“Your wish is our command.” Irving turned to the officer next to him, every year of his three decades as a cop showing in the lines on his face and the heavy bags beneath his eyes. “Do what the deputy marshal says, Sergeant Wu.”
Wu nodded, a suppressed grin on his face. “I’m on it.”
Darcangelo clapped Irving on the shoulder, the two men offering a sharp visual contrast—one young and athletic with long dark hair held back in a ponytail, the other middle-aged with a belly that protruded over his belt, his gray hair buzzed into a crew cut. “Irving, I’m going to put in a good word for you. You’ve been very cooperative.”
Even though it hurt, Joaquin couldn’t help but laugh.
Darcangelo turned on him, jabbed a finger in his face. “I don’t want to hear a thing from you, Ramirez. I’m still not sure whether I should arrest you, kick your ass myself, or buy you a drink.”
“Maybe all three.” Hunter appeared with an ice pack in his hand and McBride at his side. He tossed the ice pack to Joaquin. “I still think you should see a doc.”
“I’ll be fine.” Joaquin pressed the ice to his jaw.
He probably deserved to get his ass kicked. He definitely deserved to get arrested. Howstupidcould he be, letting the sunlight catch his lens like that? If the cops hadn’t gotten there in time . . .
McBride stopped in front of him, looked him over. “You’re damned lucky to be alive. I’m just glad I didn’t have to tell Natalie you’d gotten yourself killed. Later, you and I are going to have a very serious conversation.”
Then McBride turned to the other men. “Now, where is the son of a bitch?”
Darcangelo turned and walked down the hallway, McBride and Hunter following him, their voices trailing back. “Are you sure you’re up for this, bro? This asshole tortured you for six days and tried to kill Natalie. If it’s too personal—”
“Worry about him, not me.”
“You’re not going to hit him, are you?” That was Hunter, the tone of his voice suggesting that perhaps McBrideshouldhit Quintana.
“That would be illegal, wouldn’t it? No, I’m not going to hit him. I’m going to kick the living shit out of him.”
Irving looked at Joaquin, shook his head, the weariness in his eyes brightened by just a hint of amusement. “Christ.”
WHILE DARCANGELO AND Hunter watched from the other side of the one-way mirror, Zach entered the interrogation room and found Quintana staring upward as if counting ceiling tiles, looking bored. “¿Te acuerdas de mí?”Do you remember me?
Quintana met his gaze, smiled. “We miss you—my little stinger and I.”
Ignoring the taunt, Zach crossed the small room, dragged Quintana to his feet, and drove his fist into Quintana’s gut hard enough to bend the bastard double and knock the breath from his lungs. Then he grabbed Quintana by the hair, jerking his head up, forcing Quintana to meet his gaze. “If anything happens to Señorita Benoit, I will make you watch while I feed your balls to my dogs.”
Never mind that he had no dogs.
Quintana struggled to breathe, his lips twisting in a painful grimace that became a grin. “Like I made you watch . . . when I played with her perfect tits?”
Pulse thrumming, Zach willed himself to step back, knowing he was a heartbeat away from losing control and killing a man in his custody. He turned himself to stone, let himself go cold. “We have so much to talk about—like the explosives you planted in Señorita Benoit’s car.”
“I have nothing to say to you, except this.” Quintana fixed him with his gaze. “In the end you will fail. Your enemy follows no rules, while you are bound by many.”
It was going to be a long night.
NATALIE CLICKED ON yet another private school’s website. This one—a boarding school outside of Colorado Springs—had an endowment of a little more than a million dollars, with almost twice the number of students that attended Whitcomb Academy. She jotted down a few notes about it, then sat back on the sofa and stretched, her neck and shoulders stiff from so many hours at the computer.
The forensic accountant had contacted the paper today with the results of her analysis. Although she’d found nothing wrong with anyone’s tax records, she’d been surprised by the amount of money in Whitcomb Academy’s endowment, as well as the rate at which the fund had grown. She’d taken it upon herself to look up schools similar to Whitcomb across the country and hadn’t been able to find one that boasted a seven-hundred-forty-five-million-dollar endowment. She’d sent her findings to Natalie via e-mail.
It’s no smoking gun, to be sure. In fact, it might be nothing. But I thought I’d mention it anyway.
Natalie had spent the evening reading the report and doing her own search of private boarding schools. She’d gotten the same results. There wasn’t another boarding school in Colorado or across the country that could compare with Whitcomb when it came to the wealth of its endowment. In fact, Whitcomb exceeded even some private colleges. Did the school have a lot of wealthy donors or did the money come from—
Behind her, the clock on the mantel struck two a.m., making her gasp.
Get a grip on yourself, girl!
She drew a deep breath, blew it out, trying to relax.