Diabolical (29 page)

“She wanted me to roust you. Said a guy was going to be with you. She told me to make sure he could walk away, not get roughed up or followed.”

“Who is he?”

“No idea.” Fernandez glared up at Hatcher, his chest heaving. “What about my ear? I need a doctor!”

“What's she got on you?”

“Got on me? I don't know what you mean. Look, if you don't call me an fucking amb—”

“Yes, you do. You know exactly what I mean. Those kinds of favors don't just get asked out of the blue.”

Fernandez said nothing, just kept huffing. He stared at the floor, crunching his eyes in pain every few seconds.

“Okay. If this dislocates your other shoulder, just scream the way you did before. I won't let you down, but it'll make me feel good.”

“Hey!”

Hatcher grabbed the end of the belt that tied off Fernandez's wrists. “Hope the skin and muscle on that one are strong. There are stories about arms ripping off.”

“No! Wait! Jesus! She's got a bunch of girls who hire out as escorts, all right? Top dollar. I provide security.”

Hatcher let the belt slacken. “For a percentage.”

Fernandez glanced over at the camera, then looked away. He shrugged and dipped his head in a way Hatcher took as a nod.

“What do you know about William Bartlett?”

“Who?”

“Two-star general, retired. Gray hair. Looks like a politician.”

“Never heard of him.”

Voice was steady. No obvious signs of evasion in the eyes, no unnatural facial expressions. If anything, he looked relieved at being able to answer honestly.

“What about my nephew?”

Fernandez raised his head, one cheek tensing up toward his eye like he couldn't understand the question.

“Baby boy named Isaac? Ring a bell?”

“I didn't know he was your nephew.”

“What did they say about him?”

“Only to make sure he didn't get hurt.”

“Say again?”

“They told me to make sure he didn't get hurt. And not to hurt you, either.”

Showing surprise at an answer during an interrogation, unless you were feigning it, was usually a tactical blunder. But Hatcher couldn't help himself. “What? When?”

“What do you mean, when? When I was heading out with the group.”

“The group.”

“To get the boy.” A look of dismay, mixed with incredulity, washed over Fernandez's face. “You gotta be kidding me. You didn't know?”

Hatcher ignored the question. “Why did they want him?”

“Couldn't tell you. Guy said to make sure no one got careless. Kid wasn't to get hurt.”

“But you have no idea why you were taking him?”

“They told me they had to protect him. That he was in danger. That's all.”

“Protect him from what?”

“They didn't say. I'm telling you the truth.”

“Where did you take him?”

“Handed him off to some gal. Blonde. She got in the back of a car and took off.”

Soliya, Hatcher thought. Maybe.

“Who was driving?”

“Didn't see. Didn't care.”

Hatcher stared at the floor for several seconds, then looked over to a clock on the wall. Someone would be coming soon. He sensed he'd used up all the time he had.

Standing, he glanced over at the phone. He was about to say something, then stopped. He squatted again.

“You said, ‘guy.' ”

“Huh?”

“Guy. You said, ‘Guy said to make sure no one got careless.'”

“Yeah?”

“Guy, as in male.”

Fernandez winced, squirming in place. “So?”

“Who?”

“I don't know his name,” he said, letting out a breath.

“What did he look like?”

“Short. Spent a lot of time on his hair.”

Hatcher stared down at the man for a long moment, thinking. “What kind of ride?”

“A Harley.”

“Why were you taking orders from him?”

“What do you mean? Because she told me to.”

“Deborah told you to?”

“Who else.”

“How do you get in touch with her?”

“E-mail. Sometimes by text. She told me not to call anymore. Said it wasn't safe. She changes phones like every day.”

“Where do you meet?”

“Different places. Never the same place twice. Hotels, mostly.”

Hatcher said nothing for several seconds. Then he stabbed a finger toward Fernandez's face. “You're holding out on me.”

“No! It's true! She always picks different places!”

“But you're holding out. You're a cop. You wouldn't be screwing some gal and committing felonies for her without knowing something more, something you were confident she didn't know you knew. You'd have checked her out, ran a plate, traced a number. Something.”

Fernandez stared up at Hatcher, then his eyes wandered like he was thinking and he shook his head slowly.

Hatcher reached for the belt, started to stand.

The man stiffened, spoke quickly. “Wait! I tried to check her out. All the stuff came back phony. Name, everything.”

The last word hung out there, an expectancy to it. Like it wasn't the end of the thought.

“But?”

Fernandez took in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “But I slipped a GPS pusher into her car, tracked where she lived. Or at least where she would go after she left me.”

“And where was that?”

“Some mini-manch. Up on Mulholland Drive.”

HATCHER LEFT THE DOJO AND HEADED BACK TO HIS PLACE. His side hurt and he needed sleep. He didn't feel any closer to the answers he needed, but there was no shortage of new questions.

He was reasonably confident Fernandez would keep quiet and stay out of his way. More confident about the quiet part. The video was his insurance, and he made it clear what would happen if he was arrested or if he met some untimely demise. He guessed the man was more concerned about word of the blow job making the rounds than he was about having confessed to serious corruption.

Of course, there were two other cops to worry about. But they wouldn't be sure who Hatcher was, wouldn't have a name, and he figured Fernandez would persuade them to let him handle it on the QT. At least, he hoped that's how it would play out.

But Hatcher's biggest concern was figuring out what to do next. If Fernandez was telling the truth, and Hatcher had to assume he was, the Carnates were actually behind the kidnapping. But if that were the case, how did Edgar fit in? And why was Deborah going to Bartlett's place? Bartlett and the Carnates? That didn't make sense. The Carnates seemed to have their own reasons for wanting to end the world, one way or another, but Bartlett? And what had that stuff with Edgar been all about? Was he playing him? For what?

He needed some rest. A few hours, at least. Time to recover, think things out. There had to be another person to hit up, someone who could point him in the right direction. He just had to put his mind to it.

Fernandez's cell phone sat on the passenger seat. Hatcher had scanned the phone's contents briefly, looking through the contacts and saved texts. The man had been careful, which meant whatever might be helpful would be hard to find. After he got back to his apartment, he'd go through it carefully, scrutinize every name and number. At the very least, he figured being able to see the incoming calls might be useful, as would the ability to make calls from it. He doubted Fernandez would have the time to cancel his service for hours, if not days. Not while he was racing to have his ear reattached.

But he resigned himself to getting some sleep first. He was having trouble focusing. The mind was a stubborn thing. He knew he needed to let it wander through some REM or it would refuse to cooperate.

Good habits can allow you to avoid bad situations. Hatcher was thinking of a number of things when he arrived at his place, but his autopilot mode had him drive past the alley-drive to get a look down the narrow lane before turning into it. It usually took an extra minute, having to cruise a block past after taking a peek, turn around, and then double back and pull into the drive. It was a minute usually wasted. But today it paid off.

He only caught a glimpse, but that was enough to register. Nondescript silver gray sedan. Single occupant, seated in the driver's seat. Visible for maybe two seconds as Hatcher rolled by, but he looked to be male, largish head, short hair. Probably middle-aged. Probably a cop. Probably there to talk to him about Vivian. Or maybe it was the same guy who'd been asking around about him.

If there was one thing Hatcher did not have time—or energy—for, it was more cops.

He kept driving, taking the first turn he could, making his way to the highway. He checked his rearview several times. Nothing.

So, his place was hot. The bar was an option, but not a good one. He needed a place to think, to stretch out and crash. Denny might let him use his place, but dealing with Denny in this situation might be more trouble than it was worth. Man would ask too many questions, and either bug the heck out of him to work tonight or treat it like a slumber party. He could go to a motel, but they would require a swipe of his debit card and that would, potentially, at least, send a beacon out to anyone looking for him. Resting in the car wouldn't let him work the kinks out of his aching muscles and would almost guarantee a stiffer neck than he already had. There was only one place he could think to go.

It took almost forty minutes to get there. Susan answered on the second knock. She was holding a tissue. Her nose was red and her eyes were puffy. She wore a pale blue housedress with sandals and looked like a woman who hadn't slept in days. Which, he was sure, she hadn't.

“Oh, Jake,” she said, dread coloring her voice. “I've been so worried. Do you have news? Have you found him?”

“Not exactly. Can I come in?”

Susan worked her brow, frowning and nodding at the same time. “Of course. Please. You'll have to excuse my manners.”

The town house was dark and cool. Hatcher stepped past the foot of the stairwell and into the living room. Susan shut the door and moved by him to the middle of the room. She stood there for a few seconds, facing the opposition direction, before saying anything.

“Just come out with it . . . do you have something bad to tell me?”

“No. I think he's still alive, if that's what you mean.”

The sound of her letting out a breath was audible, and Hatcher could see her body sag in relief. She lowered her head and dabbed the napkin to her eyes. Her body shuddered slightly in a sob.

Hatcher said nothing.

As if sensing the silence start to accumulate, she straightened her back and turned to him.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Don't be. You have every right to be upset. Actually, you seem to be holding up well. I'm the one who should apologize. It was my fault. I led them to you.”

Susan nodded in a way that indicated she wanted to believe him but didn't.

“Do you think you'll find him?”

“I know more about who was involved. I have to figure out where they're keeping him. I'm doing all I can. I promise you.”

“I believe you. How about you? Are you okay? I see marks on your face. You look like you've been fighting.”

“I just need a place to rest for a while.”

Another nod, this one more ambiguous. “Why don't you go lay down? Can I get you something? Would you like something to drink?”

“Maybe some water.”

She disappeared and returned a minute later with a glass of ice and a cold plastic bottle of Dasani. The glass had a lemon slice wedged over the rim.

“Let me turn down the bed for you,” she said. She poured some water into the glass and set the bottle down.

“The couch is fine.”

“Don't be silly.” She placed a hand on his chest, ran her fingers down his shirt. “You need to get out of those clothes. I'll throw them in the washing machine.”

“Susan, you don't have to—”

“No. I want to. You can take a shower if you want.”

He didn't want to. But there was no arguing whether he needed to clean up. Just like he didn't really want to sleep, but he knew he couldn't think straight in the condition he was in. He was worn out from the day's events, and his mind as much as his body needed to shut down, recuperate. A warm shower sounded like a good start.

“Okay,” he said. He gulped down several swallows of water. “Thank you.”

The bedrooms were upstairs. Susan led him to the master bath, waited outside while he stripped down, had him hand her his clothes from behind the bathroom door.

As he leaned over the faucet to the bath, he heard her yell through the door that she was putting his phones and his wallet on the dresser. Phones, plural. He supposed she knew better than to ask.

The hot splash of water on his face and chest felt soothing, the steam soaking into his nostrils even more so. He turned the heat up and let the stream beat against the nape of his neck and upper back, worked his shoulders in circles under it. By the time he toweled off, he was feeling relatively loose, relaxed.

He padded into the bedroom with the towel hooked around his waist and stretched out face-down across the bed.

He heard Susan enter the room again, the light thump of her footfalls, the rustling of clothes. The mattress shook a bit, springs creaking. He felt her nestle against him, smooth, soft skin. The unmistakable, doughy press of breasts against his back. There was no doubt she was naked.