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literally disappears. One of the better money-laundering schemes we’ve come across. The feds are working it, too. Dr. Baldwin, you could probably find some more infor

mation from your end.”

Taylor handed the file to Baldwin. He flipped it open, glanced through it, then said, “I’ll do that. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“But there’s one little problem. We found Burt Mars dead in his apartment last night. Shot at close range. Looked like a typical home invasion.” Callahan shook her head. “Right down to the computers being stolen.”

Taylor met her eye. “Let me guess. All of his business information was on those computers.”

“That’s what we suspect. He had a huge office—the master suite of the apartment had been converted. There was enough wiring to send up the space shuttle. Just nothing left to plug in.”

Taylor felt disappointment roll off Callahan in waves.

“You’re sure it was Mars?”

Callahan pushed another file across the table. Taylor opened it without picking it up. There was a photograph of a small man with blond hair and Buddy Holly glasses, a hole where his chest should have been. She recognized him at once. Her dream flooded in, vivid and raw. A sandy-haired man clapping her dad on the shoulder. “Your own little Manderley.”

Eldridge brought her back. “One lead gone. But there’s still Delglisi. Like we said yesterday, no one has ever seen him before—he’s like a mythical legend around these parts. We’re not even certain Delglisi is his real name. It’s one of many that he’s assumed over the years, but the one that’s been the most consistent, the deepest in the files.”

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Taylor sat back in her chair. “What does he import?

Drugs?”

Callahan shook her head. “No. Something much more valuable. People.”

“From where?” Taylor asked.

“Everywhere. It’s been mostly Hispanic lately, from what we’re hearing. He did a stint of Chinese, and some other Asians, but it seems he’s switched solely to Mexican and South American immigrants lately. As you can imagine, he’s really popular with Homeland Security.”

“What happens when they get here?”

“They go to work. In the shops, in the sex trade, wherever they’re needed. They need to work off their passage.”

Baldwin looked at Taylor. “He’s just a plain old slave trader.” Taylor snorted through her nose.

“Some plain old slave trader. Things are making a little more sense now.”

“How’s that?” Eldridge stopped everything.

“We had a case in Nashville last week. A Guatemalan girl by the name of Saraya Gonzalez was found in the woods, injured, in pretty bad shape. She’d run away from a ‘massage parlor’ where she was being forced to have sex with men on camera. They were making sex tapes. There’s just one problem. The same day we found her, Saraya was murdered in the hospital. She was shot by a man who fled the scene. He actually took her from her room, but we caught up to him and he killed her. We recovered bullets and shell casings for ballistics, put them in the system, but we had no leads when I…when I…”

“Was kidnapped,” Baldwin filled in.

“Right. Seems a little strange to refer to myself in 14

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those terms. Anyway, there was nothing that we had outside of the crime scene that would lead us to the shooter.

“Then a reporter friend who was helping with the Snow White case, Frank Richardson, was killed. He had just found out some information on Burt Mars. You say Mars works for L’Uomo? Well, Frank was killed by the same gun as Saraya Gonzalez. It seems to me that L’Uomo’s ‘in

terests’ in Nashville are as sordid and simple as that.”

Eldridge sat back in his chair. “We’re talking about the Frank Richardson, right? Guy who won the Pulitzer? You say he was a friend?”

“Briefly. But yeah, he was a good guy.”

Callahan was taking notes. “Killed with what kind of gun?”

“Both Frank and Saraya were hit with a Desert Eagle Jericho .41 caliber. Israeli made, they don’t make—”

“Them anymore.” Eldridge smiled, and Callahan got a look of pure joy on her face. She tapped her fingers on the table. “I may have something for you, Taylor. We have bal

listics from several scenes that involved L’Uomo’s big assassin, the one we call Atlas. He uses a Desert Eagle. That could be the tie-in you’re looking for. IfAtlas was dispatched to Nashville to take care of a few loose ends, then we have the answer to your question.And that hole in Mars was made with a big gun. Ballistics will tell us for sure, but I’ll take odds that Atlas killed Mars, too. Delglisi is tying up loose ends.”

I wonder what that makes Win. Taylor pushed the thought away.

“I’m a little foggy on the particulars. I saw his face, know he was a huge guy, but don’t really remember it. You think it was Atlas who snatched me?”

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“Yes. Especially if he was already in town on errands. He was most likely instructed to bring you to New York unharmed.”

“So Delglisi could try to bargain with me, threaten me?

Why wouldn’t they just deliver the message in Nash

ville?”

“That wouldn’t show you how much power he has. It was much more dramatic to snatch you from your wed

ding. Bigger impact.”

Taylor looked at Baldwin. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. He just nodded and smiled back. They’d had a wedding night of sorts fifteen floors up the night before. There was more to them now than words or paper could provide. With some effort, Taylor broke eye contact with Bald

win and turned to Eldridge. “So we tie this all up, neat and tidy, with a little bow. Except for one thing.”

“Win Jackson,” Baldwin interjected.

Taylor gave him a look of gratitude. “Exactly. What does my father have to do with Edward Delglisi?” She turned to Eldridge and Callahan. “Have you come across any information that would explain his presence in all of this?”

They both shook their heads. “No, we haven’t.”

Shit, Win. As much as she hated it, she was actually worried for him.

She excused herself to use the restroom, giving Baldwin an “I’m fine” look as she left. She crossed the parquet floors, the heels of her boots thudding dully. She stopped at the glass-fronted fireplace for a moment, warming her hands and watching a thoroughly New York woman who was lingering briefly at the entrance to the restaurant so she could be admired. Glossy black hair, dark jeans tucked 14

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into chocolate suede boots, a white cashmere scarf wound around her neck—Taylor blinked and the chic girl was in motion, whipping the scarf off, coat and sunglasses gone, and she was across the room and being greeted by her party. Effortless. Not a word Taylor often used to describe herself.

The hotel’s asymmetrical floor-to-ceiling windows, frosted glass with leaves pressed between the panes and the occasional cobalt square, looked out onto Lexington Avenue, which was teeming with people getting ready for the holidays. Even the cars and buses and police cruisers radiated good will. The hustle and bustle of the city was depressing Taylor. There was something sinister about this place now. Just knowing that Edward Delglisi, L’Uomo, was involved with her father in any infinitesimal way hor

rified her. She wondered if Win was still alive, wondered if he was in hiding from something bigger than them all. If Mars had been a target, it stood to reason Win was, too. She used the restroom and returned to her seat. They’d been talking about her; the conversation ended abruptly as she sat down. To cover her discomfort, she took a bite of the pear, amazed at its sweetness, the grainy texture welcome in her now-tart mouth.

Callahan looked at Taylor strangely, obviously trying to imagine what it must be like for an upstanding cop to have a father who was associating with the lowest of lowlifes. Her brows knitted as if she couldn’t quite make the leap. Taylor decided to save her the trouble.