“Oh, my God, Jessie. I never thought . . . If Millstone’s DNA wasn’t on digital file that could explain why Cook didn’t get a hit on that second sample. And if we can confirm that second sample is Millstone’s, then odds are that Chief Cook can solve his old murder case.” Sam rambled on for what felt like an eternity, trying to console her, but finally she said, “Yeah, I’ll look to see what I can find. And I’ll call you the minute I know something.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
Jessie ended the call, knowing she’d never get to sleep. She had too much to try to remember—and way too much she’d never forget.
She’d contact Seth in the morning, first thing, but confronting Chief Cook face-to-face weighed heavy on her mind. She had to know why he’d lied to her about the DNA analysis. Did he already know what Sam had promised to find out, about her possible connection to her childhood abuser?
According to Cook, his men had missed getting an interview with Sophia Tanner. The interview had been missing from the murder book, but what if that original document had been taken from the evidence on purpose, to cover up the truth?
And if Cook had been behind that cover-up, why would he have gone through the motions of interviewing the woman again? He could have blown Jessie off and made excuses. There was plenty for her to be suspicious about and not enough cold hard facts, but the chief of police in La Pointe would be the man to see.
Had he held back the truth to spare her feelings, or was he protecting someone? Either way, Jessie wanted to look Cook in the eye and dare him to lie to her again.
Chapter 11
Outside the Pérez Compound
After midnight
Waiting had never been Alexa’s thing. It gave her too much time to dwell on Kinkaid’s predicament, but something else was eating at her. And she had to say something to Garrett. When she found him hunkered down next to Hank, she moved closer and spoke in a hushed tone.
“What happens when Pérez sees Kinkaid?” She didn’t wait for Garrett to say anything. “If it’s true that bastard killed Jackson’s wife and kid, then he’d know Kinkaid on sight. Once he sets eyes on him, he’ll know he’s not you. The masquerade would be over. All Pérez has to do is pull the trigger, or order it done.”
Garrett didn’t act surprised to hear what she’d said. He only heaved a sigh as he turned his back on Hank.
“I’m sure Kinkaid knew that going in,” he told her. “I tried to warn you. He’s not planning on walking away from this.”
Until now, Alexa had thought of this as a rescue mission, but nothing could be farther from the truth. She turned away and didn’t say anything more. She didn’t want the moonlight to out her to Garrett as her eyes filled with tears. Whatever Kinkaid had planned, he was going out in a big way. And the odds were against him, even with Garrett’s team being outside the stone walls of the Pérez estate.
Jackson Kinkaid was beyond saving.
1:10
A.M.
“What was so important that couldn’t wait?” Manolo Quintanilla Pérez said in his native tongue.
Ramon Guerrero clenched his jaw as the drug-cartel boss stared at him and Miguel Rosas, his number two man. Pérez hadn’t offered them a seat. He’d made them wait to see him while he relaxed. And now they stood in front of him as the big man sat behind a massive cherrywood desk in the study of his estate. He leaned back in his leather chair as he sipped a fine Cognac from a crystal snifter.
Rosas was about to open his mouth to speak first, but Guerrero couldn’t let that happen. The American had been his to find, and he wasn’t about to let Rosas take credit for his diligence or downplay his part, not after he’d made the call to Pérez that had brought him there.
“My men took a hostage in Juárez, a very influential American. His name is Garrett Wheeler and he claims that you know him.”
“Oh? That name is not familiar to me.” Pérez narrowed his eyes at Guerrero. “Tell me. How do I know him?”
When Pérez crooked his lip into a humorless sneer, Guerrero cleared his throat before he went on.
“He did not say, but I believe that if you see him for yourself, you can get him to admit what he’s up to.”
“So now, you want me to do your work for you?” The cartel boss cut a sideways glance at Rosas, who only shrugged with boredom.
“No, sir. That’s not what I’m saying, but someone of your reputation has no doubt made an impression on this man. You have said that you fear this American is probably CIA, and my sources back this up, too. This man has probably been sent to assassinate the heads of the drug cartels for the U.S. government.”
In an effort to make a big impression and beat out Rosas, Guerrero had blurted out a theory Rosas had told him about, something that had come from Pérez himself, but his boss’s questions had rattled him. And now that his words hung in the air, without evidence to back him up, Guerrero had sounded like an idiot.
“Oh? How do you know all this?” Pérez asked, setting down his empty glass. “What proof do you have?”
Before Guerrero could answer, Rosas interrupted with a smirk.
“He doesn’t have any. He is only trying to impress you. The American hasn’t confirmed any of this.”
“He carried a U.S. driver’s license with him. I’ve seen it and so have you. It confirms his name and an address of his home in New York,” Guerrero argued.
“Identification like that can be bought. It means nothing.” Rosas looked at his boss with a dismissive shrug. “And do you think if he is some big spy, that he would have his real information so easily obtained? Like I said, his ID means nothing.”
“Then you are also dismissing the messages I received from my contacts across the border? Wheeler was overheard, trying to buy information about the cartels . . . and you, in particular. He admitted who he was when he thought he was safe on the American side. And my sources in New York have confirmed that Wheeler is missing.”
“That’s the point. Only your sources say this, but I believe in other ways to arrive at the truth.” Rosas narrowed his eyes. “When a man knows he is about to die, he will bargain any way he can to save his miserable life. That is the only source worth believing, forcing a man to tell you everything he knows when he faces death.”
“Ramon, you told me that it was urgent I should be here. Is this all you have? That I should see this American for myself?” Pérez shifted his glare toward Guerrero once again.
“I assure you, sir. I believe the man has vital information that you can help us get from him. I swear on my sainted mother’s head, it’s only a matter of time before we get him to talk.”
“So now you use the words ‘us’ and ‘we.’ ” Rosas chuckled under his breath and leaned against a wall with his arms crossed. “A minute ago, you were running this show, single-handedly. Which is it?”
Guerrero suddenly saw himself between two very dangerous men. He’d gone around Rosas’s back to have a face-to-face meeting with his boss, an encounter that had not gone as well as he had expected. If he didn’t play his cards right, he would end up the big loser.
“You have been extremely resourceful in dealing with the American,” Guerrero said to Rosas. “I’m sure he will tell us everything, in time. And my sources will be confirmed.”
“Very diplomatic, Ramon.” Pérez grinned and stood. “Cowardly, but diplomatic nonetheless.”