Lincoln stood in the apartment, against the wall near the doorway. Criminal technicians worked in silence. Sometimes at murder scenes the cops and those working would joke, trying to ease the darkness around them.
Not this time.
This time one of their own was down, probably dead, and most definitely missing.
Blood-splatter patterns indicated Amy Rodriguez was bound to the chair, tilted on its side with the strips of duct tape still attached. Blood, dark brown, almost black, lay in a dry puddle across a braided rag rug. But no Amy.
“Bastard,” Lincoln muttered.
A man shoved away from the side of the wall across the room, another grabbing his arm and saying something to him. He was long, lanky, had a swarthy complexion with angular features. His eyes were dark and hot as he speared them with a look.
“You know who the hell did this?”
Lincoln took a deep breath to answer, but Tarver beat him to it. “I’m sorry. We’re trying to figure that out. We’ve a pretty damn good idea, but it’s hard to tie the man directly behind the murders to the man himself.”
The other man frowned. “Fucking feds and you have an idea?”
“You’d be Jasso?” Tarver asked. “Amy’s partner.”
Jasso nodded twice, swallowed, then looked from one to the other. “Yeah, I’m her damn partner. Jasso Martinez.” He jerked his jaw toward Lincoln. “You both feds?”
Lincoln pulled his own ID out. “I’m with Interpol.”
Jasso didn’t even bother to take Lincoln’s ID. He just shook his head. “Feds and Interpol. You probably won’t tell me why, or who, will you? Or any of the rest of us busting our asses on this case?”
Lincoln stepped in. “Mr. Martinez, we’re not here to take over your case. She’s not the only girl missing with a possible connection to another case.”
Dark black brows beetled into a single straight line. “What other case?”
Tarver shot him a glance, then took over. “We’re investigating several disappearances and murders. All connecting to an older case.”
“What fucking case? Amy hasn’t been here that long. She’s the best partner I had. Cared about nothing but the damn job. Even more than me.” He took a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair. “Where the hell is she?”
Lincoln didn’t think it necessary to state the obvious. Everyone in the room knew Amy was dead.
Jasso’s dark eyes speared him again. “Who?”
Lincoln didn’t need Tarver’s glance to know how to answer this one. His gaze scanned the room again, the rug, the blood splatters, the overturned chair with silver tape at the bottom of each leg, to the desk. “Unfortunately, we’re not at liberty to—” The photo on the desk. Careful to not just walk across the middle of the damn room, lest he contaminate the scene, he skirted the wall until he could see the photo clearly.
Chills danced down his spine. “Bloody hell.” In a five-by-seven wooden frame, Morgan and Amy stood in front of a Christmas tree, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, laughing at the camera.
“Gor, he knows,” Lincoln whispered. Pulling his phone out, he quickly dialed Shadow’s number. The call, for whatever bloody reason, didn’t go through.
Turning back to Tarver, he said, “I’m leaving for Texas. Now.”
Chapter 24
Miami, Florida; 12:10 a.m. EST
Mikhail breathed deep and closed his eyes. Ivan closed the door as he left, going to make certain the room was prepared.
Time was running out. Mikhail already knew once the policemen found the girl in New Mexico, they’d put it together and hunt him down here in this sweltering hell. God, he hated Miami.
But he couldn’t leave yet. Not just yet. He had to wait on Vescilly. Vescilly, who was in Texas and was to call at any moment.
Mikhail fisted his hand. He’d wanted to send the bloody shirt Vescilly had taken off his last victim to Morgan via special delivery, but something had stayed him. It wasn’t the right time. Perhaps he’d show it to her. After all, he wanted to see her reaction when she realized what it was, who it had belonged to, who was now dead. Then? Who knew. Maybe he’d send it to her family just for the enjoyment of it.
He took another sip and loosened his silver silk tie.
That would add a bit of kick. No! He’d send them Dusk’s shirt. He smiled. Yes, he could have the shirt delivered after he had her. Her family, stupid sods, would wonder . . . would worry . . . And the cops would scurry as they always did.
It hardly mattered at that point. He’d have her.
He wished he could have gone after her himself. However, Yuri Statchjastike had wanted a meeting with him this evening. Again, as if Mikhail didn’t know what he was doing. Of all the damn times the fat bastard wanted to sit and chat. Knowing time was of essence, he sent Vescilly again. Vescilly had to obtain her. Mikhail flexed his hands, studying them. It should have been himself. Mikhail wanted to be the one to surprise her, to bring her back, not to just kill her. He wanted to be the one to touch her. Mikhail wanted to see that moment, that one moment when her eyes landed on him and she knew . . .
Knew he’d found her . . .
Knew he’d kept his promise . . .
Knew her life was utterly at his mercy . . .
Again he breathed deep, trying to calm himself.
He opened the desk drawer, took out the disks he wanted to keep. Turning in his chair, he leaned over and pried up the brass floor vent. From inside, he removed another gun, a passport, registered to one Michael Aramis, and a couple of hundred thousand dollars.
He knew he’d have to leave soon. Even if Yuri would overlook the police coming here to question—and they would, it was only a matter of time—to scrutinize their business, the other bosses would not.
How the hell did it all go so wrong?
His personal mobile rang. “Yes?”
Vescilly answered. “I’m at some ranch or something.” The man muttered in Czech. “An old housekeeper retired for the evening.”
Mikhail’s heart skipped and picked up speed, thrumming against his chest. “And Dusk?”
“I don’t think she’s here yet. The office was too crowded, boss. It’s not the best location to grab her. I got directions to this place. Out in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
Mikhail thumped his fist on the arm of the leather chair.
“There’s been a change in plans, Vescilly. Too many dead, and Yuri is already asking questions. The police won’t be far behind. Nor will they delay in notifying the other women, including Dusk. Don’t dick around. Don’t kill anyone you don’t have to. Get her and meet me at the house in Nassau.”
“Yes, boss,” Vescilly said. “I see lights. I’ll call you when I have her.”
Mikhail nodded once, then again, then disconnected. He closed his eyes and saw her in his mind. That skin that smelled of exotic spices to him, of the ice of her eyes, the lush fullness of her lips . . .
Mikhail shifted, desire pumping hot and fast through him.
Soon . . .
* * *
Italy
The phone beside the bed rang. Antonio Calsonone rolled over and grabbed the receiver before it could ring a second time.
Isabelle shifted beside him, pulling the duvet up to her chin and rolling to her side.
Antonio blinked in the darkness to see the time on his bedside clock.
“Yes?”
“Tony,” Giovanni’s voice edged through the phone.
“What is it?” Antonio stood and grabbed his robe from the end of the bed, shrugging it on as he walked out of the room. No need to disturb his wife.
“The police have found the apartment I told you of in New Mexico.”
The one they reached too late. A link that might have answered questions.
“Who was it? Do you know yet?” Antonio asked his man.
Giovanni sighed. “No, I don’t know yet. The police and reporters are all chattering. Some neighbor remembers seeing a man, but that’s ab
out it.”
Antonio walked down the hallway, the tiles cool and awakening beneath his bare feet.
“What of Mikhail’s man? Vescilly?”
“My man tells me that Vescilly flew to Texas.”
Antonio frowned. “Texas?”
“As in cowboys and horses,” Giovanni muttered.
“I know where the hell it is, Gio, what I want to know is what is in Texas to interest them, or rather who.”
And if that person could help Antonio in his search.
“I’ve heard the girl’s name . . . Amy Rodriguez. I’m running searches and have my men seeing who all she contacted. One name came up. An M. Gaelord in Texas.”
Antonio shook his head.
In his study, the photo of Teresa Maria sat smiling from the mantel. “Are we doing the right thing, Giovanni?” Antonio rubbed a hand over his face. “What if I simply see what I want? What if this man has nothing to do with Teresa’s disappearance?”
For a moment only silence answered him. Then Giovanni’s voice floated back over. “You don’t believe that or I wouldn’t be here, Tony. I’ll call you when I know more.”
“Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
Antonio breathed deep and set the phone aside. Would this nightmare ever end? He sat behind his desk and dropped his head in his hands. He was tired. If he only knew . . . one way or the other . . . just to know . . .
So much time. The anger was still there, simmering in the darkest part of him. But mi Dio he was weary.
* * *
Gaelord Ranch; 11:20 p.m. CST
Morgan unlocked the front door of the house. Suzy was already in bed out in the darkened carriage house. If Suzy had still been up, her bedroom window would have been lit from the bedside lamp for reading. No light shone.
In the foyer, a low lamp burned on the entry table. The same antique, green-globed lamp that had burned low for late arrivals for as long as Morgan could remember.
The November air chilled around her ankles and she shrugged out of her jacket. She looked back over her shoulder, out into the night. Nothing moved, but something wasn’t right. She glanced down the shadowed porch. The swing softly moved in the breeze.
Samson. She leaned out a bit more and scanned one side of the porch, then the other. “Samson?” she called softly.
Nothing moved but the breeze, the browning leaves against the eve of the house. “Samson, boy, come on.” She slapped her thigh and whistled.
No Catahoula came trotting up from the barn or anywhere else. Rubbing her arms, she stepped back into the house and locked the door behind her. Stupid mutt. As a pup, years ago, he’d often wondered off at nights, but as far as she knew, he hadn’t in a long time. He always sprawled across the front mat as if guarding the house. She tossed her jacket into the chair beside the entry table, frowning.
Creak . . .
Morgan halted, her hand on the newel post. Listening . . .
Nothing. Silence.
Yet something felt off . . . wrong . . .
She shook her head. No, it was just her nerves. Her nerves and the fact she couldn’t get Amy to answer the damn phone. She’d called Amy’s cell, and if she hadn’t heard from her by tomorrow, she was going to call her at work. Morgan tried not to do that, work was work, and with Amy’s job it wasn’t like she was going to be sitting at a desk anyway. Amy worked on patrol.
Morgan took a deep breath. She’d calm down, take a deep breath, go up, take a shower and then try Amy again. If she didn’t get Amy then, she’d try Lincoln again. He said he’d check and if anything were up, he’d call. She’d tried him already today, but didn’t get an answer. His office said he was out. She almost, almost tried his cell, but what if he was with someone.
And why that thought should give her pause, she didn’t really want to dwell on. It didn’t make any difference if he was or wasn’t with another someone. Okay, fine, woman. Either way, she didn’t care. She simply didn’t like to bother people . . . anyone . . . especially Linc.
At the stairs, something niggled at the back of her mind, and she paused, listening again.
It was late. Suzy was in bed. Samson was somewhere and Jackson was on his way home from the airport. Or he should be. She checked the hall clock, then rolled her head on her shoulders, hoping to relieve some tension.
Dobrý den.
A chill danced down her spine and a tremble shook her hand.
Didn’t matter. She was home. She was safe.
Amy?
Amy was a trained cop.
“Everything is fine. Fine.” She blew out a breath. “Stop stressing, for God’s sake.” She hadn’t been this jittery since the mall incident.
She started up the stairs.
Creak . . .
Probably just the house shifting. But it didn’t sound like the house shifting.
It sounded like the floorboards shifting under someone’s weight.
“Gideon?” she called softly, leaning over the banister.
Nothing.
Her hand trembled and her blood thrummed.
Not gonna panic, not gonna panic.
She turned, walked back down the steps and across the foyer, the heels of her ankle boots clicking in the quiet, and grabbed her purse. Taking out the pepper spray and phone, she keyed in 911.
“I’m paranoid, but at least I might be prepared.” Not a victim, never again a victim, she told herself. The mantra she’d repeated so many times in the past year, she might start believing it at some point.
Darkness stared in from the lace-covered windows. The dining room was silent, shadows stretching and darkening the room, over the table, hiding the china cabinet and corner curio.
She glanced down the hallway to the other entrance of the kitchen. It was dark. The photographs hanging from the wall were black squares and rectangles. A faint glow slashed across the floor from the kitchen’s doorway at the end of the hallway. The door under the stairs was ajar.
Reaching out, she flicked on the hall light, her breath held. Shadows blinked away in the seemingly harsh light.
Had Suzy opened the closet? And for what? It was for storage mainly.
Taking a deep breath, she held the pepper spray at eye level and swung the door open.
Nothing. Taking another deep breath, she reached in and pulled the cord. A bare bulb shone on the old banker boxes, on the wooden shelves, the cedar-lined closet.
Lord. She was in Texas, for God’s sake. Not Prague, not Europe, not a big city modeling. She led a quiet, nonexistent life and was safe. S-A-F-E. Her attention was caught by the rows of photo albums. She reached a finger out and grazed it over them.
One day . . .
She glanced at the boxes on the shelf to the right of the albums and frowned.
Dust covered the boxes. A gray layer of dust. The shelves were likewise covered in dust.
All except the photo albums.
“Jackson probably just looked at the photos. No big deal. First thing tomorrow, call Dr. Stewart and schedule an appointment.” Heart still hammering, she pulled the light cord and backed out of the closet.
Her phone shrilled.
Morgan jumped, all but leaping out of her skin.
“God.” Pressing the keypad, she puffed out a breath and answered, “Hello?”
“Morgan?” Lincoln’s British accent was clipped as usual.
“Lincoln?” She felt her heart slow. “Thank God. I’ve been worried sick. Have you heard from Amy?”
“Morgan, where are you?” he asked instead.
Her stomach tingled with anxiety that something wasn’t right. Trying to keep things light, she said, “I’m standing just inside a storage closet under our stairs at the ranch, Lincoln. Where are you, or dare I ask?”
The easy banter of email was the easiest to fall back on. She wasn’t certain she wanted to hear what he had to say.
“Have you heard from Amy?” she asked.
“Is anyone there with you?” he asked.
She shut the
door and turned toward the kitchen.
Creak . . .
Morgan took a deep breath. Just the house. Just the house.
“What’s just the house? Morgan, are you at the ranch alone?” he asked, and she realized she’d spoken aloud. His voice was edged, tense as she’d heard it before. Before when they were leaving, before when he’d killed, before when they were escaping . . . the Czech Republic, London, here . . .
Her heart kicked against her ribs even as her blood iced.
Morgan licked her lips. “I—uh—”
“Morgan, don’t fuck with me. Answer the bloody question.”
At the end of the hallway, she looked into the kitchen. The old dark wooden kitchen door stood open and back against the wall as it always had with a ladder-backed chair propped against it. The lamp over the stove cast an eerie soft light over the kitchen, the long farm table used as an island, the table in the nook. Outside the darkness seemed to press into the house.
“Morgan Olivia Gaelord.”
She grinned. “I didn’t know you knew my middle name.” Deep breath. She shoved a hand through her hair and chuckled, though it sounded far from amused even to herself. “Losing my freaking mind. Yes, I’m currently the only one here and awake. Suzy is at the carriage house, asleep.” Morgan pushed her glasses up her nose and walked to the kitchen window, scanning the darkened lawn, the carriage house rising up from the far side of the yard. All the windows still dark. “Jackson is on his way home from the airport and I’ve no idea where Gideon is. Probably dinkering with some computer.”
Turning, she set the pepper spray on the center island, knocking against the grilling utensils that hung from one side. Specially made blacksmith tines she’d ordered over the net for Jackson’s Christmas gift. He loved them. They didn’t break or bend, and why Suzy had to hang them from nails off the side of the damn table was beyond her. Every time Morgan walked by them, she managed to rake across the things.
Using her left hand, she opened the double-door fridge, heard Lincoln talking to someone in the background. The light from the refrigerator glared off the bottles of orange juice, organic milk and . . .
Hunted Page 26