The Cursed. Heather Graham
came up empty. We’ll take fingerprints, of course, and run them through the system. If he’s got a sheet of any kind, anywhere, we’ll find him.”
“You’ll match them,” Dallas said, looking over at the body. The dead man was Jose Miguel Rodriguez. Dallas had met him briefly once or twice; he’d been an extraordinary agent. Working undercover, he’d done a great deal to stop drug traffic into the South Florida area. Dallas had been due to meet up with Rodriguez the next day on the beach by Fort Zachary Taylor. “But not because of a rap sheet. And when you do ID him, make sure to keep his name and affiliation confidential among law enforcement agencies—the truth can’t leak to the news. This man was an agent working undercover—Jose Rodriguez. You can’t release anything I’m telling you now—and nothing can get out at all except that an unidentified body was found in an alley, with all other information pending the medical examiner’s report. Some things the public can’t get for a while, all right, Dirk?”
“Gotcha,” Dirk said.
“So he’s one of ours?” Liam asked, frowning.
“FBI,” Dallas said. “He was working the Los Lobos case.”
“The wolves,” Dirk said.
Dallas nodded. “We’re all working it, Dirk. I’m not divulging any secrets—you’ve obviously heard about the Los Lobos gang, and everyone from the cops to the military has been alerted to keep an eye out for the members and their activities.”
Dirk nodded. “Who hasn’t? When they started up, I had a few corpses up for autopsy at the morgue in Marathon. Seems they’re run by some big shot out of Colombia—supposedly an American expat. The members come in all colors and nationalities—the one thing is they have to swear absolute loyalty. The smallest betrayal means death—execution style.”
“That’s why they’re doing so well,” Dallas said grimly. “No one knows who they are, and they’re all too scared to turn on the others. They know the islands. They slip in and out at night, moving from the Caribbean to the Keys.”
“But from what I understand, they’re not drug dealers, they’re smugglers, right?” Dirk asked.
Dallas nodded. “Museum pieces, looted artifacts. They’ve gotten into and out of a number of places here in the Keys, as well as in South America, Cuba, Jamaica—they’ve pilfered Mayan artifacts from Mexico. They also smuggle people in and out of the country. Anyway,” he added quietly, “Jose had infiltrated them, he was the first man on the inside ever. He was just getting in deep with the ‘field workers,’ who are at the beck and call of the headman. The thing about this gang is that many of them aren’t what you’d expect. They aren’t tattooed, and they don’t wear motorcycle jackets or lounge around like barflies. A lot of them look like upright and ordinary citizens—businessmen, churchgoers, even cops and politicians.”
“They work like veins and arteries from a heart,” Liam said. “A very peculiar pyramid scheme.” He glanced at Dallas. “How many people do they think are involved all across the country?”
“Our best intelligence officers—CIA, FBI, Homeland Security—estimate about a hundred and fifty scattered across the United States.”
Dirk nodded, taking in their words. He was silent for a moment and then said, “Odd.”
“What’s odd?” Dallas asked.
“Los Lobos...the bodies I’ve had that the county officers think were members were done in true execution style—bullet to the back of the head. This is different,” Dirk said. “I’m not an investigator, of course. I can only tell you what...what the dead can tell. But it’s something to think about, right?”
Yes, it was.
Dallas hesitated before speaking. “Different crimes call for different punishments.” He hunkered down by the dead man. “Look at his hand, Dirk. He was holding something, right? Something somebody pried out of his hand.”
“So it appears,” Dirk agreed.
“Like a knife,” Dallas murmured.
“Hard to tell. I’ll have more for you after the autopsy. Traffic is going to be bad, so it’ll be an hour or so before we even have him on a table.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry, Dallas.”
“I didn’t know him well. I just know that he was one of the good guys,” Dallas said. At least Dirk had done Rodriguez the mercy of closing his eyes.
Dallas set his fingers lightly on the dead man’s shoulders as he studied him. For a moment he felt the fierce grip of pain and sorrow.
This scene was too familiar. Not that long ago they’d lost another agent. Not that long ago he’d come upon a dead woman—that same agent—in the same position, lying in the street on her back. He had been close to what was going on...close to finding the truth, to rounding up a bunch of greedy bastards who didn’t care who they killed in their quest to amass more and more wealth.
They had made arrests. But he had suspected then, and he suspected now, that the real killer—the man giving the orders—had eluded him.
Jose Rodriguez had died on his back. His left hand was still curved and slightly twisted. His right hand lay in a puddle of blood.
Frowning, Dallas studied the puddle.
Jose had been trying to write something in his own blood.
Dallas took a moment to envision the scene and figure out how Rodriguez had managed to write something while lying on his back. Only one scenario made sense.
Jose had fallen forward, dying. He’d started to write something, but the killer had come up behind him before he finished, and wrenched him around so that he had landed on his back—his hand still in the pool of blood he had been using as ink.
Dallas looked over at Liam. “Can you make that out?”
“Make what out? It’s a pool of blood—oh! I see what you’re saying.”
They both bent closer, trying to read the dead man’s message. “That first letter’s a C,” Liam murmured.
“Yeah. I think you’re right. Then...a U?” Dallas asked.
“Yeah, C-U-R,” Liam agreed. “Cur? Like a dog?”
“I don’t think so. Can you get one of the photographers over here?” Dallas asked.
Liam rose and motioned for a crime scene tech. The man hurried over, took pictures as Dallas indicated, and then moved back to the fence where he’d been working.
“Whoever he was,” Dallas told the dead man quietly, “we’ll find him.”
Two of Dirk’s assistants came for the body, and another tech walked up to Liam. “Sir? Anything specific you want us to look for?” he asked.
“Inspect the alley and all the nearby streets, and the yard, too. Our vic was seen with a knife—a big knife, like a bowie knife. Try to find it. Search everywhere our victim could have been.”
“Do we need a permit for the yard?” the tech asked.
“Hannah is a friend. We have her blessing for anything that’s necessary. Do your jobs, but don’t be careless. Try not to leave the place looking like a war zone,” Liam said.
The tech nodded and moved away.
Dallas shook his head, looking from the yard to the house. “How the hell could anyone think that a dying man was a ghost?” he demanded.
“The power of suggestion, probably,” Liam said. “People love ghost tours. They go on them all the time. They want to be scared. They don’t want real danger, but they want to be scared. Hell, Dallas, nothing’s changed since we were kids. This place survives on tourism. Tourists like stories. We’re full of them.”
“But this guy was stumbling around your friend’s yard and she didn’t wake up until some