The Forgotten. Heather Graham
security system. No one broke into that house. How the hell she was killed, I can’t begin to imagine. Unless Miguel has a clone running around somewhere—a clone with his fingerprints and his memories.”
They were both quiet for a minute, looking at one another.
“He was burned beyond forensic recognition,” Diego reminded Brett. “No DNA left, even in the teeth or the bones.”
“Identified by the melted remains of his jewelry, and the fact that we saw him get out of his car and go inside, the only person in there,” Brett said thoughtfully.
“Maybe Miguel wasn’t killed in that oil-dump conflagration,” Diego suggested.
Brett shook his head thoughtfully. “Those were definitely Miguel’s things forensics took from the fire. And Miguel truly loved Maria. There’s no way on God’s earth that he would have killed his wife. Even if he didn’t die in the fire,” he added.
They both turned at the sound of footsteps. A uniformed police officer was hurrying over with a ladder. Dr. Phil Kinny, medical examiner, was just behind, followed by two forensic teams, one from the local Miami office of the FBI and one from the Miami-Dade homicide division.
“Let me get a quick look up the ladder first, okay?” Brett called to Phil.
“As you wish,” Phil told him. “I’m here, ready whenever. I can only tell you how she died. You’re the one who’s going to have to figure out how she got in that tree.”
“Thanks,” Brett said.
The ladder was set carefully next to the tree; Brett nodded his appreciation to the young officer ready to steady it. Brett could have climbed the tree without it, but he was trying to maintain a level of professionalism. Once he had studied Maria Gomez in situ, photographers would chronicle everything before Phil started his exam and told them the preliminary time of death and whatever he could about the injuries that had presumably killed her.
Studying the woman, Brett felt again the terrible pang of guilt about the entire Gomez affair. He hadn’t been assigned to the Barillo crime case; other agents and officers—both the feds and local law enforcement—had worked it for years. When Miguel Gomez had come to him, he’d made a point of going undercover to meet the family and find out what was going on, what Miguel had done and what he could give the authorities.
Basically, Miguel had been like a slave laborer, doing whatever his boss told him to do, letting them use his property, forced into the crimes he’d committed. He’d been minding his own business in a family where distant relatives had fallen prey to the lure of money and rewards. It wasn’t always easy for newcomers to trust in the United States government. Miguel’s son had been approached leaving school by a couple of Barillo’s toughs and warned about what happened when the “family”—meaning Spanish-speaking immigrants—didn’t work together.
Nothing had happened to the boy, but Miguel had known that his son being threatened meant that he was supposed to play the game. Only later had he learned that Barillo prided himself on never going after innocent family members, and by then it was too late. He was in too deep.
He had done so for years. Then he had seen a friend who had avoided running “errands” for the family wind up in a one-car fatal crash. Miguel had realized that he might be doing as he was told, but it was impossible to know when you might do the wrong thing, even by accident, and wind up in a car crash—or worse, have one of your children wind up dead, despite the fact that word on the street was that Barillo prided himself on “taking care of” only those who were guilty of betraying the family, never wives or children.
Oddly enough, rumor had it that Barillo’s own children weren’t part of the family. He had two sons and a daughter. They were all seeking advanced degrees at some of the best schools in the nation.
He wanted a different life for them.
Miguel had found Brett by accident; he’d seen him in the street when the FBI had busted a small crew who had dumped five Cuban refugees off the coast in a rubber tube. Miraculously, the refugees had made it. Diego and Brett had been watching the group, and they had talked a terrified mother into identifying the suspects who had taken their life savings and then deserted them to die at sea. Brett and Diego had found the perpetrators because of her tip and taken them down. The United States Marshals had stepped in; the Cuban mother was now living safely with her family in New Mexico, all of them under new government-supplied identities.
Brett had liked Miguel, who’d stopped to talk to him after the takedown, and he’d known that the Barillo cartel had been a thorn in the side of South Florida law enforcement for a very long time, but he wasn’t himself involved in the investigation. The case, and responsibility for Miguel’s safety, had gone to Herman Bryant, head of the task force pursuing Barillo and his “family,” a large group of Central and South American, island and American criminals whose cunning and power rivaled those of the Mafia in its heyday. Herman had a task force of two units, twelve agents, working the ongoing investigation, two of those men undercover. The Barillo family was extensive and dealt with human trafficking, illegal immigration, prostitution, firearms and drugs. Every federal, state, county and city law enforcement agency was kept alerted to their movements.
The frequent discovery of the family’s victims’ mutilated remains reminded them all that Barillo and his crew stopped at nothing to reach their goals, following up threats and intimidation with stunningly effective violence. The men who had infiltrated had reported back that loyalty to Barillo was all. Traitors were executed; the rule was immutable and simple.
But though Special Agent in Charge Herman Bryant was good at his job, and had managed to prevent murders, drug sales and more, so far they had been unable to crack the back of the giant beast. Bryant was a veteran of drug wars around the world; he’d dealt with cases from Brazil to the deepest sectors of China, interacting with local law enforcement agencies along the way. Brett had been certain that Miguel had been in good hands.
After Miguel’s murder, Bryant had urged Maria to make an excuse to leave Miami, or to move in with her children. When she’d refused, he had kept men watching her house. He had done all the right things.
Even though it didn’t really fit the Barillo methods for family to be killed—especially not with Miguel already dead.
Miguel had worn a wire the day he’d been killed.
Despite that, when he’d headed into his own warehouse before meeting with members of the Barillo family, he’d been killed. When—supposedly—he’d been early and alone. None of the officers watching had heard anything—no voices other than Miguel’s—before the warehouse had burst into flames so strong and high that the conflagration had been visible miles away. Clearly his boss had suspected he was a traitor and had taken care of things in his own violent way.
Miguel had been seen entering the building; no one else had been there.
It hadn’t seemed much of a question that the remnants of bone that had been found had belonged to Miguel Gomez. Melted fragments of the man’s watch had been found mixed in with the charred remains along with his signet ring, the initials still partially visible. There had been no reason to doubt that the man was dead.
But there must have been someone else in the warehouse who the officers hadn’t seen, who had, perhaps, been there waiting, staying when others had left for the day. Someone who was already there when Miguel first arrived and who had then set off a detonator to ignite the fire, and then had escaped unseen in the chaos.
That person had never been found, though, nor had he left any clues they could trace. The most logical conclusion had been that Miguel had been killed. After all, he certainly hadn’t come home after the fire.
It must have been that person who was killed, though how Miguel’s effects had come to be there was still a mystery. It would have been easy to misidentify the body, though, since there truly hadn’t been anything useful left for the medical examiner to work with.
And now Maria, too, was dead. Brett had liked her. She’d been a slim,