14 - J. T. Ellison [91]
The ring was back on his finger, no danger of slipping off because of the impossible, unnatural angle of the fourth digit. He had a surrogate to stroke the feeble flesh into action once again, to slip the blade through that flesh, two hands working as one. There were moments that he was his old self.
And everything was in jeopardy now. He’d chosen poorly, allowed Charlotte to muddle his brain. His apprentice would be the death of him. He no longer cared.
He shuffled his way from the room, the cane clunking in front of him, and climbed, higher and higher into his house. There was a girl, he could smell her, taste her, and he wanted her. Nothing would stop him now. He must fulfill this destiny.
Thirty-One
Nashville, Tennessee
Sunday, December 21
6:00 p.m.
The homicide office was bustling with activity. Fitz poured out the dregs of yet another pot of coffee and made a fresh one. They’d gone through four pots in the past two hours. Everyone was wired and cranky, and despite all the artificial stimuli, tired. Marcus, forehead resting on his palm, scrolled through page after page of computer screens. Baldwin was on the phone with the airlines. No one had slept, everyone was fixated on their main lead—the limousine driver who’d pulled an international disappearing act.
Lincoln was on the phone with a contact he had in the Mazatlán area—a man he knew only as Juan. He’d met him at a forensic computing conference four or five years back. His gut feeling told him Juan wasn’t the man’s real name, but that didn’t matter now. He’d sent him an e-mail earlier in the day, asking for help. They were doing the obligatory catch-up dance before they got down to business.
“¿Hola? ¿Este Juan? Es Lincoln… Sí, hombre, ha sido mucho demasiado largo… No, mi español no es mejor. No tenemos las mujeres aquí digno de practicar encendido.”
A bawdy laugh pulsed through the phone. “And I thought Nashville had a vibrant Latino community.” Juan’s voice was deep and cultured. Lincoln didn’t know his whole story, but thought that perhaps he’d been some sort of Argentinean or Bolivian spy. He was just too plugged in to be regular law enforcement, though he was currently serving as a chief in Mexico’s fractured police department. No, a spy would be a more romantic notion.
Lincoln answered in English, relieved to switch back to his native tongue. “We do have a lot of very fine Latinos, but they smell me out from twenty paces. No one wants to get involved with a cop, you know?”
“Ah, yes, my friend, I do. On to more important things. I have found your suspect.”
Lincoln gesticulated to the rest of the homicide office. “Juan, I’m putting you on speakerphone.” He hit the speaker button and the disembodied voice raked through the air.
“Your suspect was found on the beach. Specifically, by a cabana on the beach in front of the Pueblo Bonito Hotel. It is a very nice hotel. They did not take kindly to the intrusion, I tell you that. From a distance, it seemed he was passed out drunk on a chaise longue. Upon closer inspection, the flies gave him away.”
“He’s dead?”
“I am sorry to tell you this. His throat was cut. Very nasty. The hotel people were quite upset. They had to close their beach to their guests. He’s not been moved. Do you want him back?”
Baldwin spoke up. “This is John Baldwin. I can have an FBI forensics team on-site shortly to retrieve his body.”
“Yes, removing the body, this would be a very good idea. I believe I’d rather not know why you have a team positioned to operate so quickly so close. My government is not happy with this imposition. This is about your woman, Lincoln tells me?”
Baldwin took a step closer to the phone, his voice cracking. “Yes. This man was our only lead.”
“There will be other leads, amigo. Do not lose hope.”
Baldwin sat heavily in the chair by Lincoln’s desk. Lincoln shot him a look, then picked up the handset, ending the speaker connection. “Thank you for your help, Juan. I appreciate it.”
“I’m sure there will be an opportunity to