A sigh came over the line. "Those damn Guccis."
"I couldn't see buying wingtips for the occasion."
"So you think we should use him as an asset?"
"Unless you recruit him outright."
"He might be more valuable where he is."
"Agreed."
The Gulf Coast cities were prime gun-running ports. Knowing when and where the weapons were going could give their analysts valuable insight on where the next brush-fire war was going to pop up. Sometimes the fire needed to be lit, sometimes it didn't. Sometimes the shipments would be intercepted, sometimes they wouldn't.
"The funeral is at two tomorrow. Will you be here?"
"Unless you need me to do something else." With John, you never knew. He was like a spider, pulling on six invisible threads at the same time.
"It will be interesting to see who's around."
Meaning who would be surveilling the funeral to ID John. Just getting a photograph of him would be worth a lot of money to a lot of people and quite a few governments. There was always the possibility that Rick had been killed for no other reason than to draw John into a public situation. Not that any photograph of him tomorrow would be worth a shit. McPherson had known John most of his life, and he probably wouldn't recognize him tomorrow even if he was standing right next to him.
"Will Vinay have a net on the area?"
"I'd like an extra set of eyes. Someone closer in."
And that meant John hadn't ruled out an inside job. At this point, he hadn't ruled out anything, though the information about Dex Whitlaw meant the possibility that Rick had simply been the victim of a robbery/murder was just about down the tubes. As Detective Chastain had said, that was straining coincidence a little too far.
But John was a cool, subtle thinker, which was what made him so dangerous and so valuable. He weighed probabilities, percentages, possibilities, saw shadows and details others missed. Jess McPherson didn't completely trust many people, but John Medina was one of them. Frank Vinay was
another. And Rick Medina had been on that list as well. Losing him hurt.
"I'll be there," he said gruffly, and disconnected.
Marc checked his watch: nine forty-five. The small, pitiful body on the autopsy table was telling a tale of horror, of a short life spent in pain and terror. He had checked the area hospitals and come up with a list of visits to the emergency departments that made him cringe. Little James Blake Gable had already had ten "accidents" this year, accidents serious enough to warrant medical attention. The Gables had avoided attention by using a different hospital each time. One of the doctors should have picked up on the signs of systematic abuse, but no one had.
What about the families? Hadn't either Mr. or Mrs. Gable's family noticed something was wrong? Hadn't they noticed their grandson was slowly being murdered or that Mrs. Gable had become reclusive? Sure they had. What Marc couldn't understand was how they had just let it go, ignored it, probably hoping things would get better. Well, things never got better unless someone did step in. Now it was too late for the little boy, and Marc had a sinking feeling that time was running out for Mrs. Gable, too. He checked his watch again. Even with everything he had going on right now, he needed to call Karen. The urge to do so tightened his stomach, knotted his nerves. It wasn't just that he wanted to get things settled between them; he felt uneasy, restless.
He hadn't talked to her in twenty-four hours, and suddenly, he thought it was twenty-four hours too long. He wanted to know she was all right, tell her how he felt, get her back to New Orleans, somehow. Maybe it was because the CIA, in the form of Mr. McPherson, had come sniffing around after he had Shannon put out the feeler on Medina. All the details about Dexter Whitlaw's murder that had struck him as unusual—the neatness of the hit, the lack of noise that indicated silencers, the expensive pistol in Whitlaw's possession—took on a lot more importance when teamed with the information that he had known the other murder victim, who just happened to have worked for the CIA. A simple street murder had become complicated.
No, it wasn't that. He struggled to pay attention to the autopsy, but the tension in his gut wouldn't go away. As soon as this was over, he would call her. He should already have done it. Never mind needing to calm down; what he needed was to talk to her. This was two mistakes he'd made, he thought grimly. The first was leaving her alone yesterday morning, the second was not calling until he finally got her instead of the answering machine.
His radio crackled to life. Dr. Pargannas looked up and scowled at the interruption. Marc listened to the code for a suspected murder in the Garden District. The address was very familiar to him. "Ah, shit! The son of a bitch has killed his wife!" He spat the words out as he ran from the autopsy room. Defeat was a bitter taste in his mouth. He'd been afraid of this. He had been caught between the need to have everything right so the bastard couldn't get off on a technicality and the need to hurry, to do something now . In another two hours, he would have had an arrest warrant, and Mr. Gable would be safely locked away. For Mrs. Gable, two hours was now a lifetime too long. When he got to the house, the wide, tree-lined street was choked with patrol cars. The heat and humidity wrapped around him like a blanket as he walked up the sidewalk and into the cool, high-ceilinged elegance of the house. He was sick with fury and helplessness, but he shoved his feelings aside so he could do his job—for all the good that would do Mrs. Gable now.
"Where?" he asked one of the patrol officers.
"Upstairs." The woman looked rattled.
He climbed the wide, curving stairs and followed the commotion to a bedroom. The room was huge, probably thirty by thirty, and decorated like Hollywood's idea of European royalty. The big bed was draped with white net that hung from the ceiling. Ornate mirrors and original oil paintings decorated the walls, and furniture was arranged into two formal conversation areas. Tall alabaster vases held arrangements of irises coordinated with the color scheme of the room, which was white and gold with accents of peach and blue. A new color had recently been added to the room: red. A lot of red. Red that sprayed, red that pooled, red that was turning rust-colored as it dried. Mrs. Gable sat on one of the sofas. The back of her head was gone. She hadn't fallen over, simply slumped back against the cushions as if now she could relax. Her eyes were open, empty with death. Death wasn't peaceful; it was just nothing. Everything gone. No more sunrises, no more hopes, no more fears. Nothing.