by Kathy Reichs
“Who is she?”
Nothing.
“Who is she?” Harsher.
“Tibby Icard.” Dry swallow. “She lives in Chicago.”
“Where?”
“No idea.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Nothing. It’s not like we hung out. I think I saw her once.”
“Where?”
“With Bronco.”
“Yet you know her last name.”
“She must have told me.”
“Bronco ordered Icard’s death.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I know so.” Another quick swerve. “Who else was in the apartment in Venice?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play games. I heard women down the hall.”
She gave me a long flat stare. I gave it back.
“One of them I don’t know,” she said. “The other was Selena.”
Stella?
Sudden click.
“What did you mean, ‘we all slipped out’? Who else was in the apartment on Mount Peasant?”
“Selena.”
“Any others?”
“No.” The flat stare turned away. “Anyway, I doubt they’re still here.”
“What’s Selena’s last name?” Pulse humming.
Kerr shrugged both shoulders.
“What does she look like?”
“Kind of pale and weird.”
“Young? Old?”
“Young.”
“You can do better.”
“Maybe like me.”
“Talk about Stella Bright.”
Flash of something? “Who?”
“Don’t mess with me.”
Slight change in the curve of her spine. No response.
I scrolled to the last photo in Bronco’s email. “That her?”
Kerr dragged her eyes to the image. Her breath caught again, held as she balanced emotions. Weighed. Made decisions.
“You can’t even see that person’s face.”
“Could it be Selena?” Oh, so controlled.
“I don’t know.”
I found the picture of the mustachioed blond in the Chicago morgue. Again placed the phone in front of Kerr.
“Who is he?”
“That’s Lew. His last name’s Lewinoski. I don’t know his first.”
I hit her with another fast changeup.
“Why do you say Bronco’s not at the Dupont Circle apartment?”
“He’s way careful. He’ll be long gone.”
“Why did he leave you in my room?”
“It was necessary for the cause.”
“Cuffing you to my sink will help foil Islamic domination?”
Kerr’s hands came up and curled into fists. Her forehead dropped onto knuckles bulging white and bloodless in rigor contraction. A few seconds, then her shoulders began rising and falling in short little hops. Tears fell, glistened like tiny round moons on the smooth black wood. One. Two. A dozen.
“I know he was sorry.” Barely a whisper.
Dramatic lunge to the bed.
She lost it.
While Kerr blubbered, I went to the desk and dialed Capps. He picked up right away.
“Sweet mother of God. It hasn’t been an hour.”
“Got a pen?”
I heard rustling, then a heartfelt exhalation.
“I squeezed some names out of Kerr,” I said.
“I’m listening.”
I told him about Jano, Lew, Selena, Landmine. That Kerr thought Bronco’s last name was Nagurski.
“Brilliant.” Incredulous. “She able to ID his hit?”
“Tibby Icard. A Chicago girl.”
“What’s Icard’s story?”
“Kerr claims she knows nada, says she wasn’t part of the group.”
“She screwing Bronco?”
“Yes.”
“Think she’s covering for the skank?”
“He cuffed her to my sink.”
“Could sway her loyalty. I’ll call when I’ve got something.”
After Capps disconnected I spent a long time watching daylight bring the room into black and red focus. I thought about Stella. Were we closing in? Could she survive long enough for us to free her?
I thought about Tibby Icard. Somehow, knowing the woman’s name made her more real. Not just a subject in two photos, one murdering, one murdered.
I wondered again about Icard’s distress in the van. What she’d said to the driver as they disappeared off frame. Had she seen Bowen Bright pick up the backpack? Had she known he was about to be vaporized? Felt remorse? Panic that she and her friends would be caught?
My skin felt tight on my flesh. My heart raced in my chest. I was on fire to run these bastards to ground.
Why? I wasn’t responsible for Icard’s death. For the slaughter at Bnos Aliza. It wasn’t my job to find Stella. To keep her alive. All this had nothing to do with me.
Oh, but it did. I’d failed once, way back in the grim dawn of my life. Failed to prevent a massacre. I couldn’t let innocents die again.
By nine, I was sweating and pacing and my nail beds were throbbing. I decided to go back at Kerr.
“Come over here,” I said.
Kerr peered at me through a tumble of hair. Checked to see if I still had the Glock. I did. Taking her time, she sat up, rerolled one pant leg, then walked to the chair vacated by Gus.
“Tell me about the passports,” I said.
Kerr’s eyes watched me, guarded, mimicked by an identical pair in a mirror to our right.
“Forging a passport buys you housing with a whole new set of friends,” I pressed.
“So does breaking and entering. Besides, I didn’t forge them.”
“They had your picture and were in your possession.”
“It wasn’t my apartment. I was just crashing.”
“Your name was on the mailbox.”
“The landlord thought that was doing me a favor.”
“Let’s talk about the Mac.”
“What Mac?”
“The one you wiped clean every time you logged off.”
“I don’t own a laptop.”
“Bronco make you do that?”
No answer.
I opened the Notes app on my phone. “[email protected]. What’s the h for? Hotpants?”
All I got was a cold stare. By then she’d figured out I probably wasn’t going to shoot her.
I read from the list. “[email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]. Who was it popped Tibby? Infidel? Trailblazer? Spearhead? You banging one of them, too? Maybe the whole team?”
Kerr pretended she’d stopped listening. But a change in her breathing gave her away.
Sudden synapse. With all the shooting, and spying, and ping-ponging around the country, I’d forgotten about the email sent by Infidel the day I tossed the Argyle Street apartment. I opened the phone pic and read the first part of the message aloud. “Godolphin. Vintage Claret Beauty 05 05 06.”
“Leave me alone.” Covering her ears like a kid caught scribbling on a wall. “I’m not talking to you anymore.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’m starving.”
“Go do it on the bed.”
Kerr flew from her chair.
What the hell was keeping Gus? To occupy my mind and stay sane, I began researching Godolphin on my phone. Found the following: a girls’ school in Salisbury, Wiltshire, UK; a seventeenth-century English statesman; an eighteenth-century horse; an Australian Shiraz-Cabernet blend.
Vintage? Claret Beauty? Did the code refer to a vineyard?
I thumbed keys, working through loop after loop. Learned that Godolphin was produced by Glaetzer Wines, a small boutique vineyard in the Barossa Valley in South Australia. I felt a tick of excitement on finding an image of a bottle. Centered on the label was an ankh, the ancient Egyptian symbol of sunrise and regeneration. The vintage pictured was 2005.
I kept looping. Found a Glaetzer unfiltered Shiraz called Amon-Ra, in Egyptian mythology the king of all gods. Its label featured the all-seeing eye of Horus, ancient symbol of protection.
My mind started running possibilities. Could Glaetzer Wines be Bronco’s next target? Did a foreign hit track with the MO of Jihad for Jesus? Might the group have a cell down under?
I skimmed the Glaetzer family history. The first members emigrated from Germany to Australia in 1888, established Glaetzer Wines a century later. Nothing on their website suggested they were Muslim.
In their distorted worldview, might these bastards interpret the Egyptian iconography as evidence the Glaetzers were Muslim? If not, might they view the symbols as pro-Islam? But Australia? Surely they could find something closer. And a winery? Not too many people there.
I was still poking at scenarios when Gus returned, a McDonald’s bag in one hand. Kerr was curled under her quilt, back turned, doing nothing, saying nothing.
Gus looked at Kerr, at me. Placed his bounty on the desk. Shook his head.
I took a coffee and an Egg McMuffin. So did Gus. We crossed to stand by the windows. Roused by the smell of grease, and seeing we’d distanced ourselves, Kerr scuttled to the desk, helped herself, and returned to the bed.
“Empty,” Gus said in a low voice.
“You managed to get into the apartment?”
He looked at me as though I’d asked if he knew how to breathe.
“Did they leave anything to suggest who they are? Where they’ve gone?”
“A boarding pass for a flight to Athens. Bronco Nagurski, seat three A.”
“Really?”
Again, the look.
“Did anyone see them? A neighbor? A janitor? A mailman?”
“A guy across the street said he noticed three people leaving the building late last night. Wasn’t sure what unit they’d come from. A hefty guy, a skinny guy, and a chick with bad hair. His words.”
“Sounds like Landmine, Bronco, and Selena.”
“Or Laurel, Hardy, and Sinead O’Connor.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Got into a car and drove off. No, he didn’t catch the make or the plate.” Gus tipped his head toward Kerr. “She good for anything?”
I repeated what I’d told Capps about Tibby Icard, Selena, Jano, and Lew. About Bronco’s alleged managerial style.
“You believe her?”
“She lacks the gray cells to follow through on a lie.”
Gus considered that long enough to finish his muffin. “They managed to regroup here in D.C. after Venice Beach.”
My conclusion also. “So there’s a system for communicating in emergency situations.”
We looked at Kerr. She was looking at us, coffee cup pressed to her lips.
“Where is he, Hotpants?” Ominous as I could.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Answer me.”
“I don’t know.”
“Not good enough.”
“He could be anywhere.”
“Why did you all go to L.A.?”
“Bronco called a meeting. I wasn’t at it, heard nothing.”
“They’re planning something big.”
Kerr nodded.
“Soon?”
Kerr shrugged. I took a step in her direction. Gus raised a palm.
“How does the group reconnect if disrupted?” he asked calmly.
“What?”
“If they’re fucking busted by the cops,” I snapped. “Jesus H. Christ, is anyone home in there?”
Above the cardboard rim, Kerr’s pupils dilated with fear.
“Calm down,” Gus admonished me softly. “He wouldn’t have left her here if she knew spit.”
I turned away in disgust. Whipped back and went at her from a different direction.
“Did Bronco score your passport collection?”
“I only had two.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
“Bad idea to piss her off.” Gus shook his head.
“Bronco has a lot of passports,” Kerr said.
“You’ve seen them?”
“Yes.”
“American?”
“Some.”
“Issued in what name?”
“Huh?”
“More than one name?” Jackhammering, looking for that crack.
“I can’t say.”
“You can’t read?”
“No. I—”
“You’ve seen your boyfriend’s phony passports yet you don’t know his real name?”
Caught in the lie, or in the realization of her own stupidity, Kerr flushed. “I can’t remember.”
I bunched my wrapper and winged it toward the bed. Kerr dodged, spilling what was left of her coffee.
“Let’s try it this way.” Gus, good-cop reasonable. “If Bronco has left D.C., where do you think he’s going?”
“I don’t know.” Blotting the tunic with a corner of the sheet.
“Not good enough.” Me, bad-cop mean.
More blotting.
“Did he ever talk about places he might like to travel?” Gus asked. “Places he’d been or planned to visit?”
“You just don’t get it.” Almost a wail. “Bronco told me nothing.”
I stared at the mottled face, searching for signs of intelligent life. Came up empty, which puzzled me. Bronco was vile, but he was clever. How could he have tolerated such stupidity?
Then I remembered the laptop.
“Bronco had you perform tasks online,” I said.
“Sometimes.”
“Did you make travel arrangements?”
“I looked things up, but he never wanted me to book anything.”
“Travel to where?”
“Like, cities?”
“No. Planets.”
I saw question marks form in her eyes. Her brows dipped, then, “Los Angeles. D.C. Baltimore. New York.”
I left space for her to continue. She didn’t.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“And Louisville. It’s in Kentucky.”
“Why Louisville?”
“I don’t know.” This time, a thread of uncertainty.
“Bullshit.”
Brown eyes wide. Then she pulled her face back together.
Facts collided like protons in my head.
Fusion.
I knew.
“Watch her!”
Brain throwing off sparks, I raced to my room, grabbed my laptop and the encryption device, and was back in under a minute. With pictures already forming in my mind, I got online to double-check my theory.
As I pointed and clicked and read, the pictures coagulated into something solid. Something real. When I sat back, electricity jazzing my nerves, they were watching me, Gus intent, Kerr blank-faced, working hard to reveal nothing.
“Talk about the tracks,” I ordered Kerr.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes. You do.” My Glock still lay on the desk. I reached out and wrapped my fingers around the butt. “We both know. Which means I don’t need you anymore.”
“Bronco wanted information on horse races.” Eyes on the gun.
“Thus his interest in Baltimore, New York, and Louisville.”
I rolled a look to Gus. His nod said he caught the link. The Preakness, Belmont Stakes, and Kentucky Derby.
“I guess. If you ask me, it’s wrong to make horses run like that. They get hurt all the time.”
“Bronco planned to go to a race?”
“Maybe.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. He asked me to price tickets way last fall.”
Gus kept quiet. Curious but letting me work her.
“Who’s Infidel?”
“Huh?”
“Your email buddy.” I was asking about the IP address that had tracked to Louisville.
“How do you—”
“I know all your dirty little secrets, Hotpants.”
&nb
sp; Kerr’s chin jutted out, going for defiant.
“One last chance.” Meaningful lift of the Glock. “I’ll be more specific. Did Bronco buy tickets for the Kentucky Derby?”
“He might have, all right? Gawd! It’s not my fault.”
With a theatrical flourish, Kerr flopped onto her side and rolled up in the quilt, larvalike. I signaled Gus to join me at the desk. He listened as I walked him through the components of my particle collision.
“This message was circulated in the thirty minutes before I tossed Kerr’s apartment. Four recipients, one in Louisville. Those four were the only emails Kerr hadn’t erased.” Showing him the pic I’d shot with my phone. Godolphin Vintage Claret Beauty 05 05 06. FL1X: LM-inf /JC-GR/B5-S2+4.
“You think Godolphin could be the next target?”
“I do.”
“What is it?”
“At first I thought it referred to an Australian winery.”
Gus cocked a skeptical brow.
“There actually is a wine with that name. But that’s not it. Look.” Turning the computer to face him.
At the top of the screen, centered on a blue banner, were an Arabic symbol and a single word: Godolphin. Below the banner, a paragraph explained three things. Godolphin was a global Thoroughbred racing stable. The stable was founded by His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum. The sheikh was vice president and prime minister of the United Arab Emirates and emir of Dubai.
“Holy shit,” Gus said.
“The Godolphin stable has horses entered in both the Oaks and the Derby.”
“Those horses are named Vintage and Claret Beauty.”
“They are.”
“His sheikhness is Muslim.” Still scanning the half-dozen photos displayed on Godolphin’s homepage. “Bronco and his Crackpot Crusaders take exception to his presence at Churchill Downs.”
I nodded.
Gus glanced again at the email captured by my phone’s camera. “Oh-five, oh-six. Derby races are on May fifth and sixth this year?”
“They are.”
“What’s the significance of the final string of numbers?”
“We should find out,” I said.
“We’re going to Louisville,” Gus said.
“We are.”
“What about her?” Indicating the lump on the bed.
“She’s lousy company.” The lump had gone totally still. I spoke for its benefit. “And she knows zilch.”
“She can ID us.”
“Good point. She’s useless and dangerous. Dead weight. I say—”
