The Darkness Gathers (6 page)

Jeffrey’s cell phone beeped and he pulled it from his pants pocket.

“Craig sent an E-mail,” he said.

Lydia always called Craig “the Brain” behind his back. He stood a full head taller than Jeffrey but looked as thin as one of his thighs. He was forever clad in hugely baggy jeans, a white T-shirt under a flannel shirt, and a pair of Doc Martens, and his pockets were always full of electronic devices—cell phone, pager, Palm Pilot, all manner of thin black beeping, ringing toys. A pair of round wire spectacles, nearly hidden by a shock of bleached-blond hair, framed blue-green eyes. Craig called himself “a cybernavigator,” though his title at Jeffrey’s firm was information specialist. He specialized in knowledge of all computer research tools; before being recruited for Mark, Striker and Hanley, he’d been an infamous hacker wanted by the FBI. He was eighteen when he was arrested and could have faced more than a little time in federal prison, but, luckily for him, Jacob Hanley was his uncle. All former FBI agents, with more connections between them than a motherboard, the team at Mark, Striker and Hanley had been able to get Craig a deal. He worked for the firm, kept his act together, and reported to a probation officer for the next three years.

Now, more or less plugged into the Internet and the Bureau systems, semilegally, twenty-four seven, Craig could gather almost any piece of information needed at any time of the day or night. Lydia wondered when he slept, and she joked that one day Jeffrey would go to Craig’s office and find that he had become a disembodied voice, sucked into the computers like some character in a William Gibson novel.

“He says that he and Christian will start looking into things in New York for us tomorrow. He also says that he hopes we find Tatiana, because she’s ‘hot.’ ”

“Hey,” said Lydia, “what happened to his crush on me?”

“Youth is fickle,” Jeffrey replied.

“Hmm.”

“He also says that his uncle Jacob is pissed that we’re gone. Or at least that’s what I translated from ‘My uncle is way freaking that you guys bailed. What’s up his hole, yo?’ ”

“Well, it’s a good thing that it’s
your
firm and he has
nothing
to say about what you do.”

“Exactly.”

She waited for him to explain the obvious ill feelings between him and Hanley, but he didn’t. A hunky Latino waiter with black hair longer and more lustrous than Lydia’s and smoldering brown eyes brought two huge margaritas. Lydia immediately started sipping. It was tart and very potent. Just the way she liked it.

“So what’s the plan?”

“Well, Detective Ignacio called back. I think rather than return his call, we should pop in on him in the morning. Take the tape, see where it fits, and find out what his thoughts are. He was eager to hear what we have, but he sounded just beaten-down tired. So maybe he wants some help.”

“What are you thinking about all of this? What are you expecting to find?”

The mariachi players, who had paused to smoke cigarettes and drink shots of tequila at the bar, took up their instruments again and began another ballad.

“I don’t know. It just feels like more than a simple runaway case to me. Something about that letter struck a chord. Maybe I’m wrong.”

He didn’t say anything for a second, just took a slug of his drink, then grimaced at the tartness of it. She could tell he was debating whether or not to say what was on his mind, and she waited for him to make his decision, munching on chips from the basket between them.

“This is not about Shawna Fox, is it?” he asked finally. “This is not about you wanting to save her in Tatiana?”

She didn’t deny it. Shawna had never had a chance. It had been too late for her even before Lydia and Jeffrey had taken on the case that would eventually bring her killer to justice. Shawna had been finding her way after years in abusive foster homes, when a madman had robbed her of her life. Too many young girls in the world met an ugly and unjust fate in one way or another. Maybe Tatiana could still be saved. Maybe there was hope for her and the other girls alluded to in the letter. But it wasn’t just about that. It was the buzz drawing her into this case. The feeling that she couldn’t deny or resist.

“If Tatiana had been easy to find, someone would have found her. If everything was as it should be, then I wouldn’t have received that tape,” she said, leaning closer to him, feeling her passion for her work ignite in the way she was used to. “This is what we do, isn’t it, you and me? Look where no one else looks? Follow our instincts to the truth? Isn’t it why we do this work?”

“No, that’s what
you
do,” he answered, smiling, feeling the electricity of her excitement. “
I’m
along to keep you grounded in reality, to analyze the facts.”

“We make a good team.”

“The best.”

They raised their glasses to each other. He paused and looked away from her for a moment. “Which reminds me,” he said softly, raising his eyes to meet hers, “I was thinking while you were away.…”

“Oh?”

“About us.”

“What about us?” she asked. He watched her shift uncomfortably, start smoothing out the white cloth napkin on the table in front of her, staring at it intently. Everything about the moment was wrong, and he knew it. It was absolutely the wrong time and the wrong place to be having this conversation. But he’d been turning the question around in his mind since the night she’d left on her book tour. And now that they were together, under the full moon, the smell of the ocean heavy in the air, it was as if he couldn’t hold it in another second, like if he waited one more hour or one more day, it would be too late.

“About the future,” he said.

“Why worry about the future when the present is perfect?” she answered too quickly, folding the napkin into a neat triangle.

“I’m not worried about it,” he said, shrugging off the lie. “I’m just wondering what you want.”

She stopped looking at the napkin and turned her gaze on him. He always felt that look in his loins, the intensity of her eyes, the cool beauty of her face.

“I want you. I want us. Forever. You know that.”

Love
was not a strong-enough word for the way Lydia felt about Jeffrey. “Love” was hearts and flowers, candy and champagne. The feeling that she had in her heart for Jeffrey was riot and hurricane, fire and thunder. She would do anything for him, would adore and remain forever loyal to him all the days of her life. But the conversation, a perfectly natural one for two people who lived and owned property together, was giving Lydia chills. She didn’t like to think about the future, or talk about it. As if assuming that there was a future was like tempting the gods to prove you wrong. She had spent so long resisting her love for Jeffrey because she was terrified of the grief she would feel if anything were to happen to him, knowing that she would disappear into blackness. It was a natural fear for someone who had lost her mother to a serial killer, who had been abandoned by her father at an early age, she thought. As if anything about that was natural. The way she had come to deal with it was by just being grateful for every day together, not worrying about tomorrow.

The mariachi band continued playing, their melodic voices filling the room and imbuing their conversation with a kind of maudlin energy it didn’t deserve. The room was dim and warm. Red velvet booths lined the walls, and low-hanging lamps were suspended over each table. The shade of each lamp was a different color, one cobalt, another jade, still another a flame orange. The tables were kidney-shaped and covered with fringed white tablecloths. The smell of tobacco wafted over from the next table and its scent, along with the stress Lydia was feeling as a result of their conversation, made her long powerfully for a cigarette, though it had been over a year since she’d last smoked.

Jeffrey could sense her pulling away from him. He knew the thought of marriage terrified her. “It promises something that can’t be promised. People change and life is cruel. It’s like tempting fate,” she’d said before they were involved romantically. He hadn’t really brought it up since. He internally kicked himself for his shitty timing. It was a conversation to have at home. But it was a conversation he needed to have with her. He wanted them to be a family, legally. He wanted them to
have
a family.

“Okay,” he said, letting her off the hook suddenly, “it’s a deal. You’re stuck with me forever.”

“That’s it?”

“For now,” he answered.

She watched him as he looked at the people passing outside the window. She hoped that she hadn’t hurt him and that he understood. They sat in a comfortable silence for a bit, sipping their drinks. The effect of the tequila started to make Lydia tired, and she leaned into Jeffrey, who dropped his arm from the ledge behind her and placed it across her shoulders.

“You want to head back?” he asked her, and was answered by a small yawn.

“We need the check,” he said as the young waiter approached.

“Your bill has been taken care of, sir.”

Jeffrey frowned. “What do you mean? By whom?”

The waiter turned around to look at the bar and shook his beautiful head. “He’s gone.”

“What did he look like?” asked Lydia.

“He was big—not muscular, but strong,” he said, then held his arms out to mimic a big belly. “He carried a lot of weight around his middle. Bald. Wore a black suit. I’ve never seen him before.”

“What did he say?”

“He had a thick accent, maybe Eastern European or something. He had a shot of Grey Goose, pointed to you, and said to cover the tab and keep the change. He handed me a hundred dollars.”

“He didn’t use our names?” Jeffrey asked.

“No, sir.”

“Thanks,” Lydia said, grabbing her bag from the seat beside her and sliding out of the booth. They left the restaurant hand in hand as the mariachi band kept playing. The music followed them out onto the street and into the sea of people who were parading down Ocean Drive. The ocean yawned in a big black space to their right, and the giant palms across the street swayed in the breeze.

“That’s weird,” Lydia said, leaning into Jeffrey, observing cars and people on the street around them, wondering who was watching them. She pulled her bag close to her, suddenly feeling exposed.

“Only the people in my office know we’re in Miami,” said Jeffrey, thinking aloud.

“And Detective Ignacio,” she answered, considering the possibilities. They pushed their way through the crowd, not moving quickly enough to be conspicuous, but not meandering, either. He draped his arm across her shoulder and pulled her in closer.

“Did you bring your gun?

She hesitated. “It’s in my suitcase,” she said, slipping her hand into the bag. “You?”

“Ditto.”

“Maybe we’re being paranoid,” she said, glancing casually around her but making a point not to look behind. “Maybe it was just a really nice guy who gets off on random acts of kindness.”

“Nobody’s that nice.”

“Cynic.”

Jeffrey looked straight ahead and slowed their pace a bit. He scanned the area ahead of them, looking for someone matching the description the bartender had given. He saw at least three men in the crowd around them who fit the bill.

“Maybe the person trailing us in the black Mercedes is just making sure we get home safely,” he said after a moment.

“Do you have eyes in the back of your head?” asked Lydia, knowing not to turn around and look, though that was her instinct.

“No, but I can see the reflection in the side-view mirrors on the parked cars.”

“Very clever.”

“Just keep walking.”

They walked a block and made a quick left while the Mercedes was caught in traffic at the light, then hopped in a cab that was sitting on the corner.

“Make a U-turn, go back up this street, and then take the scenic route to the Delano,” Jeffrey ordered the cabbie. Lydia knew if she had given an order like that, she would have gotten an argument. But no one argued with Jeffrey—except for Lydia, of course. He had some kind of natural authority to his tone that people responded to automatically. Jeffrey kept an eye on the side-view mirror, and when he was sure they hadn’t been followed, he told the cab to head straight to the hotel.

They hustled through the lobby and took the elevator to their floor. When they reached their room, the door was ajar.

“Shit,” Jeffrey said, thinking that the gun in his suitcase had probably just been stolen.

Lydia handed him the Glock she had in her bag.

“I thought you said it was in your suitcase.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t want you to think I was planning on getting into any gunfights.”

“Stay here.”

He pushed the door open and edged into the room. Lydia followed him. The room was empty and the bed had been turned down. A tiny box of Godiva chocolates sat innocently on each pillow. The small bedside lights had been turned on, casting a soothing pink light; soft classical music was being piped into the room from somewhere. But their suitcases sat open on their bed, looking as if they’d been neatly unpacked and repacked.

“This is the most considerate room ransacking I’ve ever seen,” said Jeffrey as he walked over to the suitcases.

“That’s how they do it at five-star hotels.”

He removed a black leather box from his and opened the clasps. His Glock remained where he had left it, polished and disassembled. “I don’t believe it,” he said.

He looked through her suitcase. “Did they get the tape?” he asked. He turned, to see her removing the Jiffy envelope in its plastic evidence Baggie from her bag with a smile.

“I never go anywhere without my bag of tricks.”

“Nice work, Felix.”

chapter seven

I
t was pretty obvious that the whole thing had been carefully orchestrated. Paying their bill had been a kind of greeting. Following them had been a message. And entering their room but not actually removing anything had been a warning. We know you’re here, we know why, and we don’t like it. But who “they” were and how “they” could have known that Lydia and Jeffrey were in Miami and staying at the Delano remained a mystery. Jeffrey’s office knew. And Detective Ignacio knew.