She kept her cool as she told him no, that dolphins might be aggressive at times, but they weren’t capable of dismembering bodies. The picture cut to scenes of the dolphins with handicapped children and wounded servicemen and women; it was some of the best PR spins Brett had ever seen. Ms. Ainsworth wasn’t only an extremely attractive woman with an easy way when she was on camera, she was damn good at her job. She’d been filmed soon after they’d gotten out of the water, he realized. Her hair was still damp, and she was in casual shorts and a polo shirt.
She cleaned up nicely, too, he thought, thinking back to the party earlier. Her halter dress had been stunning on her. He chastised himself for not noticing more, but he’d been too focused on the case. He realized, though, that part of her beauty came from her animation. Her smile was sincere and her movements fluid.
He smiled briefly, thinking of her stick-up-the-butt comment; he knew she’d been referring to him. Maybe he’d deserved it. He’d been a lucky man most of his life. He was generally well liked. Relationships—though most were merely casual—came easy for him. But this woman really didn’t like him. And she was, at the moment, according to Grady Miller, the one woman he needed on his side. He’d been sure he would be best off enlisting the help of the head trainer, Rick Laramie, and Laramie would certainly be on hand. But according to the facility founder, Cocoa wanted to work with Lara. It was as if she had found a best friend. If Cocoa were human, Miller had explained, she would want to hang out with Lara to hear a new band, or enjoy a movie or an art show—or go shoe shopping.
As long as Lara came and helped, as long as everyone tried, he would be happy. He knew he was looking for a damned needle in a haystack.
But Phil Kinny had seemed sure that if he had Miguel’s head, he might be able to figure out what had happened.
Brett knew the waters around Miami; he loved boating, fishing and diving, and had since he was a kid. But he didn’t really understand the science of what the office techs were doing. By charting the tides and the currents, they believed they could follow the flow of body-part dispersal, using the dolphin facility as a starting point and working backward. He hoped they were right.
Restlessly, he flicked off the news. “Ichabod, you’re the best company ever,” he told the cat. “But I don’t want Jimmy or his folks waking up and thinking you’re missing. So, sad to say, out, my friend.”
The cat seemed to understand him. He wound between Brett’s legs and headed for the door. Brett let him out, climbed up the stairs, stripped down and headed toward the bed.
He paused, though, and went to his desk to click his computer on. Someone might have gotten back to him with some kind of a map or a plan for the morning. They would be working with the Coast Guard, and he had faith that those guys could read what they were given, but he wouldn’t mind looking for himself. And while he wanted to sleep, he still felt restless.
His emails popped up, a few from fellow agents offering off-duty help. Nice. Nothing yet from the tech people, but he wasn’t worried. They would work all night if they had to and make sure they had what he needed in the morning. He started to turn away from the computer when a message suddenly popped up on the screen.
He stared, stunned at first, and then disbelieving.
Miguel did it. It was Miguel, but it wasn’t Miguel.
The words were then gone as quickly as they had come. Brett felt as if every hair on the nape of his neck was standing up.
He gave himself a mental shake. He must have imagined the message. He started hitting keys, slowly at first, and then more quickly, trying to ascertain if someone had hacked into his computer somehow.
Eventually he determined that had to be the case. But even though he didn’t have the skills to do it himself, he would make sure the hacker got caught. They had some of the best computer geeks known to man in the Miami office, so all he had to do was take his laptop to work and let them have at it.
That decided, he rose to go to bed at last.
And it was then that his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number; it wasn’t a local exchange. He thought about letting the caller leave a message, but in the end he answered. “Cody,” he said briefly.
“Brett Cody?” asked a deep, slightly accented voice.
“Yes.”
He wasn’t sure how he instantly knew who it was; he had never been assigned to the Barillo case. He’d seen the man, of course. Barillo appeared at rallies backing certain politicians and liked to make the scene when new clubs opened on South Beach, which was fairly frequently. The beach was a fickle place; the hottest club quickly became passé when a new club opened.
For being such a powerhouse, he was a small man. Only about five-eight, gray haired and slight.
He was a mix of nationalities—born in Mexico, but with grandparents from Italy, Colombia, Brazil and Cuba—and that might well have helped him to become the kingpin that he was, in command of his multinational “family.” He was known to speak at least five languages, including perfect English.