud of cigarette smoke kept the stench of death from her nostrils. Taylor smelled it on her, the unmistakable scent of burnt tobacco, and was hit with a mouth-salivating craving for a smoke. Shaking her head to literally make it go away, she stepped into the room and greeted Stella.
“Hey, LT.” Stella sounded like a truck driver on a bender, but Taylor knew she was a sweet, God-fearing woman who sacrificed her own happiness to help families maintain some sense of closure after their loved one’s death. She stopped scrubbing.
“What are you doing out here? I thought this scene was cleared for me.”
“Oh, it is, Stella, don’t worry. I was just here to say, well, I guess I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Knew the vic, eh?” Stella leaned back from the blood pool she was removing from the apartment’s carpet. “I could use a smoke, anyway. Want to join me?”
“I wish. No, I think I’ll just stay here for a minute.”
“Suit yourself.” She stood, knees popping, and sauntered past Taylor, a sour look on her face. But she squeezed Taylor’s arm in passing, and Taylor knew it was a show of support.
Alone now, she took in the scene. Frank Richardson’s blood was black and shiny, several days old and forever interred into the grain of this room. All the scrubbing and cleaning, the replacement carpet and linoleum floors, the fresh paint, none of that would truly erase the imprint of the man’s soul, brutally taken from this space. A certain dislocation of the very air would stay in this room forever.
Taylor said a prayer for the man, and apologized out loud. Knowing there was nothing left to do, she turned to leave. As she walked to the door, she spied a file folder, sitting apart from Stella’s cleaning supplies.
“Stella, is this yours?”
Stella was on the landing and shouted back to her. “Is what mine?”
“The manila folder. Is that yours?”
“Naw, I found it when I cleaned out the air intake for the air conditioner. There was some blood on the screen and it was inside when I took it off.” She appeared in the doorway. “You wanna take a look? I haven’t gotten to it yet.”
Taylor was already standing over the folder. She bent down and used a pen to open the file. She knew before she started reading what she had. Frank Richardson’s notes. The file he was trying to get to her the day he died. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, Taylor picked up the file.
“Why are you grinning ear to ear, Lieutenant?”
“Because, Miss Stella, this is the missing piece of the puzzle. Thank you so much for finding it.” Taylor nearly gave the woman a hug, but Stella held up her hands.
“Yeah, I know. You don’t want to be touching me, child, I smell bad. I’m getting back to work.”
Taylor went directly to the car and called in to the office. Marcus answered the phone.
“Hey, tell me something. Did you guys ever track down Frank Richardson’s last movements?”
“Sort of. We found his car in the parking lot of the apartment building. His cell phone was in the center console, had a voice mail from someone who didn’t identify himself but requested Frank meet him at the apartment. So he went there of his own accord.”
“Well, that makes sense, then. I just found the file he was trying to get to us. He must have gone to the apartment before the meet, stashed the information for safety’s sake. Smart guy. He must have known there was something big in these files. Thanks, Marcus. I’ll see you in a bit.”
It was all coming together. Now, if she could just find Snow White’s identity. It was curled in the corner of her mind like a snake waiting to strike.
Forty-Six
Jane Macias started awake. She was cold. A crack in the wall next to where she laid her head was letting in frigid air from outdoors. Her father would never stand for such slovenliness. A man’s home was his castle, especially when that was an unembellished statement. There was a responsibility that came with stature, he always said. Show the world how much you care, and in turn, they will care for you.
Her father. God, she missed him. She’d never be able to erase the image of him, pale and shaking on the hard, cold floor. He was nearly dead, the light leaving his eyes when she found him. She’d held him and rocked him, blood soaking through her shirt. He’d mouthed the name just before he died, just as the EMTs arrived to try saving his life. It was too late, but she had the ammunition she needed. Proving it was another story. She was almost there. And now she was being held captive. She was going to fail her father yet again.
This man, this creature who was holding her, was going to kill her soon, she could tell. The cat-and-mouse game was coming to an end. He was too entranced by the blood and flesh of her young body to worry about the decrepit stones in the attic, letting cold air seep into the tiny garret room where she was being held prisoner. It was better than the hole she’d been in before, a room that smelled of sex and blood. She’d been relieved when she was moved.
That beastly thing who’d been salivating over her body, who ran his lips across her neck and promised to take her life, was gone.
She tried to turn over, finding the bonds that held her hands and legs in a frontal vise strong as ever. The young one bound her, night after night. The past two nights, the young one would come, untie her, carry her downstairs because her legs were numb from lack of movement, and sit her in a chair in the creature’s library. From behind, he’d strip off the blindfold, so she never saw his face. He would leave the room and the crippled one would talk. Tell her horrific stories, detailing the death of the man’s soul. Touching her, but unable to fulfill himself. He made her touch him. That didn’t work, either.
She knew who he was, of course. This bent, misshapen thing was Snow White.
He’d come to her once, alone and sweating. She heard his labored progress up the stairs, listened with every nerve taut when he reached her door, panting heavily. He’d been too winded to hurt her, though the gleam in his eyes told her that was his intention. He’d taken off her blindfold. She saw the insane desire light up his face from within, like a flashlight was being held just below the surface of his papery skin. He’d stared, then licked his lips. Traced the line of her cheekbone with a bent finger. Her imagination ran wild, as if the touch of his finger had left some sort of filth on her face that she’d never get off. Then as abruptly as he’d appeared, he was gone. She wept for the first time that night.
A sound brought her back, and she heard steps, creeping toward her. This wasn’t the young one, she was certain of that. His tread was unmistakable, heavy and purposeful. No, this was someone lighter, who was coming slowly. She had a half-hysterical moment imagining a giant spider crawling across the room to wrap her in its silken web and drain her of life slowly, but shook the thought off. These were human footsteps. Despite the blindfold whispering against her skin, she squeezed her eyes shut, afraid.
A hand touched her face. She couldn’t help herself, she cringed. But she didn’t cry out.
The hand was joined by another and ten fingers roamed across her face languorously. She felt no malice in the touch, just a gentle curiosity. Just as slowly, the hands were withdrawn.
“You are beautiful,” a soft voice whispered in her ear.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He was working on her bonds now. The owner of the voice shrugged slightly, a movement so eloquent that Jane felt it, a dismissive gesture born of repetition. “Nobody. I am no one.”
Jane’s hands were free now, and he’d moved on to her feet. She stretched her arms hard above her head, rejoicing in the movement. Pulling her arms down, she started to pull off the blindfold.
“Don’t. Pleassse.”
The longing in the voice caught her, and she stopped. She realized that this man was no threat; the whisper of a lisp made her feel both comforted and a little creeped out. Didn’t movie psychopaths have lisps? She started inching away and sensed the man
stiffen. She quit moving, let him work on the knots around her ankles. After many interminable minutes, she felt the rope free, and her legs were no longer glued together. He took her hand and helped her stand, massaging the blood back into her legs.
“Can you ssstand?”
Jane tested each leg. Pins and needles, but functioning. “Yes.”
“Keep your hand on my ssshoulder. I’m going to get you to the door. Then you can take off the blindfold.”
“Who are you?” Jane repeated. “Do you have a name, at least?”
“I have many, but none will mean anything to you.”
Jane heard a snick, then tapping. He’s blind, she realized with astonishment. The thought made her giggle. The blind leading the blind. This was crazy. Her hands went to the blindfold again, but he stopped.
“Please. It will be quick. I promise. There are many passages through the house.”
The tone of his voice made her stop, and she said, “Okay.” And meant it.
After a few long minutes of shuffling along, they went down two flights of stairs. Jane could smell bread. A kitchen? Before she could think, her hand was on a doorknob.
“Thiss will take you through the gardensss. Walk sssouth for one hundred paces, then turn to your right. You’ll be in the garden of the house next door. Please, just get a ride from someone, and don’t look back.” The door started to close, and Jane whipped off the blindfold and looked over her shoulder. All she saw as the door closed quietly behind her was a face that looked like an old candle, melted from continual use. She was glad she hadn’t gotten a full look.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Forty-Seven
Nashville, Tennessee
Tuesday, December 23
7:30 p.m.
The apprentice stormed through the hallways of the manse, looking in every room in the upstairs corridor. The girl was gone.
He entered Snow White’s library in a fury, not noticing that they weren’t alone. Joshua sat in the corner by the fireplace, the flute in his lap, sightlessly serene.
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