Wainwright pulled a pair of latex gloves from his hind pocket and handed them to Louis.
“You should wait for CSU,” Mobley said.
“We don’t have time,” Wainwright said. “Put the briefcase on the ground, Louis. We need to dust the car.”
The man who had found the briefcase pressed forward. “What? What you going to do to my car?”
“Just look for fingerprints,” Wainwright said. “Please step back, sir.”
“Oh, man. .”
Louis pulled on the gloves and set the briefcase on the asphalt. He gingerly began going through the briefcase as Wainwright held the flashlight.
“I think she stopped here and set the briefcase down to look for something and that’s when she was abducted,” Louis said.
“Why didn’t he take the briefcase?” Mobley said.
“He didn’t want it. He wanted her,” Louis said.
“That’s her rental,” Wainwright said, pointing to the Nissan. “Why don’t you go check it out, Lance?”
“It’s still locked,” Louis said.
Mobley stared at Wainwright for a moment, then moved away, yelling to his deputy, “Howard, bring me the punch.”
Louis pulled Emily’s wallet out of the briefcase. “Money’s still here,” he said, laying the wallet on the ground. He took out the folders of case files and laid them aside. He set a small makeup bag and a hairbrush next to the files.
“No keys,” he said.
He pulled out a small notepad. It was open, and he scanned the top page. Farentino had tiny, hen-scratch handwriting.
“Dan, shine that here.”
The words jumped out at him. Dockside Inn. George Lynch. Tyrone Heller. Miss Monica. Missing since eight P.M. Twenty-five years old.
“Jesus, Dan,” Louis said. “She was here to meet Lynch.”
“Why?” Wainwright asked.
Louis rose. “I think Lynch called the station to report his crewman missing. Farentino came here to take the report.”
“What the fuck was she doing down here taking a report?”
“Maybe she was just trying to help.”
Wainwright turned away. “Shit. .”
“Dan,” Louis said, “we have two missing.” When Wainwright looked at him, Louis went on. “This crewman-his name is Tyrone Heller-he’s black.”
Mobley came back. “There’s nothing in the car or trunk.”
“Sheriff,” Louis said, “we need to find a man named George Lynch.”
“Who’s Lynch? A suspect?”
Louis paused just a beat. “Damn it, do you read anything we send over?”
“You badgeless punk,” Mobley said. “I have a hundred men under my command.”
Louis wanted to slug him. “Then fucking use them.”
“What for?” Mobley shouted.
“Lynch is a boat captain. His black crewman is missing. Someone needs to get to Lynch fast.”
“What’s the hurry? If this sicko did this, his crewman is already dead. So’s the woman,” Mobley said.
He snatched his radio from his belt and walked away, barking out commands.
Louis yanked off the latex gloves. He looked at Wainwright and knew he was thinking the same thing. Mobley was right.
Chapter Thirty-six
Blackness. She was floating up from the blackness to consciousness. She opened her eyes. The blackness was still there and she gave a terrified jerk. The thing. . it was the thing covering her face. The cloth was still there. She could smell its musky odor, and when she drew in a breath, the soft fabric touched her lips.
She became aware of a sharp throbbing in her head, and a faint nausea boiling in her stomach. Her heart was pounding. But she had to stay calm.
Think, think! Calm down. . use your head, use your senses.
She tried to move her arms. They were bound at the wrists, palms up. She could feel the hard wood of the chair. She strained to hear something or someone.
Nothing. Just water lapping and a soft groaning sound. Pilings? The air was still and smelled of mildew and fish. An old building of some kind near the docks? Was she still near the wharf? Something kicked on. . like a motor, faint.
She tried to make herself calmer, tried to quiet the pounding of the blood in her ears so she could hear better. Nothing. No cars, no voices. Just the droning motor sound. It stopped and it was quiet again, except for the lapping water.
The floor creaked. She jumped.
Footsteps on wood. Coming closer.
Then it stopped. But she could hear someone moving.
Who was it? Gunther Mayo?
“Motherfucker. .”
The voice made her jump. A man, it was a man.
“Damn it. Damn it.”
More footsteps. Pacing.
Louder this time. She tried to draw on what she knew, tried to remember what the books said. But nothing was coming. Just the feeling of panic gathering slowly in her gut. She gulped in several breaths of the fetid air to push the panic back down. The cloth billowed against her face. She uttered a small cry and suddenly the agitated pacing stopped. It was quiet. Water lapping. She held her breath.
“Where was he?” he asked.
The voice had changed. Calmer now, almost benign.
“Where was he?” Louder.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“You can talk to me, lady,” he said. “It’s just you and me. You can talk now.”
“Take this off and I’ll talk to you,” she whispered.
Footsteps moving away. “I can’t do that,” he said.
It was quiet for a minute; then she heard a scraping sound, like he was dragging something. It stopped. The floor creaked.
“Listen to me,” he said.
She froze.
“Are you listening to me?”
She nodded quickly.
“I want you to tell them. You tell them that I had to do this. Everything is ruined now and this is the only way.”
What?
“I had to change my plan. You understand that, right?”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“He left me no choice,” he said.
It was very quiet. She strained her ears and she could hear him breathing. But she thought she heard someone else, too. A different rhythm to the breaths, slower, labored, congested.
Then-another sound. A thudding noise. What was it? It went on, turning wet, like the slapping of a soggy sponge against something. And groans, soft, agonizing.
She felt a sprinkle of water. No. Not water.
Blood. Dear God. He was hitting someone.
“Motherfucking piece of shit! Don’t talk to me! Don’t look at me!”
She bit her lip to keep from screaming.
Flesh against flesh. Bone cracking.
The groaning had stopped. Just grunts now, sharp grunts and panting.
Tears ran down her cheeks as she drew blood from her own lip.
She heard a hissing sound and smelled paint. The fumes filled the room.
“Get it right this time,” he said. “You fucking idiots. Get it right.”
Then it stopped.
She could hear his breath slowing. He let out a soft groan. Something fell against wood. She was shaking, her heart hammering, the wet cloth stuck to her face.
It was silent. She wasn’t sure how long.
“Fuck. .” he whispered. “No. . no.”
Tears? Regret?
She heard footsteps and he came closer. “He made me do it!” he yelled. “Do you understand? He made me!”
Her brain was racing, trying to think of some way to calm him. What? What could work? Talk? Did he want to talk?
“Who?” she asked. “Who made you?”
He screamed at her. “Him!”
She drew back in the chair. Retreating footsteps. She heard the dragging sound again, a door opening, and felt a waft of fresh air. She pulled at her wrists, but they were bound tight.
Minutes passed. Or was it seconds? She couldn’t tell anymore. But then, she heard the door close and the fresh air was gone. He was back.
He was pacing, muttering. She heard his footsteps come nearer.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m. . I’m. .” She could hear her voice. It sounded faint, childlike. “I’m an FBI agent.”