The Kiss after Midnight (The Midnight Trilogy) (29 page)

“Right there,” Erwin said half an hour later. On the screen was a modern-looking hotel. “I’m sure he stayed here.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just a feeling I have. It’s ten minutes away from the theater, six if you jog. It’s close to all the main roads but away from the city’s bottleneck. I’m sure he stayed here.”

“So what now? Do we need to call them?”

“No need.” Erwin furiously typed an e-mail in German and clicked “send” two minutes later. “There. We should be getting the surveillance videos in the next few minutes.”

“How... Tobias cleared his throat. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I don’t even wanna know.”

An e-mail arrived five minutes later with an attachment. Erwin opened it. “Bingo.”

“You’re kidding. You’ve actually got something?”

“The whole week’s worth.” He grinned at Tobias. “I’ve been very good to a lot of the security personnel in the city hotels.”

Tobias smiled. “I see that.”

Erwin clicked on the last file—the morning of the day in question—and sat back. The screen showed the front desk’s view of the entrance, which was roughly ten steps away. Many people came and went, but not their man.

A time display in the corner of the screen read 3 p.m. when it happened. A tall burly man with brown hair leaned against the front desk and glanced outside, but only the back of his head was visible. Tobias and Erwin leaned forward simultaneously, not saying a word. The man pulled his cell out a few seconds later and spoke into it for a few minutes before facing the clerk.

Erwin paused the recording. “We’ve got him.”

Tobias’ mouth hung open as he studied the man. He had tattoos all over his neck and some on his face. Tobias had seen the man before and knew exactly where. “My God.”

Erwin shot a stare at him. “You know him?”

“I can’t believe it.” Tobias met Erwin’s gaze. “That’s the guy who shot the FBI woman to help us escape. Those tattoos are unmistakable, and he’s the same size. It’s definitely him.”
Was he the guy who also met...? No, it wasn’t him. It’s definitely not him.

Erwin walked to the window. “So you were right. It’s all connected.”

Tobias joined him at the window. “But why help us escape? None of it makes sense.”

“Maybe they were helping Annabel. Maybe she’s involved somehow.”

Tobias shook his head. “No, I don’t buy it. They didn’t hang around. It’s as if they were just sitting back and watching. It’s funny, but before the parking-garage incident, I felt people were watching us then, too.”
Annabel’s guy was someone else. I know it. I’m sure of it.

Erwin returned to his bed. “This man could be working for absolutely anyone. Juan, some of his right-hand men—”

“Antonio.”

“Yes, it could very well be Antonio as well, but whoever it is, they’re working toward a larger agenda. This is someone who may want to frame you for all the killings somehow.”

Tobias rose, his face tense. “Fuck. Fuck. This can’t be happening.” He placed both hands over his head.

“There’s still a way out of this. Come back with me tomorrow. We’ll get your inheritance, and we can solve this together.”

Tobias shook his head. “I’m not leaving Annabel, especially not now. Not after I’ve seen this. If someone’s trying to frame me, she might be in danger.”

“But you don’t know she’s not a part of it.”

“And I don’t know that she is. All I know is that the last time I let a woman walk out of my life with a bad feeling in my gut, she ended up mutilated. I’ll be damned if I sit here and let the same thing happen to Annabel.”
Please, let her be safe.

“So what are you going to do? You need a plan before you make a move.”

Tobias sat down, eyes fixed on the blank laptop screen. “I have no idea.”

***

Tom had now seen the mystery woman twice but still couldn’t connect the dots. Both times were in photos with Annabel Lopez. He stared at his laptop screen, as he had done for the last twenty minutes.
What am I missing? Where’s the connection?

He looked at his phone and reached for it to call Agent Vázquez again but stopped himself
. What am I going to say to her? I don’t even know what I’m looking for.
He had no doubt that he hadn’t seen the woman’s face until he’d started his investigation into the string of murders plaguing New York. The problem was that he had thoroughly read dozens of files since then and didn’t know where to begin. He stood and arched his neck from side to side. He looked at the pile of folders on his and Emma’s desks.
Fuck it. Why not?

For three hours, he pored over the contents of the folders. He went over the same details he had already read on Albert Eichelberger, Tobias, Juan and just about everyone else who played a part in the case, but he found nothing else on the woman. He yawned and stood up and drank a bottle of mineral water, his fifth that afternoon. He needed a fresh angle. What hadn’t he thought of? What was the missing link?

He sat back down and methodically recalled every conversation he’d had after Wheeler first contacted him about taking the case. It was then that it hit him: He had not taken a second look at the very first file he’d read, the one on the original Dominguez family, the one headed by the founder of the drug cartel, Faustino Dominguez.

He looked around the room before rushing to the filing cabinet by the door. He opened the top drawer and saw pencils and stationery but no file. Beside the cabinet was a stack of boxes whose contents he would have assumed to be junk. He lifted them one by one and placed them neatly beside each other on the floor. He noticed the corner of a white folder in one of them and pulled it out. A huge grin covered his face. Written on the folder was “THE ORIGINAL DOMINGUEZ FAMILY FILES.”

He poured the contents onto the floor and sat down. Some of the pictures showed Faustino Dominguez alongside his brother, Enrique, and the then-president of Tirianna, Carlos Esparza. He flipped through more pictures, some showing Faustino’s wife, Camila, and his four slain children, Gilberto, Liliana and twins Rosario and Elina, but still no sign of the mystery lady.

There were more pictures of Faustino, and some of the twins with their nanny, but that was it.
Maybe I’m just grasping at straws.
He left the pictures scattered on the floor and returned to his desk, where he drank some more water. He picked up the two pictures of the mystery woman. The clearer one was the one where her arms were around Annabel and Penélope, probably taken no more than five years ago. In the other one, she stood in the background, almost as if trying to get out of range of the camera’s flash. She looked considerably younger than she did in the other photo. He figured it had been taken in 1989 or 1990, just before Annabel moved to the states.

Of course.
It all seemed to fit into place.

He rummaged through the photos on the floor until he found the ones with the Dominguez twins’ nanny. He studied them intently. Especially in one where she wore a black scarf around her neck, there was something oddly familiar about her.
No. It can’t be. Can it?
He dashed back to the desk and lined up all three photos.

In the first photo, the woman holding on to Annabel and Penélope as adults had a broad smile on her face, revealing wrinkles around her eyes. The photo of the nine-year-old Annabel—with the similar-looking woman in the background—wasn’t as clear, but she looked noticeably younger, with the same thin nose and narrow face. Tom reaffirmed what he already knew: It was definitely the same woman. He looked once more at the clearest of the three pictures, the one in which the Dominguezes’ nanny held on to the young twins, no more than three years old at the time. He saw the same eyes, the thin nose and lips and the narrow face. This was the missing link, the picture he had been looking for. The puzzle was complete: They were all the same woman.

But this means... No, it can’t be. They died with their father.
He frowned at the floor and walked around the room.
Oh my God. This is just crazy, but it makes perfect sense.
He froze, his train of thought pushing in another direction altogether.
Oh shit. If he knew about... That’s probably why... Oh no. Annabel.

Tom rushed to the elevators. He pushed the button so many times that his finger started to hurt. When the door opened, at least eight people were aboard, and the light for almost every floor was illuminated. He took deep breaths, still rocked by the revelation he believed he had just uncovered. After some hazy period of time—minutes? seconds?—the elevator arrived at the thirty-fifth floor, and he rushed out, almost spilling a man’s coffee.

He arrived at Wheeler’s office out of breath. He was about to push the door open when he noticed four suited men he had never seen before seated in front of the deputy director. He knocked on the door, and Wheeler glanced up at him and waved for him to enter.

“Tom!” Wheeler said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I need a word, sir,” he said with a scowl.

Wheeler nodded for the four men to leave the room.

“He did it, sir,” Tom said when they were alone. “He killed her.”

Wheeler rose and raised his right hand. “Slow down. Who’re we talking about?”

“Antonio. I know why he killed Penélope.”

“Enough! You’re off that case now. I have something else for you to take care of.”

“But you don’t understand, sir. I’ve found new evidence. It provides Antonio’s motive. He found out that Penélope was—”

“I said enough! I don’t want to hear it. You’re off the case. Grimes is now lead investigator in the Salazar murder. I’ll give your information to him, but I have something else for you.”

Tom’s face tightened and he frowned at the floor. “What is it?”

Wheeler walked toward his desk and picked up a sealed white A5 envelope and tossed it at Tom.

“What’s in here?”

“Something that landed on my desk this morning, the kind of break we’ve been waiting for. It’s now your only priority. Not Antonio, not Tobias, but this. Is that clear enough for you?”

Tom reluctantly nodded and picked up the envelope.

Wheeler tidied his desk and carefully placed sheets of paper in the center drawer. “I’ll be gone for a few days. I won’t be reachable by cell or e-mail, but when I get back, I expect you to have handled it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, tell me about this new evidence you think you’ve found.”

***

“So have we heard from my nephew yet?” Juan asked Andrés. He glanced at Gloria, who was walking almost ten steps ahead of them, their two daughters running in circles around her.

“No, he hasn’t reached out, but I’m hearing that he’s been talking about how you’ve disrespected him and his crew. Nothing we should worry about, though.”

“How did things get so bad between us? I remember when he was born. Such a handsome boy. His father loved him with all his heart. I guess that’s why I love him so much.”

“Antonio will never be his father.”

Juan’s daughters rushed toward Jorge, who was sitting on a park bench. They jumped onto his lap and embraced him. Jorge stood and kissed both of Gloria’s cheeks and then embraced Juan and Andrés.

“Get the girls some ice cream,” Juan said to Andrés. “I’ll be right there.”

Andrés ran toward the girls and hoisted them onto his shoulders as they screamed playfully. Juan’s smile gave way to a serious expression as he turned to Jorge. “How’s Reynaldo’s mother doing?”

Jorge shrugged. “She wants closure. But what mother wouldn’t want justice for their murdered child.”

“Antonio has been falling for a long time. I only hope he hasn’t done the unthinkable.”

“Rico was never going to give him up. We’ve tried everything to bring him around to our way of thinking, but he has some kind of blind loyalty to your nephew. He would have sat there and let you beat him to death before giving Antonio up.”

“I don’t know. What if it was a coincidence? Antonio might despise some of my decisions, but this is not just going against me—this is disregarding his father, too.”

“That boy doesn’t know loyalty. How he’s stayed alive this long is beyond me.” Jorge clenched his fists. “Do you remember how Faustino was with us?”

Juan sniggered. “How can I ever forget? He was a great man.”

“But we still did what needed to be done for our business. If you gave me the choice a hundred times over, I would have done the same thing, and yet he was like our father.”

Juan stared at him intently. “What’re you saying?”

“Our business does not recognize family or love. Our survival is all that matters, no matter what. If leaving Reynaldo’s death alone for business was the way forward, I would have moved on.”

Juan lit a cigar and took a long drag as he watched his children sitting on a picnic blanket, licking their ice creams. “Are we all set with Hector?”

Jorge nodded. “But I still can’t get hold of Eduardo.”

Juan stared at him. “Have you tried his son?”

“No one’s heard from him in two days. Do you think—”

“Even Antonio knows his limits. He’ll never touch a
comisionado
. Regardless of how far he might have fallen, he’ll never do such a thing.”

“So will you be fine sitting opposite Hector again?”

Juan took another drag. “Luckily for me, I won’t have to.”

Jorge looked at him dumbfounded.

“I’m leaving it all to you. I need to do something else.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. But I’ll be going away for a while.”

“And how long’s a while?”

“As long as I need to. I have to take care of something.”

“And why haven’t you told me about this?”

“It’s a personal matter, but I’ll get it sorted out. Andrés will be coming with me, so I’ll be fine.” He rose and smiled at his children before looking back at Jorge. “I want you to give Hector whatever he wants. I won’t fight him on this. And reach out further until you find Eduardo. This kind of disappearance so close to big deals makes me nervous.”