Mercy (Atlee Pine #4)(41)

He went down to the pool area, lit a Maduro cigar, drank his wine, sat by the water, and read the responses to his previous communications. He demanded much of his associates. In return they were well paid and he had their backs, come what may. He required absolute loyalty, but unlike many in his position, he returned that loyalty. Not necessarily because it was right or fair, but because, in the end, it was in his best interests. If you threw those who sometimes disagreed with you under the bus, then they wised up, and all you were left with were sycophants. And that was like inbreeding; it made everyone stupid and weak.

He didn’t care for women like Rosa, who could have handled things so differently with Ken, or not shacked up with him in the first place. It was clear from her clumsy pass at him that she would have jumped into Buckley’s bed if he so desired. That showed no loyalty to Ken and a lack of respect to Buckley. And actions resulted in consequences. He sent out an email with Rosa’s photo attached, to an associate he had put on standby after learning of Ken’s death. The man answered and things were quickly arranged.

He went up to his room and slept deeply, with a clear conscience but a burdened mind. He rose the next morning, had his breakfast, and tidied his room, folding the used towels, laying them neatly in the corner by the tub. He checked out of the hotel, liberally tipping people along the way and receiving smiles and thanks in return.

He drove off in his rental and used the car’s Bluetooth feature to check in with his people. The results were promising.

Rosa had relapsed in her drug addiction, taking an overdose with fatal results in an alleyway behind the women’s shelter. The police were investigating, but it seemed clear that the matter would go no further than that. Buckley’s thousand dollars had been retrieved from the corpse, so no questions would arise from that. They might make inquiries into the gentleman who had been talking to Rosa yesterday in the café, but no one other than Rosa knew about his connection to Ken. And even if she had told someone about him, Buckley had a wall of respectability around him. And there was nothing unusual about a recovering addict overdosing. So that chapter on Rosa was now closed.

He received another call five minutes later.

“We ran the license tag on the car,” said the voice. “The owner is Eloise Cain. I’m sending you her personal details, to the extent we could find any. She’s done some jail time, had some drug problems. Curious thing is, there’s nothing on her until she was about nineteen or twenty. Before that, it’s a black hole.”

“Then dig into the black hole,” ordered Buckley. “And how do we find her?”

“She has a credit card. We’re using our resources and contacts to track both. She used her card to stay at a Marriott after she attacked your brother.”

“And her cell phone? She must have one. She can be tracked that way.”

“She has no registered account. She could have stolen a phone and just uses local WiFi and other free sources to enable calling and internet services, or it might be prepaid minutes or a burner phone or a hybrid thereof; there’re lots of ways around that. Her credit card is registered to an address that’s no longer valid. There’s a Gmail address listed on the account, but she hasn’t used it recently, and there’s no really good way to track it. So we’re keeping a hawk’s eye on the credit card activity.”

“If you have her car information, can’t you hack into her satellite mapping service and pinpoint her location that way?”

“It’s an old car and doesn’t have that feature.”

“Send me the information on the Marriott; there’s probably more than one in this town. And get me a picture of the woman. Maybe a copy of her driver’s license.”

“On it, sir.”

When Buckley received the hotel info, he drove to the Marriott and checked in. He spent the day walking around the property and talking to staff members about El Cain. He explained that he was her father’s attorney and needed to get in touch with her about an inheritance. No one questioned his credibility after looking over his professional appearance and listening to his earnest, cultured voice. However, no one had seen a woman matching her description.

Until he walked into the hotel bar that night.

He sat on a stool and ordered a bourbon and soda on the rocks. The same bartender who had served Cain was now serving him. He described Cain generally and asked his question, using his cover story.

The woman nodded. “Yeah, she was in here. Looked like she could use some good news.”

“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

“No. She didn’t really say much.” The woman wiped down the counter and attended to another customer while Buckley waited patiently. When she came back over she said, “But something was weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was this thing on the news. On the TV right there.”

Buckley glanced at the TV and then looked back at her. “Go on.”

“The FBI was looking for a woman. They had her image up on the screen. They said her name but I don’t remember it. Anyway, they were looking into something that happened to her in Georgia in the early 2000s. Well, the gal on the TV looked like some wild animal, she really did. She was tall with these batshit eyes, with long hair down to her butt.”

“Why is the FBI looking for her?”