“We do have a large amount of material on that period.” The librarian raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a better idea of the name?”
“Maybe the First Bank of Lavaca.” Steve gambled, seeing a fellow hunter. “They’re related to the Santiago Trust.”
The atmosphere chilled immediately.
“Lavaca?” The other woman leaned back in her seat, her expression suddenly much more formal. “Are you sure it’s not Leon or maybe Lampasas, if it’s named for a county? Or it could have been named for a town instead.”
Steve kept her expression guileless, wondering what had gone wrong. Was it the bank’s name or mentioning Santiago Trust?
“A reference downtown led me to believe the bank owned this building at one time. Also the Santiago Trust’s board held their meetings here.”
“Really? I’d be interested to see the precise reference. Memoirs really should be labeled as such and used with considerable caution.” Soft clucking managed to express both sympathy and disapproval for another curator’s carelessness. The mouse was pushed away slightly, indicating disinterest.
“Perhaps. But—” Steve tried again to talk about the bank, Santiago Trust, and where she stood.
“We don’t have any memoirs here, except for Mr. Humphreys’s accounts of his speculations on railroad stocks, starting in the late 1890s. Are those interesting to you? No? Well, then—”
Should she flash her badge? No, she wasn’t on official business.
The older woman somehow managed to look down her nose at Steve, despite the foot difference in their height. “Young lady, we have no material here linking a bank and the Santiago Trust—whoever they may be—immediately after the War Between the States. As the senior librarian here, I would know. Unless you have a more precise name for the bank or are willing to look through our complete catalog . . .”
She swept her hand over the entire reading room and Steve ground her teeth, considering the reference books’ towering stacks.
Shit. It had been a long shot but she truly hated to leave without an answer.
“I’ll stay and look,” she decided. “At least under Lavaca.”
“Very well.” The other shrugged. An hour later, Steve was glad she hadn’t added, “You fool.”
She’d found nothing under First Bank of Lavaca or First Bank of Leon linking either of those establishments to the Santiago Trust, let alone to this building. Maybe she wasn’t looking in the right books but she’d tried. And, damn, how long could one keep looking before acknowledging there was nothing?
She nodded at the librarian and left, considering her few remaining options.
After a goddamn month of searching for the Santiago Trust during every spare minute, she’d exhausted all the online databases. She’d have found something, if there were anything to find. She’d searched the great historical collections but no luck there, either.
The only traces of Ethan’s mysterious employer were their logo, that ornate antique brand, on charitable donations like the DNA profiling machinery. All things a monk would have been proud of. Crap.
But Ethan had cold-bloodedly murdered a man, somebody she would otherwise have been glad to see dead. Crap.
But how could she let any Tom, Dick, or Harry just up and kill somebody, even if he did deserve to die?
She unlocked the door and peeled open her Expedition, wanting nothing so much as a long, hot shower and a massage. Or a good lay, although that had always required Ethan and his unique notions. Sometimes leather, sometimes lace—but always damn excellent and impossible without him.
At least she had the long Fourth of July weekend to think about it, while she was vacationing in Galveston with the other cops.
And with any luck at all, she’d stop fantasizing about Ethan, whether he was fucking her—or a man. It was a hell of a way to have a good orgasm.
A single sheet of paper, very high-quality stationery and folded once, lay on her passenger’s seat.
Her eyes narrowed and she reached for her gun.
How had that gotten here? She knew for a fact she’d locked all the doors.
She swung around, checking and rechecking her surroundings, keeping her Sig ready but not out in the open. Nothing, not even the faint whisper on her nape which said somebody was watching. This was the only vehicle in the visitors’ parking lot, although three cars could be spotted in the staff lot, on the museum’s other side.
She circled cautiously around her SUV and found no tracks. There wasn’t even a crushed rose petal or a dog barking somewhere in the old residential neighborhood.
She eyed the paper again. One side was labeled with her name, clearly written in Ethan’s bold, old-fashioned handwriting. Lines of closely spaced type covered the other side like wallpaper.
It probably wasn’t a bomb, since it wasn’t a sealed envelope. Besides, the thought of Ethan using explosives on her was laughable. Wring her neck, maybe. Kill her from a distance when he couldn’t watch? Never.
Her fingers flexed, longing to touch that innocent-looking sheet.
She glanced around one last time to make sure nobody else was watching. Her heart was pounding a little too fast, probably because her SUV had been burglarized, certainly not because this was the first time she’d had any contact with Ethan.
Satisfied of that much at least, she very, very carefully picked up the paper.
Nothing at all happened. Her heart slowed into a more normal rhythm, warming her skin.
Clucking at her own idiocy, she stepped into the sun and unfolded the sheet. Her jaw dropped.
Good Lord. Ethan had just given her an extensive list of El Gallinazo’s American bank accounts and at least some of his Swiss accounts. They could put one hell of a dent in everything from his drug running to his money laundering.
Where had he gotten the information?
And why was he giving it to her? Did he hope to eliminate a possible rival?
GALVESTON, MONDAY, JULY 5, 2 A.M.
The fresh, slightly bitter tang of saltwater spray from the coming storm couldn’t hide the heavy, pungent foulness of recent death. A string of lanterns hugged the hotel’s façade but shrank from the alley’s denizens, leaving those uncertainties to the irregular light from a handful of doors and windows, plus a single streetlight. Men and women muttered in a constantly increasing rising tide of unhappiness from the high sidewalks and inside the neighboring businesses. A reporter’s nasal voice was pecking at a young patrolman, its owner eager to slice through the cordon to view the murder at its core.
Noway, nohow the press got to see this one—and they should count themselves damn lucky. Unlike the poor honeymooners who’d found the bodies.
Steve closed her eyes and yearned for a glass of ginger ale, her grandmother’s sovereign remedy for an upset stomach. Even so, she knew damn well she’d have nightmares about being hemmed in by old brick Victorian buildings with dead people at her feet and palm trees lashing at the walls.
The place was crawling with cops but most of them were taking statements from the dozens of passersby, something they’d be lucky to finish before dawn. The photographers were still shooting pictures, their flashes briefly interrupting the alley’s shadows in the erratic rhythm of men seeking something distinctive. Two hours of hunting and they hadn’t found it yet, any more than Galveston’s prized police dogs had brought back a gory-handed murderer.
A few cops still worked the grid pattern into the parking spaces between the hotel and the saloon on the other side of the alley. Others stood around in clumps, not quite blatantly wondering when the corpses would be released. Eyeing Steve but not talking to her, where she stood only a few feet from the shrouded corpses. A handsome German shepherd sat beside his handler in the hotel parking lot, both restlessly considering and reconsidering its exits.
Hell, she’d been having a great holiday before this happened. A long holiday weekend at Posada’s condo with a couple of other Rangers, just lazing by the Gulf and calling it fishing. Then the ph
one rang late on Sunday night, bringing the Galveston police chief asking for help processing a crime scene. Of course, they’d agreed. They’d have done so, even if they’d known what they were getting into.
Two young coeds, dead for less than an hour, flimsy as crushed newspaper on the crimson-smeared pavement. Their cotton skirts were now gaudy road signs to their shredded thighs.
Jesus. Steve gritted her teeth. If it wasn’t so damn hot, she could have blamed her shakes on the weather. Had any of the other killers’ MOs involved draining women’s femoral arteries?
Even so, this bloody alley had looked just a little too familiar after reading all those other case files. To say nothing of how few investigative techniques had shown any promise.
Although the girls’ murderer—murderers?—hadn’t sexually assaulted them, he’d taken the time to break every bone in each of their hands. Their mouths were contorted into gaping chasms of pain, their heads thrown back in agony, and their eyes staring in horror.
She’d seen that expression once before. She hadn’t needed the witnesses’ interviews to know nobody had heard these two scream, just like the girl in San Leandro. Unless they’d never made a sound . . .
Sirens whined in the distance, heading toward them. The irritating reporter slammed off to talk to eyewitnesses in an Internet café.
Posada separated himself from a trio of high-ranking cops, readily identifiable by the acolytes buzzing in and out with low-voiced questions. He strolled over to Steve, careful to stay outside the yellow-taped perimeter, the evidence kit dangling from his fingers as barren as hers. “How are you doing?”
“Fine.” She flicked a glance at him, willing to make idle chitchat. “Natives getting a bit restless?”
“Yup.” His voice was as soft as hers. “Doesn’t help that their crack K-9 ID’d the saloon’s bouncer as the likely killer.”
“Natural thing to do. He’d been the first guy on the scene, after the couple found the bodies.” Hell, the dog was good enough to pick the trail up from an incredibly contaminated crime scene, then isolate its maker amid the huge crowds around here. It was more than almost anybody else’s tracker had managed.
“Giving him the chance to pick up lots of blood, which he’d tried to wash off and didn’t want to admit.”
She could almost see her lieutenant roll his eyes. “Unfortunately, he also has the single best alibi in town, given the number of people in the saloon and passersby on the street who can ID him.”
“Oh yeah, didn’t take much time to establish that at all.”
No, it hadn’t been a good night for Galveston’s finest so far. But maybe that would change.
A siren howled on a thinner note than that put out by a squad car. A small white pickup bounced toward the alley, its flasher whirling. Hopefully this would turn out to be the cavalry.
“Sure about this?” Posada murmured, even softer. “Police dog is a police dog. Are you sure you want to stay out on that limb by asking for another one?”
“Yes, because trailing or hard-surface tracking is harder. It takes a specialist.” And if a vamp committed this crime, there wouldn’t be any other evidence. Landscaping—grass or bushes and trees—to catch and trap bits of scent amid their myriad pockets and crevices would have made matters much easier. Instead, they’d have to rely on the pitifully few molecules still floating in the air or unlucky enough to be smacked firmly against the slick pavement or walls. But maybe this year’s bumper crop of weeds would help.
“I’ve never seen a bloodhound work a crime scene better than a shepherd,” Posada mused.
Damn, she really needed his support. Better give him more of the truth, no matter how nasty.
“Hays County had some success using similar tactics.” By acting fast with a damn good team.
“Hays County? Had an attack like this?” His voice started to rise before he yanked it back under control.
“And others,” she mouthed, shielding her features from everyone else. Yes, Hays was between Austin and San Antonio, dammit. Hours from here and only one of the many counties which had seen young women die.
“Oh, fuck.” It was the first time she’d ever heard him use the F-word.
“Not really provable, though,” she added. “Until maybe now.”
Posada grimaced.
The high-pitched wail snapped to a halt, its accompanying light slashing the bricks as if it were trying to cut a portal. The truck’s seal proclaimed Texas Department of Criminal Justice and a single big-dog crate occupied the back.
The driver was turning gray at the temples but was still trim around the waist. The creases in his uniform were knife-edged, despite the late hour and heavy humidity. A minute after he stopped, he had the truck’s tailgate down and the crate open. A big bloodhound emerged, gleaming red and gold under the few lights, with deep wrinkled jowls highlighting the long wet tongue, a runner’s legs, and wagging tail.
The Galveston K-9 handler shot them a withering look and drummed his fingers against his leg. His big shepherd sat up a little straighter, furry tail stirring on the bricks.
Zimmerman, the chief investigator, pried himself away from the police chief and headed for the pickup. Steve and Posada joined him, moving in perfect unison, but stopped a few paces back.
“Evening, folks,” the newcomer said. “I’m Sabathia and this here’s Daisy, our best trailing dog. How can we help you?”
“Detective Ryan Zimmerman. Thanks for getting here so soon,” Zimmerman replied, his burly shoulders straining his polo shirt. “We hope you can pick up the killer’s trail for us.”
“Glad to do our best, Zimmerman.” Daisy had her head up, sniffing the night air curiously. “Do you have a sample for us to work from?”
“Yes, we found these a few feet away from the victims.” Zimmerman’s mouth curled before flattening into neutrality. They’d located it after their own dog had started hunting that bouncer and just before Steve had suggested bringing in a trailing dog.
She kept a straight face. Careful, man; don’t expect to triumph this easily over the bad guys. Nobody else has.
Sabathia held the small bag so Daisy, now wearing a harness for easier head movement, could get a good whiff of its contents. She snuffled at it, concentrating deeply, almost like a sommelier tasting a new wine in a fancy restaurant. Finally she pulled away, long ears dangling, and he quickly loosened her leash, letting her test the air in all directions. She circled, head high, nose wrinkling with every sniff, moving farther away from him with every step.
Suddenly her entire body came alert, until even her toes and tail existed solely to drive her forward. She moved quickly down the alley and through the parking lot behind the hotel, gathering police in her wake like an empress.
“Ah-woooo!” she bayed, and lunged up on her hind feet, firmly planting both front paws on a cop’s chest. A single swipe of her long wet tongue claimed him as hers.
“Drop your wallet in the street again, Smith?” Long experience rang through the Galveston K-9 handler’s voice.
The man who’d been trying to protect his face abruptly slapped his hand over his hip pocket—and flushed angrily.
Steve sighed. How many times had she seen a cop swear nobody had gone inside the perimeter, only to have a dog prove them wrong?
Zimmerman cursed angrily. “Now we’ve got nothing.”
“We’ve still got two corpses, who should have some of their killers’ scent on them,” Steve gently corrected him.
“The bodies probably reek to high heaven of everybody who’ve been near them or touched them in any way,” he objected with lost hope’s violent anger.
“But we have Daisy, who’s a trailing dog. If anybody can find him—or them—she can,” Roberts said flatly. “Even with all the hard surfaces around here.”
A muscle throbbed in his jaw but he met the chief investigator’s gaze steadily.
Strong man to tout another man’s dog’s superiority.
Zimmerman hesitated and finally
shrugged. “What the hell do we have to lose? Let her try.” He flipped up the yellow tape so Daisy could approach the two pitiful mounds under their white shrouds.
Steve watched silently, her stomach wrenching tighter and tighter, Posada and Roberts beside her.
If a human had killed them, there should still be enough scent on the corpses to give Daisy a good start. Otherwise—if a vampiro had done it—she’d have to take it from the air around them. And God help them all, in that case.
“What are the odds?” Posada quietly asked Roberts.
“Nighttime, with warm, moist air—that helps. But it was damn hot today. Asphalt traps heat—not good. Plus, all the tourists in the historic district seem to have tramped through here.” He shook his head. “If I was a betting man, maybe one in five, just to pick up a scent, and only because she’s a hound.”
Zimmerman had delicately laid a sterile gauze pad on each victim, then placed each one in a clean evidence bag. Now he offered them to Daisy.
The dog’s tail hung low, barely twitching, while she sniffed around the two bags. Suddenly she whined, deep in her throat, and pushed her muzzle into her handler’s hand, edging away from the crime scene.
“What the hell? Good dog, Daisy, good dog.” Sabathia stroked her head. “You can do it, Daisy. You’ve found worse crooks before. Come on, Daisy, come on.”
Daisy leaned against her human’s leg, shaking.
A cold vortex began to spin in Steve’s stomach. Judging by Daisy’s reaction, the killer hadn’t been an ordinary human. But somebody like Ethan? Her veins filled with an icy slurry.
Daisy whined again but allowed herself to be eased down the alley away from the corpses. She worked toward the street, her tail rising with every step. Her head slowly came up, her nose wrinkling as she sniffed the air in all directions, swiveling back and forth.
Bond of Darkness Page 13
