Dangerous (22 page)

Why hadn't she gotten back to him?

Was she angry with him or just trying to put some distance between them after he'd admitted how he felt about her the night before? He was getting anxious, worrying that something was wrong.

He tried texting her again just as Jackson showed up, a stack of papers in hand.

“Did you tell Martell yet?” the detective asked.

Drago shook his head and tried to push away the growing feeling of dread. “I don't know what's going on with her, but she hasn't returned my calls or texts.”

“That's odd. Maybe she turned off her cell and forgot to turn it back on.”

“Right.” Not that Drago believed it. “Now the hunt for a killer as well as his latest victim begins again.”

“Then you'll need this.” Jackson handed him a sheet from his stack.

Drago glanced at the photo of a rough-looking middle-aged man with dark hair and eyes. He gave Jackson a questioning look.

“We ran the name Jessie Calderon through the system. He has quite a record. No warrants out for him, though, and we don't have a current address.”

Jessie Calderon. Teresa's abusive male friend. The one the waitress, Perla, had told them about.

“If we could find Calderon, he might be able to help us find Angel.”

“Exactly,” Jackson agreed. “I have a team out on the street already.”

Drago indicated the photo. “I have a team of my own. Can you give me more of these?”

Jackson hesitated only a second before saying, “Take the stack. You get anything, you call me.”

“Deal.”

Drago was out of there at a run. The moment he got to his car, he called Titus and a member of his local group to spread the word to get everyone they could round up to meet at Hog Heaven Saloon in a half hour. Then he used his cell to take a photograph of Calderon and send it along with a message to Camille, Justus, and Eva. After which he tried calling Camille one last time. Yet again, he reached only her voice mail.

“Camille, I wanted to tell you this myself, but since you're not returning your calls, you should know that Noreen claims Huerta is not Angel. But we have another lead—a photo of Jessie Calderon. I just sent it to you. I'm meeting with some of my people at Hog Heaven in a little while and was hoping you could be there. We're going to find this guy, Camille. He's our best chance at getting Angel. And rescuing Sandy.”

He clicked off, his unease at her not answering growing. This just wasn't like her. Surely she'd seen the text and photo he sent…unless she wasn't able to get to her phone. If not, why not?

Where the hell had she disappeared to when she'd left the office?

He didn't need another worry plaguing him, but he couldn't calm the increasing feeling of doom.

His cell buzzed and he took a relieved breath until he realized Eva was calling him, not Camille. Still driving, he put her on speaker phone.

“Eva, what's up? You recognize the photo?”

“No, but I'm here at the office now, and Lois said you were asking about Camille.”

“You know where she went?”

“To meet my friend Isabel. I told her to leave you out of it, or Isabel would never tell her anything.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Before noon,” Eva said.

“But that was hours ago. Have you heard from her? I haven't been able to scare her up.”

“Oh, crap!”

“What do you know?” Drago said.

“That Isabel was going to give her Angel's address so she could rescue Sandy. I figured it was all good since the bastard was already in jail.”

Only of course he wasn't. “Can you find your friend, ask her where she sent Camille?”

“I will try to find her,” Eva said, “but you know how long it took me the first time. No guarantees. I'm so sorry.”

Not as sorry as he was.

He tried not to get entangled in dark thoughts as he pulled into the Hog Heaven Saloon lot and rushed inside.

More than a dozen people were waiting for him and more filled the space as Drago quickly explained the situation. That they thought they had Angel, but they had the wrong man. That a fourteen-year-old girl's life was in jeopardy if they didn't find her very soon. And that the man in the photo was the only lead they had—he most likely could tell them where to find Angel's lair.

That stack of photos disappeared quickly, and he remained behind with Titus in case anyone else showed to help.

“It'll be okay, man,” Titus said. “Plenty of people looking for this guy. Someone will find him.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Hey, they owe you. They'll make it happen.”

But as he waited, a feeling of dread darker than any he'd known in his life filled him. Now his not being able to get Camille to answer him made twisted sense, and it scared the bejesus out of him.

If Angel had her…

No, he couldn't let his mind go there, couldn't let himself go down that road. Camille was tough and resourceful. She was alive.

She had to be.

A throbbing in her head made Camille wince as she opened her eyes to a darkened room. She was tied up, sitting in a wooden chair. The sun had set, but gray light still filtered in through the windows. Memory flooded her as she got a good look at the wall with all those photos of Angel's victims.

Wait! Angel! Huerta obviously wasn't the killer. At least not the one who'd killed
these
women.

Drago undoubtedly still was under that assumption, though. And he was probably still upset with her, which meant he might not know she was missing. If he had no reason to be looking for her, it was up to her to get herself free and get Sandy out of there.

Struggling against the bonds that held her in the chair was futile. She was well and truly a prisoner. Undoubtedly Angel's next victim. She would have to come up with some kind of plan to trick him. But what?

A soft moan to her right told her she wasn't alone. She craned around to see. Bound in another chair, Sandy was trying to open her eyes.

“Sandy, I'm here. It's Camille.”

Another moan and the girl forced her eyes open.

“Are you all right? Did he…hurt you?”

“Not too much.”

What did that mean? That Angel had only roughed her up a little? Or had he done something only a little perverted to the girl? He had painted her face, changed her hair, and made her wear cheap clothes that made her look like his mother, after all.

“Did he touch you?” Camille asked.

“Touch me? No! Not like that. He ruined my hair! And look at the junk on my face. He does mean stuff to scare me.”

Which wouldn't be hard when dealing with a kid.

“Those pictures of those other women,” Sandy said, staring at the wall. “He made me look like them. Why?”

Because he was a perverted fuck.
“I don't know.” She really didn't know why he'd hated his mother enough to kill her, then kill her again through these other women—not that she was going to tell Sandy all that.

Even so, the girl started crying, choking back soft sobs.

Camille struggled with her bonds again. “If I could just find a way to get an arm free…”

“I-it's no use,” Sandy sobbed. “You can't get away from Angel. He's crazy. And he'll be back.”

Camille knew that. Angel could simply be in the next room, plotting what he was going to do to them both now that he had his original intended victim. Fearing what he would do to them, she kept fighting against the bonds that held her.

She had no doubts that Angel would never willingly let them leave. Not alive.

If she could only free one stinking hand…

It took a couple of hours of worry not only about Sandy but now about Camille, as well, before Harlan Ford, one of Drago's old cell mates, tracked down Jessie Calderon and called it in.

“He doesn't wanna cooperate,” Harlan said. “But I got him pinned to a chair. He moves and I'll take a piece of him.”

Drago knew Harlan wielded a knife with precision. He used to be a carnie with one of the smaller shows that traveled through the Midwest and South. For more than a decade, he'd starred in a knife-throwing act for a living. Unfortunately, the man had a temper and had ended up in jail for using that particular ability on another carnie with whom he'd had a violent disagreement.

“If you take a piece,” Drago said, “just make sure it doesn't kill Calderon or prevent him from talking.”

Harlan laughed, then asked, “Here or there?”

“I'll come to you. Give me the address.” Writing it down on a bar napkin, Drago said, “I'll be there in five.”

Thanking Titus for his help and asking him to spread the word they got their man, Drago stuffed the napkin into a pocket and left the bar at a run. He had a holy-hell feeling that the case was about to come to a head. Thankfully, and not just for Sandy.

He itched with the knowledge that something had gone wrong for Camille. And he couldn't think of anything worse than Angel having her in his grasp. Drago's gut had churned waiting for Eva to get back to him, but she never had. Either she hadn't been able to find her old gal-pal or Isabel simply wasn't talking. And what if Isabel had purposely sent Camille into a trap? He wouldn't put it past a
chola
to do something like that to please her boyfriend.

Thinking about what Angel could be doing to the woman he loved sickened Drago. He kept seeing her face, all the nuances of expression when she looked at him. She might have her problems when it came to thinking about a relationship, but he couldn't believe she didn't feel the same way he did deep in her gut. They were meant for each other. He was determined to find a way to convince her.

Assuming she was still alive. What if she wasn't? What if Angel had already gotten to her? For the first time in his life, he was so angry that he felt as if his head would explode.

Angry enough to kill.

Angel came back into the bedroom just as the bitch managed to free one hand from her bonds. What was she—double-jointed? He snorted. That might have some entertainment value if she could work her body like that. Before she could free the other hand, he rushed her and grabbed her by the jaw, pushing her head back so far he could have easily snapped her neck.

“You want the kid to live?”

She froze.

“That's better. Cooperate or you'll be signing her death sentence.” When the little maggot started wailing again, he turned his gaze on her. “Shut your trap. Now!”

She gurgled, somehow swallowing the irritating sound.

“Let Sandy go,” Camille said.

“Now, why would I do that?”

“She's not the one you want. I am.”

“You're right.” He grinned at her. “But you're a cop. You're more trouble than you're worth.”

“Then let me go, too.”

Detective Camille Martell was one piece of work. It would be his pleasure to bring her down a few notches to his level. And he would use the kid to do it.

He laughed. “Fat chance. You're gonna do what I want. Everything I want. You get me?”

He'd never had a cop before. Never killed one, either. Just thinking about it gave him a hard-on. But he was going to draw out the pleasure longer than he ever had before. Before he was through with her, she would beg him to end her.

“I get you, all right,
Angel
. Don't count on it.”

“Now see, that's where the little maggot comes in.” He moved to the kid and gripped her by the neck so hard she made choking sounds. “You don't do exactly as I say, and she'll be the one to pay the price.”

Horror flicked over the detective's features for a second, but she hid it fast, he'd give her that. She covered by giving him a neutral, somewhat bored expression, her clenched jaw the only indication of what she really was feeling inside.

Terror!

How delicious.

“We'll start with the hair.” He hated the way she'd pulled it flat from her face and clipped it back. He'd seen it as wild as she had been when he'd watched from her deck window the other night. He wanted to feel that hair on his bare flesh when she was going down on him. And no matter that she thought otherwise, she would do exactly that. “You're wearing your hair like a nun.” He pulled the clip free. She tried ducking from him, but he ran his fingers through the strands so it stood out around her face. “Better.”

“What is it with you and red hair?” she asked.

“I've always been partial to redheads, natural ones, so
all
their hair is red.” The flicker in her eyes told him she got it. He leaned in close enough so she could feel his breath on her face. “Is all your hair red,
chica
?”

Rather than answering him, she said, “It's because your mother's hair was red, isn't it? What did she ever do to make you hate her so much?”

“She was a
puta
.”

He turned his head and spat. He'd known that from the time he was a kid and had walked in on her with a man. One of his many new “fathers.” She hadn't been the least embarrassed. She'd smiled and had performed for him. And he'd watched with fascination, not only that time, but many times over the years. Watching her had taught him everything he knew about taking a woman. But that hadn't been all he'd learned.

He added, “A
puta
who refused to protect her own son.”

“Protect you from who?” She waited a beat, then added, “Jessie Calderon?”

Just hearing the bastard's name jarred him and before he could stop himself, he smacked her across the face, leaving a red print on her cheek. “Now see what you made me do?”

Though the fire in her eyes made the slight disfigurement worth it. Besides, he could cover any bruising with makeup. It felt good to assert his power, make her know who was in charge here. Just the way he'd made his mother know it after what she'd let Calderon do to him.

“Seems to me, your mama made you do it,” she said. “Your mama made you do lots of things, but you got even with her, didn't you?”

Now it was Angel who clenched his jaw. The bitch must have read his mind. He whipped around to the closet and brought out the box he kept for his women. He set it down on the dresser and pulled out the vial of purple eye shadow and a brush.

“I suggest you lower your lids and don't move or I might poke your eye out.”

She stared at him. “How did you learn to put makeup on women? Did Mama let you do it for her?”

“That
puta
let me do a lot of things for her. She thought it would make up for—” He stopped abruptly before he let her in on the truth.

“For letting Jessie Calderon hurt you?”

“Fuck Calderon!”

“Isn't he the one who fucked
you
? Did you like it?” she asked. “Is that why you're so angry?”

He raised his fist to strike her again, then froze and turned his attention to the girl, who was sobbing quietly. “You make me angry, and I take it out on her!” His jaw clenched when the little bitch squealed in response. “You don't want that to happen, close your fucking mouth and eyes.”

She did as he demanded, and he applied thick blobs of purple over both lids, spreading it the way he'd watched his mother do thousands of times as she'd admired herself in her mirror. But this one's mouth didn't stay closed for long.

“So what's your relationship to Tomas Huerta?” she asked.

Angel laughed. “That pussy? He got a big reputation and little
cojones
.”

“So Huerta's attacking us last night when we were looking for you was just coincidence.”

Angel laughed. “Huerta did what I told him to do. He owed me big time. A couple months back, I warned him about a drug setup that would have gotten him arrested and convicted. Besides, he knew well enough not to cross me and refuse. The fact that he'd have the chance to kill Drago Nance was just an added incentive.”

Little fuck Huerta had been scared of Angel's violent nature. After he'd killed his
puta
of a mother, Angel had been able to smell the fear reeking from the pussy. And once he'd started taking women to re-create his mother and take pleasure from bending them to his will, Huerta had convinced his lieutenants that the law would be down on their heads unless they get rid of him.

Though once a gang member, always a gang member, he'd been forcefully pushed out of the inner circle. He still ran his own drug deals, but other than that, he stayed out of gang politics and day-to-day decisions. Instead, he concentrated on the women whose bodies gave him almost as much satisfaction as had his mother's.

And, of course, their deaths gave him the most pleasure of all.

Harlan had tracked Jessie Calderon to a local bar and had forced him into a rear corner where Drago found them. Calderon had six inches and fifty pounds on Harlan, who appeared as scrawny as he was tough. Harlan whipping his blade around with such precision trumped everything. The bartender had gone deaf and blind for the moment and kept turned away from them so he wouldn't see anything he shouldn't. He knew better than to let anyone else wander back there.

“We're looking for a man we needed to find yesterday.” Drago loomed over Calderon threateningly. “Where do we find Angel?”

A pissed-off Calderon said, “I don't know what you're talking about. Angel—what kinda name is that for a man?”

“You knew him as Teresa's son.”

The man's outraged expression shifted into distrust. “You don't mean Teresa Ybarra?”

Drago described her. “Red hair, makeup tattooed on her face.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, that's her. But she didn't have no kid named Angel. Her son's name is Oscar.”

Oscar Ybarra.
Drago knew exactly who he was. He'd been Huerta's enforcer—one of the most violent gangbangers around—until there'd been some kind of split more than a year ago. About the time Teresa Ybarra disappeared, he realized.

“Angel is the name he uses online to lure unsuspecting women,” Drago said. “It looks like Oscar killed Teresa, and now he's killing other women who look like her.”

“Crazy fuck!”

Sensing a sudden flood of fear enveloping the other man, Drago had a feeling he had a lot to account for. They'd already figured Calderon had done something to the son to make him hate his mother.

“Where can we find him?”

“How would I know? Last time I saw Teresa…it coulda been two years ago.”

“Where was that?” Instinct told Drago the killer stayed close to home, what with him dressing his victims in cheap garments that undoubtedly had belonged to Teresa.

“And don't say you don't remember,” Harlan added, flashing his knife close to the man's face.

Calderon gave it up, both address and description of the building, adding, “Make sure you get that bastard after what he did to Teresa.”

“Yeah, after what
he
did.” Drago hadn't forgotten that Calderon had used his fists on the woman. And probably on the son, which could have added to the killer's violent nature. He nodded to Harlan and indicated they should leave. Once outside, he said, “Thanks for the help. I have a feeling I'm about to bring an end to some murders.”

“Not alone, you're not. You need backup.”

Drago didn't argue the point, merely set off with Harlan following. Five minutes later, they were parked outside the 2-flat Calderon had described. Pulling his gun from the glove compartment, Drago got out of the car and holstered the weapon at his back.

Harlan joined him. “You sure this is the place? No address I can see.”

The front door was barred and bolted and boards covered up the windows. “The perfect hidey-hole for a rat.” Drago gave the neighborhood a thorough once-over. It didn't take him long to spot Camille's car on the other side of the street. His gut clenched. He prayed she was still alive. She had to be. He had to believe that until he saw otherwise. “I don't like the feeling here,” he told Harlan. “Maybe you wait outside and look for any kind of trouble.”

“Got it. I'll text you if I see anything to worry about. Go get that son of a bitch and rescue your woman and the kid!”

His woman.
Was she? He hoped so.

He was ready to do whatever it took to convince Camille they belonged together. But first he had to save her from a killer.

As Drago searched for easy entry into the building, he couldn't help but wonder what Angel had already done to her.

“I'll take the kid apart a little at a time if you don't cooperate.”

“Cooperate with what?”

Camille was stalling, trying to figure a way to get the drop on the bastard, despite his waving her own gun at her now that he'd untied her. Sandy was untied, too—as if Angel had plans for them both—but the girl was still drugged and sagged on the edge of the bed. With his free hand, Angel reached into the closet and pulled out a short, tight skirt and top that would show both Camille's cleavage and her stomach and threw them on the bed behind her.

“Put those on.”

Camille hardly recognized herself when she checked the dresser mirror. She looked amazingly like his mother and his victims. And once she had the clothes on, she was certain he would rape her with Sandy watching.

No, he would
try
to rape her, Camille thought. That didn't mean he would succeed. She wasn't Noreen or Susan or Leanne. Or Teresa. She wasn't weak. Angel was underestim
ating her.