Текст книги "14"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

His guest didn’t drink or eat. Fear coiled in his stomach, making digestion impossible. So he watched, picking at his plate of salade niçoise, wondering why he’d bothered to order anything. French wasn’t his preferred choice of fare, but he hadn’t had a say in which restaurant they dined in. It was foolish enough for them to be seen together.

L’Uomo enjoyed his meal thoroughly, wading through the three courses and finishing with a cheese plate. Wiping his mouth carefully, he politely belched in gastronomic ap

preciation and finally looked his dining companion in the eye.

“So. Lazarus returns from the dead at last. I was won

dering when you were going to surface. You’re like a bad penny. Never know where you might turn up.”

“That’s not entirely fair,” he protested. “You were the reason I needed to disappear. And putting out a hit on me was rather impolite, don’t you think?”

L’Uomo flicked a hand in annoyance. “Yes, yes, I’m the source of all your ills. The contract was necessary. You’re sitting here with me now, aren’t you? Just business. You know that. There has been a development. We need you to have a heart-to-heart with someone. Resolve this situation for me and I’ll consider the debt even. You can disappear again, with my assurances that you won’t be hunted by my people any longer.”

14

283

A nice offer, one worth careful consideration. Of course, nothing about L’Uomo was ever that simple.

“Who?”

“You’ll see soon enough. Are you finished?” L’Uomo looked with derision at the pathetically full plate. He had no tolerance for weakness. “No appetite?”

“No, I guess I don’t. Shall we go, then? I’m not com

fortable being here. I’d like to get this over with.”

“Fine. I have a little present to show you. Perhaps then you’ll understand the seriousness of the situation. The limo will pick you up in thirty minutes. Do try to eat.”

L’Uomo stood and quitted the room, smiling benevo

lently at each patron as he walked out.

His companion uttered a single word at his old friend’s back.

“Bastard.”

Thirty-Five

Unknown

Monday, December 22

1:30 p.m.

Taylor shifted in the wooden chair. Her arms were tied tightly at the wrist to the back legs, arching her back and straining her shoulders. She could bend her wrists up toward the ceiling, a mistake on her captor’s part. She used her long, dexterous fingers to work on the knots. She was wishing for a blanket—the room was freezing and they’d stripped her down to her panties and bra—

when she realized she wasn’t alone anymore. Her fingers stopped; she closed her eyes, feigning sleep. A scent drifted to her nose—cedar, lime, a touch of mint. A man’s scent.

“I know you’re awake. I’ve been watching you. Indus

trious little thing, aren’t you?”

Taylor opened her eyes. A middle-height gentleman stood before her. His gray worsted wool suit was a chalk pinstripe Saville Row, the knot in his burgundy tie just so, 14

285

a crisp white shirt with platinum cuff links in the French cuffs. Dad had a suit like that once. The thought nearly undid her. He was wearing a ski mask. Incongruous, the terrorist chic and the British finery.

“Fuck. You.”

The man laughed. “Oh, aren’t you the little lady? I should wash that filthy mouth out with soap.”

“What do you want?”

“There, a much more important statement. Say please, and I’ll tell you.”

Taylor stared coolly. Never.

The man stared back at her, blue eyes burning behind the mask, then arranged his lips in an unpleasant grin.

“Good. You’re a strong one. That’s what I’ve heard. I have a business proposition for you.”

“Untie me first.”

“So you can escape? Not a chance. Not yet. I’ll let you go when the time is right. When I know you’re going to coop

erate.And cooperate you will, Lieutenant. Trust me on that.”

“I seriously doubt it.”

The man traced a finger along Taylor’s jawline, slowly working his way to her collarbone. “There are ways.”

Taylor jerked her head away and the man laughed. “I love how feisty you are. You will cooperate, and I will make sure you get out of here unscathed. Fight, put up a fuss, and I’ll have you killed. That’s all. Now. You have a situation back home that I can help with.”

“This is about the Snow White case?”

The man turned and raised an eyebrow. “That peon of a killer? Hardly. You’re closer to him than you think, Lieu

tenant. But no, this has nothing to do with him. This is about family. And honor. Things you pretend to respect.”

286

J.T. Ellison

He took a few steps backward, toward the door, as if a bit of distance would give him better perspective on his prisoner. He crossed his arms across his chest and stared her down.

“I don’t pretend to respect my family. I have no feelings for them at all. You’ve obviously misunderstood the situa

tion,” she said.

“Hmm.” The man put his arms behind his back and cocked his head like a spaniel puppy trying to identify a new noise. “No feelings for your family? Maybe not your parents—that bitch of a mother of yours, that traitorous father—no. I can see you having a bit too much integrity to care for them.” He bit out the word integrity, making it sound sordid and misplaced. Taylor shifted uncomfort

ably.

“No, I mean your chosen family. Your compadres. Your comrades in arms, so to speak. Those men who hold you in such high esteem. Loyalty is a precious commodity, Lieutenant. But it should never be taken for granted. No, I think you have a great deal of feeling for those people, the ones you choose to share your life with. I’d hate to see something happen to any one of them.”

Taylor rocked back in the chair, nearly tipping over in her vehemence. “You bastard! You steal me away and threaten my life, threaten my friends. Who the hell do you think you are?”

He crossed to Taylor in a flash, grabbed a handful of her dirty hair and yanked her head back, exposing her delicate throat. A small knife flashed in her peripheral vision and pressed hard against her carotid, a cold and rigid reminder of how precarious the situation really was. It took every ounce of her being not to flail and struggle. 14

287

That’s what he wanted. To put her in this vulnerable position. He caressed her scar with the point of the knife, and she felt nauseous.

“I’m the one who has you tied to a chair, and don’t you ever forget it. Now, stop reacting, or we’ll never get any

thing accomplished. You have a situation that needs to be handled. We can talk about the specifics once you under

stand the stakes. And if I’m not being clear enough, let me throw this in to sweeten the pot. If something happens to jeopardize my interests in your fair city, I’ll start taking your friends’ heads off, one by one. Now, you sit tight. Dusty will attend to you, get you some food. Then I have someone who wants to meet you. He’ll be here shortly.”

He turned the knob and strode from the room, the door slamming behind him with a brutal metal clang. Well. That was interesting.

The second the door shut, Taylor went to work on her bonds. A little more and she’d have them undone. Then he’d see just how much she was willing to cooperate. As she dug at the knots, she mulled the voice over and over in her head. Who is that man? What is so familiar about him? There was something, just out of reach, but the connection defied her tries to retrieve it. The voice. Some

thing about that voice.

In her mind, a kidnapper had two purposes, extort money or get revenge. There had to be another agenda here. Family. This wouldn’t have anything to do with her biological family. The threats against Baldwin and Fitz, Lincoln and Marcus were clear. But why? What in the world had she done to cross this madman’s path? Had she wronged him in some way? An old case? He said he had interests in Nash

ville. What kind of interests would a man like that have?

288

J.T. Ellison

Perhaps he was talking about his own family. Powerful men were often betrayed.

She heard the New York in his accent. Long Island, maybe. Certainly a long way from Tennessee. She knew her share of New Yorkers, but she didn’t recognize that voice. Did she? No, that wasn’t it. Perhaps it was a ploy to draw out Baldwin?

She pushed the thought of Baldwin out of her mind like it burned. He was looking for her, there was no doubt of that. Imagining him worried about her, all of the team frightened, wondering where she could have gotten off to, gave her a new spurt of energy. Her fingers cramped, got tired, but she pulled and manipulated the rope religiously. She had to get out of this situation, one way or another. Just as she decided to take a break, she felt some play on her right wrist. Tiredness forgotten, she picked, picked, picked, and suddenly, the rope loosened. Blood rushed to her fingers, making her hand go numb for a moment, then fire back to life as if shot with electricity. The rope fell away and she pulled her arm to her chest. Breathing hard, she smiled in triumph. She pushed her hair out of her face, took in the large room with exposed pipes, looked for avenues of escape. Being this close to freedom gave the room a whole new perspective. Definitely some sort of warehouse, she suspected. Where, she still had no idea. She reached around to the other wrist, tugged the knot open. Both hands free, she sat them in her lap, rubbing them to bring the circulation back.

When her fingers felt like they could work again, she reached down and untied her feet. Standing, she moved the chair out from behind her and stretched luxuriously, like a cat kept in a kennel too long. Taylor took a deep 14

289

breath, calming and centering. She waited. If they were watching, they’d be in here immediately. Nothing happened, so she went to the door.

She made her way quietly, not wanting to draw the at

tention of the guard if he stood outside the entryway. She risked a quick glance through the window, realized that it was an inverted glass, meant to magnify the interior of the space. It distorted her view; she couldn’t see anything outside properly. She pressed her ear up against the steel but heard nothing. She put a hand on the knob and pushed, hoping against hope. She’d heard the set of locks thrown when the dapper man left. It was worth a try, though.

Locked. Figured.

She walked the length of the room, the ache in her back and legs subsiding with each step. There was a bank of grimy windows on the opposite side of the cavernous space. She went to them, tried to look out, but realized they were so dirty she could only make out the semblance of a river. She jogged in place in her underwear, unsuccess

fully trying to get warm, speculating.

This certainly didn’t feel like Nashville. She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious, but the lingering effects of the chloroform from earlier, or yesterday, made her realize it could have been much longer than she thought. She was still a little woozy, and definitely sick to her stomach. The movement was helping to sharpen her reflexes and settle her gorge. She decided to scout for a weapon, something she could use against the guard the next time he came in the room. And maybe, just maybe, she could use it to break the window. She jogged around the space, her feet 290

J.T. Ellison

growing brown and dusty. This room was obviously rarely used. There was nothing in it, either, nothing she could use against them, or to break free. There was the chair, but she felt certain they would come running at the sound of splin

tering wood.

She felt warmer and went to the door again, listening. There was a sound—a man’s voice. He was singing, and the tuneless chant was growing closer.

She’d only have one shot at breaking away, she was certain of that.

She ran to the chair, set it upright and sat in it. She put her arms behind her, mimicking the angle that would make the guard think she was still tied up. The locks clicked and the door opened. A new man came through the door, this one much smaller than the earlier guard. She’d have a chance at this one.

He had a stupid smile on his face, as if he knew a secret she didn’t. He had a tray with him; Taylor could smell the tantalizing fare. The aroma wafted to her nose—fajitas—

she could smell grilled onions and green peppers. Out of place in the dirty space, it made her think of good times, drinking margaritas on the deck of her favorite little holein-the-wall in Nashville. The homesickness was over

whelming. She put it aside. At least they’d deigned to feed her, which meant they weren’t planning on killing her im

mediately.

She wouldn’t stick around long enough to make a dif

ference.

“I need to use the bathroom.” Taylor tried for haughty but scared; the grin on the man’s face widened. She’d suc

ceeded in tricking him so far.

“My name’s Dusty,” he said.

14

291

“Great. Hi. Seriously, I need to use the bathroom.”

Taylor spit the words at him, but he took it as teasing and smiled wider. Idiot.

“Do you like to read?”

Oh, wow. This guy wasn’t all there. He was smiling, arranging the plate of food, seemingly oblivious to Taylor’s request. She let him get closer.

“Yes, I like to read.”

“Do you like to touch?”

Jesus, what kind of freaks were these guys? The big one had stared at her like she was a juicy steak, but this one, with his dispassionate voice that belied his bravado—

Taylor doubted he would do anything to her.

“Touch what?”

“You know.” He blushed, and Taylor took a deep breath as he drew closer.

He’d have to feed her or untie her hands so she could feed herself. Either way would give her the opportunity she needed. With any luck—yes.

He set the tray on the floor. “I’m going to untie you so you can eat. We can talk. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

She nodded. He came closer, closer. A fug surrounded him; he hadn’t bathed recently, and she tried not to gag. Easy now. Let him reach behind…

Taylor jumped to her feet, knocking the chair out behind her. Dusty’s shock lasted long enough for her surprise attack. Whipping her hand around his head, Taylor got a good hold on his left ear with her right hand, got his jaw in her left and twisted away from her body with all her might. She was taller than him, had more leverage than he’d expect. Before he could fight back, his head spun to the side hard and his neck snapped with a sickening, audible crunch. 292

J.T. Ellison

Taylor let out her breath and released Dusty’s head. He crumpled to the floor in a heap at her feet. She took three steps back and stared down at him. She’d never killed a man with her bare hands before, never had to. She’d always had a weapon at her side to do the dirty work for her. More blood on her hands. She shook the thought off. She didn’t have time to worry about this now. She needed to get out of here. Without a glance behind, she darted from the room. There was a long hallway that ended in a doorway, a window above it letting light gleam in. She headed for it, thrilled when it opened into the bitter winter air. She took deep gulps of air, cleaning the confinement out of her lungs. Her breath created gusting clouds of vapor, like a dragon snorting out smoke. The street in front of her was abandoned. To her right and left were buildings covered in graffiti, sprawling tags by ghetto artists and gangbangers, making the setting almost feel like home.

A dirty brown river sprawled in front of her, and the lights in the skyscrapers on the other side beckoned like millions of friendly fireflies. There was only one place in the world that looked like that. Even without the familiar landmarks shooting into the sky, it was unmistakable. Now she had her bearings.

The freezing river breeze blew her hair, raising goose bumps up and down her arms and legs. Without another moment’s hesitation, she went down the five steps to the street, jogged south, then took the first street that allowed her to go east, away from the river. She’d hit civilization soon enough.

Thirty-Six

New York, New York

Monday, December 22

3:00 p.m.

He’d been picked up in the alley behind the restaurant by the giant goon known as Atlas, blindfolded and driven around for what felt like hours before L’Uomo met him at the door to the riverfront warehouse. L’Uomo dismissed his driver, and held the dirty steel door for the visitor. L’Uomo was polite on the surface, if nothing else. They made their way through a brief warren that ended in a door. To the right was a second door, and L’Uomo went to it, turned the knob and gestured to his guest.

“Please.”

This had better be worth it, the younger man thought. He walked through the door and down a long hallway toward a steel door with an inset window. He got closer. L’Uomo was behind him, gestured for him to look. As much as he didn’t like turning his back in the man’s presence, he didn’t have much of a choice. Magnifying glass, his mind registered. 294

J.T. Ellison

It took his eyes a moment to adjust. On the floor was a body. A man’s body. What the hell?

He turned to L’Uomo.

“You brought me all the way back from the dead to show me a body? What kind of sick joke are you playing now? Is this just another threat? Because I don’t care anymore.”

L’Uomo looked confused for a moment, then rushed to the glass.

“Goddamn it! Where is she?”

He rushed out of the observation space and into the room. The man called Dusty was crumpled in a heap on the floor, his back to the ceiling. His head was turned three

quarters of the way around, obviously not in its proper place.

L’Uomo screamed in frustration. He wasn’t a man prone to losing control, but this obvious alteration of his Machiavellian plans was the last straw. “She broke his neck. I can’t believe it. And managed to get out of here. This is not good. This is not good at all.”

The man’s eyes were full of fury, and he turned on his guest.

“Son of a bitch, Win. Your fucking daughter killed my man. This will not go unpunished.” He swept out of the room, leaving Win Jackson to stare into the milky-white eyes of the dead stranger.

Taylor? Taylor was here? Taylor had done this? Jesus, she must have been pissed off. A state she was perpetu

ally in when it came to Win, anyway.

Son of a bitch was right. If Anthony Malik had decided to bring Taylor into the scheme, he was going to have bigger problems than he knew.

14

295

L’Uomo returned, calmer, his blue eyes troubled. “Your precious little girl made it to the 108th. We need to clear out of here immediately. Do you still have the boat I arranged for you? Yes? Let’s go.”

He clicked open a cell phone, hit a single digit, spoke tersely to whoever answered. “I need a cleaner at the ware

house. Now.”

Thirty-Seven

Long Island City, New York

Monday, December 22

8:00 p.m.

Detective 3rd Grade Emily Callahan handed Taylor a pair of gray sweatpants and a blue NYPD sweatshirt.

“Here, these should fit. The pants won’t be long enough, though. What are you, six foot?”

Taylor huffed a smile. “Five-eleven and three-quarters.”

She slipped the rough white towel off her shoulders and stood, pulling the sweats on. Callahan was right—they were too short by about three inches, but they were warm and better than nothing. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head, stole a rubber band from Callahan’s desk, tied her wet hair up in a knot, then sat back down. Just showering had left her exhausted.

Taylor had found the 108th Precinct quickly. Long Island City. The bastards had transported her to New York, of all places. Once out the warehouse door, she’d recog

nized the signature Manhattan skyline immediately. As 14

297

she moved away from the river, she’d actually been on Fiftieth, and the precinct was on her right after a block. Fortuitous. Though jogging up to the doors of a police station in her skivvies was relatively embarrassing, getting safe was much more important than her modesty. The watch captain had laughed when she ran in, tried to shoo her away, thinking she was some kind of freak. She stood her ground, announced herself with authority, gave her badge number and made a request that they call her captain. Immediately.

The watch captain realized she was the real deal and grabbed her a blanket. Calls were made, concerned glances given. It was Emily Callahan who had come to her rescue, pulling Taylor into her office, giving her food, then arranging a shower and getting her some warm clothes.

Callahan handed over socks, then a steaming cup of coffee. “Vanilla. The boys here are gourmets.” She rolled her eyes and Taylor laughed.

“I have a few of those myself. Starbucks has ruined us all.”

“You ready to talk to the LT? He’s waiting for you. Whenever you’re ready, no rush.”

Taylor gulped some of the coffee, happy just to have the warmth. It was sweet, almost too sweet, but she rec

ognized that the sugar would be good for her. Callahan had been incredibly kind, fixed her up with some chicken soup, gave her a place to shower, gave her some space to sort through the jumbled-up emotions of the afternoon. The image of that man’s head in her hands flooded in, the sound…she shook it off. Flashbacks weren’t going to help things now.

298

J.T. Ellison

Taylor’s stomach rumbled, not happy with her choice of beverage. Stress, she thought. She tried to distract herself.

“You been here long?” she asked.

Callahan looked happy that Taylor had chosen to talk.

“The 108th? Long enough. I’ve been in the detective bureau for a year now. I’m hoping to move up a grade soon, but you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“How’d you make LT so young? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

“Worked my ass off, just like you’re doing. What are you, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

Callahan blushed. “Thirty-three. Thanks for the com

pliment.”

“I never was any good with ages. Just keep busting ass. It’ll come. We’re a smaller department, and we have lots of turnover in the higher ranks. The opportunities come around more often.” She sipped her coffee again, gained as much courage from the sugary bitterness as she would ever get.

“Let’s go do this.”

“Follow me. We’re going to be in the conference room, and it’s already pretty crowded.”

Callahan led Taylor down a hallway covered in flyerfilled corkboards. There was a sameness here that made Taylor comfortable. Cop shops were alike, no matter the locale.

She opened the door to a long room with a conference table. The room was packed.

Callahan made the introductions, going counterclock

wise around the table.

14

299

“Lieutenant Tony Eldridge, Sergeant Robert Johnson, Davis Welton, D-1, Zach Brooks, D-2. This is Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, Metro Nashville Homicide.”

Lieutenant Eldridge unfolded like a brunette crane, all long legs and skinny frame. He shook her hand. “LT, so sorry you had to come here under these circumstances. Clothes fit okay? Do you need some more coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’d rather get this over with first. Have you been to the warehouse?”

Eldridge was looking at her with a sense of incredulity.

“We went there. It was empty.”

“Fast,” Taylor murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean these were professionals. I killed one of their men and they got the scene cleared away that quickly?

Surely you found something?”

Eldridge cleared his throat. “I have a team combing the place now, looking for anything we can get. So far, there’s a few partials and some urine on the floor, but not much else.”

“I counted at least three different people. One a sixfoot-eight or -nine giant, the other about my height, slight build. Called himself Dusty. Creepy, nasty things, both of them. There was one more, definitely the head of the op

eration. He was well dressed, much more composed and collected than his underlings. He was well-spoken, with a Long Island accent. He wore a ski mask, so I didn’t see his features, other than the fact that he has blue eyes and cruel, thin lips. He spoke to me, threatened my crew in Nashville. He said he had interests in Nashville. But he isn’t on our radar, as far as I know. His voice was soft pitched, almost…soothing. Or at least it was meant to be. I pissed 300

J.T. Ellison

him off a couple of times. He doesn’t like to be challenged, especially by a woman.”

Eldridge glanced around the room. Four faces stared at her, all a bit disbelieving.

“What, y’all think I’m out of my mind? Listen, I was kidnapped. At a very inopportune time, mind you. I don’t even know what day it is. So if you’d like to dispense with the bullshit, I’d appreciate it.”

She sat back in her chair, crossed her arms and glared at them.

Callahan spoke first. “It’s December 22. Three days until Christmas.”

Taylor felt the news deep in the pit of her stomach.

“Jesus. I was gone for three days? They must have been so worried….”

Her voice trailed off. A shadow darkened the doorstep to the conference room. Taylor felt the electricity in the room, knew who was standing behind her without turning around. The room grew silent, and she risked a glance. Baldwin stood just inside the door, a terrible visage of both joy and pain etched on his haggard features. Their eyes met and they shared a look; it could have been a second, it could have lasted an hour. All Taylor knew was she was safe. She was in his arms before she recalled getting out of the chair. There was no kiss, no words, just arms around each other and a heavy heartbeat. She didn’t know if it was hers or his, but it centered her, grounded her, and she squeezed hard, once. Turning around, she saw the looks on her fellow officers’ faces and realized they were stunned.

“This is Dr. John Baldwin. FBI. He’s…” She looked over her shoulder at Baldwin.

14

301

“I’m here for Taylor.” He took two strides into the room, held Taylor’s chair, waited for her to sit and get settled, then sat next to her. He reached for her hand and held it with both of his in his lap. He indicated to Eldridge with a jerk of his head.

“Please, continue. You were saying?”

Eldridge started to reach across Taylor to shake Baldwin’s hand, then stopped, realizing Baldwin wasn’t going to comply. Instead, he put his finger to his upper lip and tapped.

“It wasn’t that we didn’t believe you, Lieutenant. You came up against some major muscle and walked away from it. That doesn’t happen. Not with the man we’re dealing with.”

“You know who’s behind this?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Taylor was exhausted and famished. She just wanted to collapse and sleep for a week, but she couldn’t. Not yet. There was work to be done. They decided to move across the street, get her some food and continue the discussion. Baldwin had brought a bag for her. She took out a sweater and jeans, her favorite boots and some toiletries. She changed into the clothes before they left, brushed her teeth and hair, thankful for the familiar hominess. The actions gave her new energy.

The bar across the street from the 108th was nestled in a row house, identical to the buildings on either side except for a red-and-blue-striped awning and small neon sign that read “Dog Pound.”

Baldwin opened the door for Taylor, and they entered to the strains of Frank Sinatra. Frank was warbling about 302

J.T. Ellison

the way she looked tonight. Taylor was just happy to be in the warm environment and was cheered by the prospect of solid food. Despite the universals of the precinct, this felt more like home.

The bar was long and mahogany, varnished to within an inch of its life. High café tables stretched the length of the opposite wall. There were a few men, bundled and white-headed, sitting at the far end. They paid them no mind, continued their discussion without turning. Baldwin indicated a table by the wall. They sat, and the bartender came around the bar to them with a tired smile. They ordered Guinness, sat back and reveled in each other. Baldwin stared at her hungrily, as if he’d gobble her up in one bite if she so much as moved. She felt pinned by his stare and didn’t know what to say. The waitress re

turned with their beer and left them to their silence.

“Baldwin,” Taylor began, but the group from the pre

cinct wafted through the door, cutting off her statement. They joined them, settling in, good-natured, spirits high. Callahan sat next to Taylor. As Frank started in anew, this time with “Luck Be a Lady,” Callahan leaned in conspiratorially.

“Just a heads-up, the owner’s obsessed. Sinatra’s the only thing you’ll hear in here tonight. Or any night. It’s the law.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. You can go look at the jukebox, it’s only got selections from Old Blue Eyes. After a while you won’t even notice.”

Taylor took a gulp of her beer, rolled her eyes good

naturedly at Baldwin.

They ordered crisp steak sandwiches, which came 14

303

smothered in peppers and onions and mozzarella cheese. The smell reminded her too much of the afternoon’s esca

pades; Taylor had to send hers back and have a new one made. Her roaring appetite was gone, the food tasted liked dust, but she managed to get it in her stomach. Despite the fact that there wasn’t a body, the 108th de

tectives were jubilant when she described the scene, the killing. They recognized her description of the man who called himself Dusty. The knowledge of his past transgres

sions didn’t make his death any easier.

Apparently Dusty, known to the police as Dustin Mosko, had been a regular with the sex-crimes unit. Rape, abuse, torture. How a man with his record could possibly be out of jail was astounding, but that was the system for you. Have him serve his time, let him back out onto the street, and pump him full of drugs that would ostensibly satiate his cravings. It was nuts, and apparently no one would be missing Mr. Dusty.

The other goon Taylor had come in contact with was assumed to be a man called Atlas. A natural-born killer with the size to see his threats to fruition, he was a prolific assassin.

Both men worked for a shadowy man the Long Island City police knew as L’Uomo; killed in his name. The Man. Of course, they had another name for him. Edward Delglisi. A first-class underworld kingpin. The same name Frank Richardson had dug out of Burt Mars’s records before he ended up dead.

Running through all the Nashville–New York connec

tions had cemented the clue. Burt Mars was a known com

modity to the New York police. The word on their radar was Mars worked for Delglisi, which helped confirm the 304