“I did. Sorry. That was a friend, Dr. Dillon Kincaid. He’s a civilian consultant with the FBI and I’ve worked with him on several cases.”
“He’s helping us on this?”
“Now he is. His brother just contacted him. We might have another victim.”
“Who? Where?”
“Former Sergeant Major Lawrence Bartleton, now a soldier for hire based in Hidalgo, Texas. Dillon’s brother Jack runs a small mercenary group focused on rescue missions and foreign hostage situations. Jack was Delta, as was Bartleton. This is our first real lead, with people who have an in with the victims and might give us something tangible we can work with.”
“Did the local police call it in?”
“There’s a bit of a problem with the local police.”
“Dammit, we can’t just walk in there and take over. It’s just not done that way anymore. And they don’t have to give us anything.”
“True, but the police chief isn’t pursuing the same investigation. He’s following a personal vendetta against Kincaid’s group by running with the idea that one of the rebels Kincaid ticked off in Guatemala or some such country is behind the murder. Kincaid saw the news report on the other victims, and made contact. He’s willing to help us. We need it.”
Megan didn’t like the idea of walking into a small town and taking over an investigation, officially or unofficially, but as she learned from J.T., she had no easy access to the military and their methods. How could she find out how these men were connected without inside information? While she could get name, rank, and serial number-and not much more-through proper channels, any personnel records would take time- a commodity they didn’t have. It had been less than seventy-two hours since George Price was killed in Sacramento. The killers had escalated exponentially. Two months, two weeks, two days. Having a real in, someone like this Jack Kincaid, might be their only hope to stop two killers who had killed four, maybe five times, with impunity.
“When are we leaving?”
Hans grabbed two rolls from the bread bowl and stood. “Now.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was dark while Jack sat in the cab of his truck outside El Gato watching who came and went, waiting for Dillon to call back about the possible serial killer. Jack called a Delta buddy Scott Gray, who now worked for the Rangers, and filled him in on the murder in Hidalgo on the Q.T. While local authorities could work their own murder investigations, generally the small towns like Hidalgo would call in either the county or, more commonly, the Texas Rangers to work the case. Scott confirmed what Jack suspected: Art Perez had not contacted them about Scout’s murder.
“But we’re interested,” Scott said. “I’ll pass this up the chain of command, but I suspect someone will be down there tomorrow.”
“I’m having some problems with the chief of police,” Jack said without further explanation.
“I got a call from a reporter,” Scott said with a wink in his voice.
“Thanks. Let me know if you need anything. I contacted my brother, who’s affiliated with the FBI. I’m waiting to hear how they’re involved.”
“If it’s the Hamstring Killer, the feds are all over it. I heard two agents were in Austin today.”
Jack thanked Scott for his help and hung up. He watched Deputy Ripa leave the bar. As usual, he’d drunk too much and was ripe for conversation. Jack had gotten some of his best information from Ripa after a night out. He needed to find out what evidence, if any, had been collected at Scout’s house. This mysterious brunette had captured Jack’s interest, especially if it was the same woman who’d approached Padre. Had she been sent to make sure Scout was alone? To keep Padre occupied? The priest often went to El Gato near closing to take care of Scout and any others who had drunk too much. Or were they not connected at all? Was Jack reading too much into the situation?
Right now, he needed to gather intelligence so he could create a plan. Intelligence, plan, execution.
He opened his truck door quietly and said, “Ripa.”
“Go away, Kincaid. You’re going to get me in trouble with Perez.” The deputy still wore his sidearm. Guns and alcohol were a dangerous combination. Jack kept his guard up.
“Perez is doing nothing about Scout’s murder. Where’s the evidence?”
“The station. And he is working it. He traced Scout’s last week. He says you brought the trouble to Hidalgo, it’s not on his head.”
“Do you watch TV?”
“What?” Ripa swayed a bit, squared his feet. “I gotta go. If Perez hears I even told you to fuck off, he’ll be in my face. I don’t need that shit. I got an ex-wife and kid to support.”
“What happened to Scout had nothing to do with Guatemala.”
“I don’t care. I just don’t want trouble.” He burped loudly.
“Where’d he send Scout’s body?”
Ripa blinked. He hadn’t expected the question, and it was obvious to Jack he wasn’t lying when he said, “I don’t know. I guess Edinburg, or McAllen. Why?”
Jack didn’t trust Perez with the investigation into Scout’s murder, but he’d follow proper procedures with Scout’s body. There was no morgue or coroner in Hidalgo; they generally sent autopsies to the county seat. Jack would go up there first thing in the morning and talk to the coroner. He hoped the feds didn’t screw it up. Jack usually got the information he wanted, but he knew that the FBI and other government bureaucrats went in with attitudes that sometimes didn’t go over so good down here in south Texas.
Jack told Ripa, “I’ve been all over town and back and talked to everyone at the bar last night. Where has Perez been? Who’s he talking to?”
“I told you.” The bar door opened and Ripa said loudly, “Get out of my face, Kincaid, or I’ll arrest you.”
“On what charge?”
Two of Perez’s cronies came out. Abbott and Costello, Jack thought.
“Arrest him, Ripa,” the tall jerk said. The squat one laughed.
Jack’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it and said, “Thanks for nothing, Ripa.” Though he confirmed what he suspected: Art Perez was doing next to nothing to find out who killed Scout; worse, he was mucking up any legitimate investigation by not sending the evidence to the Ranger’s state-of-the-art lab. Jack knew why: Hidalgo City would be charged for the services, and Perez ran the police department on a tight budget. The chief of police would wait until the Rangers came on their own. Suddenly, it was clear to Jack: it was all about the money. If the Rangers came in and took over the case, Perez wouldn’t have to pay for it. If he asked for help, half came out of the city coffers.
Jack mentally berated himself for not figuring it out earlier. But now he had a card to play.
He got in his truck, ignoring the stares of Ripa and the Abbott and Costello lookalikes, and drove off. He missed his call, so he retrieved his phone and hit Send. It was Dillon.
“What do you have?”
“The two agents in charge of the Hamstring Killer investigation are currently in Austin, Texas. I talked to my friend Hans Vigo. He and Agent Megan Elliott are flying to McAllen as soon as they get to the airport. He figures two hours.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I gave Hans your cell phone number.”
“Fine.”
“He’s good. He was part of the FBI effort to identify Lucy’s kidnapper. Just-” Dillon didn’t say anything else.
“I won’t be pushed aside.”
“That’s what I told Hans. He’s fine with it, Jack. He said they need an in. You can trust him.”
“Hmm.”
“You can trust him like you can trust me.”
“And this Elliott?”
“Don’t know her, but Hans says she’s good.”
“Thanks, Dillon.”
“I can come down.”
“Not necessary.”
“If you need another set of legs or just to run a theory past, call me.”
Jack would normally deflect any offers of help. He had his team, men he’d trained or retrained to suit him, and he didn’t want or need anyone else. But already he had two feds on the way, and Dillon did have an expertise that Jack didn’t. More than that, Dillon was his brother. Jack had to remember family helped each other, both ways.