No Mercy (8 page)
staying?”
She hesitated. “The Copper Queen.”
“Promise me you won’t leave until we talk.” His gaze held her and she couldn’t look away. “If
you do leave, this time I wil come after you, and I won’t stop until you talk with me. I promise you
that
will
happen.”
Her lips parted as a protest rose up inside her, but then she nodded. “You have my number.”
She let out her breath. “I stil need to give you the postcard Nate sent to me that I left in my luggage
at the hotel.” She felt a different heat shoot through her and her skin burned at the thought that Nate
could have been murdered. “Call me when you can.”
Before he could get out to go around the truck and open her door, a gentlemanly thing he’d
always done, she hurried to open the door herself. She jumped out of the truck, shut the door behind
her, and jogged through the gently falling rain to the front door of the Den. She glanced over her
shoulder to see him watching her, and then she slipped into the restaurant and let the door close
behind her.
After Belle disappeared back into the Den, Dylan stared at the highway. He’d seen the white
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car’s information and he’d go from there. This time he noticed some damage to the front fender on
the driver’s side.
He checked his phone. He kept it on vibrate and had ignored the vibrations when he’d been at
their private memorial for Nate and while he and the other remaining members of the CoS were
together in the Den. Interruptions could wait as far as he was concerned.
When he looked at his phone, he saw on the screen that he’d missed two calls and a text
message from Trace. In the message, Trace told Dylan to get his ass down to Nate’s home.
Dylan threw his truck into gear, and gravel spun beneath his tires in the parking lot. He drove on
Highway 92, through San Jose, and on past Tin Town and Galena before going around the traffic
circle to Saginaw.
During the drive from the Den, he couldn’t get Belle off his mind. So many emotions went through
him that it was like a fist grabbed his heart and squeezed. Seeing her again had brought back
memory after memory—his love for her, how he’d been shattered to his core when she’d
disappeared, the relief he’d felt to know she was alive, and the pain that had engulfed him when
she’d left him.
Learning that her stepfather had sexually abused her had the potential to put Dylan in a killing
rage. It was all he could do to stop himself from going to Harvey Driscoll’s place this very moment
and putting the sonofabitch out of everyone’s misery. Dylan knew exactly how to make it look like
self-defense or even a random murder. Over the years he’d learned any number of ways to kil
someone and get away with it. He never had, but this was one time he wasn’t above doing it.
He dragged his hand down his face, trying to regain his self-control. As much as he wanted to
face Harvey, he needed to be in on the investigation into Nate’s death.
When he reached Nate’s house, he parked and exited his vehicle. He headed through the gate
and up the sidewalk, but paused as he watched DHS agents walking out of the house, carrying
Nate’s computer and related electronics.
As much as he hoped there was no evidence that Nate was involved in any illegal activities,
Dylan did want something that could tell him why his friend ended up dead. He was certain it hadn’t
been suicide and he was going to exhaust every possible resource in proving that belief.
What had Nate gotten himself in the middle of?
“Dylan.” Trace Davidson’s voice drew Dylan’s attention to the tall man standing on Nate’s front
porch. “Don’t you answer your damned phone?”
Dylan strode toward Trace. “What have you got?”
Trace adjusted his western hat while he waited until Dylan had climbed the steps. “Your
suspicion that this was a cleanup job appears to be right on the mark.”
“What did you find?” Dylan walked through the front door. This time he didn’t take off his Stetson.
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Trace stepped into the house behind Dylan. “Whoever did the cleanup must have been in a real
hurry and did a piss-poor job of getting everything.” Trace gestured to the couch in front of the
location where Dylan had found the blood spatter. “Forensics sprayed luminol on the couch, and
sure enough they found a spray of blood. Whoever did the cleanup should have taken the couch
with them.”
Dylan walked up to the piece of furniture. “It’s possible they didn’t have transportation big enough
or the time to do it.”
“There’s a good chance they planned to come back for it.” Trace nodded toward the wall behind
the couch. “If there was blood on the wall, they did a pretty good job of cleaning it up with oxygenated
bleach before painting it.”
“And they replaced the carpet that could have been soaked with blood.” Dylan looked down at
the cheap carpeting. “Yeah, I’d bet you’re right that they were coming back. This carpet needs to be
pulled up in case any blood made it through to the padding.”
Trace glanced at the forensics team. “That’s next, after they finish up with what they’re doing
now.”
Dylan studied the scene. “They probably didn’t expect Nate’s body to be found so soon.” He
said it more to himself than to Trace.
Trace cocked his head. “You seem pretty damned certain that Nate’s death wasn’t a suicide.”
Dylan folded his arms across his chest. “I am.”
Trace raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to share why you’ve come to that conclusion?”
Dylan hesitated and shifted his stance. “From elementary to high school, Nate and I hung out
with five other kids.” Dylan thought about the old friends he’d just left and the one big hole now in
the group. “We called ourselves the Circle of Seven. We’ve drifted apart over the years, but Nate
and I stayed tight.”
Trace motioned for Dylan to continue.
“Nate wrote each of us postcards before he died.” Dylan shook his head. “He apparently mailed
them at different times. For some reason mine was never mailed.”
Trace frowned, but before he could question him, Dylan continued. “I found my card in his home
office the day he died. It was hidden in a book but addressed to me. The card is in my office now.”
“Al right.” Trace hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his Wranglers. “So you took evidence from
the scene. What’s on the postcards?”
“It wasn’t evidence at the time.” Dylan knew he was talking semantics. “I’ve only read two of
them—mine and one of the others—and they were both odd.” Dylan looked around the room that
looked like it had been worked over well by a forensics team. “According to everyone who received
a card, the one they got from Nate had something odd about it.”
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“I don’t know.” Dylan pushed up the brim of his hat as his mind turned over the problem. “I need
to see all of the cards. After I finish up a few things here and at the office, I’m going to gather up the
other four and examine them along with the two I have.”
“If you need any help, let me know.” Trace said in his slow drawl as he eyed Dylan. “And if you
feel like you’re too close to the case, I can take over the investigation.”
“I need to handle this one.” A fire burned behind Dylan’s words. “I am going to find out what
happened and why. And who the hell is responsible for Nate’s death.” One thought seared his mind
that he kept to himself.
And then I’m going to make them pay.
***
***
Salvatore Reyes sat at the desk in his home office, going over paperwork and writing in a ledger
that he hadn’t had a chance to get to until now. He had to finish erasing money trails to accounts
he’d set up for the Jimenez Cartel in various tax havens. He would reintegrate the money into the
market by buying and selling valuable classic cars and real estate to create legal profits. He was
good at it and was paid well.
His cousin, Rodrigo Jimenez, ran the cartel now that Diego was gone. Rodrigo was known as
El Verdugo, the Executioner. He was good to his cousins, like Salvatore, but was not someone to
fuck with even if you were related to him.
Salvatore spent some time taking care of business until his stomach growled. He glanced at his
watch. Yes, it was nearly dinnertime. Christie was good at having dinner on the table in a timely
manner, although since the death of her “friend” she hadn’t been on schedule as she normally would
have been.
The thought sent a twinge of irritation through him, like an annoying itch. He felt it every time the
“Circle” was mentioned.
He opened the very expensive and rare cherry wood humidor that sat on his desk. He liked to
collect rare and beautiful things. He pushed aside the Cuban cigars and removed a special key that
was beneath the pile.
When he had the key, he had to kneel, reach beneath his desk, and run the key along the side
of a floorboard that was too small to put a finger in. He found a small switch with the key that he used
to press the button, and the hinged door clicked and rose. He took the key and unlocked a square
door. The door swung up to reveal a floor safe that Christie was unaware of. No one knew about it
with the exception of the contractor, one of his many cousins, who had installed it, among other
things, for Salvatore. Not even another cousin, the one who helped manage his offshore accounts,
had any knowledge of the safe.
Salvatore’s wife was a part of his collection of beauty. Their wedding day had been one of the
most satisfying times in his life because it was then that he had collected her. He punched in the
numbers for their wedding date on the safe’s entry pad. The lock clicked. He opened the safe that
was filled with over a million in cash along with several passports with fake identities for both himself
and his wife.
Of course Christie knew nothing of the money or the IDs, much less the millions he kept in the
offshore accounts. He was primed for any circumstances that might arise. He believed in being fully
prepared in all ways.
Salvatore leaned over the safe and put away his paperwork, including the handwritten ledger
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were his, but every one of them held damning information. He should destroy the ones he’d recently
acquired and soon, he just had to do it himself and he hadn’t had the time. Al was secure here with
no chance of anyone finding what he kept safe, so he wasn’t too concerned about them.
After everything was where it belonged, he secured the safe, the door, and the hinged
floorboards. He got to his feet and paused a moment, thinking of things that still needed to be done
as he pushed his chair back in its place at the desk.
He left his office, closed and locked the metal door behind him and then strode through his home
in the Terraces that was fil ed with the finer things in life. If he didn’t need to be in Bisbee for his line
of work, he would take his wife someplace far more suitable for a man of his means. Eventually he
would buy an estate in Mexico, but now he was needed here for business.
Smells of the dinner his wife was cooking warmed him. Some kind of meat and tortillas, he
guessed. Long ago he had taught her how to prepare his favorites as his mom had done when he
was growing up.
He smiled as he stepped into the doorway of his kitchen and slipped his hands in the pockets of
his black slacks. He studied his petite and beautiful wife, who was busy at the stove cooking dinner.
He loved seeing Christie so domesticated. He would keep her barefoot and pregnant with a dozen
kids if she could have children. Instead, he settled for keeping her busy at his office or with women’s
work around the home. He rarely let her out of his sight for long.
She didn’t notice him as he took in the long ringlets of her red hair that fell down her back but
swung forward as she leaned over a pot to stir it. With an annoyed swipe of her hand, she pushed