14

Thirty-One

Nashville, Tennessee Sunday, December 21 6:00 p.m.

T he 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 Mazatlan 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… Si, hombre, ha sido mucho demasiado largo… No, mi espanol no es mejor. No tenemos las mujeres aqui 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 repay the kindness. Adios, mi amigo. Espero que encuentres las conchas dulces y calientes. ”

It took Lincoln a moment; he repeated a few words aloud. Baldwin looked at Lincoln and for the first time in hours, cracked a smile. Juan had very crudely wished Lincoln warm and wet sexual encounters.

Lincoln finally got the gist of what Juan had said, laughed and hung up the phone. He looked at Baldwin, who had gone back to his original position, his head in his hands.

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

“I dabble in several languages. Just so you know, your friend isn’t Mexican.” His tone didn’t brook an invitation to find out more. Lincoln took the hint, tried another tack.

“I’ve suspected that for a while. Is there someone in particular you’d like me to get in touch with to get this taken care of?”

Baldwin raised his head, a slight glisten in his green eyes. “No, that’s okay. Let me make the call. I know the team leader down there, he’s working the Juarez case. He’s vacationing in Puerto Vallarta for Christmas, he can get everything squared away for us quietly.” He stood, then gestured apologetically toward Taylor’s office door. No one said anything. What was there to say? Baldwin nodded slowly, a man condemned. He went into her office and closed the door behind him.

He refused to crack. She would be so pissed at him if he fell apart now. He sat on the guest side of her desk; couldn’t bring himself to take her chair. The office smelled of her, lemongrass and gun oil. He shook it off, dialed the number. Garrett Woods answered his cell on the first ring.

“Baldwin, is there news?”

“Nothing good. We’ve tracked down the limo driver. He’s dead on a beach in Mazatlan. Throat cut. Think you can finesse it for me? Burke Webb is down in Puerto Vallarta, he can manage it, I’m sure. The Pueblo Bonito Hotel.”

“Of course. I’ll get on it immediately.” There was the sound of a pen scratching on paper and a few snaps of his fingers. His voice dropped an octave. “How are you? Seriously. Are you holding up?”

There was no bullshitting Garrett. “As best I can. I can’t imagine that she’s really gone. I have to keep hoping that she’s out there, somewhere. I can handle the thought of her being hurt, wounded, but not dead. I just won’t go there.”

“Good. Don’t. Something is up here, and I’m not sure what it is. There’s been a rash of strange-”

There was a loud whooping and the door to Taylor’s office flew open. Marcus stood in the entry, a grin lighting up his face. “We’ve got something.”

“Garrett, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you back.” He hung up to Garrett’s protests, ignored the cell when it started ringing immediately after he closed the lid.

“What is it?”

“John C. Tune Airport. One of the mechanics just came forward. He didn’t know anything about Taylor being missing, just saw the news reports. Says that yesterday evening, a man and a woman got on a Cessna. Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but he noticed that the woman was out. Completely. The man was carrying her over his shoulder, told one of the other mechanics that she’d gotten drunk. Get this, Baldwin. He says he remembers her wearing something white.”

“Let’s go. I want to talk to him. Now.”