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“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 in

trusion, I tell you that. From a distance, it seemed he was passed out drunk on a chaise longue. Upon closer inspec

tion, 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 270

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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 co

“I’m sure there will be an opportunity to repay the kindness. Adiós, 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 14

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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 Mazatlán. 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? Seri

ously. 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—”

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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.”

Thirty-Two

Unknown

Monday, December 22

3:00 a.m.

The noise was deafening. It sounded like the buzz from a bumblebee—one three-times normal size. It flitted close to her ear and she swatted at it. She couldn’t lift her arm. Her hand didn’t leave her side. What the hell?

She opened her eyes a crack. Well, she didn’t think she was dead. Not unless heaven or hell or whatever afterlife place she was going to looked like a warehouse. Maybe she was in purgatory? Naw, she didn’t believe in that. It was either up or down. Lord knows she’d spilled enough blood to be heading south. The thought made her grimace, and a sharp pain shot through her head. She tried opening her eyes again, slowly this time, first the right, letting it focus, then the left. Her head buzzed; it wasn’t a bumble

bee but her brain, sending off sound waves at a thousand decibels a pop. Her eyes focused on what looked like a concrete pillar, then slowly, she moved her gaze across the 274

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room. Her head pounded but the impression stood. Empty warehouse.

She tried to stand, barely registering when she couldn’t. Her head began to swim, and darkness enveloped her. He sensed the movement, got up and went to the window, looked into the room. She was awake. Good. It was nearly time. He wanted to talk to her, to hear that smoky voice again. But it was taking her so long to get over the stun gun. Maybe the chloroform was a little much, too. He didn’t know how strong she was, how much she was going to fight. She’d actually come to for a moment as she’d been carried toward the plane. He’d felt her muscles tense and slapped a soaked handkerchief across her nose and mouth.

He’d hoped she’d be awake hours ago. Instead she sat, strapped into the chair, and slept. He thought she might even have dreamed—her eyes moved back and forth under the lids and she moaned softly. Those lips. That moan had done more to him in two seconds than any woman had in two years. She was absolutely delicious. He wanted her. On so many levels.

As he watched, she moved slightly, then drifted away again. Maybe it wasn’t time, after all. Too bad. He made a phone call, let L’Uomo know that she was starting to come to. L’Uomo had warned him to keep his hands off, but he longed to touch her skin again, so warm, so tight.

There was motion again in the room. Yes, she was fully awake now.

Standing at the window, he watched her, amazed at her beauty. She tried to shake her head and groaned, to his 14

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everlasting delight. Maybe he couldn’t touch, but nothing said he had to be a monk about it. His hand went to the fly on his pants and he reached inside, grasping himself. A woman, incapacitated, tied to a chair…a normal man would feel chivalrous, not wholly aroused and harder than a rock. A few quick strokes was all it took. He closed his eyes in bliss as he came.