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  “Sssh.”

  “But—”

  “Quiet.”

  He started to get up, but as he shifted his weight, he felt another tender spot. Left butt cheek. He pressed his fingers over the area. Small, circular. An injection site. He knew the deal now. Had heard Austin and Lefty talking about it once. A dart with fentanyl would take anyone down, and an injection of a sedative would keep them down. Hours, even days, if need be.

  Alejandro stood, legs wobbly. He shuffled toward the door, sliding a hand along the wall. Felt like painted cinder block. Recently painted. He could still detect a faint odor. He continued until he reached the door, where he pressed his ear, but heard nothing. The door was metal, solid, absolutely no play when he leaned into it. He traced its outline. No knob or handle, no hinges, no gaps along the jamb except the quarter inch near the floor. A bitch to crack. Where the hell was he?

  He moved to where Carmelita sat and dropped to his knees in front of her. He reached up and curled one hand behind her head.

  “Get away from me.” She tried to pull away.

  He grasped a handful of her hair and yanked her toward him, his cheek against hers. She struggled against him. He held her tightly, lips near her ear. “Don’t move. Don’t talk.”

  Carmelita pressed her palm against his chest firmly but didn’t push him away.

  “The room might be bugged.”

  “By who?” she whispered, her lips now close to his ear.

  Good. She understood. He released his grip on her hair but kept his face against hers. “Whoever put us here. Assume they can hear everything.”

  She nodded. “Who are they?”

  “Tell me what you remember.”

  Carmelita said things were spotty, only bits and pieces coming to her. She had been in the shower with Eddie. A man had ripped back the curtain and shot Eddie with a dart. Then did the same to her. That was all she remembered until she woke up here. Maybe a couple of hours ago. She couldn’t be sure. She crawled around the room and discovered Alejandro sleeping. She tried to wake him but got nothing. So she waited.

  “Where’d they shoot you?”

  She pressed her fingers against her left shoulder. “Here.”

  “Any other sore spots?”

  “Everywhere hurts. But, yeah. A spot on my right hip.”

  Alejandro nodded. “They darted us and then injected us with a sedative.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “The same guy who fired the dart at me came in here,” Carmelita said. “Maybe an hour ago.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Tossed me my clothes, shook you—but you were out—and left.”

  “He say anything?”

  “Yeah. I asked him who he was, and he said, ‘Shut the fuck up.’”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Big guy. Muscles. Huge arms.”

  Austin.

  “You know him?” she asked.

  Alejandro spun around and sat next to her, back against the wall. “Maybe.” He wasn’t ready to tell her what was what yet. She might freak. “What the hell does maybe mean?”

  “It means maybe.”

  “You don’t have to be an asshole.”

  “Just give me a minute to sort this out.”

  “I’m cold, I’m hungry, and I’ve got to pee,” she said.

  “Join the club.”

  They sat silently for a while, and then she whispered, “Why are they doing this?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Don’t know that, either.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Wait.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THURSDAY 9:10 A.M.

  I DROPPED DOWN OFF ECHOLS HILL INTO DOWNTOWN HUNTSVILLE, parked on Franklin, and walked the half block to Weiss’s office. When I reached the corner where Weiss’s building stood, I settled beneath the canopy of a maple tree and tried Sin-Dee’s number. Got the answering machine. Didn’t leave a message. I then called Miranda. Told her I had talked to Claire last night and that Claire would call her this morning to set up an on-air interview. Get the story out there. Miranda cried. I said that wouldn’t help, and besides, she didn’t want to have puffy eyes on TV. She laughed. She needed to laugh.

  Weiss’s office occupied the entire top floor of a three-story, gray brick building on the southeast corner of the courthouse square. Gold lettering on the double glass entry doors indicated that Benjamin Weiss, Esq. was a senior partner of Weiss, Wolinsky, and Wolff, who were esquires, too. What the hell is an esquire?

  The reception area was tasteful and expensive. Overstuffed maroon sofas, black marble-topped coffee tables, and light gray walls dotted with signed and numbered serigraphs. I recognized a Chagall and a Dalí. A single client sat on one of the sofas, clutching a briefcase to his midsection as if it were a life preserver. The fingers of his other hand fidgeted with the latch. He had that caught-in-headlights look. Probably looking at jail time or maybe a ball-crushing divorce.

  At the reception desk, a stern-looking, middle-aged woman in a fitted navy blue suit, a white blouse buttoned to her neck, and thick-rimmed glasses chained around her neck greeted me with a forced smile. A nameplate indicated she was Ms. Rachel Brodsky.

  After I requested to see her boss, she looked me up and down, a frown developing. I guessed she didn’t like my jeans and black T-shirt. Probably really hated the jogging shoes. She most likely expected anyone who entered her world to have the decency to wear a suit. I did have on a sports coat. A nice one, I thought.

  Ms. Brodsky asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to talk with me. Only need a couple of minutes.”

  The annoyed wrinkle in her brow deepened. “Today’s impossible. His schedule is quite full. I can make an appointment for another day.” She flipped open a leather-bound appointment book.

  “Today’s better for me,” I said, glancing at my watch. Nine fifteen. “Nine fifteen will be just fine.”

  “Listen, Mister . . . uh . . .”

  “Walker, Dub Walker.” I smiled.

  Ms. Brodsky didn’t. “You still need an appointment.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “What’s this about?”

  I detected a sliver of concern in her voice. “It’s personal.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t interrupt him unless I know why. If you feel the need for such secrecy, you’ll just have to make an appointment.”

  Time for a little dive-bombing. “It’s about the hooker he hired last weekend. She’s missing.”

  Ms. Brodsky’s cool evaporated. She paled and for a second looked as if her brain had vapor locked. If nothing else, she was a pro and recovered quickly. “Just one moment.” She stood and headed down a hallway to her right.

  Two minutes later, I was before Benjamin Weiss, Esq. He wore a tan suit, a blue shirt with a white collar and cuffs, a red tie, a solid gold Rolex, and what appeared to be diamond-studded gold cuff links. His cologne was on the heavy side. Mr. Weiss obviously did well for himself. He was gracious, even though a smidge of apprehension lined his face.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, offering me a seat.

  I sat. “I’m looking for a missing girl. A prostitute. Her last client was you.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  I said nothing, letting him wonder what I knew, feeling the pressure rise.

  Finally Weiss said, “This would be the girl I received a call about a little while ago? Some woman looking for her? Patrice something?”

  “Nomberg,” I said.

  “That’s it. I told her and I’ll tell you, I don’t know anything about this. And I’d never hire a whore.”

  I studied his face. No stress, no anxiety, no pursed lips, no forehead wrinkle. His gaze never wavered. Could be a good liar—he was a lawyer, after all—but he was clean and I knew it. Intuition? Experience? Either way, Weiss wasn’t hiding anything. He was
just confused.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “A friend of her mother’s,” I said.

  Weiss seemed to relax. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He started to stand, but I waved him back down.

  “Just a couple of questions if you don’t mind.”

  He consulted the Rolex. “I have a client waiting.”

  “Do you know of anyone who would use your name? Your address?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You live over on Adams, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The girl in question and a friend were sent to your house. Then disappeared.”

  I could almost see his mental wheels turning. Nothing’s worse for an attorney than to become a criminal suspect. They, more than anyone, know the system can chew you up, and innocence or guilt makes little difference. “When was this?”

  “Saturday before last. Appointment was around 11:00 p.m., I believe.”

  Weiss shook his head. “I was away that weekend. In Nashville for a meeting.”

  “Who knew that?”

  “Lots of people. Everyone here in the office. My friends. My girlfriend. She was with me.”

  “She’ll vouch for you?” I asked.

  “She and about two hundred other people. I was speaking at a national ABA meeting.” He rested his elbows on his desk. “I know where this is going. Yes, I was around people all the time. Either with my colleagues or my girlfriend.” His eyes narrowed. “All the time.”

  “Anyone staying at your house while you were gone?” I asked.

  “No. And it was locked and alarmed.”

  “No one has a key? The alarm code? Maid? Family?”

  “No one.”

  I pulled Noel’s photo from the envelope and handed it to Weiss. “Ever seen her before?”

  “No. Never.” His gaze lingered on the photo. “She’s very pretty. And young.”

  “Nineteen,” I said.

  Weiss passed the photo back to me. “Too young for the work she does.”

  Ain’t it so.

  CHAPTER 10

  THURSDAY 9:21 A.M.

  ALEJANDRO SAT QUIETLY, THINKING THINGS THROUGH. CARMELITA paced around the room, saying that if someone didn’t hurry she’d piss her pants. He suggested she squat in the corner. She told him to fuck off.

  A bank of overhead fluorescent lights sprang to life, causing him to flinch. He could now see the room. Maybe twenty-feet square, cinder-block walls that were indeed painted a light tan, ten-foot ceiling, no windows. He stood as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone keyed the door and it swung open, revealing three men and two guns. Lefty and Austin had the guns. The other guy Alejandro didn’t recognize.

  Austin had that smirk. The same arrogant half grin he had every time he and Lefty delivered the wrapped bodies. Dragged them right out of the SUV, dumped them at Alejandro’s feet, gave that smirk, and drove away. No “How you doing?” No “Can I help you load them in the pickup?” Like he and Eddie were scum, not worthy of their time.

  “Step back,” Austin said. “Against the wall.”

  Alejandro didn’t move.

  He waved the pistol at him. “You want to play hero, go ahead. I’d as soon shoot your sorry ass as stand here. Now, against the wall.”

  Not the time, not the place. Alejandro stepped back, propped a shoulder against the wall, and folded his arms over his chest.

  Austin turned to Carmelita. “Come here.”

  She hesitated.

  “Want me to drag you out?”

  Alejandro nodded to her, then tilted his head toward the door. She took a step that way.

  Austin grabbed her arm, tugged her through the door, and then closed and locked it. They brought her back in ten minutes and led him down a dimly lit hallway to a bathroom. Lefty watched, gun in hand, as Alejandro pissed and washed his hands and face.

  When they returned him to the room, Alejandro saw two paper bags and two bottles of water on the floor.

  Lefty said, “Eat up. Lights out in fifteen minutes.”

  “Who are you?” Carmelita asked. “Why are you doing this?”

  The door slammed shut, and the lock engaged.

  Ham and cheese on wheat and a package of chips were inside each bag. They ate in silence until Carmelita scooted close to him and whispered, “You figured this out yet?”

  “Almost.”

  “Want to tell me?”

  No, Alejandro didn’t want to tell her, risk her going all hysterical, blowing his only hope of getting out of this. The truth was he would need her to pull off the plan that was roaming around in his head. Not a good plan, not one that was likely to work, but the only thing he could come up with. “Let me think on it.”

  They finished their sandwiches and half of the water, saving the rest for later, not sure when the men might return. As promised, the lights went out.

  Alejandro moved close to her and spoke in a soft whisper. “Now, listen. Don’t say a word. Don’t react in any way.”

  She nodded.

  “Are you strong?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You aren’t going to like this. Fact is, it’s going to scare the hell out of you. Can you handle it? Do what’s necessary?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Good answer. Just maybe this could work. “I know them. You know their boss.”

  “What?”

  “Tommy Austin and Lefty Bruno. Very bad guys. Work for Rocco Scarcella.” The dim light from beneath the door reflected off her eyes, now wide and moist. “They’re going to kill us.”

  Carmelita tensed but didn’t scream or panic but rather simply said, “Why do you think that?”

  “It’s what they do. Besides, I know them, and now you’ve seen their faces.”

  She let out a soft sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. “Which means we can identify them.”

  “Only reason they haven’t done us already is that they want something. Something we can provide.”

  “What? I don’t know anything. I don’t know who these people are or what . . .” Carmelita pulled back, and he could tell she was looking at him through the darkness. “Is it the bodies? The two Eddie was talking about?”

  “That was his bullshit.”

  “Playing the big guy, huh? Trying to get my panties off? Like every other hard dick that comes in?”

  But it worked this time, he wanted to say. She had swallowed it. Had shucked those panties right off and humped Eddie in the shower. Of course she didn’t know that Eddie had told her the truth and that it was this truth that put them right here.

  Alejandro knew what was coming. Rocco needed to know who else knew about the bodies. Did either of them talk? Rocco would do what was necessary, and it wouldn’t be pretty. Then they would both die. Rocco was tidy that way.

  Alejandro knew something else. This was his fault. He should have done Eddie himself, never mentioned a word to Rocco. Tell him Eddie went back to Atlanta, back to his petty drug deals. Fuck. “I don’t think so,” Carmelita said. “He wasn’t lying.”

  “He lies all the time.”

  “Don’t fuck with me. I saw truth in his eyes. And if he did it, you did it. He couldn’t by himself. Doesn’t have the cojones. You do.”

  The girl wasn’t dumb. She knew people. Men, anyway. Came with the territory. Alejandro figured that listening to testosterone-stoked truths, half-truths, and outright lies night after night gave her a fairly accurate radar.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” he said.

  “The hell it doesn’t. I’ll tell them I had nothing to do with it. Nada. That I won’t say a word.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to hear that. Right up until they gang rape you and stick a gun in your mouth.”

  Carmelita pulled completely away from him, crawled to a corner, and sat, locking her arms around her knees. “Fuck you.”

  He moved close to her. “I’m not the one you have to worry about. I’m you
r only hope.”

  “Right.”

  “You want to be a bitch, or you want out of this?”

  CHAPTER 11

  THURSDAY 10:30 A.M.

  THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE HUNTSVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT WAS housed in the North Precinct, a tan and brick building on Mastin Lake Road north of downtown. It sat across from the Lakewood Shopping Center and next to Lakewood Baptist Church. I walked beneath the pyramid-shaped roof that shaded the entry alcove and pushed through the glass doors.

  Two uniformed officers stood just inside, talking, one sipping coffee from a paper cup. They nodded as I walked past.

  Directly ahead, the duty officer sat behind a high counter. Metal detectors flanked him and guarded the two hallways into the building. He was forty or so, balding with a gut barely restrained by his wide duty belt, and a face devoid of expression. Bored was the look.

  I told him the story and showed him Noel’s photos.

  Not overly enthusiastic about a missing hooker, he said, “They come in, turn a few tricks, and go back to whatever small town they escaped from. Find that life here ain’t much different than where they were. Or they fall in love, fly off to la-la land. When she runs out of money, she’ll be back.” He gave me the standard form. “They always do.”

  He was a real poet. A philosopher. His concern was touching.

  “This one might be a little different,” I said.

  He smirked. “Right.” He scanned the photos. “How old?”

  “Nineteen.”

  He handed the photos back. “Then she has the right to disappear.”

  “I believe she might have been kidnapped.” That sounded lame, even to me.

  “Why?”

  I couldn’t tell him I was running with a hunch. “Look. She’s a responsible kid.” I hoped this lie rolled out convincingly. “Wouldn’t just take off. College kid. Hasn’t been to class. Hasn’t contacted her mother.” I slid the pictures toward him. “Just put out a flyer on her. Maybe one of the patrol guys will see something. Couldn’t hurt. Might save her life.”

  He nodded and scooped up the photos.

  I filled out the form, while he made photocopies. The entire process took fifteen minutes and inspired zero confidence.