CHAPTER 27 #2
JOAQUIN SAT IN the hallway, still a bit stunned, his jaw aching where that bastard Quintana had punched him.
“I want him in full restraints in Interrogation Room One.” Darcangelo told Denver Police Chief Irving—the man who, until Darcangelo had been deputized, had been his boss. “No trips to the bathroom, no water, no phone calls—nothing until McBride gets here and approves it.”
“Your wish is our command.” Irving turned to the officer next to him, every year of his three decades as a cop showing in the lines on his face and the heavy bags beneath his eyes. “Do what the deputy marshal says, Sergeant Wu.”
Wu nodded, a suppressed grin on his face. “I’m on it.”
Darcangelo clapped Irving on the shoulder, the two men offering a sharp visual contrast—one young and athletic with long dark hair held back in a ponytail, the other middle-aged with a belly that protruded over his belt, his gray hair buzzed into a crew cut.
“Irving, I’m going to put in a good word for you. You’ve been very cooperative.”
Even though it hurt, Joaquin couldn’t help but laugh.
Darcangelo turned on him, jabbed a finger in his face. “I don’t want to hear a thing from you, Ramirez. I’m still not sure whether I should arrest you, kick your ass myself, or buy you a drink.”
“Maybe all three.” Hunter appeared with an ice pack in his hand and McBride at his side. He tossed the ice pack to Joaquin. “I still think you should see a doc.”
“I’ll be fine.” Joaquin pressed the ice to his jaw.
He probably deserved to get his ass kicked. He definitely deserved to get arrested. How stupid could he be, letting the sunlight catch his lens like that? If the cops hadn’t gotten there in time . . .
McBride stopped in front of him, looked him over. “You’re damned lucky to be alive. I’m just glad I didn’t have to tell Natalie you’d gotten yourself killed. Later, you and I are going to have a very serious conversation.”
Then McBride turned to the other men. “Now, where is the son of a bitch?”
Darcangelo turned and walked down the hallway, McBride and Hunter following him, their voices trailing back. “Are you sure you’re up for this, bro? This asshole tortured you for six days and tried to kill Natalie. If it’s too personal—”
“Worry about him, not me.”
“You’re not going to hit him, are you?” That was Hunter, the tone of his voice suggesting that perhaps McBride should hit Quintana.
“That would be illegal, wouldn’t it? No, I’m not going to hit him. I’m going to kick the living shit out of him.”
Irving looked at Joaquin, shook his head, the weariness in his eyes brightened by just a hint of amusement. “Christ.”
WHILE DARCANGELO AND Hunter watched from the other side of the one-way mirror, Zach entered the interrogation room and found Quintana staring upward as if counting ceiling tiles, looking bored. “?Te acuerdas de mí?” Do you remember me?
Quintana met his gaze, smiled. “We miss you—my little stinger and I.”
Ignoring the taunt, Zach crossed the small room, dragged Quintana to his feet, and drove his fist into Quintana’s gut hard enough to bend the bastard double and knock the breath from his lungs.
Then he grabbed Quintana by the hair, jerking his head up, forcing Quintana to meet his gaze.
“If anything happens to Senorita Benoit, I will make you watch while I feed your balls to my dogs.”
Never mind that he had no dogs.
Quintana struggled to breathe, his lips twisting in a painful grimace that became a grin. “Like I made you watch . . . when I played with her perfect tits?”
Pulse thrumming, Zach willed himself to step back, knowing he was a heartbeat away from losing control and killing a man in his custody. He turned himself to stone, let himself go cold. “We have so much to talk about—like the explosives you planted in Senorita Benoit’s car.”
“I have nothing to say to you, except this.” Quintana fixed him with his gaze. “In the end you will fail. Your enemy follows no rules, while you are bound by many.”
It was going to be a long night.
NATALIE CLICKED ON yet another private school’s website.
This one—a boarding school outside of Colorado Springs—had an endowment of a little more than a million dollars, with almost twice the number of students that attended Whitcomb Academy.
She jotted down a few notes about it, then sat back on the sofa and stretched, her neck and shoulders stiff from so many hours at the computer.
The forensic accountant had contacted the paper today with the results of her analysis.
Although she’d found nothing wrong with anyone’s tax records, she’d been surprised by the amount of money in Whitcomb Academy’s endowment, as well as the rate at which the fund had grown.
She’d taken it upon herself to look up schools similar to Whitcomb across the country and hadn’t been able to find one that boasted a seven-hundred-forty-five-million-dollar endowment.
She’d sent her findings to Natalie via e-mail.
It’s no smoking gun, to be sure. In fact, it might be nothing. But I thought I’d mention it anyway.
Natalie had spent the evening reading the report and doing her own search of private boarding schools.
She’d gotten the same results. There wasn’t another boarding school in Colorado or across the country that could compare with Whitcomb when it came to the wealth of its endowment.
In fact, Whitcomb exceeded even some private colleges.
Did the school have a lot of wealthy donors or did the money come from—
Behind her, the clock on the mantel struck two a.m., making her gasp.
Get a grip on yourself, girl!
She drew a deep breath, blew it out, trying to relax.
As late as it was, she ought to quit working and go to bed.
But she’d tried that once already, and she hadn’t been able to sleep.
Every time she’d closed her eyes, she’d seen images of murdered girls, their bodies violated, twisted, broken.
She’d given up at midnight and decided that if she was awake she might as well work.
Not that she was getting anywhere.
A wealthy boarding school where teenage girls had been raped.
A serial rapist/killer drug lord who wanted to kill her.
The Whitcomb investigation and Cárdenas had two things in common—sexual assault and lots of money.
But that was surely just coincidence. The Zetas hadn’t raped those schoolgirls, and she and Zach had yet to uncover any ties between Cárdenas’s money and Whitcomb.
She clicked on the school’s website again, randomly scrolling through pages, stopping to look through the photo album, a slideshow of smiling young women that reminded her of her days at McGehee.
What happy days those had been, with Mama and Daddy still alive, her world intact, Beau still in her future . . .
Her thoughts trailed off as she looked at the photograph in front of her, an image of a girl accepting an award on stage, a bright smile on her face as she shook the hand of one of the school’s administrators.
No, not an administrator. The caption identified him as Edward Wulfe, the president of the school’s Board of Trustees.
Though Natalie had never met the man, she knew she’d seen him someplace before. He was tall, with a head of salt-and-pepper hair, his features nondescript, his smile bland—not the sort of face that stood out. And still she remembered him from somewhere.
You probably saw him right here in this photo the last time you searched the school’s website.
Her tired brain tied in knots, she closed her laptop, stood, and carried her empty teacup to the kitchen sink.
Still unable to face the darkness of her bedroom, she walked back into the living room.
Beyond the wall of glass stretched the twinkling lights of Denver, the sight somehow comforting, friendly, warm.
She dimmed the lights in the loft, then walked to the French doors and stepped out into the cool air.
She didn’t feel so alone out here amid the sounds of traffic and the glittering lights.
She walked to the edge, looked out at the city beyond, two million people living their lives, most of them asleep.
Denver didn’t roll up the sidewalks at sunset, but its nightlife couldn’t compare to that of New Orleans, where the parties went on—
“Natalie?”
She gasped, and whirled about to find Zach standing in the doorway.
“Jesus!” He shook his head. “You scared the crap out of me. I walked in, saw the lights off and doors open. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She squelched the surge of joy she felt to see him standing there. He wasn’t home to be with her, after all. He was simply back on duty. “How did it go? Is it really him?”
He stepped out into the darkness, closing the distance between them with slow strides. “It’s him all right. Rowan’s men found weapons in his hotel room but no traces of explosives. He isn’t talking. I left him in lockdown under the guard of two DUSMs. I’ll have to try again tomorrow.”
“How’s Joaquin?”
“He took a couple of body blows and a fist to the jaw, but he’ll be fine—until the four of us get time to kick his ass.
He’s lucky DPD got to him as quickly as they did.
” Zach stopped just a few feet away from her, close enough to reach out and touch her, if he wanted to.
But he didn’t. “What are you still doing up?”
“I . . . I couldn’t sleep. That dossier on Cárdenas . . .” She saw on his face that she didn’t need to explain.
For a moment he looked like he was going to reach for her, like he wanted to hold her. Then a muscle clenched in his jaw, and he looked away, his fingers curling into fists, his gaze far away. “It’s late. We both need sleep. Let’s talk in the morning.”
He ushered her back inside, locking the doors behind them.
ARTURO LOOKED OUT the window, hating everything about this town—the dry air, the altitude, the people. He couldn’t wait to go home to Mexico. There, he lived like a king. Here, he was subjected to intolerable rudeness and humiliation.
Behind him, his host conducted business with one of his minions. “Is the GPS tracker in place on McBride’s vehicle?”
“Yes, sir. We should have the first upload in a couple of hours.”
“Excellent. We’ll know exactly where they’re hiding. By tomorrow night, this should all be over—and our friend Arturo will have learned a valuable lesson.”
It was on the tip of Arturo’s tongue to tell his whoreson of a business partner to fuck a goat, but he kept his silence.
There was no man on earth who frightened him like Edward Wulfe.