Unfinished Business (15 page)

He made it safely back into bed, too,
although the movements looked like they pained him.

The nurse left, after promising to bring him
something to eat, and I went to adjust the blankets. “How bad is
it?”

“Itches,” Rafe said. “I hate getting
stabbed.”

I tucked the blankets around him. “As many
times as it’s happened, you should be used to it by now.”

He shook his head. “It itches just the same
every time.”

“Itching is good. It means the skin’s
healing.”

“I know that,” Rafe said, his voice grumpy,
“but it’s still irritating as hell.”

No doubt. “Would you like for me to scratch
it for you?”

“No,” Rafe said, “cause scratching it would
hurt.”

Right. “I guess you’ll just have to suffer
the itching, then. And think about something else.”

“Easy for you to say,” Rafe grumbled.

And that’s when I turned to my brother and
mother and asked whether they were planning to drive back to
Sweetwater soon, because they certainly hadn’t come all this way to
hear us bicker, and anyway, I didn’t think it was helping Rafe’s
cause at all with Mother.

“We’re not in a hurry,” Dix told me.

I wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t had a chance
to see Tamara Grimaldi by herself, just the two of them, for more
than a minute or two since arriving in Nashville yesterday.

Not that that was likely to change. She was
busy working now, and wouldn’t have time to stop to canoodle.

Or maybe he just wanted to find out as much
as he could about what was going on before he left. “It’s still
early. And I want to know whether Mr. Craig found the cabin and
whether Detective Grimaldi figured out who the dead man was.”

Understandable. I wanted to know those
things, too. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon. It’s more than four
hours since they left.”

Dix nodded.

And indeed, there was no more than ten
minutes later, that Grimaldi walked through the door with Spicer
and Truman in tow.

They’re your stereotypical partners, the
kind you see in the movies. Lyle Spicer is middle-aged and cynical
and going thin on top, with reddish hair turning gray around the
edges, and what’s usually called a lived-in face. George Truman,
meanwhile, is as bright and shiny as a new penny: barely old enough
to shave and prone to blushing if I smile at him too hard.

They’re nice guys, though. They’ve caught me
doing several things I shouldn’t be doing—and I’m not just talking
about kissing Rafe—and they haven’t arrested me. And also, they
seem to genuinely like Rafe, which scores points in my book. Now
they looked honestly distressed as they moved up to the bed to
greet him.

“They won’t be staying long,” Grimaldi told
me, “but they wanted to see him.”

Spicer nodded. “After all the times we’ve
hauled your sorry ass into headquarters so the detective could talk
to you, feels like we’re friends.” He put out a hand. “Glad you’re
still in one piece, man.”

Rafe took it, and they shook, hopefully
gently, since it was the arm with the bandage, the one the knife
had gone through. My knees still felt a bit quivery every time I
thought about that.

“We were a little worried,” Spicer added,
pumping Rafe’s hand, “going out there to Wilson County yesterday
morning.”

Yes, indeed. If I’d know they were going,
and why, I’d have been a bit worried too.

“Quite a relief, getting there and seeing
the John Doe wasn’t anybody we knew.”

“Thanks, man.” Rafe extricated himself,
carefully, and tucked the arm back under the blankets again. He
nodded to Truman, who said,

“I took a picture of the dude. The DB. With
my phone. D’you think you might...?”

Rafe nodded, and waited while Truman fished
his phone out of the pocket of his uniform pants and scrolled
through the pictures.

“I guess the Wilson County sheriff hasn’t
identified him yet,” I turned to Grimaldi.

She shook her head. “I don’t know how hard
they’ve tried, but they tell me his fingerprints aren’t on record,
and obviously he wasn’t carrying identification when he was found,
or none of this would have happened.”

I nodded. Meanwhile, Truman had found the
picture and handed the phone to Rafe. “D’you know him?”

I leaned closer for a glimpse of my own, but
to be honest, the man just looked dead to me. He could have been
almost anyone.

Rafe shook his head. “Don’t think I’ve ever
seen him before.” He handed the phone to me.

“Not someone you know?” Grimaldi prompted.
“Or someone you worked with at some point? Someone else you put
away? It could have been a long time ago.”

I looked more closely at the picture.

Yes, he was definitely dead. His eyes were
closed, but with his coloring, it was a safe bet that they were as
dark as the hair. The picture was just his head from the chin up,
so I had to take the height and build on faith, but chances were he
was somewhere over six feet tall, and muscular. His ears stuck out
a bit more than Rafe’s, and the nose was a little wider. The shape
of the jaw was different. There was really not much resemblance at
all, but the same description could apply to both of them: a
light-skinned black or mixed-race male, thirty to forty, black and
brown. Rafe was thirty-one. This guy looked closer to forty.

There was no chance at all that anyone had
killed him thinking he was Rafe, anyway. Not unless Eugenio
Hernandez had gone blind in prison. And the very precise
cross-stitch pattern on Rafe’s chest and stomach argued
otherwise.

Rafe shook his head.

“You’re sure?”

“They pay me to be sure,” Rafe said. “I
spent ten years undercover. You don’t make it that long unless you
remember everything. I remember everyone I worked with. I
especially remember everyone I put away. This guy wasn’t one
of’em.”

Grimaldi nodded. “What about you?” she asked
me.

I handed the phone back to Truman. “I’ve
never seen him before. Are you sure it isn’t just a
coincidence?”

“No,” Grimaldi said. “But we have to make
sure.” She turned back to Rafe. “Any chance he might have been at
Gabe’s night before last?”

“Christ.” Rafe shook his head. “It was a
Friday night, Detective. The place was packed. I’d have recognized
Huron if I’d seen him, but this guy? Sure, he coulda been there.
But if he was, I never noticed him. Didn’t see him, didn’t talk to
him.”

Grimaldi nodded. “We’ll run the picture past
Mr. Craig. See if he or any of the trainees noticed the man.” She
handed the phone back to Truman. “Send that to my phone, please,
and I’ll forward it.”

Truman nodded and began pushing buttons.

“I’m sure they’ll be here soon,” I said.
“They left more than four hours ago. If you stick around, you’ll
probably see them.”

“I’m on the clock today,” Grimaldi answered.
“Unless they show up in the next five minutes, I’ll be gone.”

OK, then. “What makes you think this dead
guy in Wilson County has anything to do with Rafe? Other than that
he was found on the morning after Rafe disappeared? You said
yourself that Wilson County is a big place.”

Grimaldi hesitated. “Wilson County
is
a big place. And there might not be a connection. But he ought to
be identified, whether he’s connected or not. His family, if he has
one, deserves to know what happened to him. And the Wilson County
sheriff seems to have run out of steam, so if we can help, we’re
happy to. And also—”

“And what?” Rafe said, when she ran
down.

Grimaldi sighed. “His throat was cut. If
he’d just been shot, I’d be less interested in him. But anything
having to do with a knife gets extra priority right now.”

Yes, I could quite see why. I think we all
could.

“I thought this guy was a petty criminal,” I
said. “Why are we suddenly thinking he’s running around killing
people? I mean,” I turned to Rafe, “I’m not doubting that he’s the
one who hurt you...”

“I was awake for all of it,” Rafe said
grimly. “You can believe I know who did it.”

“But wasn’t this guy just some unimportant
flunky on the outskirts of Hector’s organization? He didn’t even go
to prison over anything important. Lots of people hire
prostitutes.”

“Wendell fill you in?” Rafe asked.

I nodded. So did Grimaldi. Spicer and Truman
faded into the woodwork, but didn’t leave the room. I guess they
wanted to hear the rest of the story, too.

“He prob’ly didn’t tell you everything,”
Rafe said. “See, this girl Ginger wasn’t the first hooker Huron
brought home. There were two before her. But we couldn’t ever find
either of’em.”

I nodded. “Wendell told us that.”

Rafe didn’t answer, just looked at me, brow
arched. He can do that: arch just one eyebrow. It gives him a very
patronizing, overly patient sort of look. And I admit it took me a
moment—maybe more like a minute—but I finally caught on to what he
wasn’t saying. And I came close to choking on the idea. “You’ve got
to be kidding,” I managed finally. “You think he killed them?”

“They were gone,” Rafe said. “We couldn’t
find’em. So we couldn’t prove nothing. There were no bodies, and no
live women. But yeah, I think he killed’em.”

I glanced, wide-eyed, at Grimaldi, who
didn’t look anywhere near as surprised as I felt. Obviously she’d
seen this coming. She had undoubtedly caught on as soon as Wendell
told the story yesterday. “Did you know this?”

She glanced at me. “I assumed.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Not your job,” Grimaldi said. “And I’m
pretty sure he,” she glanced at Rafe, “likes that you don’t think
that way.”

“Makes for a nice change. Somebody who just
talks about food and clothes.”

I sniffed. I do not just talk about food and
clothes! “So you think this guy Hernandez killed two prostitutes
four years ago. And when you saw him with a third, you called
Wendell.”

Rafe nodded. “If he hadn’t agreed to call
the cops, I woulda busted in and started a fight or something. But
the cops came, and the girl turned out to be seventeen, and we got
Huron off the street for a couple years. It was the best we could
do.”

And it made a lot more sense than the
scenario had made so far. If Hernandez had killed two women and
Rafe thought he planned to kill a third, then going to prison must
have really messed with his mojo. He’d been on a roll, and suddenly
he’d had to stop, cold turkey. No prostitutes in prison.

“So this guy is a serial killer.”

“Pretty much,” Rafe said.

“A serial killer who liked to pick up and
murder prostitutes.” And probably do other things to them before he
killed them. At least if Rafe’s injuries were anything to go
by.

He nodded. “Not that we could prove it.”

“We’ll prove it this time,” Grimaldi said,
her face grim. “You got away. You can identify him. I should put a
guard on your door.”

Rafe looked insulted. “I can take care of
myself. Just make sure I get a gun.”

“You have only one functioning arm,”
Grimaldi pointed out.

“I can shoot with either hand. And anyway, I
don’t think he’s stupid enough to come after me again. When he got
back to the cabin and saw that I was gone, he prob’ly got in his
car and started driving.”

“To Montana.”

Rafe glanced at me. “They don’t like people
like him in Montana, darlin’. He’s more likely to go to Miami.”

“Or maybe Wendell and the boys found him.” I
smiled optimistically. “Maybe they traced the truck and found the
cabin and he was still there. Maybe they’ve got him.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Rafe advised.

And indeed, when Wendell and the rookies
walked in thirty minutes later, they had not found Hernandez.

Grimaldi, Spicer and Truman had left by
then, to continue trying to figure out who the John Doe in Wilson
County was, and whether he had any connection to Rafe or to Eugenio
Hernandez. Grimaldi seemed reasonably certain that Hernandez had
killed the guy—that cut throat seemed to have decided it for her
once and for all—but proving it was likely to be a difficult
matter. Especially if we—she—had no idea who the victim was.

“Could he be a fellow criminal?” I’d
suggested at one point. “An accomplice? Maybe someone Hernandez met
in prison?”

“Not if his fingerprints aren’t on file,”
Grimaldi said. “And if they were, we’d know who he was.”

Of course.

So she took Spicer and Truman with her, and
they went back to work. Dix did not try to walk her out this time.
I guessed they’d most likely chat by phone later. And then Wendell
and the boys showed up, and gathered around Rafe’s bed,
chattering.

I removed myself to the corner, where Dix
and Mother were waiting. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave? It
can’t be any fun for you, sitting around here.” And now that Dix
had seen Tamara Grimaldi, maybe he was ready to get outta Dodge and
back to his girls.

Wendell must have heard us talking, or maybe
he just wanted to give Jamal, Clayton, and José a chance to talk to
Rafe before he butted in. Either way, he joined us over in the
corner. “Thinking of leaving?”

“Dix and Mother just came up for the
wedding,” I explained. “And there won’t be a wedding this weekend.
Rafe wants to wait until he’s back on his feet.”

Wendell nodded. “Thanks for coming up, and
for sticking around while everything went sideways.” He offered his
hand to Dix, who shook. Then he took Mother’s hand and kissed it.
Old-fashioned courtesy, which Mother would normally appreciate, but
it was Wendell, so it was hard to know for sure. She was polite,
anyway.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr.
Craig.”

“Likewise, Mrs. Martin.” Wendell made a
half-bow. “Once your daughter marries my boy, we’ll almost be
family.”

Mother blinked. I hid a grin and changed the
conversation. “Before we go, did you discover anything? Like the
cabin?”