Scout’s voice mail picked up.
“Leave a message if it’s important.”
Jack grinned. Scout. “Buddy, it’s Jack. I’m having a bit of a problem with the Caravan. Don’t know what happened, can you call me back?”
He hung up, then remembered that Scout had plans with his girlfriend and her two sons. Good. Jack liked Rina, she was good for Scout. Maybe he would finally cut back on the drinking and take some personal responsibility. Since Padre had retired from soldiering, on the job Jack trusted no one more than Scout. But personally, Scout didn’t care much about anything except hitting the bar.
Jack took his truck to his favorite diner just outside Hidalgo on the interstate. It served up a real breakfast- eggs, bacon, toast-cheap. Nothing fancy, but everything tasted great. Jack could cook, but he didn’t care to. He kept it simple and functional when he was home; out on assignment, meals weren’t his responsibility.
It was eleven when he hit town and drove past Scout’s house on his way to talk to Padre at the church. A police car was stopped in front of Scout’s place. The chief of police himself was getting out of the driver’s seat as Jack passed. That couldn’t be good.
Jack pulled his truck over and jumped out. Scout’s drinking was usually under control, but sometimes … he’d gotten into a fight last year. Had to pay restitution and do a bit of community service. Swore to Jack it wouldn’t happen again. And then of course that bar fight with Perez’s deputy …
As Jack approached, he took in everything around him. Art Perez. Rina, standing across the street with her boys and a couple other folks. They all looked worried. Another police car turned the corner. And Padre was standing on the porch, pale, but looking more like the warrior from yesterday than the man of God he was today.
“Kincaid, stop-” Art began.
Jack walked past him. “Padre-”
“Don’t.” His eyes were sharp. “Scout’s dead.”
The truth sunk in instantly. Jack had no denial. He’d seen dead men before. Friends. Men he took orders from, and men who took orders from him. He’d seen women and children raped and murdered. No denial, but that didn’t stop the hot anger from flooding through him, or the raw pain that filled him.
“How?”
“Jack.” Art followed him up to the small porch. They were three large men; it was crowded.
Jack didn’t look at him.
Padre said, “He was murdered.”
Surprise lit Jack’s face. “Murdered. At the bar?”
Padre shook his head, glanced through the window.
Jack stepped inside as Art exclaimed, “You can’t! This is a crime scene.”
Jack ignored him, but didn’t touch anything. The foul, familiar scent of death-blood, urine, feces-sat heavy in the hot, thick air. He walked through the bungalow- living room on one side, two small bedrooms down a short hall to the right with a bathroom between them. The sunroom Scout had built himself a couple years back where he spent most of his free time watching sports was in the back of the house, behind the kitchen and dining room.
Scout lay prone on his kitchen floor, eyes open, dried blood pooled around his head and the back of his knees. Instantly, Jack knew that Scout had been hamstrung- he’d seen it before, in another country, another life.
Flies had already found the body-it was ninety degrees at noon. Scout was naked, but he’d soiled himself. The smell was worse in here.
A chair was on its side. Cut duct tape still attached to the armrests. Blood on the chair and on the terra-cotta tile floor. Jack had helped Scout put in the tile when he bought the place years ago.
“Jack.” Padre spoke quietly.
“Who?”
“We don’t know. But-”
Jack turned. “What do you know about this?”
“Come to the rectory with me.”
Jack shook his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath through his mouth. “Tell me.”
Art Perez spoke. He could be a boisterous, uncouth bastard, and he and Jack had had it out more than once; this morning, however, he seemed to understand that professionalism went a long way.
“Rina’s sons came over this morning because Lawrence had offered to take them into Brownsville for a special Toros game. He was supposed to pick them up at ten, but didn’t show and Rina told the boys to go over and wake him up.” Perez frowned. “She’s torn up about it. Juan found the body.”
The body. Scout was a body now.
“Juan called me,” Padre said. “I came right away, called Art, then Rina. Jack-”
Jack didn’t have anything to say. Scout had been murdered. The method was vicious, cruel. How had he been surprised? Why was he naked? Had he been with a woman? Had a woman done this to him? Scout wouldn’t let himself get conned, but he was known to turn his head toward a pretty face. Why, dammit? Why had Scout been killed? Jack mentally reviewed their most recent assignments. He didn’t know of anyone or any organization who would do this … like this. It looked both personal and like an execution. Had Scout known his killer?
Perez said, “You need to leave. My men will process the scene, collect evidence, and remove the body.”
Hidalgo had its unfair share of murders-Perez had investigated enough of them-but this was wholly different from a drug hit or a barroom brawl. Not something Art Perez could handle. Hell, he could barely handle being chief of police on a good day.
“Call the Rangers,” Jack said before he thought about tact and diplomacy. “This isn’t a random act of violence.”
Perez reddened. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Kincaid.”
“Jack-” Padre began, and Jack put up his hand.
Jack would find Scout’s killer. He would call in every favor, every chit, spend every dime he had to do it.
“I will find out who killed Scout,” he said, his words clipped to stifle the emotion.
“Stay out of my way, Kincaid. You’re already pushing it. Don’t think I won’t lock you up. Just give me a reason. One fucking reason to put you behind bars.”
Jack stepped forward and said in a low voice, “I’ll be watching, Perez. Don’t fuck this up.”
Jack looked back at Scout’s body. Rage and sadness battled and his teeth clenched.
“Rest in peace, friend.”
When I find who did this to you, they won’t walk away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wednesday morning, less than two hours after she had opened the overnight envelope, Megan sat in SAC Bob Richardson’s office with two other agents, Detective John Black, and the speaker phone. Richardson had contacted Assistant Special Agent in Charge Hans Vigo at Quantico. Hans had been a friend and mentor to Megan since he’d recruited her into the FBI while guest lecturing at Georgetown, where she’d been studying law. Hans was a profiler, though he had declined a post in the prestigious Behavioral Science Unit. He was often sent out into the field to consult, and Megan had immediately thought of him when Price’s dog tag fell from the express envelope. This murder had taken on a whole new importance.
She’d finished briefing Hans about the case as she knew it, with the only known connection among the three victims being their time in the army. “Bob has made a request with the DOD to pull their military records, but you know how slow they are. By the time we get them, if at all, more people could die.”
“Will die,” Hans said. “Three dead in two months. The first victim was on February 11. The second on April 2. Price early on April 13.”
“They’re escalating,” Richardson said.
“Possibly, but more likely they have a plan. They are exceptionally well-organized for sadistic killers.”
“Sadistic? Is there a sexual component in the murders? There was no evidence of that at any of the crime scenes.” Megan pulled out her reports, worried that she had missed something important.