“We have company.” Lauren stepped to the side so Abigail could see Montero. “This is Ms. Montero. She’s helping me with some things from work.”
“Hello, Abigail,” Montero said.
“Hello,” Abigail said politely, and then quickly turned back to her mother. “I drew a picture of me and Daddy and you. See, we’re all together, just like when we made him a chocolate birthday cake.”
“Very nice,” Lauren said. She set her daughter down just as Aimee came down the hallway. “We’ll put this one up in your room. Can you and Aimee draw another one while Ms. Montero and I get started in the study? After your bath, Aimee’s going to go home, and I’ll read you a story and tuck you in to bed.”
“Nighttime snack?” Abigail asked.
“There might still be some cake. Only have a small piece, and then brush your teeth.” The moment the words left Lauren’s mouth, Abigail took off and ran toward the kitchen with Aimee in pursuit.
“Why did she draw Donovan with long hair and a beard?” Montero asked.
“When he showed up here, he hadn’t shaved or gotten a haircut the entire time he’d been in Montana.”
“Abigail looks like you, but she has Donovan’s eyes,” Montero said.
“If she looked like her father, we’d hardly know, would we?” Lauren replied with a well-intended shot to Donovan’s appearance-altering surgeries. “What we do know is she inherited his impulsive, stubborn streak, and disregard for rules.”
“Good for her. I’m a big fan of rebellion.”
“That’s what Donovan says,” Lauren replied. Abigail was Daddy’s girl, and one day she’d learn the truth about her father. Either from her parents, or God forbid, a resentful public. Lauren hoped that either way, that particular discussion was years from now. “Let’s get started.”
They settled in the study and Lauren unloaded her pistol but kept the clip in her pocket and the pistol in a drawer.
“I’d prefer to keep my weapon loaded,” Montero said.
“Then it goes in the safe,” Lauren said. “I have a four-year-old. No exceptions. I’m assuming you can load your weapon quickly if needed?”
Montero nodded as she pulled out her gun, dropped the magazine, slipped open the chamber and removed the bullet. She placed the now-empty pistol into her bag.
Lauren sat at the table and pulled out her laptop, motioning for Montero to take the seat across from her. Lauren then retrieved two bottles of water from the wet bar and, as computers booted up and papers were organized, Montero took her seat.
“Okay,” Montero began. “The latest update I received from Guatemala is that a ransom note was delivered this morning. It was flown back to Andrews Air Force Base and taken directly to the FBI lab for analysis. The kidnappers asked for three million dollars and specified they’d only wait three days. There was also a bloody fingerprint on the note. As it turns out, it’s fish blood, and it’s not Stephanie’s fingerprint, or anyone else’s in the system for that matter. My contact says the move was more than likely meant to shock. It’s a tactic the FBI behavioral psychologists suggest is an act of simple intimidation. The symbol of a bloody fingerprint is fairly common in relatively lawless regions such as Guatemala.”
“Maybe it’s where we start,” Lauren said as she opened her laptop. “Kidnappings with a bloody fingerprint on the ransom note.”
“In Central America, over the last twenty-five years, there have been three hundred eighty-one kidnappings with some variation on the theme. The FBI ran the parameters through the computers for similarities and nothing connected them together.”
“Of those, how many were in Guatemala?”
“Eighty-four,” Montero said as she handed Lauren a printout.
As Lauren scanned the numbers listed beside each country, her phone pinged, alerting her to an e-mail. She picked it up: a message from Buck. There were attachments and she elected to access his e-mail via her laptop:
Lauren–
Found these pictures on a memory card at crime scene.
We assume they’re from Stephanie’s camera.
See what you make of them, but show them to no one.
William is still adamant about no outside help.
–Buck
“What is it?” Montero asked. “What’s wrong?”
“You need to see this.”
Lauren and Montero huddled over the laptop and wordlessly clicked through each of the pictures.
“Go back,” Montero said. “Go through them again.”
Lauren and Montero went through the images a dozen times until Lauren finally stood and began to pace. “Okay, let’s review what we think so far.”
“The men are definitely chasing the girl.”
“That makes the girl the primary target, not Stephanie,” Lauren said. “Stephanie was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Which is good,” Montero said. “It eliminates a vendetta against Stephanie or William. The kidnappers, who we know aren’t soldiers, are in it for the money. William may have made the right call. Three million and his niece is returned.”
“Except she’s seen her kidnappers. She knows what they look like. Hell, we’ve seen them. We also have no idea if they’ve figured out a memory card is missing.”
“I say we go back to the primary victim,” Montero said. “We need to look for a motive in her abduction.”
“There was a girl missing from Antigua.” Lauren sat back down at the computer.
“How long ago? What’s her deal? Where are her parents?”
“Here it is. A girl was abducted in Antigua six days ago by multiple men who shot and killed her armed escort.”
“Okay, let’s start with the girl and see what we can find out. I’m thinking not every grade-school girl in Guatemala has an armed escort. We need to know what’s up with that. Maybe we can find a motive, and, from there, perhaps a suspect.”
“Where do we start?”
“I work with six women’s shelters in Florida. Most of the women I see are there because of a husband or a boyfriend. The fights are often due to children, custody battles, child support, and the like. There’s a global network that lists missing children. We’ll start there.”
“I almost forgot about your work with at-risk women and girls,” Lauren replied offhand as Montero typed.
“I find that odd, since you donated five million dollars to the shelter. Money we desperately needed to expand.”
“That was supposed to be a secret,” Lauren said, without so much as blinking.
“You said it yourself. I’m a detective. And thank you for the donation. You helped a great many people.”
“It was a way to say thank you for all that you did for my husband,” Lauren replied. “I’m glad it worked out.”
“You’re not going to believe this. I just found her.” Montero shook her head in disbelief and then looked up from her laptop.
“What?” Lauren got up to look for herself. Pictured on the screen was, without a doubt, the girl from Stephanie’s pictures.
“She was taken eighteen months ago in Los Angeles. Kidnapped from the house she shared with her mother. The girl’s name is Marie Vargas; she’s eight years old and an American citizen. Her mother, Alicia Vargas, claims her daughter was taken by her late husband’s family, after the murder of Marie’s father, Miguel.”
“So, if what we’re reading is true, Marie was kidnapped by her father’s family after the death of her father.” Lauren moved around the table and quickly began typing into her laptop. Moments later, Lauren was skimming an exposé that came out six months ago in the Los Angeles Times. The in-depth report was about children taken from the custodial parent and whisked from the country where they vanish. Even if they’re located, the situation often turns into a bureaucratic nightmare. Marie Vargas was showcased as one of the examples. “Listen to this. Marie’s grandfather, the man widely believed to have abducted his granddaughter, is not only a Mexican national, but he’s also a rich, well-pl
aced politician.”
“What kind of politician?”
“He’s listed as the Mexican emissary to Guatemala.”
“This just got way more complicated,” Montero said as she pressed her fingers to her temples. “And far more dangerous.”
CHAPTER TEN
Donovan was sitting with Janie at a corner table in the hotel bar. The place was half-full, the Monday evening business travelers had begun to trickle in, and the low murmurs of surrounding conversations eclipsed the Latin music playing through the overhead speakers. Donovan had a clear field of view, wanting to spot Michael when he arrived. The Galileo had landed earlier, and work on the Scimitar interface had pushed past dinner. Michael was on his way to join them for a drink. The only news was the FBI had relayed to Buck that they’d found no solid fingerprints on the ransom note or the packaging. The next move still belonged to the kidnappers.
A slight headache and a sore throat were all that lingered from his earlier encounter with the volcano. That Janie had reacted so quickly made all the difference. When Donovan spotted Michael, he raised his hand to get his friend’s attention.
Michael walked closer, a quizzical expression crossing his face as he studied Donovan’s hair and beard. Donovan rose to greet his friend. Michael hugged Janie first, then turned to Donovan.
“Happy birthday, old man. What’s with the hippie look? It’s a little late for a midlife crisis, isn’t it?” Michael said as they gave each other a handshake and then a hug.
“I was thinking about a tattoo next,” Donovan replied, genuinely happy Michael had arrived. Their twelve-year friendship had been forged in the high-stress environment of flying Eco-Watch jets. Donovan would, and had, trusted Michael with his life.
“You could get a tattoo of your actual birth date, you know, to remind yourself you’re fifty!” Michael replied. “All kidding aside, it’s good to see you. How are you doing?”
“I’m good.” Donovan didn’t want to talk about himself, he wanted to talk about Eco-Watch. He knew very little of what had been happening for the last three months. “Who are you flying with?”
“I’m with Craig. He had to call home, said he’d join us shortly.”
“What was the delay this evening with the Galileo?” Donovan asked, as the waitress arrived and took Michael’s order.
“Something kept popping a breaker on the symbol generator for the Scimitar control board. They finally found a defective relay. It’s complicated. All I know is the Scimitar is fixed, and we’re all set to go in the morning.” Michael thanked the waitress as she brought him his drink, then raised his glass. “It’s good to see you both.”
Donovan raised his glass in return. “Thank you for taking care of Eco-Watch. You made my sabbatical a little easier.”
“We were all shocked to hear about Stephanie. Who went to Montana to get you?”
“I didn’t think anyone knew where I was until a friend of Lauren’s arrived.”
“We all knew where you were,” Michael allowed himself a crooked smile. “We respected your wish to be left alone, we just kept tabs on you.”
“So much for a man’s privacy,” Donovan said, as he spotted a woman come in and sit by herself at the bar. Though Donovan was easily thirty paces away, his first impression was that she was beautiful, elegant, in a very refined way. She sat at the end of the bar and placed her jacket and purse on the empty barstool next to her, presumably to dissuade anyone from joining her. She had thick black hair that hung down past her shoulders. Her bangs ended right above large expressive eyes. She wore dark slacks and a sleeveless top, a silver necklace hung from her neck and teased the cleavage revealed by her low-cut blouse. Lean and slender, she was about five-foot six, but even at this distance he could see the graceful, sculpted muscles in her arms. Her bronze skin seemed flawless. Donovan watched as she tossed back her hair and ordered a drink. She glanced at him, turned away, and then slowly came back to him. She tilted her face and smiled coyly before turning her attention to the arrival of her drink. In that briefest of moments, he couldn’t help but notice that the flash of her smile was framed by perfectly formed lips.
Donovan decided offhandedly that she was easily one of the more beautiful women he’d ever seen. He blinked away his thoughts and refocused on Michael.
“We’re excited by the Scimitar’s possibilities,” Michael said. “According to the USGS, the seismic activity comes and goes, which isn’t unusual. What is unusual is that the intensity and endurance of the earthquake swarms is growing. We’ll have a far better picture tomorrow.”
The conversation centered on work, as Janie started asking Michael questions about the Scimitar, and he began inquiring about the new helicopter. Donovan was only half-listening, and he couldn’t help but once again glance past Michael and Janie toward the woman. She sat with a wine glass in front of her. She turned unexpectedly and caught Donovan watching, her demure smile turned mildly suggestive. This time she held his eyes with hers a little longer before turning away. Donovan was slightly amused by her behavior. He watched as she languidly shifted positions, using a finger to slide her long hair behind her ear. It briefly occurred to him that she might be a prostitute; he’d spent enough time in hotel bars to know that it was the typical haunt of working girls. He watched as several men stopped and spoke with her, but she deflected each of them with practiced ease, and they moved on. Donovan decided she wasn’t working. His thoughts were interrupted at the sound of Michael loudly clearing his throat.
“She must be attractive,” Michael said. “And if you don’t quit looking at her, I’m going to have to turn around and look for myself.”
“She’s worth a look,” Donovan said, smiling.
Michael slowly turned, then snapped his head back, eyes wide. “Wow.”
“You blokes are terrible.” Janie rolled her eyes, but then she, too, turned to take a look. “She’s top-shelf, that one.”
Donovan could see that the woman had positioned herself at the bar and was using the mirror behind the bar to keep an eye on the door. A distinguished-looking man walked into the bar and stopped as if to survey the room. When the woman noticed him, her expression went from recognition to fear, and then a mask of panic clouded her delicate features. She didn’t move, but she quickly averted her gaze and signaled for her check. Donovan’s eyes darted to the door. The man had walked to a table and was shaking hands with the men seated there.
Donovan watched as another man entered, furiously searching the semi-crowded room. The moment he spotted the woman at the bar, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pistol.
Before Donovan could say or do anything, the man opened fire. The varnished wood of the bar next to the woman exploded, throwing splinters into the air. The roar of the pistol was deafening, followed by screams and shouts as patrons began to panic.
Donovan was immediately out of his chair, gun drawn as he dropped to the floor and pulled Janie down as well. He heard another shot reverberate through the room, followed by the sound of breaking glass as the bullet just missed the woman’s head and slammed into the bottles behind the bar. Michael hit the deck and shielded Janie’s body with his own. More shots were fired from across the room. Through the smoke and chaos, Donovan saw the gunman go down. Moving in behind the fallen man, guns drawn, were two embassy security men assigned to protect Eco-Watch. The customers were making a mad rush for the door, an onslaught that quickly overran security.
Donovan looked for the woman, hoping she hadn’t been shot. He scanned the bar and both her jacket and purse were gone. He holstered his weapon and went to the fallen gunman. Donovan took one look at the man’s face and recognized him as one of the men from Stephanie’s pictures. He hurried toward the lobby, but the woman wasn’t there either. Outside, it was pouring down rain. Donovan pushed through the doors; despite the weather, the street was full of cars, buses, even motorcycles, their riders soaked from the downpour. The sound of sirens in the distance rose above the general roar of engines
and honking horns. A block away, he saw a woman walking fast, her jacket pulled up to shield her from the rain.
He lost sight of her and began to run. Comforted by the weight of his pistol, he raced along the sidewalk, eyes scanning both sides of the street. He came to the first intersection and stopped. He looked as far as he could in each direction, desperately trying to catch sight of her again. He studied the people inside a bus that roared by, wondering if she’d made her escape via public transportation. As soon as traffic allowed, he bolted across the street.
Breathing heavily, Donovan stopped at the next corner. The pedestrian traffic was lighter, and he studied each person on both sides of the street, confident he’d be able to spot her if she were close. He turned around and looked the way he’d just come. Then he took advantage of a gap in the traffic, crossed the street, and continued moving away from the hotel. The sound of sirens filled his ears as the first of two police cars raced past, no doubt heading toward the hotel. In his peripheral vision, about three doors down, he spotted a flash of something bright, but it was gone as fast as he’d seen it. Donovan slid closer to the wall, and as quietly as he could, began moving closer to what was a recessed doorway of a building.
Donovan kept his pistol low against his leg. As he drew closer in he could hear a woman’s voice as she talked on a phone. The flash he’d seen was from the screen of a phone. She was speaking fast, obviously agitated. Without hesitation, Donovan rounded the corner and faced her.
She was even more beautiful than he’d thought. Her hair was wet and fell across the side of her face. Her chest was moving rhythmically from what was probably a mixture of both fear and exertion. Her dark eyes flared wide at the sudden surprise of being found. With a trembling hand she lowered the phone, her eyes darting back and forth like a wild animal.
“I won’t hurt you,” Donovan said as she looked up at him, as if measuring the man and the words. “Do you recognize me? I was in the bar—I saw what happened. I can help you.”
“You’re an American?” She replied in English with a heavy Spanish accent.
Aftershock: A Donovan Nash Novel (A Donovan Nash Thriller) Page 9
