Reckoning for the Dead (13 page)

“Does Byron have the night off?” she asked. The minute she'd instigated the conversation, Jessie knew it had been a mistake. It only gave the guy behind the counter a reason to chat her up.

“Yeah, he had something to do. I fill in sometimes.” The older man grinned back at her. “So . . . you new in town?”

Jessie fought the urge to roll her eyes. The clerk rang up the sale, between his attempts at making one-way small talk, and forced Jessie to smile as she headed out the door. When she got to her room, she set the brown bag with her snacks on the sidewalk near her door—and as a precaution—she reached for her Colt Python. After she unlocked her door, she flipped on the lights and aimed her gun from corner to corner.

Her room was empty. And her things were as she'd left them, except where the maid had touched. Jessie smelled the scent of pine cleaner, saw that the bed had been made, and noticed the maid had left her fresh towels. After she saw the room was clear, she went back for her bag of goodies and locked the door behind her, tossing her new stash of Fritos, Twinkies, and Red Bull onto the extra double bed.

She pulled out the newspaper articles from the waistband of her jeans and tried to straighten them, without much luck. Since the pages had gotten squashed and manhandled in her chase with the local yokel, she slipped them under her mattress to flatten them out while she got cleaned up.

Jessie took a quick shower and changed into the gym shorts and tank top she normally slept in if she wasn't spending the night with Seth. After she got in bed, she propped herself up on her pillows and spread out the articles she wanted to read as she ate a Twinkie.

Most of the articles about the killing were textbook journalism, but some were more dramatic, like an intriguing mystery. And some reporter even speculated on rumors. Anything was news in a small town.

Folks had wondered why Angela DeSalvo had kept to herself, not socializing much with the rest of the town. Someone had her pegged as a woman on the run from an abusive husband. And another local woman swore she saw her with kids and speculated that she was running an illegal adoption scam.

“Well, I'll be damned,” she whispered.

Reading that, Jessie felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. If Angela DeSalvo had been on the wrong side of the law, that could explain how she had ended up in the hands of a serial pedophile. The thought of Angela contributing to what had happened to her made Jessie sick.

“What were you up to? And did it get you killed?”

Jessie made up her mind to spend the next day talking to some of the locals mentioned in the articles, to see who was still living in La Pointe. And something about Sophia Tanner still bothered her. The woman had appeared edgy, and she had wrung the washrag so tight in her hands, it had made Jessie nervous just watching her. And when she'd mentioned kids, the woman freaked. She had immediately looked to Chief Cook for protection, and the local LEO obliged her, right on cue.

Jessie had no doubt that Cook would arrest her if he found out she had talked to Sophia Tanner one-on-one after he had specifically told her to leave the woman alone. When Jessie thought of how adamant he'd been, she smiled to herself.

Guess what he didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

Jessie turned out the lights and lay in the dark, her mind still working over all that she'd seen today, but when her cell phone rang, she had to get up to answer it. She had it recharging in the motel bathroom.

“Hey, Sam. What's up?” She'd recognized the incoming cell number and knew who it was. Her friend didn't call at this hour unless it was important.

“Hey, Jess. Sorry to wake you.”

“Funny thing. I haven't been able to sleep lately. Imagine that.”

“Well, don't kill the messenger.” Detective Samantha Cooper forced a laugh, but since Jessie knew her well, she was familiar with Sam's strained attempt at humor. “Are you sitting down?”

Jessie looked behind her. The only place to sit in the tight bathroom was the toilet seat, and she had no intention of receiving bad news sitting on the commode. When she got to the bed, she took a corner and sat.

“Yeah, I'm sitting. Shoot.”

“Remember that DNA report that I requested, the one Chief Cook claimed he got a hit with your DNA that tied you to his cold case?”

Jessie didn't like the sounds of this already.

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Chief Cook told me he got one hit on your DNA. Is that what he told you?”

“Yeah, he did. What's this about, Sammie? 'Cause you're shaking me up here.”

Jessie's throat went suddenly dry. Her breathing had escalated, along with her heart rate. She had no idea where Sam was headed with her questions, but Jessie didn't like it.

“Sorry, Jess. I don't know why the chief wouldn't tell you everything. Guess you can ask him when you see him.”

“Sam, spit it out. Please.”

“I had my lab boys analyze that report, so I'd be sure of the findings. That's why I couldn't call you sooner, but Jessie, that report had two DNA samples on it. Your DNA wasn't the only one found at that crime scene.”

“What?”

“The Wisconsin state crime lab found a second unidentified sample of DNA. And that sample showed a 95 percent probability match to yours.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that second sample doesn't have a match in the databases, so they can't ID who was there, but the DNA came from someone in your immediate family, Jessie. Your
real
family.” Sam let that thought settle before she landed a second shocker. “And according to the crime lab and my CSI guys, that DNA has genetic markers that indicate it came from a male.”

“You mean . . . my father?”

“I don't know, Jess. It could be your father or a brother.” Sam heaved a sigh. “I don't know if this is good or bad news, but maybe you can ask Chief Cook why he left out that second DNA sample. He didn't tell me about it. And apparently he never said anything to you either. I'd sure want to know why.”

Terrible thoughts crossed Jessie's mind. And it left her reeling. She couldn't sit anymore. She had to stand, but when she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror, she suddenly got nauseous.

With all the talk about kids being seen at Angela DeSalvo's place prior to her murder, Jessie had to wonder. She had to have been one of those kids since her DNA was found at the crime scene. And now it appeared her brother had been there, too. The joy of knowing she might have a brother mixed with a flood of dark thoughts.

Had her brother been taken the way she had been? Did Danny Ray Millstone torture her brother, too? Had he been in that house where she was held prisoner, and she hadn't even known it?

“No, that can't be.” She swallowed, hard.

“What?”

“Oh, Sammie. Give me a minute here. I gotta process all this before I say anything.” Her voice cracked as she paced the floor. “Just wait a minute.”

Although Sam could check into the Millstone case, looking for names of the survivors or the names of the kids the bastard had killed, that would take time. Sam would have to pull the case files and do legwork to find out what Seth Harper would know in short order. Harper had his father's old murder book. And he'd been making contact with the Millstone survivors. That was how and why they'd met. Harper would know what she needed.

“I've got to talk to Seth,” she muttered.

“What? Slow down, Jess,” Sam urged her. “Take a deep breath.”

“I know. And you're right, but I gotta think. What did Cook tell me? I gotta remember.” As she ran through everything the chief had said, she paced the floor and searched through her mind.

Chief Cook had told her that he'd looked into the Danny Ray Millstone case and knew about what happened to her as one of his victims. Maybe he knew more than he'd let on. Or maybe he only wanted to spare her feelings. Either way, she hated that he'd kept the truth from her. And what she was thinking was far worse than if he had just told her what he knew.

Besides the possibility of having a brother who might already be dead—or a survivor of abuse like she had been—there was a darker scenario that lurked in the back of her mind, one that made her even more sick.

“Hold on, I gotta . . .” Jessie dropped her cell on the mattress and ran to the bathroom. She emptied her stomach until all she had left were dry heaves. Her face was hot, and beads of sweat clung to the skin of her arms. With trembling hands, she cleaned up. And when she could, she got back on the phone with Sam.

“Are you okay, Jessie? I'm so sorry.”

It took her a moment to catch her breath and calm her racing heart.

“Can you do me . . . a favor?”

“Yeah, anything.”

“Do you know if they have a sample of Millstone's DNA on file? I mean, maybe after he was caught red-handed and killed, no one bothered to collect it.”

“That's hard to say. Back then, digital DNA records were hit-and-miss, and not every case got consistent treatment. Why are you asking about this, Jessie?”

“I need to know if Millstone was . . . my father.”

It took everything she had to say those words.

She had no other explanation for how she ended up with the serial pedophile. Being related to that scumbag would be the worst she could imagine, and that was saying something. She knew it was a leap, one she didn't want to take, but if this trip had been about uncovering her past, she had to go the distance. She had to keep an open mind about the possibilities, or she'd never find the truth.

“Oh, my God, Jessie. I never thought . . . If Millstone's DNA wasn't on digital file that could explain why Cook didn't get a hit on that second sample. And if we can confirm that second sample is Millstone's, then odds are that Chief Cook can solve his old murder case.” Sam rambled on for what felt like an eternity, trying to console her, but finally she said, “Yeah, I'll look to see what I can find. And I'll call you the minute I know something.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

Jessie ended the call, knowing she'd never get to sleep. She had too much to try to remember—and way too much she'd never forget.

She'd contact Seth in the morning, first thing, but confronting Chief Cook face-to-face weighed heavy on her mind. She had to know why he'd lied to her about the DNA analysis. Did he already know what Sam had promised to find out, about her possible connection to her childhood abuser?

According to Cook, his men had missed getting an interview with Sophia Tanner. The interview had been missing from the murder book, but what if that original document had been taken from the evidence on purpose, to cover up the truth?

And if Cook had been behind that cover-up, why would he have gone through the motions of interviewing the woman again? He could have blown Jessie off and made excuses. There was plenty for her to be suspicious about and not enough cold hard facts, but the chief of police in La Pointe would be the man to see.

Had he held back the truth to spare her feelings, or was he protecting someone? Either way, Jessie wanted to look Cook in the eye and dare him to lie to her again.

Chapter 11

Outside the Pérez Compound

After midnight

W
aiting had never been Alexa's thing. It gave her too much time to dwell on Kinkaid's predicament, but something else was eating at her. And she had to say something to Garrett. When she found him hunkered down next to Hank, she moved closer and spoke in a hushed tone.

“What happens when Pérez sees Kinkaid?” She didn't wait for Garrett to say anything. “If it's true that bastard killed Jackson's wife and kid, then he'd know Kinkaid on sight. Once he sets eyes on him, he'll know he's not you. The masquerade would be over. All Pérez has to do is pull the trigger, or order it done.”

Garrett didn't act surprised to hear what she'd said. He only heaved a sigh as he turned his back on Hank.

“I'm sure Kinkaid knew that going in,” he told her. “I tried to warn you. He's not planning on walking away from this.”

Until now, Alexa had thought of this as a rescue mission, but nothing could be farther from the truth. She turned away and didn't say anything more. She didn't want the moonlight to out her to Garrett as her eyes filled with tears. Whatever Kinkaid had planned, he was going out in a big way. And the odds were against him, even with Garrett's team being outside the stone walls of the Pérez estate.

Jackson Kinkaid was beyond saving.

1:10
A.M.

“What was so important that couldn't wait?” Manolo Quintanilla Pérez said in his native tongue.

Ramon Guerrero clenched his jaw as the drug-cartel boss stared at him and Miguel Rosas, his number two man. Pérez hadn't offered them a seat. He'd made them wait to see him while he relaxed. And now they stood in front of him as the big man sat behind a massive cherrywood desk in the study of his estate. He leaned back in his leather chair as he sipped a fine Cognac from a crystal snifter.

Rosas was about to open his mouth to speak first, but Guerrero couldn't let that happen. The American had been his to find, and he wasn't about to let Rosas take credit for his diligence or downplay his part, not after he'd made the call to Pérez that had brought him there.

“My men took a hostage in Juárez, a very influential American. His name is Garrett Wheeler and he claims that you know him.”

“Oh? That name is not familiar to me.” Pérez narrowed his eyes at Guerrero. “Tell me. How do I know him?”

When Pérez crooked his lip into a humorless sneer, Guerrero cleared his throat before he went on.

“He did not say, but I believe that if you see him for yourself, you can get him to admit what he's up to.”

“So now, you want me to do your work for you?” The cartel boss cut a sideways glance at Rosas, who only shrugged with boredom.

“No, sir. That's not what I'm saying, but someone of your reputation has no doubt made an impression on this man. You have said that you fear this American is probably CIA, and my sources back this up, too. This man has probably been sent to assassinate the heads of the drug cartels for the U.S. government.”

In an effort to make a big impression and beat out Rosas, Guerrero had blurted out a theory Rosas had told him about, something that had come from Pérez himself, but his boss's questions had rattled him. And now that his words hung in the air, without evidence to back him up, Guerrero had sounded like an idiot.

“Oh? How do you know all this?” Pérez asked, setting down his empty glass. “What proof do you have?”

Before Guerrero could answer, Rosas interrupted with a smirk.

“He doesn't have any. He is only trying to impress you. The American hasn't confirmed any of this.”

“He carried a U.S. driver's license with him. I've seen it and so have you. It confirms his name and an address of his home in New York,” Guerrero argued.

“Identification like that can be bought. It means nothing.” Rosas looked at his boss with a dismissive shrug. “And do you think if he is some big spy, that he would have his real information so easily obtained? Like I said, his ID means nothing.”

“Then you are also dismissing the messages I received from my contacts across the border? Wheeler was overheard, trying to buy information about the cartels . . . and you, in particular. He admitted who he was when he thought he was safe on the American side. And my sources in New York have confirmed that Wheeler is missing.”

“That's the point. Only your sources say this, but I believe in other ways to arrive at the truth.” Rosas narrowed his eyes. “When a man knows he is about to die, he will bargain any way he can to save his miserable life. That is the only source worth believing, forcing a man to tell you everything he knows when he faces death.”

“Ramon, you told me that it was urgent I should be here. Is this all you have? That I should see this American for myself?” Pérez shifted his glare toward Guerrero once again.

“I assure you, sir. I believe the man has vital information that you can help us get from him. I swear on my sainted mother's head, it's only a matter of time before we get him to talk.”

“So now you use the words ‘us' and ‘we.' ” Rosas chuckled under his breath and leaned against a wall with his arms crossed. “A minute ago, you were running this show, single-handedly. Which is it?”

Guerrero suddenly saw himself between two very dangerous men. He'd gone around Rosas's back to have a face-to-face meeting with his boss, an encounter that had not gone as well as he had expected. If he didn't play his cards right, he would end up the big loser.

“You have been extremely resourceful in dealing with the American,” Guerrero said to Rosas. “I'm sure he will tell us everything, in time. And my sources will be confirmed.”

“Very diplomatic, Ramon.” Pérez grinned and stood. “Cowardly, but diplomatic nonetheless.”

Before Guerrero had a chance to redeem himself, Pérez focused all his attention on Miguel Rosas, his trusted death dealer.

“What has the American admitted so far?”

“Nothing of consequence, but he has told both of us that he has come to kill a man,” Rosas admitted.

“Oh?” Pérez smiled. “Depending on who his target is, perhaps we should help him. Eliminating the competition, is that such a bad thing?”

“My thoughts exactly.” Rosas glanced over his shoulder at Guerrero, rubbing in his advantage with the boss and taking credit where none was due.

“Take me to him then”—Pérez smiled—“this man I know.”

Rosas escorted the cartel boss out of the study, toward the makeshift cells where the American was being held, with Guerrero following close behind. Without really trying, Rosas had made him look like a fool, but maybe he still had a way to redeem himself.

When Pérez came face-to-face with the American, perhaps the truth would come out, and his boss would see who he had personally delivered to his door.

1:35
A.M.

“I haven't told you the truth, but it doesn't matter now. It's too late.”

He looked at Estella and saw the questioning look on her battered face. And before she opened her mouth to ask what he meant, he kept talking. He'd run out of time.

“My name is Jackson Kinkaid. I'm not Garrett Wheeler. That was a name I thought would get Pérez here.”

“You mean . . . the man Ramon works for? He is coming here?”

Kinkaid didn't have to see the fear in the girl's eyes. He heard it in her voice.

“He's already here. He came in that helicopter. And he's probably on his way to this cell right now.”

“He's a bad man,
señor.
A very bad man. If he's here, it will not be good.”

“If I had known you'd be dragged into my fight, I wouldn't have done this. I would've found another way, but now everything is in motion. I can't stop it.”

“What's in motion? What are you saying?”

From across the cell, Kinkaid saw Estella's eyes glistening with fresh tears. If this girl died because of him, he was no better than Pérez.

Grief and his urgency for revenge had blinded him. He had tunnel vision when it came to settling the score. There had to be a reckoning, where the dead got their due. That was all that had weighed on his mind and heart and soul since his family had been killed. The murder of his wife and his precious little girl had haunted him beyond reason.

Revenge was the air that he breathed.

Garrett Wheeler and his team were waiting for a signal—only it wouldn't be what they were expecting. Kinkaid's own men had confirmed that Pérez had been inside the aircraft at takeoff. And now that the helicopter had touched down at the compound outside Guadalajara, it had tipped the first domino, which toppled the rest to the point of no return.

And Estella would pay a price for his indulgence. But there was nothing he could do about it.

“Open the door,” a man's voice bellowed from the corridor.

After a key slid into the lock, the door creaked open. And a torch nearly blinded him. Kinkaid squinted and turned his head with a grimace. He braced himself for more abuse, his body taut and seething with adrenaline.

He had lived for this moment. Despite his regret for what this meant for Estella, he couldn't do anything about that, not now. And his need to see this through to the end outweighed his good conscience.

Hidden behind the bright flame of the torch, the shadows of several men entered his cell, but the big man stood out. His face emerged from the dark, as in the many nightmares Kinkaid had had over the years. Manolo Quintanilla Pérez stood in front of him with a despicable smirk on his face. After all these years, it was really him.

The man who had murdered his wife and child.

The man who had taken everything.