Текст книги "14"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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commodate the stretcher.

She spoke over her shoulder as they trooped toward the elevators.

“I’m Deborah Haver. We’re heading to the seventeenth floor. The maid found her. There’s been a Privacy Re

quested sign on the door for two days, but the couple that checked into the room next door called down and insisted they smelled something. They called the concierge, we came up and agreed. When we got the room open…well. You’ll see.”

They were in the elevator now, jetting upward into the Nashville sky.

“Who is the room registered to, Ms. Haver?” Taylor asked.

They reached the seventeenth floor and the doors slid open. She bustled out into the hallway and they followed.

“Oh, I have that information…right here…damn it.”

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The woman was flipping through a notepad, and pulled up short in front of a room whose door stood open. Taylor con

tinued into the room, looking over her shoulder at the manager, who exclaimed “Got it!” just as Taylor saw the body.

They said the name at the same time, one in a normal tone of voice, the other hushed.

“Charlotte Douglas.”

“What?” Baldwin had been lagging back, talking on his cell, but he slammed it shut and stepped into the room. Taylor felt the invisible blow as it hit his body. He didn’t move, his facial expression didn’t alter, but it was there nonetheless.

“Oh, no” was all he managed before he went to her. The smell of decomposition was strong. Taylor just didn’t want to look closely, not yet. She crossed the room, mindful of her steps, and went to the window. The view faced west, and the sun was setting. The clouds were stacked one upon the other like swirls of icing, piling up in the sky, reflected by the setting sun. They looked drenched in blood, stained crimson like the froth from a lung wound. Taylor knew it was simple refraction, the cold, clear nights often caused this unusual sight. Red skies at night, sailor’s delight. It should have been a red morning instead, so Charlotte could have been warned. Jesus, she wouldn’t wish this on her worst enemy. Bolstered at last, she turned and took in the gruesome scene. The back light from the setting sun tinged the room in pink, giving Charlotte’s body an almost lifelike glow. The grinning wound across her neck was black with oozed blood, her red-tipped lips were painted into a gruesome smile. Blood had run into her hair, turning the coppery red 14

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mass into a tangled claret river, with tendrils spreading across the white pillows, tributaries of fatal essence running away from her heart.

Her limbs were spread-eagle on the sheets, her legs spread wide, open in reception.

Taylor stopped looking at Charlotte and took in Baldwin, who was still standing over her. He hadn’t said a word, but he turned to her now, face grim, lips thinner than she’d ever seen them. He looked like a different man entirely. As soon as he spoke, the spell was broken and they became a law enforcement team again rather than two people touched by a tragedy.

“You know what this means?” he asked her. Taylor nodded. “Yes.”

“He’s broken the pattern again. This was personal. She wasn’t a random victim.”

“You’re probably right. But we need to check for the article. And the frankincense and myrrh. We need to make sure it’s him, Baldwin.”

He turned back to the body. “Oh, it’s him. I don’t think the message could be any clearer, do you?”

“No, but we have to follow procedure. Let’s let Sam in here, let her get the body, Charlotte’s body, back to the morgue.”

They stood together quietly for a moment, then stepped away. They had borne witness.

Taylor watched Sam work on Charlotte Douglas, touched again by how reverent her friend became when she communed with the dead. Just the thought made her realize how close she’d come to being in that position, that she could have died at the hands of L’Uomo. The thought 350

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was more than she could take. It was time for action. It was time to finish this.

She left the room and sought out Baldwin, who was in the hallway talking with Fitz. She watched them for a moment, knew that she would die inside if anything ever happened to him. Yes, their wedding had been a disaster. But she didn’t need the formality to assure that he was hers, and she was his.

She needed to find the answers, to help him lay this case to rest.

They greeted her, Baldwin giving her a tight smile.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good. There’s nothing more I can do here. I have to get to the library, find the name of this man from my memory. I know he’s Snow White. If I can find his identity, we can stop him. We can stop his copycat. It’s time to end this.”

She reached up and kissed him softly on the cheek. The stubble scratched at her lips, but she didn’t care.

“You want help, little girl?” Fitz asked.

“No. Stay here, make sure Sam doesn’t need anything. I need to do this myself.”

Baldwin’s phone rang as he watched Taylor’s retreat

ing figure. She tossed a wave at him as she entered the elevator. He saw the international area code and decided he needed the break. There was a window at the end of the row of rooms. He went there, gazed out on the city he loved and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“John Baldwin? It is Juan.”

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He answered in Spanish. “Hola, Juan. ¿Cómo estás?

Gracias por responder a mi llamada tan pronto.”

“Sin problema. Lincoln dijo que era importante. ¿Por qué no cambiemos al inglés? Tú no necesitas prácticar el español como yo la necesito en inglés.”

“Okay. English it is. I have a question about a man who may be running people out of some South American coun

tries. His name is—”

“Edward Delglisi.”

“How did you know that?”

“Oh, my friend, I was looking into the murder of your poor chauffeur over the weekend. His name came up.”

“Would you be willing to give me the context?”

“If you tell me what you are looking for, I would be happy to confirm or deny based on my discoveries at this point. Perhaps you will enlighten me, and I will enlighten you in return. ¿Bien? ”

“Sí.” Baldwin scratched his head, trying to decide where to start. “Are you seeing a great number of cases of forced immigration? Illegals being imported into America for illicit activities?”

“Sex trade? Yes. Quite a bit. Human trafficking. The Border Patrol is corrupt in certain pockets, as are a few of the Immigration and Naturalization officers. There were many cases last year of both organizations’ employees ex

changing immigration status for sex or money. Foreign governments are participating in this scheme, as well. It has become highly lucrative, yet it seems your government is looking the other way. Illegals smuggle illegals, bad men import little girls to sell. It is a very appalling state of affairs.”

“Do you have Edward Delglisi on your radar?”

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“Yes. He has been under investigation by the Venezue

lans, the Brazilians and the Argentinians, yet no one can touch him. He has a system that insulates him. False names, constant moves, safe houses, sophisticated ac

counting. We cannot get our hands on the cash.”

“We just had a run-in with him in New York. Does he keep the cash hidden there?”

“Oh, no, he is much too smart for that. He ships the money out of the country. He is an old-school criminal, does not use electronics to help hide his money. No, he physically moves cash from New York. We have not had any success catching him until recently. We seized a boat in the Caribbean. You may have heard of this situation.”

Baldwin stopped taking notes and leaned back in the chair. “A boat in the Caribbean. Was it called THE

SHIVER? ”

“Sí.”

Oh, Taylor was going to hit the roof.

“What does the Mexican government have to do with this?”

“Ah, mi amigo, you know how these things work. You sometimes need to look one way, while you are moving in another.”

“The boat you speak of. Am I safe to assume the con

nection is sound and has been corroborated?”

“You are safe to assume that. We took nearly four million dollars off that boat. We did not capture the man sailing it, he was able to get away.”

“And you have this man’s name.”

“We do. Winthrop Jackson. The fourth, I believe. That is your woman’s—”

“Father. Yes. She doesn’t know.”

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“Well, I wish you the best of luck breaking the news.”

“Thank you. Let’s talk about the chauffeur. What have you found out about his killer?”

“Only that we have a very dead American who was shipped back to the authorities in your country. It seems to be a case of mistaken identity.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“I do not. But that is the most convenient theory for the moment. He is not important to the bigger picture, if you understand my meaning.”

A dead American national not of concern to the security services in Mexico meant they simply didn’t care to investigate.

“There was one piece of information that was relevant. An American flew into Mazatlán on the same flight as our dead friend and caught the evening plane to New York City. His name was unfamiliar to us. Dustin Mosko.”

Dustin Mosko. That was the name of the man Taylor had killed in New York.

“His name is not unfamiliar to me. And for the record, he’s no longer with us. But he worked for Delglisi.”

“Ah. Then your puzzle is complete, yes?”

They talked for a few minutes more, then Baldwin wrapped up the conversation. This was news he’d sus

pected, but didn’t particularly want to deliver. His next call was to Garrett Woods.

After getting reamed for not phoning in about Char

lotte’s demise sooner, Baldwin went over the details of his call with the mysterious Juan. Woods would take it from here. They had an opportunity, a chance to right so many wrongs. They discussed ways to apply pressure, to stop at least one bad guy from hurting the innocent anymore. 354

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But it would cost, and cost dearly. Baldwin didn’t know what Taylor would think, how she would react. When they finished, Woods relayed the information he’d been trying to give Baldwin over the past few days. Charlotte Douglas’s legacy wasn’t looking bright. Woods was infuriated as he gave the details.

“We’ve been through all of her files. It looks like she wrote a sophisticated program that filtered both obscenely violent crimes and the accompanying DNA to a private site for her perusal. When she found something she liked, she’d assign herself the case.”

“That’s how she found the copycat?”

“Yes. The DNA should have matched with the Califor

nia files when the Denver cops put it into the system. Instead, the information was sent directly to Charlotte. She’d been watching this maniac’s spree across the country. We don’t know the extent of her relationship with him, only that she was obviously in contact. Whether she was just another one of his victims or was a part of his plan, I guess we won’t know until we catch him.”

“Why did she choose to reveal the information about the multiple murders when she did?”

“She had no choice. She was playing a very dangerous game. The IT department confirmed that she called last week to see if they had accidentally discovered her Trojan horse. They hadn’t. They had rolled out an upgrade, rekeyed the entire system. The new database didn’t have Charlotte’s special codes, so the real information made it through to the proper channels. If she didn’t come forward, people would have gotten suspicious. This could have gone on indefinitely.”

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in the hell did she pass the psych profiles and get into the Bureau in the first place? She was always very enthusias

tic about deviant behavior, but I never saw any signs that she could have gone this far over the edge.”

“I can’t tell you that, Baldwin. Believe me, we’re looking for the answers here. We’ve launched a major internal investigation. Oversight of the department has been in Stuart Evanson’s hands. I hate to say it, but he may have to go. He’s the one that brought her to her current position as deputy chief. As I recall, you pointed out that she wasn’t fit for that position when you transferred. You and I are fine. Evanson probably isn’t.”

“That will be a loss.” They shared a moment of sarcas

tic happiness. “As long as you’re insulated, that’s what’s important to me. Evanson’s a prick.”

The industrial-grade clock on Taylor’s wall clicked loudly, announcing it was nearly five o’clock. He rang off with Woods, promising to answer his phone if he called again.

Charlotte Douglas. He’d known the woman was poison.

Shaking his head, pushing away his own feelings of betrayal, he gathered his coat. It was time to seek Taylor out, run through the afternoon’s bombshells with her. Forty-Five

The library was a bust. Taylor combed through the records, but didn’t find the face of the man she remem

bered from her parents’ party. Frustrated, she took a drive in the cold, hard winter air, trying to clear her head. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself at the apartment buildings where Frank Richardson was killed. Oh, who was she kidding? She knew exactly what she was doing. Paying penance to the dead. Would anyone feel that for Charlotte? Was there a soul who would watch for her, pray for her, remember her fondly?

She climbed the stairs to the apartment and saw the door was cracked. She drew her weapon and slipped to the wall, left shoulder flat against the doorjamb. She listened hard, then put the gun away. The cleaners were here. A horrific job they had, too. Following behind crime and avarice, cleaning up the messes made when a life ends, a heart ceases to beat, by choice or by violence. They were the lost ones, the unnoticed and unknown, the crea

tures who stealthily eradicated the signs of death. Taylor looked into the apartment. She recognized the cleaner, a stout lady name Stella, who smoked like a 14

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chimney. She claimed the constant cloud of cigarette smoke kept the stench of death from her nostrils. Taylor smelled it on her, the unmistakable scent of burnt tobacco, and was hit with a mouth-salivating craving for a smoke. Shaking her head to literally make it go away, she stepped into the room and greeted Stella.

“Hey, LT.” Stella sounded like a truck driver on a bender, but Taylor knew she was a sweet, God-fearing woman who sacrificed her own happiness to help families maintain some sense of closure after their loved one’s death. She stopped scrubbing.

“What are you doing out here? I thought this scene was cleared for me.”

“Oh, it is, Stella, don’t worry. I was just here to say, well, I guess I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Knew the vic, eh?” Stella leaned back from the blood pool she was removing from the apartment’s carpet. “I could use a smoke, anyway. Want to join me?”

“I wish. No, I think I’ll just stay here for a minute.”

“Suit yourself.” She stood, knees popping, and sauntered past Taylor, a sour look on her face. But she squeezed Taylor’s arm in passing, and Taylor knew it was a show of support.

Alone now, she took in the scene. Frank Richardson’s blood was black and shiny, several days old and forever interred into the grain of this room. All the scrubbing and cleaning, the replacement carpet and linoleum floors, the fresh paint, none of that would truly erase the imprint of the man’s soul, brutally taken from this space. A certain dislocation of the very air would stay in this room forever. Taylor said a prayer for the man, and apologized out loud. Knowing there was nothing left to do, she turned to 358

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leave. As she walked to the door, she spied a file folder, sitting apart from Stella’s cleaning supplies.

“Stella, is this yours?”

Stella was on the landing and shouted back to her. “Is what mine?”

“The manila folder. Is that yours?”

“Naw, I found it when I cleaned out the air intake for the air conditioner. There was some blood on the screen and it was inside when I took it off.” She appeared in the doorway. “You wanna take a look? I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

Taylor was already standing over the folder. She bent down and used a pen to open the file. She knew before she started reading what she had. Frank Richardson’s notes. The file he was trying to get to her the day he died. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, Taylor picked up the file.

“Why are you grinning ear to ear, Lieutenant?”

“Because, Miss Stella, this is the missing piece of the puzzle. Thank you so much for finding it.” Taylor nearly gave the woman a hug, but Stella held up her hands.

“Yeah, I know.You don’t want to be touching me, child, I smell bad. I’m getting back to work.”

Taylor went directly to the car and called in to the office. Marcus answered the phone.

“Hey, tell me something. Did you guys ever track down Frank Richardson’s last movements?”

“Sort of. We found his car in the parking lot of the apartment building. His cell phone was in the center console, had a voice mail from someone who didn’t identify himself but requested Frank meet him at the apart

ment. So he went there of his own accord.”

“Well, that makes sense, then. I just found the file he 14

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was trying to get to us. He must have gone to the apart

ment before the meet, stashed the information for safety’s sake. Smart guy. He must have known there was some

thing big in these files. Thanks, Marcus. I’ll see you in a bit.”

It was all coming together. Now, if she could just find Snow White’s identity. It was curled in the corner of her mind like a snake waiting to strike.

Forty Six

Jane Macias started awake. She was cold. A crack in the wall next to where she laid her head was letting in frigid air from outdoors. Her father would never stand for such slovenliness. A man’s home was his castle, especially when that was an unembellished statement. There was a respon

sibility that came with stature, he always said. Show the world how much you care, and in turn, they will care for you.

Her father. God, she missed him. She’d never be able to erase the image of him, pale and shaking on the hard, cold floor. He was nearly dead, the light leaving his eyes when she found him. She’d held him and rocked him, blood soaking through her shirt. He’d mouthed the name just before he died, just as the EMTs arrived to try saving his life. It was too late, but she had the ammunition she needed. Proving it was another story. She was almost there. And now she was being held captive. She was going to fail her father yet again.

This man, this creature who was holding her, was going to kill her soon, she could tell. The cat-and-mouse game was coming to an end. He was too entranced by the blood 14

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and flesh of her young body to worry about the decrepit stones in the attic, letting cold air seep into the tiny garret room where she was being held prisoner. It was better than the hole she’d been in before, a room that smelled of sex and blood. She’d been relieved when she was moved. That beastly thing who’d been salivating over her body, who ran his lips across her neck and promised to take her life, was gone.

She tried to turn over, finding the bonds that held her hands and legs in a frontal vise strong as ever. The young one bound her, night after night. The past two nights, the young one would come, untie her, carry her downstairs because her legs were numb from lack of movement, and sit her in a chair in the creature’s library. From behind, he’d strip off the blindfold, so she never saw his face. He would leave the room and the crippled one would talk. Tell her horrific stories, detailing the death of the man’s soul. Touching her, but unable to fulfill himself. He made her touch him. That didn’t work, either.

She knew who he was, of course. This bent, misshap

en thing was Snow White.

He’d come to her once, alone and sweating. She heard his labored progress up the stairs, listened with every nerve taut when he reached her door, panting heavily. He’d been too winded to hurt her, though the gleam in his eyes told her that was his intention. He’d taken off her blindfold. She saw the insane desire light up his face from within, like a flashlight was being held just below the surface of his papery skin. He’d stared, then licked his lips. Traced the line of her cheekbone with a bent finger. Her imagination ran wild, as if the touch of his finger had left some sort of filth on her face that she’d never get off. 362

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Then as abruptly as he’d appeared, he was gone. She wept for the first time that night.

A sound brought her back, and she heard steps, creeping toward her. This wasn’t the young one, she was certain of that. His tread was unmistakable, heavy and pur

poseful. No, this was someone lighter, who was coming slowly. She had a half-hysterical moment imagining a giant spider crawling across the room to wrap her in its silken web and drain her of life slowly, but shook the thought off. These were human footsteps. Despite the blindfold whispering against her skin, she squeezed her eyes shut, afraid.

A hand touched her face. She couldn’t help herself, she cringed. But she didn’t cry out.

The hand was joined by another and ten fingers roamed across her face languorously. She felt no malice in the touch, just a gentle curiosity. Just as slowly, the hands were withdrawn.

“You are beautiful,” a soft voice whispered in her ear.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He was working on her bonds now. The owner of the voice shrugged slightly, a movement so eloquent that Jane felt it, a dismissive gesture born of repetition. “Nobody. I am no one.”

Jane’s hands were free now, and he’d moved on to her feet. She stretched her arms hard above her head, rejoic

ing in the movement. Pulling her arms down, she started to pull off the blindfold.

“Don’t. Pleassse.”

The longing in the voice caught her, and she stopped. She realized that this man was no threat; the whisper of a lisp made her feel both comforted and a little creeped out. 14

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Didn’t movie psychopaths have lisps? She started inching away and sensed the man stiffen. She quit moving, let him work on the knots around her ankles. After many inter

minable minutes, she felt the rope free, and her legs were no longer glued together. He took her hand and helped her stand, massaging the blood back into her legs.

“Can you ssstand?”

Jane tested each leg. Pins and needles, but function

ing. “Yes.”

“Keep your hand on my ssshoulder. I’m going to get you to the door. Then you can take off the blindfold.”

“Who are you?” Jane repeated. “Do you have a name, at least?”

“I have many, but none will mean anything to you.”

Jane heard a snick, then tapping. He’s blind, she realized with astonishment. The thought made her giggle. The blind leading the blind. This was crazy. Her hands went to the blindfold again, but he stopped.

“Please. It will be quick. I promise. There are many passages through the house.”

The tone of his voice made her stop, and she said,

“Okay.” And meant it.

After a few long minutes of shuffling along, they went down two flights of stairs. Jane could smell bread. A kitchen? Before she could think, her hand was on a doorknob.

“Thiss will take you through the gardensss. Walk sssouth for one hundred paces, then turn to your right. You’ll be in the garden of the house next door. Please, just get a ride from someone, and don’t look back.” The door started to close, and Jane whipped off the blindfold and looked over her shoulder. All she saw as the door closed 364

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quietly behind her was a face that looked like an old candle, melted from continual use. She was glad she hadn’t gotten a full look.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Forty-Seven

Nashville, Tennessee

Tuesday, December 23

7:30 p.m.

The apprentice stormed through the hallways of the manse, looking in every room in the upstairs corridor. The girl was gone.

He entered Snow White’s library in a fury, not noticing that they weren’t alone. Joshua sat in the corner by the fire

place, the flute in his lap, sightlessly serene.

“Where is she? Where is the girl?” he screamed. Snow White sat in his chair, a fire lit, warming his crippled legs. He rubbed the cream into his hands, massaging the pain away as best he could. He hated the scent of the balm; it crept into his wasted flesh, wouldn’t ever wash away. But the pain subsided fractionally when he used enough of it.

“She’s in her room.”

“No, she isn’t. She’s gone.”

Snow White struggled to his feet. “She was there when you left with Charlotte.”

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“Well, she’s gone now, old man. Kind of fitting, really. So’s your bitch of a daughter. I had no choice, really I didn’t. But it was so much fun. She died screaming, like a child.”

“Noooo!” Joshua’s strangled cry sounded from the far side of the room. “You didn’t kill her. Tell me you didn’t kill her. I let Jane go. Ssshe was sssweet and kind and didn’t deserve thisss. You didn’t hurt Charlotte. Tell me you didn’t hurt Charlotte.”

Troy turned and snarled. “She died slowly, little brother. Know that.”

Joshua sobbed and ran from the room. Snow White looked at Troy with pain in his eyes. “What have you done?”

The apprentice shrugged. “She was in the way. She was going to turn us in. I had to silence her.”

“Did you? Did you really? Or were you just taking matters into your own hands again? So help me God…”

Snow White lurched at the man he’d trained, but the younger man was too nimble. He danced away easily.

“What did you expect, old man? That I’d let her live?

That I’d let any of you continue on? You were wrong. You were so very wrong.”

Grabbing a poker from the fire, he advanced on Snow White. Before he could take four steps, his body jerked. His mouth opened, but the roar of the gun drowned out his scream.

Joshua reentered the room, a pistol wavering in his hand. He squeezed the trigger again, but Troy saw it coming and ducked, rolling away from the fireplace, away from Snow White. He made it to the door before Joshua’s empty eyes found him again, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.

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Joshua went to the door and bolted it, locking him and his father in the library. He went to Snow White, who had crumpled, stricken, in his chair. He was keening, a low mourning for his daughter. His son joined him, held him while he cried, and they wept for Charlotte’s soul. Taylor went back to the CJC and found the offices nearly empty. Most people had taken the entire week off for their Christmas vacation. She had a moment’s dis

placement, knowing all that had transpired that prevented her from leaving on her own Christmas vacation, but pushed it away. There would be time for that later. She’d called Captain Price on her way into the office and told him about the recovered file folder. She hadn’t gone through it in detail, but at first glance it contained all the information they’d been speculating about regard

ing Burt Mars and Edward Delglisi. Her next call was to Baldwin, a request to meet her and go through the infor

mation. With any luck, the key to sinking Delglisi’s ship would be in these papers. Whatever Richardson had dis

covered had gotten him killed. She was ready to see what that might be, regardless of her own involvement. Baldwin had extracted a promise from her to wait until he got there to go through the file. The suspense was killing her. She was toying with the edge of the folder when Baldwin came into her office with two cups. The steaming latte was a welcome treat; she didn’t realize how chilled she was until she wrapped her hands around the warm cardboard. She thanked him and sipped gingerly.

“So, can we look now?”

“I want to talk to you about a couple of things first.”

“What?”

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“I had a conversation with a friend of Lincoln’s, an…official with the South American and Mexican gov

ernments.”

“The spy. Lincoln told me he helped with the chauf

feur.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that he’s a spy. I think he’s more of a facilitator.”

“Okay. I won’t even ask how he came to be friends with our Lincoln, then.”

“There’s nothing sordid. Lincoln doesn’t know the extent of this man’s reach. Anyway, he’s had Delglisi on his radar for a while.”

“The South American connection.”

“Right. Well, they want him. And they’re willing to do just about anything to get him. There’s just one little problem.”

“Win.”

Baldwin looked at her. “You peeked into the file, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t. I can only imagine that’s what it must be, because you’re treating me like a five-year-old. My father is a criminal, Baldwin. I can take it. So spill.”

“Okay. Mars was the bank, but your dad is Delglisi’s bagman. He’s the one moving the money. The authorities were closing in on him two months ago. He went overboard from THE SHIVER, but left a cool four million on board when he bailed. So not only are the South Americans and the Mexicans looking for him, he cost Delglisi a lot of money.”

“That’s why Delglisi thinks he can trade on Win’s life. Win’s a dead man regardless. There’s no way we can keep this quiet.”

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“Taylor, there is a way.”

She set her latte on the desk and looked Baldwin straight in the eye. “Are you kidding me?”

“No. I’ve been talking to Garrett this afternoon. He can arrange for the Marshall Service to take him into pro

tective custody. Your dad will have to testify against Delglisi, but they can keep him safe.”

Taylor leaned back in her chair, staring up at the wa

termarked ceiling tile that she’d inherited with the office. Official requests to replace the moldy brown splotch had been effectively ignored. She focused on the mark while her mind whirled. Was she willing to allow her father that kind of judicial forgiveness? She had never been able to muster her own absolution for him. Now the law would do something her heart would never allow, and her mind would fight. She didn’t think she could stand by and watch him glide yet again. But at the same time, the greater good would be served. Shit. Typical Win, ruining her thought process by simply existing.

“You’re right. But here’s a question for you. If Win is as big a part of this as we think, what now? He gets to go scot-free?”

“No, that’s not really how the witness protection system works. At this level, they’ll give him immunity to testify against Delglisi and his cronies. They’ll relocate him, probably out of the country, give him a new face, a new name, anything he needs to effectively disappear. It’s a lot more dangerous than romantic, I’ll give you that.”