by Linda Howard
She stayed in bed another fifteen minutes, luxuriating in the lack of urgency. She so seldom got to sleep late that she almost never did, even when she had the chance, but it was nice not to have to leap out of bed and get a start on the day.
Just as she was about to get up, the phone rang. She groaned as she threw back the covers and jumped up. She was accustomed to calls at all hours of the night—and early morning—but they almost always meant a job and her stomach tightened as she answered the call.
“Milla, this is True Gallagher. Did I wake you?”
Surprise had her sitting down on the bed. “No, I’m an early riser. So are you, I see.”
“Actually, I’ve been up all night gathering information for you, and I wanted to talk to you before I go to the office.”
“You stayed up all night?” She hadn’t intended for him to put himself out that much. Then she said, “You go to the office on Sunday?”
He chuckled. “Not usually, but there’s something I have to deal with today.”
“I hate that you stayed awake all night on my account. I’m sorry. It wasn’t urgent; you could have waited until tomorrow.”
“The people I needed to talk to aren’t people you can catch during the daytime.”
“I understand. I should have realized that.” She herself certainly dealt with that sort of character often enough.
“I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that I did dig up some info on the Diaz I think you’re hunting, but the bad news is it probably won’t do you any good.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re looking for the man who took your baby, aren’t you? That would mean he was operational in Chihuahua ten years ago. This Diaz wasn’t. He started popping up about five years ago.”
Sharp disappointment speared her, because that name was the only one she’d ever heard mentioned in connection with kidnapping. “Are you certain?”
“As certain as I can be, under the circumstances. This guy doesn’t exactly leave a paper trail. But be glad he isn’t the one you’re looking for, because he’s bad news all the way. The word is he’s an assassin. If you want somebody to disappear, you put the word out, and Diaz will contact you. He tracks down his target and takes care of your problem. He’s supposed to be damn good at it, too. People hear he’s on their track and they run, but he always finds them. In some circles that’s the only name he has, the Tracker.”
“Are you sure this Diaz isn’t one-eyed?”
“Positive.”
She grasped at the only other straw she had. “I heard a rumor that perhaps he employs a gang of coyotes, so maybe the man who took Justin works for him.”
“I doubt it. I didn’t turn up anything like that. As far as I was able to find out, Diaz always works alone.”
She could almost feel another opportunity dying away like bubbles under her fingers, just as previous ones had, for ten years. She would hear something, get her hopes up that she was finally making progress, then—nothing. No new information, no progress, and no Justin.
“Could there be another Diaz?” She was grabbing at another bubble and she knew it, but what else could she do? Stop grabbing?
He blew out a weary breath. “Too many of them. I know a few of them myself, men I wouldn’t want to turn my back on. But I was able to eliminate some because they were otherwise accounted for during the pertinent time period.”
In jail, he meant. “And the others? Do any of them have just one eye?”
“I still have a few inquiries out. But when people these days say ‘Diaz,’ they’re talking about the killer. I’m not surprised his name surfaced when you asked questions, but I’m damn glad you won’t have to deal with him.”
She would gladly deal with Satan himself if it would help her find Justin. “All I want is information,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “I don’t even care about justice anymore. I just want to ask some questions. If you do find a Diaz who might have been involved ten years ago, can you get word to him that I won’t turn him in, that I just want to talk?” That was a lie. Regardless of what the one-eyed man’s name was, she wanted to kill him. After she talked to him, of course. But she would do whatever she had to do, and if letting him walk was necessary, she’d let him walk. She would hate it, but she’d do it.
“I can give it a shot, but don’t get your hopes up. And do me a favor.”
“If I can.”
“Go through me if you need to contact anyone, or find out anything. It’s too dangerous for you to be going after these guys yourself. It would be better to keep your name out of it entirely, so you aren’t on their radar.”
“My name isn’t in the phone book. The address on my business cards is Finders’ address.”
“That helps, but it wouldn’t hurt to put another layer of protection between you and them. I know how to deal with them.”
“But isn’t that putting you in danger? I’ve built a reputation through Finders for years now that all we’re interested in is recovery of people, not in police work, so why would they trust you more than they would me?”
“Because of some people I know,” he said flatly. His voice softened. “Let me help, Milla. Let me do this.”
Instinct told her not to take his offer, that doing so would allow him to get closer to her than she knew was smart. He wasn’t couching his offer in personal terms, but the tone of his voice was very personal. On the other hand, he was an asset she could use; he’d found out more about Diaz—assuming they were talking about the same man—in one night than she had in two years.
“All right,” she said, letting her reluctance show. “But I don’t like it.”
“I can tell.” There was a smile in his voice now that he had gotten his way. “Trust me, it’s the smart thing to do.”
“I know it’s smart for me; I just hope it isn’t a bad move for you. I can’t thank you enough for going to all this trouble—”
“Sure you can. If you’re in town tomorrow night, have dinner with me.”
“No,” she said firmly. “The reason I gave you last night still stands.”
“Ah well, it was worth a try.” He smoothly changed subjects. “When is your flight to Dallas?”
“Two something.”
“Are you coming back tonight?”
“No, I’ll stay the night and catch the first flight out tomorrow morning.”
“Take care, then, and I’ll talk to you when you get back.”
“I will. And thank you. Oh—” she said, abruptly thinking of something. “Did you find out Diaz’s first name? The assassin Diaz, that is. We can use that to sort out all these rumors we hear, and discard the ones pertaining to him.”
“No, I didn’t get his first name,” he said, but there was the tiniest hesitation that again made her think he knew more than he was telling.
Since he was going out of his way to help her, though, she wasn’t about to give him grief about his overprotectiveness. She thanked him again, said good-bye, and began preparing for her trip to Dallas.
She had laundry to do, bills to write checks for, some light housekeeping; outside of laundry, dust was her biggest cleaning problem. But she liked her house to look nice and smell nice, so she made the effort. Every week she freshened the potpourri she had in each room, so whenever she came home she was greeted by a wonderful scent. Sometimes that was the only comfort she could find.
By nine-thirty, her last load of laundry was in the clothes dryer. She put stamps on the envelopes she was mailing and decided to take them to the post office rather than leave them in her box overnight, since her credit card payment was among the bunch. She grabbed her car keys, then at the last minute checked to make certain the phone number the tipster used was still on her cell phone. Sometimes the numbers disappeared, and she didn’t know why. Perhaps she was hitting some combination of keys that told numbers to go away, but for whatever reason, it happened. Sure enough, when she pulled up the menu and accessed her incoming call log, nothi
ng was there. Nothing. Not a single number.
She puffed out her cheeks in frustration, then ran upstairs to get the scrap of paper on which she’d scribbled the number last night. Thank goodness she’d written it down. She could go by the office, take care of some paperwork, and check the number on the computer there.
The warehouse was closed on Sunday, the gravel parking lot usually empty. Today, however, Joann’s red Jeep Cherokee was parked right next to the door. Milla parked beside the Cherokee and climbed the steep flight of exterior stairs that led to the second floor. When she tried to open the door, she found it locked, which was good, since Joann had been here alone. Milla unlocked the heavy steel door and went in, calling, “Joann?” both to locate her friend and to let her know someone else was here. To be on the safe side, she locked the door behind her.
“In here,” Joann called, and came out of the break room. “I’m nuking some popcorn, but I’ve got another bag. Want some?”
“No, thanks, I had a real breakfast.”
“Popcorn is real. And I had a Pop-Tart, too.”
Joann was a junk-food junkie, which made it all the more amazing that she was so trim. She was forty, divorced, had an eighteen-year-old son, who had left the week before to spend what was left of the summer with his dad before heading off to college, and she looked no older than thirty. She wore her blond hair cut almost boy-short, and her blue eyes held a permanent twinkle. Joann was often the voice of reason when emotions erupted out of control in the office, which happened on a regular basis. The job they did was so intense, and sometimes so heartbreaking, that mini-crises were the rule rather than the exception.
“Why are you here today?” Milla asked.
“Paperwork, what else? How about you?”
Milla sighed. “Paperwork. And I wanted to run a phone number through the computer.”
“What phone number?”
“The one that came in on my cell phone Friday afternoon, with the tip about Diaz. It’s an El Paso exchange, so I’m curious.”
“Have you called it?”
“Not yet. I started to last night, but it was late—or early—and I decided to wait. And if I can find out who I’m calling beforehand, so much the better.”
She went into her office and booted up her computer. While the machine was going through its digital contortions, she turned around to her desk and flipped through the stack of paperwork to pull out those things she could get finished in the short amount of time she had.
Their computer system needed updating, she thought as she listened to the beeps and whirs behind her. That was one more expense that was continually shoved to the back burner, because there was always something more important, more urgent, that took their funds. As long as their current system still worked, she couldn’t justify spending thousands to upgrade.
When the booting was complete, she swiveled her chair around, went on-line, pulled up Google, and typed in the phone number. In two seconds, she had the name of the service station where the call had been placed, and the address. Behind her, she heard Joann come into the office.
“Find anything?”
“It’s a service station.”
Joann leaned her hip on the desk and waited as Milla dialed the number. It was answered on the fifth ring. “Service station.”
An informative greeting, Milla thought. “Hello, this is Milla with Finders, and we received a call from your location about six P.M. Friday afternoon. Can you tell me—”
“Sorry,” the man said impatiently. “This is a pay phone. I don’t have time to watch everybody who uses it. You get a crank call?”
“No, it was a legitimate call; I’m just trying to get in touch with the man who made it.”
“I can’t help ya. Sorry.” He hung up, and Milla blew out a frustrated breath as she followed suit.
“What did he say?” Joann asked impatiently.
“Yes,” said a low, emotionless voice behind them. “What did he say?”
Joann jumped and gave a startled little squeak as she whirled. Milla stood up so abruptly her chair shot backward and crashed into her desk, and somehow she ended up standing beside Joann, frozen, staring at the man who blocked her office door. Chills ran up and down her spine, and her heart thundered in her chest. They had been alone in the office. The door was locked. How had he gotten in? What did he want?
He wasn’t carrying a weapon, at least none that she could see. But though his hands were empty, she wasn’t reassured, because his eyes were the coldest, most remote eyes she’d ever seen. She was looking into the eyes of a killer, and though she was so frightened she was shaking, there was something mesmerizing about that gaze and she found herself unable to look away. Like a cobra, she thought, hypnotizing its prey before it struck.
There was a preternatural stillness about him, as if he wasn’t quite human.
Beside her, Joann was breathing in rapid little gasps, her eyes round as she stared unblinkingly at the intruder. Milla touched Joann’s hand in reassurance and Joann immediately grabbed her hand in a death grip.
The man looked briefly at their clasped hands, then back up to their faces. “Don’t make me ask again,” he said, still in that totally empty tone.
That voice. She knew that voice. But panic was still beating through her veins, and she couldn’t solidify the memory. Milla swallowed and managed to get the words out of her tight throat, but her voice was strained. “It was a pay phone. The man said he didn’t know who used it, that he was too busy to pay attention.”
A slight dip of his eyelids was the only acknowledgment the intruder gave of her answer.
There was no way they could get past him. He wasn’t a huge man, but he was big enough, about six-one, maybe six-two, with a lean, hard build that said he was all muscle and strength, with a dash of rattlesnake quickness thrown in. He was darkness, a shadow filled with almost palpable menace.
Then she knew, and she felt dizzy as blood rushed from her head. She reached out and grabbed the edge of the desk for support. “You’re the man who knocked me down,” she said, the words thin and shocked. And in that instant she realized something else, something that made her knees shake and almost give way. “You’re Diaz.”
Still his expression didn’t change. “I heard you wanted to talk to me,” he said.
7
Oh, God. Diaz. She remembered what True had said, that Diaz was an assassin, and she believed him. She had no doubt at all.
She should have expected this. True had told her just a few hours ago that people would put out the word they wanted Diaz, and he would find them. She had announced to a cantina full of men that she would pay a reward to anyone who could give her information about Diaz, knowing he was in the area, maybe even listening. Maybe she should be surprised it had taken Diaz thirty-six hours to show up; he could have been waiting for her yesterday morning. Then she remembered giving the men in the cantina her real name, Milla Edge, instead of Milla Boone as she usually did. Her telephone was listed under “Edge”; when she’d told True that her name wasn’t listed in the phone book, she’d meant “Milla Boone.” True himself had her home number only because she’d scribbled it on the back of one of her business cards. If Diaz had been on the ball, he could have broken into her condo before she’d even gotten up that morning.
Or maybe he’d just had something more interesting to do.
He stepped inside the office and closed the door, then moved to the side so his back wasn’t to all that glass. In doing so he blocked their exit past the open end of Milla’s U-shaped desk; if they wanted out from behind the desk, they would have to vault over it.
He dragged one of the chairs over and sat down, then stretched his legs out and crossed one booted foot over the other. “I’m here,” he said. “Talk.”
Part of Milla’s mind was blank; what did one say to an assassin? Hello, nice to meet you? But the other half of her brain was connecting dots and reaching obvious conclusions. Obviously, Diaz wasn’t the one-eyed man. Bu
t he had been observing the meeting on Friday night, so he was either hunting one of the men involved or was following them, expecting them to lead him to his target. She suspected the latter, because all he had done was watch them. And if anyone could find the one-eyed man, it was Diaz. He might know where the bastard was at this very moment.
Slowly she pulled Joann to the side, and stepped in front of her. It wasn’t fair that Joann should be dragged into the middle of this when it was all Milla’s doing, and her problem to solve. Milla pulled her chair out of the protective U of her desk and sat down, her knees almost touching his legs, though she was careful to keep that precious inch of space between them.
“I’m Milla Edge,” she began.
“I know.”
His complete lack of facial expression was unnerving. Everything about him was unnerving, yet she knew she could have walked past him on the street and not looked twice. He wasn’t a slavering madman, as would have befitted a homicidal maniac; instead he seemed very controlled and detached. His black hair was cropped short and his jaw was covered with a day’s worth of stubble, but that wasn’t disreputable. His olive drab T-shirt was clean, as were his black jeans and black rubber-soled boots. The short sleeves of the T-shirt clung to his biceps, but his arms were sinewy rather than bulky, roped with muscles and veins. If he had a weapon on him, she thought, it had to be tucked into one of his boots. That wasn’t terribly reassuring, nor was the fact that he was sitting in such a relaxed posture. A snake could strike without warning, but the line of poetry that began running through her head wasn’t about snakes; it was about a panther. Ogden Nash had said, “If called by a panther, don’t anther.” And yet she had called one to her, and now she had to deal with it.