by Diane Capri
Sydney shrugged and said nothing.
He waited until he saw Jade and the others rush outside and onto the sidewalk.
Then he rolled up to the curb, stopping in the blind spot where the cameras he’d located wouldn’t capture the next few minutes of activity.
When he was sure he’d parked in precisely the correct location, he pushed the buttons to open the second and third doors.
There were five females with Jade. One was supposed to be only twelve years old, but they were all slight of stature, so it was hard to judge their ages. Combined, they probably weighed less than The Elephant.
The six females rushed headlong into the limo to rescue the others they believed were arriving with Eleanor Duncan, as expected.
Sydney closed the doors and pulled away from the curb before they realized their sisters were not inside.
Simultaneously, careful not to overdose Rossi’s property, he pushed more buttons on the remote to dispense lighter doses of the fentanyl gas into the second and third enclosures.
The six females sank slowly into the seats and onto the carpet. Before the SUV had traveled two blocks, they were all unconscious.
Joey had been watching the monitors closely until the last one fell into what looked like a deep sleep. “How long will they be out like that?”
“Long enough,” Sydney shrugged.
“Man, you are good!” Joey Prime punched Sydney on the arm and gave him a sloppy grin.
Sydney offered a weak nod as he clawed back the bile that rose in his throat and turned the SUV onto the entrance ramp for the westbound interstate toward Vegas, worrying about the suit.
CHAPTER 26
Wednesday, May 18
Golden, Colorado
8:15 a.m.
Gaspar had hacked into traffic and security cameras surrounding the Orchid Thai Bistro. On his monitors, he’d had a partially obstructed remote view of the fire since shortly after Otto and Burke had first arrived.
Firefighters had been battling for several hours, and the blaze was mostly under control. Smoldering embers might flare up again, but for now, the scene had settled into a somewhat predictable routine.
A while ago, the Audi had circled the block a couple of times before it raced away again, still headed west. Gaspar continued to trace it until it pulled into a busy parking lot two miles away and stopped.
He sipped a big mug of sweetened Cuban coffee with milk and tried pinging Otto’s phone again. As before, her signal didn’t show up on any of his searches. He tried twice more. No luck.
He frowned, drained the coffee, and pulled up the surveillance video surrounding the bistro fire. He scrolled to the time just before his last conversation with Otto and ran the video forward.
The charcoal van came into view. It was relatively new, possibly manufactured within the current model year. Eleven restaurant workers piled into the open maw and the door slid closed. Eleanor Duncan stepped back and the van drove away.
Gaspar paused the video and clipped stills of the rear license plate before he returned to the unfolding situation.
Soon afterward, the black stretch SUV rolled into the same spot. The images snared Gaspar’s memory. He narrowed his eyes and looked closer until he realized what was strange about the boxy vehicle.
The oversized limo moved oddly. It lumbered slower than it should have. The engine was too loud as it labored harder than the manufacturer intended, too.
Gaspar cocked his head and rewound the video for another look.
He had seen that pattern before. On vehicles that had been bulletproofed or outfitted with special heavy equipment. Like politicians and third world drug lords and gangsters used.
Extra weight impacted speed, efficiency, and maneuverability. The differences weren’t obvious. Unless you were attuned to the variances and looking from the right angle, you could miss it easily enough. No reason why Duncan or Otto should have noticed.
Gaspar watched them climb into the passenger compartment of the SUV. He paused the video and captured the rear license plate on the limo, too.
The driver moved the limo eastward, toward Denver. Gaspar left the video running and turned his attention to the license plates.
Neither the van nor the SUV bore a front license plate. Which might have been okay, but it made Gaspar a little twitchy. Or maybe it was the caffeine. He grinned.
Not all states required front plates. He ran a quick check on the rules for Colorado.
Front plates were easier than rear plates to track on toll roads. A bean counter in Denver had calculated the potential lost revenue from tolls if front plates were eliminated. Turned out it was way more than the cost of making and distributing front plates. The potential lost revenue proved too much for the state government to ignore.
So front plates were necessary in Colorado. And neither the van nor the SUV displayed one.
Commercial passenger vehicles like these two were not likely to ignore such rules, putting fines and operating licenses and the like at risk while they drove the local roads all day, every day.
Now, the missing front plates made Gaspar a little more twitchy. He pushed his coffee mug aside and focused on the rear plates.
At first glance, they seemed normal enough. Nothing to draw undue attention from law enforcement or traffic cameras. Which meant there was no reason for Otto to be unduly suspicious of them, either.
Both vehicles sported standard Colorado issue plates. Classic white mountains and a green border. Gaspar’s quick online search revealed that the same generic mountains had been used on Colorado plates since 1960.
Each had two stickers, the white one in the lower-left corner and the colored one in the lower-right corner, where they should be.
He enlarged the images.
The three-letter, three-number combination on both of these plates had been discontinued a while back. Colorado plates were issued with four letters and two numbers now.
Which meant both of the plates were several years older than the van and the SUV to which they were affixed.
But they could have been legally transferred from an older vehicle.
Gaspar ran the plate numbers through a couple of databases. Both plates had been renewed within the past twelve months. One was registered to a Toyota Camry and the other belonged to a Honda Accord. Neither had been legally transferred to the van or the SUV. Neither was reported stolen. Yet.
He tried pinging Kim’s phones again. She carried three phones with her. One was personal. One was a burner issued by Cooper. The third was a burner she used to connect to Gaspar. None of them returned a signal.
One failed signal could have been harmless. Three missing signals was definitely not okay.
Gaspar sat up straight and stared at the screen as if the problem might lie with his tech. He triple-checked to be sure his equipment was operating as it should.
Then, he searched through recent calls on all three numbers until he found one that could have been made to Burke on Kim’s personal phone. He pinged it.
The signal triangulated at the Orchid Thai Bistro parking lot. Gaspar accessed the security cameras in the vicinity until he located the phone. It was weaving between emergency vehicles, probably resting inside Burke’s pocket.
“Lucky guess,” he murmured before he placed the call.
“FBI Special Agent William Burke,” he said when he picked up the unfamiliar number. The noise of the fire fighting continued in the background. Although the fire was under control now, personnel and equipment defeated the normal early morning quiet.
He cut right to the point. “Burke, it’s Gaspar. Do you know where Otto is?”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Burke replied gruffly. “She was with Eleanor Duncan on the other side of the parking lot last time I saw her.”
Gaspar clenched his jaw. “She’s not there now. Where was Duncan going next?”
“No clue. My impression was that she had someplace in mind, though. Did Otto leave with Duncan?” B
urke’s responses were not focused on the conversation at hand. He was preoccupied with something.
“Listen up, Burke. Your partner’s in trouble. It’s your job to make sure that doesn’t happen, and you’ve already failed.” Gaspar’s judgment was harsh. He didn’t approve of Burke. Hadn’t from the start.
“Yeah? Well your job is to butt out, Gaspar. Cooper has made that clear. To me, to Otto, and my guess is, to you. Why don’t you get that?” Burke lashed back.
Good. At least he was finally paying attention. “What the hell are you doing that’s so damned important?”
“Hunting Reacher. Which is my job. You should try doing yours,” Burke replied.
“You think Reacher is hanging around that fire site? Why would he? The fire’s done. Even if he’s your arsonist, he’s not the type to stand back and admire his own handiwork like some kind of fire bug,” Gaspar replied.
“That so?” Burke could have hung up, but he didn’t. Which probably meant he’d already concluded the same thing.
“The proof is in the pudding, as my grandmother used to say.” Gaspar shook his head. This guy had a lot to learn. “You didn’t find Reacher, did you?”
“What the hell do you want, anyway?”
“I’ve been trying to reach Otto. She’s not picking up her phone.”
“Voicemail exists for that very reason,” Burke quipped in response as if he was unconcerned. But he was moving toward Otto’s last known location at a slow jog. Gaspar saw him on the traffic cams’ live feed.
He pressed the mute button on the call and took several deep breaths.
Burke was the agent on the ground. His response time should be faster than getting another team out there. Which meant he was stuck with Burke for now.
Gaspar had broken one of his own rules. He didn’t have a plan B for this situation. He’d read Burke in and hope for the best.
But he’d have a plan B for next time. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
Gaspar opened the line again. “Look, Otto requested intel from me. I called to give it to her. The call went to voicemail. She didn’t call back. I tried to ping her phone. No luck.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. Otto can take care of herself, which we both well know.” Burke had come around the firetrucks and should have a clear view of the vacant parking lot where he’d left Otto standing.
After a brief pause, Burke asked, “Why wouldn’t her phone ping? There’s a harmless answer to that question, right?”
Gaspar’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth. He flared his nostrils and snorted angry hot air. “Under these circumstances, there is no harmless reason to explain why I can’t find her phone.”
He knew what he had to do. He didn’t like it. And it wouldn’t help Otto right this minute, anyway. But it would help for next time.
And with Burke, there would always be a next time. Gaspar knew it as well as he knew the sun would rise in Miami tomorrow.
Gaspar said, “She got into a limo. The plate on the vehicle is stolen. Not traceable. I’ve found the SUV on the traffic cams.”
Burke was hoofing it toward the Lincoln Navigator he’d been driving. He opened the door and started the engine. “Which way?”
“I suspect they might be headed to a residential building in Denver. Try that first.” Gaspar gave him the address and directions. “I’m still tracing the limo through the traffic cam video, but it’s slow because of the transfer from one camera to the next.”
“Why do you think the SUV is going there?” Burke asked.
Now that he was inside the Navigator, Gaspar knew Kim’s boss would be listening to every word and tracking Burke, too. Which, for once, wasn’t a bad thing.
“The Audi was parked there earlier. The one Petey Burns stole.”
“The one Reacher has been riding around in, you mean? Are you kidding me?” Burke shouted angrily. “You knew where Reacher was and you didn’t give us a heads-up? Whose side are you on?”
Gaspar ignored the ranting as he fast-forwarded the video and tracked the limo with maddening slowness. The Audi could wait. Burns had abandoned it in a parking lot.
Probably because he’d stolen a different vehicle.
Which meant he was driving something else now, anyway.
Possibly with Reacher in the passenger seat.
Or not.
None of which was pressing.
What he needed to know right now was the address of that Denver residence.
Finding Otto was more important than finding Reacher. Gaspar didn’t give a crap about Reacher. Never had. When he was still on the FBI payroll, he’d done his job. Those days were over. Reacher was no longer his problem.
But Otto was wired differently. Finding Reacher drove her relentlessly now. She would never stop until she found him.
Or died trying.
Which was what truly frightened Gaspar.
CHAPTER 27
Wednesday, May 18
Las Vegas, Nevada
8:45 a.m.
Rossi’s breakfast had been delivered promptly to his rooms as expected. He was dressed and seated at the table, six newspapers neatly folded beside his eggs and waffles. The coffee was prepared precisely as he preferred.
He began to eat his first bites as he opened the Las Vegas newspaper to the broader state news which was printed in a separate section near the back. The publisher’s market research showed that readers of the Vegas paper were more interested in local news, sports, and entertainment than news of the world, the nation, or the state of Nevada, curiously.
Section D was a slim few pages, easily missed by most readers and thrown out with the daily trash. The story Rossi wanted was reported in two column inches on page seven, near the obituaries, which was probably appropriate.
No photos of the bodies or the possessions found with them were printed with the story. Rossi read the six short paragraphs through twice. The headline was brief. “Two Male Bodies Found in Jarbidge Canyon.”
The report ran without a byline. It contained only a few facts, none of which were particularly troublesome. The bodies had been found by hikers. Neither the bodies nor the hikers were identified. Cause of death was presumed to be dehydration and exposure. Autopsies were still pending. The piece ended with a plea to the public for any possible information that might help to identify the two men.
Short and to the point. No speculation. Just the kind of news report Rossi appreciated.
Nothing was mentioned about more bodies found a couple of months back in another remote area of the canyon, either.
He should have chosen a better dump site for these two males because of the prior discoveries. But anybody actually finding all four bodies was an example of the fluke factor at work.
Jarbidge Canyon was a perfect dump site. It was the most remote place in Nevada. His helicopter could fly there, dump the dead meat, and get back in less than three hours.
Only a fluke had revealed the first two bodies. But with the discovery of the second two, he was now forced to change the dump site.
He’d been considering that knotty problem since Luca brought him the news yesterday. Fights to the death appealed to a certain segment of Rossi’s clientele. Dead boxers were common. The high stakes matches produced one or two a month.
Until he found another dump site, dead boxers must remain in the Snake Eyes private cold storage. Which wasn’t ideal, simply a solid short-term solution.
He’d begin his research for a new site today. But there was little urgency, given the facts.
The chances that these two bodies would be positively identified were slim. After all these weeks, determining the exact cause of death should be challenging as well.
Chen had killed them with clean kicks to the neck at the side of the head, two nights apart. But that was months ago.
Eight months in the hot, dry desert canyon where vultures and other carnivores roamed freely wouldn’t have left much forensic evidence to evaluate.
Dental
records would be no help. Both teens had been trafficked from the poorest rural areas of Thailand. Neither had ever sat in a dentist’s chair.
The medical examiner, if he was exceptionally thorough, might notice evidence of similar blunt force trauma on both, but tying that trauma to Rossi’s Muay Thai boxing matches two hundred miles south in Vegas was extremely unlikely.
Luca was worried for nothing. That’s how lawyers were. Professional worriers. After reviewing the newspaper reports, Rossi’s day was already looking brighter.
He thumbed through the remaining five newspapers. None of the others had picked up the report on the bodies. Which was to be expected. Poor immigrants without identification were not top priorities for law enforcement. Nor should they be.
He’d take it one day at a time. Chen could live to box another profitable night, which to Rossi was good news. Chen was perhaps the best boxer Rossi had ever owned. Terminating him would be a pity when the time came.
But that time was not today. Rossi grinned.
He finished his third cup of coffee and returned to his leisurely breakfast while his eggs were still hot. He read the remaining newspapers as he usually did. He found nothing reported about the restaurant fire in Golden, Colorado, which was good news, too.
Rossi swallowed the last bite of waffle with a coffee chaser seconds before his phone rang. He glanced at the caller’s name before he answered.
“Good morning, Sydney. Siegfried is expecting me shortly. We can talk more later. But let’s have your progress report before I journey upstairs.”
Sydney got right to the point. “We have good news. And a potential problem.”
Rossi sighed. “There’s always problems in life. Bad news can wait. Tell me the good news. Do you have the woman?”
“We do.”
“Excellent. When will you return?”
“We should reach Vegas before dinner.”
Rossi beamed. He glanced at the clock. Siegfried was waiting. His time with the plants had been cut short yesterday. He meant to spend at least an extra hour this morning fully appreciating his new jewel while the victory was still fresh in Siegfried’s mind and every exciting detail could be breathlessly conveyed.