14 - J. T. Ellison [118]
“You know what this means?” he asked her.
Taylor nodded. “Yes.”
“He’s broken the pattern again. This was personal. She wasn’t a random victim.”
“You’re probably right. But we need to check for the article. And the frankincense and myrrh. We need to make sure it’s him, Baldwin.”
He turned back to the body. “Oh, it’s him. I don’t think the message could be any clearer, do you?”
“No, but we have to follow procedure. Let’s let Sam in here, let her get the body, Charlotte’s body, back to the morgue.”
They stood together quietly for a moment, then stepped away. They had borne witness.
Taylor watched Sam work on Charlotte Douglas, touched again by how reverent her friend became when she communed with the dead. Just the thought made her realize how close she’d come to being in that position, that she could have died at the hands of L’Uomo. The thought was more than she could take. It was time for action. It was time to finish this.
She left the room and sought out Baldwin, who was in the hallway talking with Fitz. She watched them for a moment, knew that she would die inside if anything ever happened to him. Yes, their wedding had been a disaster. But she didn’t need the formality to assure that he was hers, and she was his.
She needed to find the answers, to help him lay this case to rest.
They greeted her, Baldwin giving her a tight smile.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good. There’s nothing more I can do here. I have to get to the library, find the name of this man from my memory. I know he’s Snow White. If I can find his identity, we can stop him. We can stop his copycat. It’s time to end this.”
She reached up and kissed him softly on the cheek. The stubble scratched at her lips, but she didn’t care.
“You want help, little girl?” Fitz asked.
“No. Stay here, make sure Sam doesn’t need anything. I need to do this myself.”
Baldwin’s phone rang as he watched Taylor’s retreating figure. She tossed a wave at him as she entered the elevator. He saw the international area code and decided he needed the break. There was a window at the end of the row of rooms. He went there, gazed out on the city he loved and answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“John Baldwin? It is Juan.”
He answered in Spanish. “Hola, Juan. ¿Cómo estás? Gracias por responder a mi llamada tan pronto.”
“Sin problema. Lincoln dijo que era importante. ¿Por qué no cambiemos al inglés? Tú no necesitas prácticar el español como yo la necesito en inglés.”
“Okay. English it is. I have a question about a man who may be running people out of some South American countries. His name is—”
“Edward Delglisi.”
“How did you know that?”
“Oh, my friend, I was looking into the murder of your poor chauffeur over the weekend. His name came up.”
“Would you be willing to give me the context?”
“If you tell me what you are looking for, I would be happy to confirm or deny based on my discoveries at this point. Perhaps you will enlighten me, and I will enlighten you in return. ¿Bien?”
“Sí.” Baldwin scratched his head, trying to decide where to start. “Are you seeing a great number of cases of forced immigration? Illegals being imported into America for illicit activities?”
“Sex trade? Yes. Quite a bit. Human trafficking. The Border Patrol is corrupt in certain pockets, as are a few of the Immigration and Naturalization officers. There were many cases last year of both organizations’ employees exchanging immigration status for sex or money. Foreign governments are participating in this scheme, as well. It has become highly lucrative, yet it seems your government is looking the other way. Illegals smuggle illegals, bad men import little girls to sell. It is a very appalling state of affairs.”
“Do you have Edward Delglisi on your radar?”
“Yes. He has been under investigation by the Venezuelans, the Brazilians and the Argentinians, yet no one can touch him. He has a system that insulates him. False names, constant moves, safe houses, sophisticated accounting.