Zero Separation (10 page)

“What do you want?”

Montero remained silent. She simply pulled two folded sheets of paper out the pocket of her blazer and handed them over.

He unfolded the papers. His eyes immediately shot to the grainy, black-and-white photo of the man he used to be. The passive expression of Robert Huntington's mug shot stared back at him. The second page held two photos. One was taken years ago, a picture of Robert Huntington and William VanGelder, just after Meredith was killed. Printed just below was another picture of William and him taken a few years ago at an Eco-Watch function. In a direct comparison, the commonality was there for someone who was looking. He felt his chest deflate as he glanced up at Montero's knowing expression.

“Good, at least we don't have to go through that whole denial thing,” Montero said. “You're him.”

Donovan felt the blood draining from his face. There was no use acting as if these photos meant nothing. It was time to shift to damage control. “How many people have seen this?”

“So far, just me. You can keep those, I have more.”

Donovan fought the impulse to turn away from her and board the jet, to walk away from this woman and the unbridled chaos she was going to unleash.

“What do you want?”

“I want your help,” she said. “I need someone with your resources to help me find the people I'm looking for, who are also the people who shot your friend. I'll explain everything later.”

“There is no later.”

“Get your things,” Montero tilted her head to the side. “Because I'm guessing you'd rather I not go to the media?”

“Wait right here.” Donovan spun and walked up the stairs where he stopped and quietly asked Sarah to retrieve his suitcase. He wasn't going with them. He knelt on the carpet next to Lauren and kissed her on the lips and transferred the sheets of paper from his hand to hers.

Lauren blinked with surprise and then slumped as she processed the look in his eyes. She unfolded the first page, then the second one.

“I have to stay,” he whispered to her. “Don't leave the country just yet. Let me feel this out first. She says she wants my help. Tell the others I'm staying to help with the investigation.”

Lauren pursed her lips and nodded that she understood. Abigail, detecting the mood shift in her mother, started to fuss and immediately clung to her.

Donovan leaned down and kissed his daughter and his wife and then turned to William. “Take care of them.”

Lauren stroked Abigail's hair and fixed her brilliant green eyes on Donovan. In a hushed but serious voice, she said, “Fix this.”

“Take the battery out of your cell phone,” Montero ordered. “I don't want anyone to be able to track us.”

Donovan did what he was told. He sat in the passenger seat of Montero's red, 3 Series BMW convertible. She eased into traffic on northbound I-95. She drove fast, but not reckless. Lauren's words echoed in his mind, but he had no clear idea what the fix was.

“You know, I suspected from the moment I saw your mug shot—your former mug shot,” Montero said. “Your eyes and your confidence—you reminded me of him. I studied Meredith's case in college, so I know your old face well. Then there's the fact that you're both pilots. When I met Mr. VanGelder at the hospital, I knew for sure. I'll admit it was a pretty surreal moment. In fact I'm still trying to get my head around the fact I'm sitting next to
the
Robert Huntington.”

“You'll get over it. Where are we going?” Donovan studied her as she drove. Whatever formalities she'd observed earlier as a federal agent were apparently long gone. He tried to imagine what forces were at work for her to resort to blackmail, and the only reason that came up was the usual one—money.

“I'll get to that in a minute. But first we need to agree on some ground rules. I'm on administrative leave, which means I've officially been hung out to dry. I can't actively pursue any investigation. You and I are hanging out together because you're indebted to me for saving your life.”

“But we can both agree in private that this is blackmail?”

“Probably,” Montero shrugged. “But don't go all victim on me,
it doesn't suit you. We're going after the people who killed my partner and tried to kill you and your friend. I wouldn't have pulled you off that plane if we both didn't have a fully vested interest in what I'm doing. Believe me, when you know the entire story, you'll be a willing participant.”

“Keep talking.” Donovan noticed that with each lane change, she kept a close eye out for anyone who might be following them.

“The guy I shot today goes by the name Diego Vazquez. He has a brother, Ramone, and they almost always work together. Right now we're going to go have a little chat with a guy named Ricky. He may be able to tell us where Ramone is hanging out. How much cash do you have on you?”

Donovan quickly calculated what was in his wallet, plus what he kept stashed in his briefcase for emergencies. “About three grand.”

“That should be enough.”

Donovan thought of the detailed report William had on Montero. Right that moment he'd love to see what it contained. It was puzzling that she'd discovered Robert Huntington, a man she claimed to be very familiar with—yet the first order of business was to go shake down someone named Ricky. At least for the moment, it seemed as if Montero was all business again, focused on the case.

Montero took the exit ramp at high speed, expertly down-shifted, rolled the stoplight, and gunned the car eastbound. They were on Atlantic Avenue in Delray Beach, but other than that, Donovan had no idea where he was or where they were going. Montero made several turns, her eyes continually shooting to the rearview mirror. Block by block the neighborhood began to get a little more run down.

Montero swung the BMW down a pothole-riddled street and stopped next to a nondescript cinderblock building. The parking lot was a mixture of gravel and puddles. Scattered palm fronds from last night's wind created a minor obstacle course. The BMW was the only car near the building. The lone grimy window had an anemic red neon sign that announced the establishment was open.

“Give me some of your cash.” Montero held out her hand. “Make it eight hundred. I've worked with the guy before. He owes me one, so I'm thinking it shouldn't take more than five hundred.”

Donovan snapped open his briefcase and retrieved the cash he carried for emergencies. He peeled off the crisp one hundred dollar bills and handed them over.

“Let me do the talking—but keep your eyes open.” Montero said as she got out of the car. She folded the bills and stuffed them into her back pocket.

The heavy smell of gun grease tipped him off before his eyes fully adjusted to the relative darkness. The front of the shop was small in comparison to the size of the building. On each side of the room, behind glass cases filled with pistols, were rows of rifles and shotguns. A buzzer attached to the door announced their arrival.

“Be right there,” a deep baritone voice called out from beyond a curtain at the back of the display area.

“Ricky, get your skinny little ass out here,” Montero said as she closed the door behind them and then flipped the deadbolt to lock them inside.

“Ronnie, is that you? You thinking about my ass?”

“In your dreams, Ricky.”

Donovan stood silent as the curtain parted and a lumbering giant of a man appeared. His massive torso looked far too heavy for his stubby legs. His knees looked like they might snap at any moment as they propelled him toward Montero. A sleeveless tee shirt ballooned over his gigantic belly. His shoulders and arms were covered with curly black hair. His head was hairless, except for a goatee that was braided into two greasy strands that nearly reached the folds of his immense fleshy neck. Donovan guessed the guy easily went three hundred fifty pounds, or more. His face lit up when he spotted Montero.

“Ricky, this is my friend Roberto,” Montero said.

Donovan bristled at the name. The huge man nodded, grunted once as way of hello, and waddled behind the counter. The glazed
look on Ricky's face left no doubt that he was clearly smitten with Montero.

“What can I do for you?” Ricky said, eyeing Montero's chest instead of her face.

“I'm up here, Ricky,” Montero said without any trace of anger, as if she were reprimanding a small child for the hundredth time. “I'm looking for two brothers. Ramone and Diego—you know who I'm talking about.”

Ricky glanced at Donovan, then back to Montero. He answered with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

“I'll take that as a yes.” Montero flashed the stack of hundreds. “Where are they?”

Donovan watched Ricky's eyes savor the cash. Montero referred to Diego in the present tense. If Ricky knew that Diego was lying in the morgue, he didn't show it.

“I ain't seen them in a while,” Ricky said.

“Don't mess with me, Ricky. Not today.” Montero peeled off the top bill and smacked it down on the table with enough force to make Ricky flinch. “You can make this easy on yourself and pocket a few bucks. Or you can jack me around and see my bad side—your call.”

Donovan saw Ricky's eyes narrow. The huge man had just imagined Montero's bad side, and it worried him. Montero slowly took a second bill and gently laid it on the table. Donovan found the contrast interesting. Montero was either smart enough or crazy enough to pull off good cop, bad cop, all by herself.

“I only met Diego once,” Ricky's hand worked his braided goatee as if thinking. “Ramone comes in from time to time. He's a 9-mm guy, likes to practice.”

Montero slid another bill halfway out of the stack and stopped, waiting for Ricky to continue.

“I don't know where they live or nothin', or even who they work for. They're freelancers. Hired muscle.”

Montero let the bill drop. “Who do they run with?”

Ricky looked up at the ceiling as if deep in thought. Montero folded the bills and acted as if she were going to shove the wad back into her pocket.

“Ramone was with this one chick. She strips, maybe she even hooks sometimes. Ramone was always bragging how she was totally hot. The dude was pretty much hung up on her. But that was a while back. I have no idea if she's still around.”

“What's her name? What clubs did she work?” Montero asked, as she began to slowly work another bill out from the roll.

“I don't know.” Ricky shrugged. “She mostly bounced around between Lauderdale and Miami. You know how that business goes.”

“I need a name.”

“She's foreign, Russian or Ukrainian, something like that.”

“Come on, Ricky, concentrate.” Montero slid another bill toward the growing pile.

Ricky gazed upward and snapped his fingers. “Her name is Sasha! Yeah, that's it, Sasha.”

Montero let the last bill float to the countertop, and then she shoved the remaining cash into her pocket. “You'd better be right, Ricky.”

Ricky shot her a nervous look. An instant later, the money on the table vanished, clenched inside a beefy hand.

Montero's threatening expression vanished, replaced with a warm smile. “I'm glad we understand each other. Now, my friend here needs a throw-down weapon. What have you got?”

“I don't need a gun,” Donovan said.

“Yes,” Montero said. “You do.”

“We each have our gifts. I'll leave the killing to you.”

Ricky shrunk from the exchange. The fury that flared in Montero's eyes seemed to fill the room. Donovan stood his ground, realizing that his remark had connected. He waited for her to react, hoping her behavior might tell him something. Instead, much to his surprise, she pressed the remaining bills into his palm, handed him the keys to her car, and walked outside.

Lauren stroked Abigail's hair. The quiet hum of the jet had lulled her daughter into a much-needed nap. The disrupted schedule was taking its toll. Children require structure, their peace of mind dependent on stability and predictability. Lauren put her head back, angry at what had happened to Donovan, uncertain he had the power to change the course of events. She closed her eyes, and one by one, ran through the immediate changes that would shape her life. At Donovan's insistence, for this very reason, she'd kept her maiden name. The media would find out about her and Abigail eventually, but initially, she would be able to move unnoticed.

Stephanie doted on Abigail. If events allowed, they might be able to stay a day or two with Stephanie, and Abigail might view it as a great adventure. In London, there were full sets of forged documents for each of them. They would allow Lauren and Abigail to slip away to Switzerland. Donovan owned a villa not far from Lake Geneva. The Swiss, Donovan maintained, were rather uninterested in outside events, and known for their ability to keep secrets, plus he knew people highly placed in the government who may prove useful.

Lauren thought of everything she'd be forced to leave behind. All of her friends at work, especially her boss and mentor, Calvin Reynolds. She'd known Calvin for years; he'd quietly stepped in after her father had died and subtly filled part of that void in her world. Lauren loved him dearly for his efforts.

She thought of her mother, unable to conceive of what she'd tell her. For the moment at least, her mother was on a cruise in the Mediterranean and wasn't due back for another week. Lauren had
known what she was getting into when she'd married Donovan, but that didn't change how threatened and vulnerable she felt at this moment.

“Is she asleep?” William asked, quietly.

Lauren nodded.

William kept his voice down; the flight attendant was up in the cockpit, well out of earshot. “Once we arrive back home, this jet will be on twenty-four-hour standby—just in case.”

“Donovan mentioned briefly the security arrangements waiting in Virginia,” Lauren said. “Tell me more about this man Howard Buckley.”