Midwife Cover. Cassie Miles

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СКАЧАТЬ steered the SUV onto a two-lane road leading into the hills covered with pine forests and gold-leafed aspen. “Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go.”

      “Spoken like the father of a ten-month-old.”

      “What about you, Brady? Married?”

      “Not yet.”

      “But you’re looking?”

      He shrugged. He didn’t like to think of himself as a stubborn bachelor who was wedded to his career, but with each passing year, that identity was becoming more solidly fixed. “My twin sister says that if I don’t get married soon, I’ll turn into an obsessive-compulsive old fart who spends his days organizing his sock drawer and alphabetizing his canned goods.”

      Her analysis wasn’t all that far-fetched. He had, on occasion, wondered if pinto beans should be filed under P for pinto or B for bean.

      “You’re a twin?”

      “My sister is an agent, too. Based in Manhattan, married with one kid. She works cybercrimes.”

      “Do you look alike?”

      “You tell me.”

      Brady pulled out his cell phone and flipped to a photo of himself and Barbara taken a few months ago on their thirty-second birthday. Their coloring was similar with dark blond hair and gray eyes. They both had high foreheads and square jaws, but the resemblance ended there. Nobody had ever called Brady cute, but that word perfectly described Barbara’s huge smile, button nose and twinkly eyes. In the photo, she was tossing her head, laughing.

      Cole said, “She’s a lot prettier than you.”

      “As it should be.” He tucked the phone back into his pocket. “How much farther?”

      “According to the numbers on the mailboxes by the road, we’re getting close. Maybe a mile or so.”

      “Are you wearing a vest?”

      “Nope. Are you?”

      “I am.” He’d spent extra for a brand of lightweight, concealable body armor developed by the Israelis. In the field, Brady always wore a protective vest under his button-down white shirt and black suit coat. Those were the rules. “We can stop if you want to get into gear.”

      Cole shrugged. “I’ll take my chances.”

      An interesting choice, Brady thought. Even though Cole had settled down and was a proud papa, he still exhibited the risk-taking behavior of an undercover operative. People could modify their behavior, but few really changed.

      The road meandered through a forest that was sparsely settled with what looked like summer vacation cabins. This was a good area for a hideout—close enough to main roads for a quick getaway and secluded enough to be off the radar.

      Cole turned left at a nearly indecipherable street marker for Wigwam Way. The house nearest to the corner was a quaint barn that had been remodeled into a house with a large window where the hayloft would have been. On the opposite side was a cheerful log structure with red shutters, plastic flowers in window boxes and a burned wood sign that said Welcome to the Peterson Place.

      A hundred yards down the road, the charm faded as quickly as the dusk that spread shadows across the land. Scratchy letters on a rusted mailbox spelled out Escher, the name of his informant. Inside a four-foot-tall chain-link fence was a ramshackle bungalow. At one time, this little house might have been pretty, but the stucco was cracked, weathered and filthy. Weeds reached as high as the windows, many of which were busted. The gate across the driveway hung open as though someone had left in a hurry.

      “That’s the address.” Cole drove past without stopping. “How do you want to proceed?”

      “The front door was ajar. The place could be abandoned.”

      Brady was disappointed that they weren’t closing in on suspects, but he wasn’t surprised. The phone call from Escher had been hasty. His tone was angry but frightened; he was about to bolt.

      At a wide spot in the road, Cole turned the SUV around. “I didn’t see any vehicles, but there was the big garage.”

      “Like my informant said.”

      The three-car garage, a cheap prefab with vinyl siding, would make a good holding pen for human cargo. If there were prisoners, there would also be armed-and-dangerous guards.

      Brady considered calling for backup before entering. In a city, he would have done so, but organizing a police presence in the mountains took a hell of a lot more time and effort. He wanted to get this loose end tied up and head back to Quantico.

      He drew his Beretta and checked the clip. “Pull up to the front door. We’ll search the house first.”

      “You got it.”

      Cole drove back, whipped down the driveway and slammed on the brake. Brady was out of the car as soon as it stopped moving. Gun in hand, he charged toward the open door. The interior of the house was dark and dirty. A torn bedsheet hung from the curtain rod across the front window. Tattered furniture crouched on an olive green carpet. Fast food wrappers littered a coffee table along with the remains of fried chicken in a bucket. The still-greasy chicken showed that someone had been here recently.

      Brady entered a narrow hallway with a bedroom at each end and a bathroom in the middle. In the front bedroom, he found a bare mattress and ragged blankets. The closet held a pile of stained clothing, both men’s and women’s.

      The grime in the bathroom defied description.

      The second bedroom had yellowed newspapers duct-taped over some of the windows. On the floor was a body, sprawled on his back with both arms thrown over his head and one leg doubled under him in a grotesque, horizontal pirouette.

      Brady turned on the overhead light and called to Cole. “In here.”

      There was no point in feeling for a pulse. Half the man’s head had been blown away. Brain matter spattered the peeling gray wallpaper, and blood puddled on the hardwood floor. Brady hunkered down beside the dead man.

      Cole entered the bedroom. “Oh, man, that stinks.”

      “Rigor hasn’t set in. He hasn’t been dead for long.” Brady breathed through his mouth, not wanting to inhale the stench. He pushed the body onto his side and took the wallet from the back pocket of his baggy jeans. In the cracked leatherette wallet were two fives and a driver’s license. “It’s Escher. My informant.”

      “When did he contact you?”

      Brady checked his wristwatch. “Three and a half hours ago. He called me in Albuquerque.”

      “He might have already been here, chowing down on a bucket of chicken.”

      And preparing to die. Brady stood and turned away from the body. He’d only questioned Escher face-to-face once. There wasn’t enough evidence to arrest him, but Brady was sure that the informant had been a coyote for many years, charging exorbitant amounts of money to smuggle illegals across the border from Mexico. That was bad enough, but nowhere near as vicious as СКАЧАТЬ