Martin,” she continued. “We were debs together. She was there with her third husband, whom I hadn’t met before, and Brenda Kaplan was there, and her mother, Mary Anne Parfitt, and Ted Garra—”
Her voice came to a dead stop.
“Garraty,” he finished for her. So she’d seen him, too. Ted Garraty had been one of the boys in the alley that night. Their names had all come out at his trial, all the rich boys with no manners who hadn’t done an hour’s worth of time for terrorizing their little prom queen. There had been no charges pressed against the Wellon Academy boys, not a single one—but when Jonathan Traynor had shown up dead in that back alley, every one of those bastards had pointed their finger at him and declared him a murderer. “Did you talk with him?”
“N-no,” she said, her face suddenly pale. “I was avoiding him, but you, me, and Ted all in the same place—that seems a . . . a little odd, doesn’t it?”
Yeah. And seeming odder all the time—and if the stiff turned out to be Garraty, he probably wasn’t going to be getting back to South America anytime soon, which didn’t do a damn thing to improve his mood.
He had pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to punch in Dylan’s number when it rang.
“Hawkins,” he answered, putting the phone to his ear with one hand and throwing Roxanne up into neutral with the other.
“Okay. It’s bad,” Dylan said.
“Garraty.” He knew it. He knew it down to his bones.
“Yeah. Garraty,” Dylan said. “And he had a piece of stained cloth in one of his pockets, and I’m not talking a handkerchief. The cops bagged it up as an unidentified textile, but when I looked it over, it reminded me a helluva lot of that piece of bloody prom dress they found in Jonathan Traynor’s pocket—pink and kind of gauzy.”
Everything inside Hawkins froze for one god-awful split second. Then he swore.
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Dylan said.
Hawkins shifted his attention out the window and reached up to loosen his tie. Unfuckingbelievable. Another Prom King boy had been murdered.
Whatever was going on, Hawkins had a bad feeling he was in it up to his ass and getting set up for another fall.
“You check your horoscope lately?” Dylan asked.
Hawkins let out a short laugh. This was way beyond a bad horoscope.
“I don’t think it was me who got this all stirred up.”
“How long has Katya Dekker been back in Denver?” Dylan asked, reading his mind.
“A month. Long enough for somebody to decide they had some unfinished business.” That was his take on it.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Dylan said, then paused for a second before continuing. “We’ve got to make some quick decisions here.”
Yeah, Hawkins knew it.
“Our orders were just for the party, and the party is over,” Dylan continued. “Which means I’m free to go back to South America, right now, tonight—or I can stay and work with you on this, let Kid and the Marines finish up in Colombia.”
“I work fine alone, and you know it,” Hawkins said after a long pause. He didn’t like being within a million miles of this mess, but Dylan was right. He couldn’t just walk away from it. Not now. But he didn’t like Dylan going back to Colombia without him. With Creed in the hospital, he was the best jungle fighter SDF had left.
“Okay. I’ve got a call in to General Grant, and he’s going to go up the ladder on this one to see who made the initial request to have us work the party. He’ll contact you when he’s got something,” Dylan said. “I can be wheels-up to Colombia in three hours on a transport out of Peterson. I’ll give the NRF rebels one more day, and if they haven’t released J.T.’s body by then, we’ll go back in after them.”
“No.” Hawkins sat up a little straighter. “That’s no good.”
“I’d call in an air strike, if I could,” Dylan said, “but I don’t think the U.S. ambassador would back me on that. The oil
Her voice came to a dead stop.
“Garraty,” he finished for her. So she’d seen him, too. Ted Garraty had been one of the boys in the alley that night. Their names had all come out at his trial, all the rich boys with no manners who hadn’t done an hour’s worth of time for terrorizing their little prom queen. There had been no charges pressed against the Wellon Academy boys, not a single one—but when Jonathan Traynor had shown up dead in that back alley, every one of those bastards had pointed their finger at him and declared him a murderer. “Did you talk with him?”
“N-no,” she said, her face suddenly pale. “I was avoiding him, but you, me, and Ted all in the same place—that seems a . . . a little odd, doesn’t it?”
Yeah. And seeming odder all the time—and if the stiff turned out to be Garraty, he probably wasn’t going to be getting back to South America anytime soon, which didn’t do a damn thing to improve his mood.
He had pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to punch in Dylan’s number when it rang.
“Hawkins,” he answered, putting the phone to his ear with one hand and throwing Roxanne up into neutral with the other.
“Okay. It’s bad,” Dylan said.
“Garraty.” He knew it. He knew it down to his bones.
“Yeah. Garraty,” Dylan said. “And he had a piece of stained cloth in one of his pockets, and I’m not talking a handkerchief. The cops bagged it up as an unidentified textile, but when I looked it over, it reminded me a helluva lot of that piece of bloody prom dress they found in Jonathan Traynor’s pocket—pink and kind of gauzy.”
Everything inside Hawkins froze for one god-awful split second. Then he swore.
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Dylan said.
Hawkins shifted his attention out the window and reached up to loosen his tie. Unfuckingbelievable. Another Prom King boy had been murdered.
Whatever was going on, Hawkins had a bad feeling he was in it up to his ass and getting set up for another fall.
“You check your horoscope lately?” Dylan asked.
Hawkins let out a short laugh. This was way beyond a bad horoscope.
“I don’t think it was me who got this all stirred up.”
“How long has Katya Dekker been back in Denver?” Dylan asked, reading his mind.
“A month. Long enough for somebody to decide they had some unfinished business.” That was his take on it.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Dylan said, then paused for a second before continuing. “We’ve got to make some quick decisions here.”
Yeah, Hawkins knew it.
“Our orders were just for the party, and the party is over,” Dylan continued. “Which means I’m free to go back to South America, right now, tonight—or I can stay and work with you on this, let Kid and the Marines finish up in Colombia.”
“I work fine alone, and you know it,” Hawkins said after a long pause. He didn’t like being within a million miles of this mess, but Dylan was right. He couldn’t just walk away from it. Not now. But he didn’t like Dylan going back to Colombia without him. With Creed in the hospital, he was the best jungle fighter SDF had left.
“Okay. I’ve got a call in to General Grant, and he’s going to go up the ladder on this one to see who made the initial request to have us work the party. He’ll contact you when he’s got something,” Dylan said. “I can be wheels-up to Colombia in three hours on a transport out of Peterson. I’ll give the NRF rebels one more day, and if they haven’t released J.T.’s body by then, we’ll go back in after them.”
“No.” Hawkins sat up a little straighter. “That’s no good.”
“I’d call in an air strike, if I could,” Dylan said, “but I don’t think the U.S. ambassador would back me on that. The oil
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