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I thought about it, nodded. “Could be, or something like it.”
“There’ll be paperwork on that somewhere,” he said. “You can’t just go flying bodies around in coffins.”
“That true?”
“Well, you’d think.”
I couldn’t argue with his logic, said, “I’ll have Mo-bot look into cargo flights to Mexico the night they disappeared. Guadalajara.”
Del Rio nodded, glanced at the clock. “I don’t remember you saying Fescoe or anyone else got another demand from No Prisoners.”
“Because ther
e hasn’t been one, at least to my knowledge.”
“More than twenty-four hours,” he said. “No more killings either.”
He was right. What did that mean? Anything? Or was No Prisoners just trying to lull us into thinking—
“Where’s it all going next?” Del Rio asked. “Private’s end of things?”
“Justine and Sci are returning to the Harlows’ ranch in the morning along with a team of FBI techs, see if there’s anything they missed,” I said.
“Justine done with the kids?” he grunted. “Couple of hours of mind-flogging doesn’t seem enough for her.”
I shrugged. “She offered to go back in the morning. But Sanders wanted to give the children time to get settled into his house before they were talked to again. I have to admit, he seems very protective of them. They all do. Camilla Bronson and Graves. Justine’s arguing that I should send people back to Mexico ASAP. But the FBI’s already heard her story and they’ve got more clout.”
“No Prisoners?”
“I want No Prisoners because of what he did to you,” I said coldly. “But I have no idea what Private’s official role will be going forward.”
My cell phone rang loudly. “Shit.” I wasn’t supposed to have the damn thing on. I glanced at the caller ID and was taken aback.
I hesitated, clicked ANSWER. “More slanderous accusations to throw my way?”
“Jack,” Bobbie Newton sighed. “I just have to draw the line at someone disrupting my God-given First Amendment rights.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“How are they, the poor li’l darlings?”
I could tell she’d been drinking. Bobbie liked to drink, early and often, another winning aspect of her character.
“Who?” I said.
“Coy boy,” she said in a scolding tone.
I let the silence grow, knowing it would drive her crazy, personally and from a journalistic point of view. Bobbie had broken the story of the Harlow kidnapping and the release of the children. No doubt about that. But stories like the Harlows’ disappearance required near-constant updates to feed the cable, Internet, and network news monsters.
“Give Camilla a call,” I said. “I’m sure she’d love to talk.”
“Camilla Bronson carries grudges,” Bobbie said.
“And I don’t?”
“C’mon, Jack. That’s old news. Live and let live.”
I waited several beats, then said, “Tit for tat, Bobbie?”
