Chapter 14

Five days later—Thursday, May 29

"Have you reconsidered talking with someone?" Foster had lingered behind as she and Murphy were leaving to get the mail, and she bestowed a sympathetic look upon me. "I think it would help you."

"Don't worry about me. Worry about doing your job," I growled at her. I know she was trying to help, but I didn't need her sympathy. I needed to find Stephanie.

And that wasn't happening.

After my virtual meltdown in the church on Saturday morning I actually started to feel a little bit better. For a few days I was able to eat a small portion of the bland, easy-on-the-stomach meals Ella made for me. I even managed several hours of sleep a couple of nights. But as the week wore on, I backslid.

Every clue, every possibility had petered out. There was nothing left except the mailbox.

We'd had twenty-four hour surveillance on the box for the entire six days, just in case, using a telephoto lens to take high-resolution digital pictures of every person that dropped a piece of mail in, as well as photographing the few vehicles that stopped. We also mounted miniaturized cameras on a dozen more mailboxes in the blocks surrounding South Broad and Bridge Streets, with feed to the control room.

Tonight it would be four weeks since Stephanie disappeared.

This morning I had a stack of paperwork from Tank. Contracts to sign, letters to okay, proposals to review. The work of RangeMan went on, whether I was involved or not. When I went away on a mission I left Tank a durable power of attorney authorizing him to act for me in all matters, even if I should become incapacitated. But as long as I was in Trenton, even though Tank was running the business I signed my own contracts.

I'd been plowing through paperwork for almost an hour when there was a tap on my office door.

"Come in," I called, watching the door as it opened, the slowness of it a portent.

Foster. And I didn't like the look on her face.

Or the glove on her right hand as she pushed the door open.

My stomach gave a lurch.

"I opened it," she said without prelude. "Alvirez is on his way down with evidence bags, but I knew you wouldn't want to wait to see it."

I yanked a pair of gloves out of my desk drawer. I'd gotten a box of them from the supply room after the first envelope arrived, wanting, no, needing to be prepared.

Foster was holding the envelope in her left hand down at her side, partially blocked by her body. I could see she had opened it, but the picture was shielded by the envelope.

Mutely I held out a gloved hand, keeping my face blank. From the look on her face and her bearing I knew it was going to be bad. Dear God, give me the strength to endure it, whatever it is.

She wordlessly handed them to me.

The back of the photo was toward me, the front facing the envelope. I wanted to close my eyes and scream, but I looked down at the bold printing.

I could not resist
that beautiful
white skin.

I clenched my teeth, tightened my jaw and flipped the photo over.

I couldn't repress a flinch when I saw the red lash marks all over her back and buttocks.

Stephanie… no, the victim… was on her knees, naked, handcuffed arms chained high above her head, stretching her upward. A hand, his hand, held her head by the hair, pulling it to the side so her face was revealed to the camera.

She was in partial profile, but her eyes were clearly visible. Although the lids were drooping I could see they were hugely dilated, almost all pupils. Coupled with the slackness of her face and slumped posture, that indicated drugs of some type, perhaps rohypnol or ketamine, the date-rape drugs. Given in small doses, she would remain semi-conscious but be submissive and unfeeling. Please, God, let her not have known what was happening to her.

I realized Foster's hand was on my shoulder and I shrugged away from her. I knew she was trying to be supportive, to comfort me, but I wasn't about to give in to weakness. If I fell apart I'd be no good to Stephanie.

I concentrated on the whip marks. This wasn't the first time I'd seen something like that.

There was a tap on the partly open door and Alvirez looked in.

"Here, Dino," I said holding the evidence out to him. "Task force meeting in a half hour. If you're not done we can conference you in."

I turned to Foster and spoke decisively. "Pull in everyone who's in Trenton. I need a few minutes to think about this, to access the file and try to recall the details. Conference room at ten hundred."

As she stepped out of my office and shut the door behind her I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

El Látigo. The Whip.

Santiago Torres was a drug lord with major resources in both Bolivia and Peru. A Bolivian national, he clawed his way up the production pyramid to become the second or third in command in the drug trade infrastructure for the whole central part of the South American continent.

He was a sadist of the worst kind, and got his rocks off whipping prostitutes. Hence the name. El Látigo.

That was how we finally located him, following the trail of victims to his palace in the jungle. Thinking back now on the way we'd finally gotten him to talk made me feel sick. But back then in that part of the world I was known as "El Trucidor." The killer, but not just any killer. It was from the Latin trucido, to kill cruelly, slay, butcher, massacre, slaughter. The Butcher. I was trained to do whatever it took to complete my mission.

We got the information we needed and left him in his palatial home, setting charges and blowing the place to kingdom come. Nobody could have survived the blast.

Could they?

I pulled out my phone and pressed speed dial.

"What's up?" the voice came.

"I need you to go to La Paz, immediately. I'm sending the jet. It'll be at Kendall in four hours."

"Good to go, boss."

oOo

Chapter 15

The task force was convened in the conference room. I looked around, feeling real hope for the first time in four long weeks. Finally, something I could get my teeth into.

I addressed the assembly.

"This latest picture has given us a lead that we need to chase down as quickly as possible." I gestured to the large monitor on the wall showing the picture. It was still as horrific as my first glimpse of it, but now I had an idea, something to run with. Even if it turned out to be a false lead, I thought, my stomach rolling at the possibility, at least for the moment I was back on my game.

"The operation that I'm going to tell you about was classified to the max, but I've spoken with General Gordon and he's given me special dispensation for the purposes of this task force in this investigation only. You're all covered by the secrecy agreements you've signed, and you can't disclose this matter to anyone."

I proceeded to give them a brief overview of the mission and El Látigo, leaving out the most disturbing details.

DEA agent Gonzalez had just returned from South America with a three-day growth of beard and red, bag-laden eyes. He gaped at me. "That was you?" he asked, his eyes brightening with curiosity. "That operation is a legend in DEA lore. A lot of people believe it's a myth."

"There was nothing mythical about it," I answered in a tone that brooked no more questions. "We thought the subject had died in the explosion, but that photo is almost identical to the position we found one of the prostitutes in during the mission. The damage there was similar, although considerably greater. El Látigo held her captive for nearly two months, keeping her drugged. He whipped her every day and raped her afterward."

There was a sound from Morelli. I looked at him and he refused to meet my eyes, his face as empty as he could make it. I knew it was killing him. It was killing me, too, but there was enough evidence there to keep my mind on the mission, my eye on the prize.

"She was barely alive when we found her, but her information was the key to locating him. Now that he's started this pattern with Stephanie, it's imperative that we find her immediately."

And we will, I reassured myself. We have to. Any other outcome is unacceptable.

I continued, "I've already got Raptor on his way to Bolivia. He'll go into the jungle and find out what happened. It's hard to believe anyone could have survived that blast, but it's remotely possible. If there's any trace of him, even any rumors, Raptor will find out."

I looked around the table and met each pair of eyes resolutely. "As of this moment, every single resource we can muster will be concentrated on Santiago Torres. This is the most we've had in four weeks, and we're going to follow this lead until we find the truth. Until we find Stephanie."

I looked down the table at Murphy and Foster. "Sean, Barbara, how does this new information affect your profile?"

Murphy began. "Based on what you've just told us about Torres, he's exhibiting the classic symptoms of sexual sadism, building sexual excitement through whipping his victims and then obtaining release by raping them. The fact that he drugs them indicates that it is the act of whipping itself that excites him, and not a pain response on their part. It's possible that the screaming and struggling of a fully-conscious victim would interfere with his enjoyment, and therefore he keeps them in a state of partial consciousness."

Foster took over. "Most sexual sadists are between the ages of 25 and 40. After the age of 40 the libido drops off and the need for sadistic release decreases. Since according to the records Torres would be 48 now, the fact that he's doing this to Stephanie is likely more a matter of revenge than for sexual release."

Murphy again: "The typical sexual sadist is very macho and wants to dominate his victims. It's all about power, exerting it over others and avoiding having it exerted over himself. The very worst thing for this type of perp is to be dominated."

That helped explain El Látigo's need for revenge. My team had seriously dominated him to obtain the information we needed to break up the drug business in that part of the world, and I had been in command. He resisted, but we eventually found the one thing that broke him down and forced him to tell us everything we wanted to know. He would have particular reason to hate me.

"It's apparent that Torres uses an escalating pattern," Foster went on. "He keeps his victims alive for lengthy periods to be used over and over again, but he needs more and more violence to satisfy him. Therefore the whippings begin lightly, and over weeks get harder and harder until the victim eventually dies."

She looked directly at me. "I believe we're seeing a sign of escalation right now as evinced by the timing of the photos. The first photo came two weeks after he took the victim. The second was a week later, and the third, six days. I believe the next one will be even sooner, perhaps four or five days."

She looked around the room. "Everyone needs to give their utmost efforts to finding the victim quickly, before it's too late."

There were nods and murmurs of assent all around the table.

"Thank you," I said, standing up and leaning forward with both hands flat on the table to address the group. "Each one of you has an essential role in this investigation, and failure is not an option."

I began issuing orders.

Stephanie had been gone twenty-seven days.

oOo

Chapter 16

Five days later—Tuesday, June 3

I collapsed into bed and was asleep in fifteen seconds. I'd been a tornado of activity since the third photo arrived, commanding the team, studying files, calling contacts.

After a day and a half in Bolivia, Raptor had called to report unconfirmed rumors of El Látigo surviving the blast and going to Lima, Peru for medical treatment. All of this had taken place more than ten years previously, but there were still many people in the area who remembered El Látigo, his wealth and his cruelty. A small plane was spotted taking off from the landing strip at his decimated mansion the day after the explosion and the legend grew that he would one day return to terrorize women and small children.

Raptor followed the trail to Lima and there found archived medical treatment records for a Sancho Garcia. He arrived the day after the explosion in the jungle and was in the hospital for four weeks suffering from burns and multiple broken bones.

Garcia was released to a convalescent home where he stayed for several months. There was a nurse still working there that remembered Garcia because of a scandal associated with him. He connected with a mousy little aide who enjoyed being hurt. She was fired, but the nurse was quite sure Garcia had married her a short time later.

Through her family Raptor traced the couple to Mexico City. I flew down to help him look, but El Látigo had left there four years ago. We found an elderly neighbor who confirmed from an ancient Bolivian military photo that Sancho Garcia was Santiago Torres.

We arrived in Miami in the pre-dawn hours of Tuesday morning and I managed three good hours of sleep in my bed in the penthouse apartment. Since I was already here I planned to spend the morning taking care of business before going back to Trenton and the task force.

My refrigerator had been stocked with some basics, and I made myself a scrambled egg and a piece of whole wheat toast. I hadn't been hungry since Stephanie disappeared, but the frenetic activity of the past five days helped diminish the ever-present nausea and I managed to get enough food down to keep going.

I looked hard at myself in the bathroom mirror as I yanked on my usual black cargoes and t-shirt, tightening my belt to take in the looseness of the clothes. I looked like a different person than I had five weeks ago, gone from wrestler to runner. I'd lost at least thirty pounds, turning my formerly pumped-up body into lean sinew and ropy muscles.

The dark circles under my eyes had turned to permanent pouchy bags, making me look ten years older, closer to forty-five than my thirty-five years. My deadpan face was etched with deep lines.

But the most noticeable change was my hair. The formerly almost-black mane was now streaked with gray. I looked like my father.

I'd never been vain about my looks, but I'd always known I had them. They were as much a part of me as my personality, and I'd used them my whole adult life to help me get what I wanted or needed, from information to sexual release.

Stephanie was the only woman I'd met who wasn't instantly attracted to me. Oh, but I was attracted to her. She had that indefinable incandescence, that light.

When I thought she and the cop were getting serious I pulled out all the stops, and she noticed me then. But she still resisted. I teased her with innuendo and touches and kisses until she finally gave in.

That night together was so powerful, meant so much to me that I made the most stupid mistake of my life and sent her back to the cop. I talked myself into believing that life with me would be too dangerous for her when the truth was, I was afraid she'd discover my dirty secrets. I knew if she found out what I was, the things I've done, she could never love me. Her goodness just wouldn't be able to comprehend my evil.

I shook my head and walked out of the bathroom and down the stairs to my office.

Stephanie had been gone thirty-two days.

oOo

At 0800 I spent twenty minutes on the phone with the task force, most of them still in Trenton. They'd followed every possible avenue, unraveling even the most miniscule threads, trying to find a trace of El Látigo. They'd come up with zip, zilch, nada, and nothing.

I rubbed both hands over my face in frustration as I hung up the phone. How could a team comprised of some of the best law enforcement agents in the country spend almost three weeks on a case and come up with nothing at all?

I turned my attention to the pile of papers in front of me. My concentration was shot to hell these days, but I forced myself to read and sign.

An hour later my phone rang and I glanced at the caller ID. Raptor.

"Talk," I ordered, my voice flat. I might be falling apart, but I wasn't dead yet and as long as I had breath I was going to hold it together. Even if it killed me.

"Boss, you better come down to the front desk." Raptor's voice was as flat as mine.

"What is it?" I just wanted to get through these papers and get on the jet back to Trenton.

"We have an envelope here addressed to you."

TBC