“What’s that?” Lara asked.
“What I mean is that a number of people might be doing things that are illegal without any idea how their efforts are being combined for a much larger—and deadlier—end,” Brett said. “Someone may be supplying whatever drugs and poison are being used. Someone else may have been bribed or blackmailed into supplying a body. A third person may be sharing the know-how without any idea that someone is actually using it. So the more connections we can make between any of the players, the better.”
“In other words, if we start at the end of the string, it may lead us to another string, then another, and eventually they’ll lead us to the spool of thread,” Meg said.
“So is there any indication that Miguel or Maria Gomez knew Randy Nicholson or anyone at the Diaz-Douglas funeral home, or anyone at the cemetery?” Lara asked.
“No. Miguel might not even have known anyone else involved. Except the Barillo family. Because I know they’re in on it somehow,” Brett said. “There’s no other way things could have gone down that way in the warehouse unless someone in the Barillo family was involved. No one else would have known he would be there.”
“What about his family?” Matt suggested.
Brett shook his head. “No, Maria loved her husband, and Miguel made sure his children and grandchildren were far away after he contacted the FBI—even when he caved and started working for Barillo, he wanted his children and grandchildren living elsewhere. They’re out in the Midwest, and they’ve agreed to stay where they are until we’ve gotten some answers. They’re not happy about it, but they understand it’s a safety issue.”
He told them all good-night at the gate, wishing he felt entirely sure that Lara would be all right even as he told himself it was foolish to want to stay. As an agent, he’d quickly learned that no man was an island. They depended on one another. Trusted one another. They had to. He was usually pretty good at it; it was pure ego to think he was the only one who could manage any particular task.
But this was different. Still, he managed to leave, his fingers lingering on Lara’s as she shut the gate, his eyes meeting hers. “Good night. You’re in good hands,” he told her.
She smiled and nodded. He thought that maybe she was wishing he could stay, too.
Or was that just wishful thinking on his part?
He got into his car and drove home. As he neared his house, he saw that a car was parked in front of his neighbor’s house, and there were men just sitting in it.
Watching his house.
An assassination team? he wondered.
He told himself for the second time that night that no man was an island. It was late, but he sat in his own car down the street, lights off, and felt for his Glock and his phone. He dialed Diego.
Diego answered right away, instantly alert, even though Brett was sure he’d been sleeping.
“Men in front of my neighbor’s house,” Brett said.
“I’m on my way. Should I call for backup?”
“No, this time of night, you should only be five minutes. I’m parked down the street, and let’s leave the line open.”
“On my way.”
Brett set the phone on the seat next to him. He didn’t get out of the car—he would be an easy target if they spotted him—just sat, watched and waited.
A moment later the other car’s driver’s door opened; a man stepped out and walked around, then opened the passenger-side door. He reached in to help a second man out.
It was Barillo. Even in the dark, Brett knew. He’d seen video and pictures of the man often enough.
The two men walked over to where he was parked. So much for hiding in the shadows, Brett thought.
“Agent Cody,” Barillo called.
Brett drew his Glock and stepped out of the car. Barillo lifted his hands. The younger man at his side did the same. They weren’t holding weapons, though Brett was certain that one of them, at least, was armed.
“What?” he asked, Glock aimed at the older man.
“There’s no need for that,” Barillo said to him. “I came in person to tell you that you don’t need to be afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Brett said.
“Then, you’re estupido!” the other man said angrily.
Barillo nudged him, and the man went silent.
“I’m here to tell you I don’t murder women,” Barillo said. “And I didn’t kill Miguel. You need to look somewhere else and find out what is going on. I came here in peace. I’m old. I’m done with my old ways. Do you understand? If you want to catch a killer, you need to look elsewhere. I came in person to tell you. That’s all. Good night, Agent Cody.”
Barillo turned around and headed back to the car. Brett watched him go. The man was in his mid-sixties, though he looked at least fifteen years older. When his name was said, people imagined a tough virile man who could take down half an army.
That wasn’t the Barillo Brett had seen tonight.
I’m old, he’d said.