“Make yourself at home,” Seth said, already disappearing into the kitchen. “You know where the office is, and the bedroom. Mom’ll be home soon.”
Carl had already searched both places. Did he really think he would discover something else? He decided to go back to the office. He didn’t like the idea of being in the bedroom without Mrs. Rivera home.
The office was downstairs, next to the game room. He expected César, the younger brother, to be playing video games, when he remembered that the boy must still be in school. It wasn’t even two o’clock yet.
He opened the office door, surveying the room. Everything had been inspected. The computer had been torn apart. Whatever Rivera had done, he hadn’t used his home computer for it. The closet door hung open, all the filing cabinets confiscated. Carl had already poured over the letters, calendars, and faxes.
He went back into the closet and stared at the empty shelves. He sat down and ran his hands over the carpet.
If he hadn’t been sitting, he wouldn’t have seen it. Taped to the underside of the shelf, at eye-level in front of him, was an envelope.
Excitement stirred in Carl’s chest. He pushed onto his haunches and carefully pulled the envelope down. It wasn’t sealed. Opening it, Carl pulled out photographs. His heart hammered and his breathing quickened. Who were these people? Most were men, some women. Snapshots of them getting out of cars, drinking coffee. Multiple shots of the same people, all in foreign countries.
There had to be thirty pictures here.
Carl jumped to his feet. This was something.
Upstairs he heard the clang of bells as the front door closed. The murmur of voices drifted down to him. He took the steps two at a time, racing back for the kitchen.
Mrs. Rivera met him in the living room. “Oh. I was going downstairs to greet you.”
“I found something.” He was a little out of breath, and eager to get out. “Thank you. I’ll be by later.” He had a lot to get done and little time. Tomorrow he flew to Ohio.
“Wait!” She held out several pieces of paper that had been folded into thirds. “I have this for you.”
Carl took the papers. “What is it?”
“A detailed list of the calls made from Gregorio’s phone last month.” She dipped her head, not meeting his eyes. “I requested it from the phone company. It came yesterday. I can do so for any month you want.”
“Please do so for the past year.” He whirled away, ecstatic. “I’ll be in touch!”
“Do you have a match on any of the pictures?” Carl spoke in the general direction of his office phone while he finished filing the pictures he had found in the Riveras’ house.
“We’re still searching the Interpol database for most of them.” The male voice came back over the speaker in Carl’s office. “But we did find one so far.”
“Yes?” Carl froze, one hand fingering the paperwork on his desk. “Who?”
“The red-headed woman with the big sunglasses. Coming out of the coffee shop. Remember?”
Carl yanked the file back open, pulling out all the pictures he had scanned over to the FBI. He found the woman, exiting what looked like a European café. “Yes. Who is she?”
“Her name was Brigitta Mescaros. A Hungarian heiress, apparently living in Belgium.”
Carl’s mind got stuck on one word. He picked up a pen, scribbling lines on a ripped envelope. “Was?”
“Was,” the voice confirmed. “Brigitta died eight months ago.”
“Where?” Carl wrote down the month. February. “In Belgium?”
“No. Her body was found in Guadalajara on February seventeenth. Interviews with surviving relatives said that she had gone for a vacation.”
“Who was with her?”
“Nobody, apparently. She traveled alone.”
A rich woman takes a vacation to Guadalajara . . . alone? “How did she die? Swimming accident?”
The voice paused on the other end. “No. She was murdered. Machine gun fire.”
Something tickled Carl’s mind and he spun around, spreading the papers from Rivera’s file all over his desk. The dates. Where were the dates?
He found them. Catching his breath, he studied the hand-written dates that he had found inside the medicine cabinet. “I’ve got something here.”
“Oh?” The agent’s voice rose in pitch. “What?”
Carl stared at the photograph in front of him. “The first line from the paper I found at Rivera’s workplace. February 17. The Hand and Cisnero. Guadalajara, Mexico. Orange and Purple.”
The agent gave a low whistle. “What does that mean to you?”
“I’m pretty sure that Purple is Rivera. What it means is that Rivera was in Guadalajara, Mexico, on the same day this woman died. And he had a photograph of her in his office.”
“You think he killed her?”
Carl wasn’t sure how to answer that. He had not expected Rivera to be a murderer. A cheater, a liar, a scumbag, yes. But a killer? “Did anyone else die?”
“I’ll check with the Mexican government.”
“Do you know who Cisnero is?”
“No. But I bet Interpol does.”
“Please send me all the information you find on Cisnero. Also, will you fax over the file for Mescaros?”
“Of course. And if you put anything together, let us know.”
“Yep.” Carl turned the phone off, his mind whirling. Mescaros was dead. He wondered how she fit into this. Did Rivera meet up with The Hand and Cisnero and go on a blood hunt? Was it her bad fortune to be in Guadalajara at the time? Or perhaps they had planned to meet her.
He thumbed through the other photographs, the faces blurring before him. Were all of these people dead? Did Rivera take them out?
Who was this man?
Chapter Eleven
Hey, Jaci! Come out here!”
Amanda’s voice rang out over the humming of the treadmill, and Jaci paused in her jog. She had made it seven minutes. A definite improvement.
“Jaci!” Ricky’s voice echoed Amanda’s.
“Coming!” She grabbed the hand towel she’d brought with her and wiped her brow. “What’s up?”
The two of them sat on the couch, eyes glued to the television set. “What are they doing?” Amanda asked, gesturing.
Jaci turned and studied the TV. Then she started laughing. “Why are you watching a Mexican channel?”
Ricky shrugged. “It’s either this or the soap opera Amanda wants to watch.”
“Hey!” Amanda nudged him with her shoulder.
“But seriously.” Ricky extended the remote, pointing at the screen. “Why all the little skeletons?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of the Day of the Dead?”
“Sure,” Amanda said. “It was a big deal in California. It’s kind of like Halloween, right?”
“Um, well, not really.” Jaci started to correct her, but Ricky flipped the channel. This was another Spanish station, but it showed dancers in authentic clothing.
“Can you dance like that?” Ricky asked.
“Of course. It’s the salsa.” Jaci felt her hips and feet yearning to move to the music.
Amanda jumped off the couch. “Show me.”
Jaci’s face warmed. She had been dancing since she was two or three, but only at family functions. “Well, okay.” She started out with the basic foot movement. Then the beat to the music on the television sped up, and so did Jaci. She closed her eyes, forgetting that she was tired. She spun around, lifting her hands over her head and swirling to the beat.
Abruptly the song ended, and whistles and cheers erupted from the TV.
Not just the TV, either. Jaci opened her eyes. Ricky leaned forward on the couch, clapping, a grin on his face. “That was great!”
“Jaci, I didn’t know you could dance!” Sara exclaimed. She stood next to Neal in their bedroom doorway.
“Good job.” Amanda sat back down on the couch and turned the channel to a soap opera. “Though you lost me. You’re not a very good teacher.”
Jaci pressed the palms of her hands to her face, feeling the heat radiating beneath them. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to take off like that.” She glanced down at her workout clothes, thoroughly embarrassed for dancing in front of everyone. “I better go shower.”
She pushed past Sara into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam from the hot water fogged up the mirror. She couldn’t wait for this to be over.
She stepped out of the shower and into a pair of light blue sweats. A pile of rubber bands sat by the sinks, and she wrapped one around her hair.
The bedroom door clicked a second before it opened. Sara poked her head in. “Safe to come in?”
Which must mean that Sara had someone else with her. “Uh-huh.”
Sara widened the door and she and Neal came in.
“Hey, Jaci. Hungry?” Neal gave her a smile but stayed in the doorway. Sara stepped into the bathroom.
“Hey.” Jaci played with the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “I was just on my way upstairs to get some food.”
“We ate,” he said. “But I need a snack.”
Sara emerged from the bathroom. “Ready.” She walked out, Neal following after her.
Jaci let them take the lead. She clattered up the stairs, catching the door before it closed behind Neal. “What’s for lunch?”
Neal pulled tin containers from the fridge. “Baked beans and hot dogs.” He added the plastic bag of buns to the top of a tin, then piled chips onto a paper plate and sat down next to Sara.
Jaci had just joined them with a giant hot dog in her hand when a shadow crossed the table. She glanced up to see Agent Banks. He waited until Neal and Sara looked up too. “Where are Ricky and Amanda? I dont see them downstairs.”
“I don’t know,” Neal said. “Maybe our room.”
Jaci put her hot dog down. Amanda with Ricky? It wouldn’t be the first time. But she hated not being able to trust him.
“I want to see the girls only in the conference room, ten minutes.”
Jaci and Sara nodded, and Agent Banks left the kitchen.
“Yeah, something’s up,” Neal said.
Jaci drummed her fingers on the table. “What do Ricky and Amanda do in your room?”
Neal quirked an eyebrow at her. “Why do you care?”
Jaci pursed her lips, annoyed by the question. “I don’t. Just curious.”
“Ask Ricky, then. And you better get to the conference room.”
“Yeah,” Jaci sighed. “Let’s go, Sara.”
Five minutes after Jaci and Sara had settled themselves in the room, Amanda shuffled in, crossing her arms over her chest and slumping against the wall. Agent Banks came in next and closed the door.
“Okay,” Banks said without preamble, pulling out a chair and sitting himself at the table. He placed a manila file folder in front of him. “There’s been a new development.”
“Did you find The Hand?” Amanda asked, her eyes widening.
“No,” he replied with a shake of his head. “But we’ve started setting up a web, and we’re getting word from Canada that The Hand has been too quiet lately. Also, your location is in jeopardy. Until we know how extensive his network is, we can’t trust that you’re still safe here.”
“In jeopardy?” Amanda echoed. “Oh my gosh! You mean, he knows we’re here?”
“There is the possibility,” Banks said, his lips tight. His unibrow furrowed down like a caterpillar inching its way to his nose.
“How?” Jaci gasped. Her mind ticked back to the earlier conversation with him. “Is that why you kept asking me if I’d tried to contact home?”
“It’s my fault,” Sara said, ducking her head. “I didn’t think there was any risk.”
Jaci turned to her, stunned. “You?” Sara had been too paranoid on the trek to even let the girls call home, for fear of being intercepted. “What did you do?”
“She mailed a letter,” Banks said. “From the hotel in Ohio, when you were staying with Agent Reynolds’ family.”
“I didn’t say where we are,” Sara said. “I just wanted to tell them we’re safe. I didn’t think they could track us.”
“To make a long story short,” Banks said, “her parents never got the letter. It could’ve been lost in the mail, but we have to assume it was intercepted. In which case, The Hand might be able to track you down. This safe house isn’t far from where your hotel was.”
“Are we in danger?” Jaci asked.
Banks shook his head. “Not yet. But we’ve started making plans to move you. Any questions?”
For a moment no one spoke, and then Amanda asked, “Any updates on The Hand?”
“We have an investigator looking for him. He’s flying in tomorrow to ask you some questions.” Banks drummed his fingers on the table. “That’s it. I expect we’ll have you moved within forty-eight hours. Oh, and don’t tell the boys just yet.”
October 31, Cincinnati, Ohio
Carl Hamilton could not fathom why he was jittery. But he was. He clutched his black briefcase and stared out the window as the car wound up the paved drive. Tall deciduous trees blocked the view of the safe house from the road, even though most of the leaves had fallen with the onset of autumn. The FBI agent—Carl couldn’t remember his name—who had met him at the airport hadn’t said more than three words on the half hour drive.
He looked at his watch and reminded himself that it was two hours later here than in Idaho. His watch said three in the afternoon, which meant here it was five o’clock.
Carl’s mind drifted home for a moment, and he pictured his wife, Kristin, the way she’d looked when he left. Getting out of the shower, hair damp, pink towel wrapped around her slender figure. She looked great. Most people still thought she was in her late twenties.
He wished she were with him.
After all the work he’d put into the case to find these three girls, he felt like he knew them. He knew everything about them. What they looked like, their favorite foods, their friends, their fights with family members. But he’d never met them. And until recently, they probably hadn’t known he existed. The joy he’d felt when they were found was akin to the happiness captured on film when a soldier comes home to his loved ones. He’d worried, fretted, eaten pickles, and even prayed over these girls.
Pickles. He needed to get some. No more bringing glass Clausen jars into the airport. He’d made that mistake once. The sad, unopened jar had shattered when the security guard tossed it in the trash. Everyone flinched, and Carl was certain they’d been half afraid it was a homemade bomb. Nope. Just a jar full of fermented cucumbers.
The car stopped in front of a gate guarding a single-level ranch house with blue shutters. The blinds were drawn. Looked like one level, but Carl was willing to bet there was a basement.
The agent punched in a code and swiped his ID card. They pulled into the garage and parked.
Carl took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
The agent nodded, the single eyebrow above his eyes curving into a frown, and got out of the car. Carl followed.
They stepped into a hallway that led to the kitchen. A tall black woman stood at the table, glancing over paperwork. Her hair fell in thick ringlets over her button-up shirt. She didn’t look like an FBI agent. She looked up, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.
Intense gaze. Made him want to cover himself. Definitely an FBI agent.
She extended a hand. “Come on in.” A smile never touched her lips. “The teenagers are downstairs in the conference room. Detective Hamilton, I presume?”
&nb
sp; Carl pushed his briefcase onto one arm and took her hand. “Yes.”
“I’m Agent Magrew.” Her lips contrasted with her ebony skin. “My job is to look like a housewife.”
“Ah.” Carl had never been in a safe house. He glanced around the dining room and kitchen. It looked like a house. Modern conveniences, black stove, black fridge, wood table. He supposed that made sense. A house wouldn’t be very safe if someone could look at it and know what it was. “Are the kids’ rooms up here?”
“No. Sleeping quarters and the conference room are all downstairs. The boys have one room and the girls another. From the outside, no one can tell the house has a basement.”
She must think he was an idiot. “Yeah, I noticed that.”
The other man cleared his throat. “Shall we?”
“Of course.”
A door separated the main floor from the basement, and the agent swiped his card to open it. Carl took in the floor plan as they descended. Several rooms were down here, including one with a flat-screen television. They walked across the plush carpet and entered an office set up with a long oval table and several chairs.
The girls sat around the table. After the police had found Callie’s body, nightmares haunted him with images of the other girls dead as well. To see them alive felt surreal. “Hello.” Carl put his briefcase on the table and extended his hand to Sara. “I’m Detective Hamilton. I worked on your case.”
The skinny blond took his hand. “Hi. I’m Sara.”
He nodded. She had fewer freckles now than in her pictures, perhaps because summer was behind them. No smile played about her lips and eyes the way it did in the photos. On the contrary. Her eyes were dark and somber.
He turned to the next girl. “Jaci.” He grasped her hand.
“You know me?”
“Of course.” He included Amanda and Sara in his reply. “I’ve been to Canada, Vermont, Maryland, and New York tracking you girls.”
Altercation Page 7
