“If you want things to remain that way, find the woman and the boy and eliminate them. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” The man was sweating when he left the room.
BENEATH THE YELLOW LIGHT of the banker’s lamp Madrid studied the photo. The poor resolution and lighting made it difficult to make out details. Either the camera had been hidden or the photographer had been rushed. He wished for his computer and photo enhancing software. Unfortunately none of that was available, so he was going to have to make do with his naked eye.
The photo showed seventeen young women, most of Asian descent, crowded into a small, dark room. At least nine of the women were bound. Two had visible facial bruising. Were they being held against their will? If so, by whom? Where had the photo been taken?
In the background he saw what could be a bare mattress. A beat-up bucket. There were no windows, and only one wall was visible, made of what looked to be some type of corrugated steel.
He wondered if Angela had snapped the picture from a tiny camera hidden on her person. Had this been part of her mission? Had her cover been blown and she’d been murdered before she could report back to the agency?
“What the hell were you onto?” he whispered.
The floor creaked behind him. In one smooth motion Madrid snagged the pistol off the desk and spun. Surprise rippled through him at the sight of Jessica Atwood standing at the bedroom door.
Her eyes flicked to the gun leveled at her chest and she went white. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Frowning, he set the pistol on the desk. “You’d be wise not to sneak up on a man when he’s armed.”
She wore an oversize T-shirt and a pair of drawstring pants she must have found in the dresser. Her feet were bare. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Another thing he shouldn’t be noticing.
He’d left her sleeping with Nicolas a couple of hours earlier. He wished she’d stayed in the bedroom. She was pretty, and he didn’t want her distracting him from his work.
He turned back to the photo.
“My fever broke,” she said. “I’m feeling better. Clearheaded.”
“The antibiotics must be working.”
A pause. “What are you doing?”
Madrid didn’t answer. He didn’t want to engage her; he still wasn’t totally convinced she was innocent. On the other hand, the more he thought about the circumstances surrounding Angela’s death, the more he came to believe there was something sinister going on in Lighthouse Point. Something that went far beyond Jessica Atwood.
“Does it tell you anything?”
He turned, gave her a look he hoped conveyed his annoyance. “What?”
“The photo.”
Realizing he was staring—and that she’d noticed—he tore his gaze away from her and looked at the photo. “Maybe.”
“Hard to tell much with the graininess and bad lighting.” She came up beside him and looked at the photo. “They look scared.”
That was the first thing that had struck him, too—the terror in the women’s eyes. “I’ll bet the farm they’re being held against their will.”
“In a place where there are no windows. No light.” She leaned closer. “I don’t see any doors.”
He let her think aloud. “Except for where the photographer was standing. Might be a door there.”
“A cave, maybe? A truck?”
“A container,” he said. “Cargo.”
She looked at him, nodded. “You’re right.”
Madrid scowled at the thought. Human smuggling was an ugly business. He knew it happened overseas. Was it possible someone was operating in the United States? He was going to have to call Sean Cutter. He only hoped the head of MIDNIGHT would tell him what he needed to know. They hadn’t exactly parted on friendly terms.
“Do you think Angela stumbled upon something she shouldn’t have?” Jess asked.
“I think her murder is just the tip of the iceberg. I think we’re dealing with something large scale that involves a lot of very bad people.”
She thought about that for a moment. “I don’t understand how that involves Nicolas and me. We don’t know anything.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Her gaze flicked to his. Madrid steeled himself against her beauty. Against the attraction simmering low in his gut. He listened hard to the little voice telling him, Don’t go there.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Are you sure Nicolas didn’t see anything?”
“He can’t speak.”
“Maybe they’re not willing to risk their lives on the possibility that one day he will, or maybe communicate what he saw.”
Her eyes widened. “My God. You think he saw the murder?” Jess pressed a hand to her abdomen. “Poor little guy.”
“That’s just one scenario.”
“What’s the other?”
“Maybe they’re not after Nicolas. Maybe they think Angela told you something before she died.”
“Like what?”
“Like what she was onto. Names. Locations. Something damaging to them.”
“She didn’t.”