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“Yes.”
“And you’ve said nothing?”
She shakes her head in denial. “I’ve spoken up many times. I even brought my thoughts to a mayor years ago, but she, too, went missing. Now and again, I seek out those who might help, but to this day there has been little progress.”
Good Lord. “Was Geraldo’s fiancée the last woman taken?”
“I don’t think so. I believe another woman, a refugee, was taken last year.”
As depressing as that is, it also suggests the killer keeps the women for a while. Madre de Dios, Rosa is likely alive. “And the policia have never had any suspects?”
“They’ve never solved the crimes or found answers, but some have tried, including the mayor who went missing.”
“Odd that the comandante didn’t hesitate to blame Geraldo. Did he know this has been happening for years?”
“Yes.”
Pobrecito Geraldo. A baby separated from his mother through some horror, maybe murder. And when he grew up, separated from another woman, his fiancée, who was also probably murdered.
Bad luck? Or had someone hated his mother enough to torture the man?
21
SEAN
Thanks to the turmoil surrounding life lately, my flat has seen cleaner days. There are canvases everywhere along with papers and dishes. Honestly, I’ve had enough of it. I wash another dish and put it in the rack by the sink. This place is getting a thorough cleaning.
Seems wrong to do ordinary things like light the candle on the counter and wash the dishes, but it’s better to be busy. Tonight, we follow Armand. And if Dee is right, we find Rosa.
I rinse another dish and imagine it all working out. Rosa found. Sofía found. That last might take more time, but it seems more likely now than ever. Dee’s passed on Sofía’s description to whoever she’s working with in the States, Sofía’s most likely destination. Those people are helping in the search.
All they’re asking of me in return is something I’ve wanted for months now—to take down the traffickers by going into their organization.
A knock on my flat door has me wiping my hand on a dish rag and moving to answer. After checking through the chain, I lift it off, then swing the door open. An older, unfamiliar bloke. He’s wearing a hoodie, looking down, and has gray, curly hair sticking out. He’s an overweight fellow. I tell him, “Wrong door, mate.”
He lifts his head, and I get a good look at a man who’s had a hard life. His gold eyes gleam in sunken and darkened hallows in need of a good night—or decade’s—sleep. His mouth is downturned, melting into deep jowls. He says in a voice that doesn’t match his visage in the slightest, “I think it’s the right door.”
I nearly drop dead on the spot. I pull her inside. I shut the door behind her and lock it. For a moment, I simply stare, trying to find where this man ends and Dee begins.
“That’s bloody incredible,” I tell her.
She begins to peel off her disguise, removing tape from under the wig, so that the mask loosens at the edges.
“Thanks.” She wiggles her fingers under the mask chin and lifts face and hair as if it were a sweater. “Did you recognize any part of me at all?”
“None.” Even watching as she disassembles the rest of herself, I’m stunned.
She shakes out of the mask, putting the eerily intact face and hair on a nearby easel. “Good, hopefully Armand won’t give me a second glance when I put a tracker on him tonight.”
“Can’t imagine he will,” I say, then look closer at the mask. The tape on the sides was actually some kind of invisible tightening agent, a clear, stretchy drawstring.
She pulls a cord inside her hoodie sleeve, and the body that had appeared bulky deflates with a low hiss. The disguise seems to melt off of her.
“How long did this take you?”
“Two hours.” Bending to remove brown construction boots, she steps out of the getup, leaving behind the shell of a man that droops into a four-foot-tall pile. She’s dressed all in skintight black pants and shirt. She grins. “Which is to say, you’re not getting rid of me until it’s time for me to track Armand.”
Who needs dishes to keep busy? I drag her to me. “That’ll work.”
