Chapter 23

Tuesday, June 10

I opened the hidden door behind the built-in shelves in the small office off my bedroom. There was a high-tech motion-sensing and sound system and I slipped in the earpiece that would let me know if someone came and knocked on my apartment door or let themselves in. I closed and bolted the apartment, bedroom and office doors to slow down anyone trying to enter, and to give me time to get back up the hidden staircase if someone came looking for me.

I didn't expect anyone. They all knew better than to disturb me.

I walked down and down, into the depths of hell. Raptor was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs and together we entered El Látigo's cell.

He'd been alone in the dark for almost twenty-four hours and he squeezed his eyes shut as I snapped on the extra-bright overhead lights.

He was sitting on the floor, his back against the chilly concrete wall, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. It was cool and damp, but the June heat had kept the temperature comfortable, even underground.

The room had the sharp smell of ammonia, and I could see he'd urinated on the floor, as far from the spot he was sitting as possible. The urine had run down the sloped floor toward the drain in the corner of the room.

I made a mental note to be sure someone dumped a few gallons of bleach down the drain when we cleaned the room afterward. If by some freak of fate the subbasement was ever discovered I wouldn't want a DNA analysis of the contents of the drain to convict me.

El Látigo slitted his eyes open as they adjusted to the light and spoke in Spanish. "Ah, the infamous El Trucidor."

I got right to the point. "Where is Stephanie?"

"You don't have my family to use against me this time." His voice was wooden.

It was what I expected. All my extensive interrogation skills hadn't broken him ten years ago. I always tried to avoid harming the innocent, but where many lives were at stake I was willing to do whatever it took.

Of course that was before I met Stephanie.

"I will give you one more chance to answer before I begin." I kept the fury and hate that churned inside out of my voice. "And you should consider the fact that my techniques have improved since we last met."

I paused to give him a chance to process my words. He remained silent.

"Where is Stephanie?" I asked again.

No response.

I nodded at Raptor and we walked to each side of El Látigo, where the restraints were fastened. The cuffs on each of his wrists were attached to chains that ran up the wall through metal rings at the upper corners of the room and down to hooks at waist level.

We each took a chain and pulled, hauling him to his feet by the wrists and spreading his arms wide above him. We refastened the chains to hold him there.

His ankles were shackled to similar chains running to eyebolts in the lower corners of the wall,. We pulled on those chains to bring his legs outward so that he was spreadeagled against the wall, the balls of his feet just barely reaching the floor to take a little of his weight.

I looked him over. The burn scars stood out on his body, streaking not only his arms as we'd seen from the photos, but also his legs and chest. Some freak of fate had spared his face and genitals.

Raptor walked out of the room. I stepped back and held El Látigo's eyes, my own completely dead, and after a few moments he looked away toward the door.

Raptor walked back in pushing a metal cart on wheels. El Látigo tried to remain expressionless, but I was sure I could spot a taste of fear in his eyes when he saw the assortment of tools the cart contained.

I glanced at the cart. "The torch, I think," I told Raptor.

Raptor picked up a small propane torch, flicked a lighter and opened the valve. The torch caught with a bright yellow flame and he adjusted the gas/air mixture until the flame was compact and blue, making a whooshing sound.

I took the torch and approached El Látigo. "Did you use that undersized dick to fuck my woman?" I asked. No response. "I think I'll start there."

I brought the torch between his legs and raised it high enough to singe the hair on his empty scrotum, his balls having headed north with fear. He strained upward on his toes trying to avoid the flame, and I didn't actually burn his skin, hoping against hope that just the threat would be enough to make him talk.

"Where is Stephanie?" I asked for the third time.

His face broke into a malicious smile. "She's gone. You'll never find her body."

"I don't believe you." My tone was cold but my stomach was detonating and I was about to be sick.

I turned and handed the torch to Raptor. If anyone rivaled El Trucidor for heartlessness and indifferent cruelty, it was Raptor. El Depredador, the Predator. "Take over," I choked out, hastening through the door. I slammed it shut behind me, blessedly cutting off the first scream, and bolted for the bathroom.

oOo

Two hours later I was sitting in a folding chair, my head in my hands, the foul taste of bile still on my tongue, when the door opened and Raptor emerged. The smell of burnt flesh followed him and my stomach lurched again.

"The fucking asswipe died on me." His voice was bitter. "Must have had a bad heart."

I looked at him, straining to maintain a neutral expression.

"His story never changed, no matter what I did to him. He said she OD'd on heroin and he dumped her body in the river just below the port. It would have been carried out on the tide."

"I don't believe it," I said. "I can still feel her."

His face held pity. "I'll get Tank to help with clean-up. Go to bed."

I dragged myself up the stairs and into the shower, scrubbing until my skin was red and raw. I had plenty to think about, not only the possibility that Stephanie was really gone, but also the fact that I'd been unable to do what the job required.

El Trucidor, my alter ego for more than a decade, was well and truly dead, as surely a victim of Stephanie Plum as Ranger was, as Carlos was.

I went to bed and slept for a couple of hours, dreaming of dead mermaids floating out on the tide, curly brown hair undulating in the sea currents and dead blue eyes sucking away my soul.

Stephanie had been gone thirty-nine days.

oOo

Chapter 24

Six days later—Monday, June 16

My phone rang at 0645 as I was shuffling papers at my desk. I glanced at the caller ID and my heart contracted, pain closing a fist around it. The call I'd been praying wouldn't come.

"General," I said into the phone.

"Good morning, Ranger," General Victor Gordon came through powerful and clear and authoritative, not mincing words. "As of this moment the task force is disbanded. It's been a full month, and we're putting it into the cold case file."

"Sir," I began, but he cut me off.

"I know this is personal, son, and because of my high regard for you I've already let it go on two weeks longer than if it were anyone else." His voice was kind but still decisive. "It's over. Send them home. That's an order."

"Yes, sir." No matter how much I hated it, I was still a soldier. I still followed direct orders.

An hour later I was sitting in the conference room waiting for the last members of the team to arrive. Once everyone was settled with their cups of coffee and bottles of water I began with the same word I'd used every single day for the past month.

"Report."

The discouragement was apparent as I heard negative after negative. No leads, no suspicions, nothing.

When we'd gone all the way around the table I stood to address the group.

"Thank you all very much for your efforts in the kidnapping of Stephanie Plum. Nobody could have done more to find her than you've done."

Now for the hard part, at least for me. "I received a call from General Gordon this morning. The task force is disbanded effective immediately."

I looked at the faces around the table and standing against the walls. Regret, sadness, pity, but overshadowing all, relief. They were glad the fruitless search was over.

"You're ordered to report back to your regular jobs. Please be sure before you leave that all files, interviews, and other paperwork related to this investigation are returned to this room. RangeMan personnel remain here. The rest of you are dismissed."

The Feds filed past me one at a time, shaking my hand, saying good-bye and thank you, nothing more. Until Foster.

"You know where to reach me if you need someone to talk to," she murmured into my ear as she drew my head down and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Take care of yourself, Ranger."

I just gave her a curt nod. I wasn't ready to give up yet, not by a longshot.

Caterson shook my hand and then stepped to one side, waiting for Morelli. He was the last one, and he probably thought he was being discreet, holding back until the rest of the Feds had left the room.

He didn't extend a hand, just a nasty look. "It's your fault, Manoso, and you'll pay. You better stay down here, because if you come back to Trenton…" He trailed off as Tank, Lester and Bobby stepped up to flank me, supportive and far more dangerous than I was at the moment.

I just gave him my blank stare. He turned and walked toward the door, Caterson taking his arm and joining him as he passed.

I turned back to the RangeMan team. "Okay, men, assignments."

Stephanie had been gone forty-four days.

oOo

Four days later—Friday, June 20

On Friday night, after another futile five days of combing the city showing people photos of Stephanie, I sent Tank, Manny, Zero, Vince and Woody back to Trenton.

Tank was a man of few words and he said nothing, just clapped me on the shoulder as he walked past on his way out the door. The others followed his lead.

Stephanie had been gone forty-eight days.

oOo

A week later—Friday, June 27

I kept Lester, Bobby, Hal and Ram for another week, but the following Friday sent them back to Trenton as well. I dismissed the rest of the Miami staff to their normal duties.

I was sleeping a little better, even going a couple of nights without dreaming. That was the worst thing, I thought. I was starting to get used to the loss of Stephanie, and I hated myself for it.

I continued to spend twenty hours a day searching. I went back through box after box of files, looking for some inconsistency, some niggling little detail to galvanize my instincts, but found nothing.

I ate just enough to keep going, and pushed myself further and further, refusing to admit, even to myself, that she might be gone for good.

Armed with photos of Stephanie, I walked from bar to bar, store to store, not confining myself to the worst parts of the city but spiraling ever outward from the Opa Locka apartment. I must have shown the pictures to thousands of people, but nobody recognized her.

Stephanie had been gone fifty-five days.

oOo

Two days later—Sunday, June 29

On the Sunday evening after Lester and Bobby left I found myself back at San Juan Bosco Church. Evening mass was just beginning in Spanish and I slipped into the back, losing myself in the familiar-yet-distant ritual.

I remained seated, my head bowed, as the small body of worshippers passed me and exited the building. The voices trailed off and finally it was just me, alone with my thoughts, begging God for forgiveness for what I'd done, pleading for Stephanie's life.

I was taught as a child that you couldn't bargain with God. Praying something like 'Dear Lord help me pass this test and I promise I'll go to mass every week for the next year' never worked.

But I was desperate. I'm a changed man, Lord, I prayed, and it is because of Stephanie Plum. Her goodness has overcome the evil of El Trucidor. The world is a better place with her in it. Please God… Please God…

Father Valdes came back in and sat down next to me, fingering his rosary as he prayed silently. After about an hour he patted me on the shoulder and left me alone in my misery.

Stephanie had been gone fifty-eight days.

oOo

Chapter 25

Three days later—Wednesday, July 2

"Boss, there's a call on the hotline," came the voice from the control room Wednesday morning as I sat at my desk disregarding the papers covering it. "Do you want it?"

Every few days a call would still come in on the special number we'd established for use with the ten thousand posters that I'd had papered over the city. Many of the posters had blown away, been torn down, or were covered over with other, newer posters, but some remained and occasional callers would take a shot at the reward.

"I'll take it here," I said, waiting for the call to be transferred to my desk phone. After a moment the phone buzzed and I picked it up.

"Yes?"

The voice on the line was a girl's, young, soft, uncertain. "Uh, 'scuse me for botherin' y'all, but I saw a pitcher of a kidnapped lady stuck up on a pole and I was wonderin' iff'n y'all ever found her."

I was short and sharp. "Your name, please?"

"I goes by Velveteen," she said.

"What's your real name?"

"Not fer folks to know. S'it really matter?"

"I guess not. Okay, Velveteen, what about the lady in the picture?"

"Well, I ain't really sure, but she looks a li'l bit like some'un what works in the same house as me. Not 'zackly, but I guess'n the pitchers on the poster was taken a long time ago, right? When she was younger?"

Six months ago. But a lot had happened since.

"Can you tell me where I can find the lady that looks like the picture, Velveteen?"

"Is there still a ree-ward? 'Cuz iff'n it's her I really needs the money. I gots two li'l girls, one's three and the other'n's jus' a baby. They's stayin' with a friend 'cuz I can'ts afford a place o' my own."

Two kids, and she sounds like she's about fifteen. "How about if I come to the house and you show me? If it's her I'll give you the reward right away."

"Not the house. But there be a li'l samwich shop jus' down the street. Kin y'all meets me?"

"Just give me the address and I'll be right there."

oOo

The sandwich shop was nestled among slums and burnt-out row homes controlled by drug dealers and gangs. It wasn't that far from the office, in Overtown, a very poor black neighborhood just to the northwest of downtown Miami. Although developers were touting a renewal here, the bulk of the neighborhood was still graffiti-covered boarded-up abandoned buildings. I took a battered old SUV we sometimes used for surveillance so I wouldn't stand out in the ghetto.

As I entered the diner twenty minutes after the phone call, I was grateful my dark skin and working clothes helped me blend in. There wasn't a white face in sight. I gave a couple of teenagers a look and they scurried out of the back booth carrying their cokes and burgers. I sat down on the cracked vinyl seat with my back to the wall and ordered coffee.

An hour later I was still waiting.

I signaled the young waitress over. "I was supposed to meet someone here. Do you know Velveteen?"

Her dark eyes grew huge. "Ooh, yeah, I knows her, and I knows her man'd kill her iff'n she be steppin' out on him."

She started backing away, but stopped when I pulled a thick roll of cash out of my pocket. I peeled off a hundred. "It's important that I find the place that she works. There's another woman there that I need to see. Not Velveteen."

I could see her struggle between avarice and terror at what would happen if Velveteen's man found out she told.

I sweetened the pot by peeling off another hundred, adding, "And I won't tell anyone I talked to Velveteen or you."

She held out her hand for the money and didn't speak until it was safe in her pocket. "Two blocks over there," she pointed northeast. "A big, dirty tan house wi' two red doors openin' in the middle."

She darted back into the kitchen without another word.

I got in my car and began circling the blocks in the direction she'd pointed. Sure enough, a dirty tan house with double doors painted red.

I sat in my Explorer across the street for a while, watching the house, but nobody went in or out. Not wanting to wait any longer, anxious to find the woman that looked like Stephanie, I climbed the peeling front steps and rang the bell.

The doors creaked open, revealing a buxom black woman wearing dark red lipstick and a very low-cut red knit top that exposed bountiful cleavage.

"Come on in, honey" she greeted me, looking me over and sitting down at a desk in the foyer. "Well now, you don't look like you need to pay for it, so what can I help you with today?"

I quickly evaluated the situation and made a snap decision how to play it. "I got some, uh, needs," I used a Cuban accent left over from my youth in the hood, "and I heard you got a curly-headed white puta that could maybe help me with them. How much for an hour with her?"

Her mouth curved into a greedy smile when I pulled out my roll of bills. "Ah yes, our shining Star. For you, honey, we got a special going on today. Two hundred for an hour, five hundred for all afternoon, up until, uh," she looked at a rhinestone-encrusted watch on her wrist, "six o'clock."

I was pretty sure the price had doubled when she saw my money, but I didn't care. I just wanted to confirm that it wasn't Stephanie, and if it cost me two hundred, fine.

I peeled off two bills and handed them to her. "I'll take an hour."

She turned to a panel of buttons next to her and pushed the one marked "6." I heard the faint jangling of a bell far upstairs, and she handed me a key. "Room six, third floor. Just let yourself right in. Return the key to me on your way out."

I climbed the stairs two at a time, a vague uneasiness rippling in my chest. Pausing in the hallway I emptied my mind to see if I could feel Stephanie.

Nothing except that sense of disquietude, like something unfortunate was about to happen.

The solid wood door marked "6" was grimy, stained with God knows what. I inserted the key into the lock and let myself in, pulling the door shut behind me and assessing my environment.

The room was plain, with formerly white walls and white filmy curtains over the single window fluttering in the draft from a noisy air-conditioner. A simple dresser of white-painted wood composite stood in one corner, while a half-open door in the opposite corner revealed mildewed white tile and the edge of a toilet.

However, the bed was diametrically opposed to its unremarkable surroundings. The lumpy mattress was covered with a faded, but still jarring paisley-print cotton spread in orange and yellow, like something from a college dorm room. The chipped black-painted bars of the iron headboard were bedecked with a jumble of chains, padlocks, leather straps, and fur-lined handcuffs. It was a BDSM fetishist's wet dream.

The hooker had her back to me, standing at a small sink in the corner by the bathroom wiping her hands on a thin, yellowed towel. Her blonde-streaked hair was hacked off just above her shoulders, frizzy-curly, dry and dull and lifeless, not Stephanie's glossy chestnut coils.

A short, transparent pink robe hung from her narrow shoulders down over an ass that I could see was sunken and scrawny, nothing like Stephanie's enticing rounded globes that just begged to be cupped in your hands.

Her legs were long, like Stephanie's, but stick-like, all bones, not shapely and built to be wrapped around your waist.

"I'm sorry, I was looking for someone else," I said, reaching for the doorknob to let myself out.

She turned toward me, saying in a husky, slurred voice, "Hey there. I'm Star. What's your pleasure, big guy? Sucking, fucking, spanking? Round the world or S and M are extra. Whatever you want for the next hour I'm all… yours…" She trailed off as her apathetic gaze reached me.

I looked into those lackluster blue eyes with the pinprick pupils. My mind was spinning, my heart racing, and the acid in my stomach bubbled up to my throat, threatening to erupt at any second.

My voice didn't work and I had to force the nausea down and clear my throat to get the single word out.

"Babe."

TBC in Part III—With You