Sheltering Dunes (20 page)

“Still, that requires a pretty high level of organization.”

Reese nodded. “Ten years ago La Mara wouldn’t have been able to pull it off. But times have changed. They’re strong, they’re organized, and they’re violent.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“I’m pretty sure Mica has gang ties. If not now, she has in the past.”

Cold dread seeped into Allie’s stomach. “I read somewhere that no one gets out once they’re in.”

“That’s true. If she’s running, she’s in danger.”

“And so is anyone with her.” Allie wanted to jump up, tear back to Flynn’s, and kick Mica’s ass around the block for putting Flynn in danger. “You think that’s what’s going on?”

“I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t get any information until the morning. I’ve put a few calls in to my contacts in the FBI for background information. They’ll get the message first thing in the morning, and we might turn something up. I take it your searches didn’t come up with anything?”

“Not yet, but I widened the geographic area and expanded the search parameters earlier today. I was about to fill out my interview report and run down the computer checks again. Nothing popped earlier tonight.”

“All right. We still don’t have anything concrete, but the pieces I’m starting to see don’t look promising.”

“What about Flynn?”

Reese leaned back in her chair and rested her arms on the armrests, studying Allie. She knew about Allie and Flynn and knew their involvement was over now, but that didn’t mean Allie wasn’t still invested. Allie didn’t walk away from anything—especially not people she cared about. She was passionate, and passion could be a good thing in a cop. Passion fueled drive, kept a cop looking and searching when it seemed there would never be any answers. But passion sometimes clouded good judgment. “I got the impression Flynn was personally involved. But Flynn is smart. And remember, Mica hasn’t done anything illegal.”

“That we know of, yet,” Allie said.

“That’s true. But at this point, she’s a victim, and that’s how we need to go about running down our leads. As to Flynn, I think you have to trust her judgment.”

Allie pushed the chair back and rose. “Yes ma’am. I’ll get on those computer checks.” She turned and started for the door.

“Tremont,” Reese said quietly.

Allie stiffened. “Yes, Sheriff?”

“If you’re going to take the lead on this case, you’re going to need to have a clear head.”

Allie jerked around. “The lead?”

“You’re the one who picked up on something being wrong. You’ve already started the investigation. Stay with it.” Reese reached for a stack of papers. “Keep me in the loop at all times. And keep your personal feelings under wraps.”

“I’ll do that.”

Reese watched her go, wondering if she’d be able to keep her feelings for Flynn from interfering with her judgment. She needed to learn how, and there was no better time than now.

*

Flynn opened the door and flicked the switch just inside. A table lamp came on across the room, next to the faded brown sofa. Allie had been the last woman she’d had in her apartment, and they’d ended up tangled around each other on that sofa. After Mica followed her inside, she closed the door.

“Are you hungry? Need anything to drink?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Come on.” Flynn took Mica’s hand and led her through the living room, past the kitchen alcove, and down the short hall to her bedroom. She flipped another switch and a small lamp next to her bed glowed a warm yellow. “The bathroom is through that door over there. If you check the medicine cabinet, you’ll find a couple of new toothbrushes and toothpaste. Do you need a T-shirt or anything?”

Mica glanced down at her dirt-smeared T-shirt and jeans. “Yeah, guess I better.”

“I’ll get you something. Go ahead and use the bathroom first.”

After Mica disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door, Flynn slowly and laboriously undressed. She pulled on an oversized, faded Boston Bruins T-shirt and didn’t bother with anything else. By the time she’d accomplished what usually took her ten seconds, Mica was back, still in her soiled clothes. Flynn held out a soft white V-neck T-shirt. “I think this will fit you well enough.”

“Thanks.”

Flynn took her turn in the bathroom, and after washing up and brushing her teeth, she turned out the bathroom light and crossed to the bed. Mica was already under the covers, the sheet drawn across her chest. Her arms rested on top of the pale blue comforter. Her skin was an even golden brown except for the dark patches of the ink on her right upper arm and left inner forearm. A heart with a knife through it. A crescent moon wreathed in blood-red tears. Mica’s tattoos were like her, mysterious and beautiful and kissed with sadness. Flynn pulled back the covers and slid underneath. Six inches separated her from Mica in the double bed. When she turned to shut off the bedside lamp, pain shot through her right side, and she winced.

“I’ll get it.” Mica leaned up on her elbow and reached over Flynn. Her breasts brushed Flynn’s and Flynn’s nipples hardened. Mica instantly stilled.

Flynn clasped Mica’s waist, her fingers curving around Mica’s narrow middle, her thumbs pressed into her firm stomach muscles. Mica looked down at her, her eyes wide dark pools, her full mouth swollen and moist.

“You’ll want to be careful, now,” Mica warned.

“Why’s that?” Flynn’s throat was tight with wanting. Mica shifted closer, her naked thighs sliding over Flynn’s. Flynn sucked in a breath when Mica’s soft, smooth skin pressed against her center. She was wet and Mica had to feel it.

“Because you’re hurt and I’m horny,” Mica murmured.

Flynn grinned. “If I don’t move very much, I don’t hurt.”

“Then you better not move.” Mica carefully shifted, bracing herself above Flynn on her bent arms. Her pelvis settled into Flynn’s, heat against heat.

Flynn watched Mica’s face come closer and closer. She tilted her head. “I really want you to kiss me.”

“You know if we do, there might be no going back.”

Flynn tightened her arm around Mica’s hips and held her more firmly. Mica remained poised above her, waiting. Waiting for her to decide. Flynn stroked her other hand up the center of Mica’s back and buried her fingers in Mica’s hair. Mica was absolutely still, her eyes unblinking.

Flynn pulled Mica’s head down and kissed her.

Philadelphia

Sloan punched in a number on speed dial with one hand and alternated scrolling between the three monitors in front of her and tapping keys with the other hand. She hummed a passable version of Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” Her blood pumped furiously—the thrill of the hunt infusing her with excitement nothing except being with Michael could ever match. Detective Lieutenant Rebecca Frye answered on the second ring.

“Frye.”

“Hey,” Sloan said, “got something you might be interested in.”

“At a quarter after four in the morning?”

Sloan glanced at the time readout in the lower corner of the closest monitor. The last time she’d looked had been when Dell had left a little after midnight. “Sorry. I was chasing some data…”

“Right. Is Michael out of town again?”

“Yeah, she’s the keynote at a think-tank summit on cloud communication integration.” Sloan laughed. “How’d you know?”

“Because every time she goes away, you don’t move out of that chair until she calls and tells you to go to bed.”

“Oh. She did. I was going, and then, well. You know.”

Frye laughed. “What do you have?”

“I set up keyword tags to send alerts if any query anywhere cross-references to our open cases.”

“How you’re pulling from other databases is one of the things I don’t need to know, right?” Frye sounded wide-awake.

“Technically it’s just data sorting—the capture programs, well, they might be a little…specialized.”

“Right. Like I said…I don’t know how you came by the info. And?”

“Someone in Massachusetts is asking about the identity of a young Hispanic female with ties to La Mara.”

“Gotta be thousands of them,” Frye said.

“Yeah, you’re right, but the various factions have pretty well-defined territories. So if we assume East Coast, that narrows it down. And if they’re having trouble identifying her, it means she’s either not in the system anywhere at all—and you know how unlikely that is—or she’s trying to hide her identity. So why would she do that?”

“I can think of plenty of reasons. Top of the list being she’s wanted for something somewhere. What else got you interested?”

“Hector’s main squeeze has been noticeably absent on video surveillance for quite a while.”

“Whose surveillance would that be?”

“The Gang Control Unit has been watching Hector and crew for over a year, trying to build a RICO case. They’ve got three or four surveillance units and a wiretap going. Most of the conversations they pull are in code and pretty useless, but every now and then they’ll get a good shot of three or four lieutenants and Hector holding a meet somewhere.”

“And we have access to the Criminal Intelligence Unit video surveillance tapes how?”

Sloan smiled and tilted her head back, staring at the shadowy patterns in the pressed-tin loft ceiling overhead. Intricate patterns like the information highways she traveled in cyberspace, intertwining in ways that made no sense until suddenly the perfection of the design snapped into view. “Let’s just say they left the file cabinet drawer open for anyone passing by to look.”

“You hacked their computers.”

“That’s such a harsh word.”

“Okay, I’m not asking,” Frye said. “That thread you’re pulling is a little bit stronger now. We’re missing a girl, someone else has one they can’t identify. What did she do?”

“Don’t know. Right now it’s a missing persons inquiry.” Sloan sat forward, switched programs on one computer, and pulled up a reasonably good shot of Hector, two other men, and a young woman climbing into a Hummer. The girl was pretty—dark curly shoulder-length hair; emphatic features; strong, full-bodied build.

“Where?”

“Provincetown.”

“That sure is a far cry from the Badlands. What’s her name?”

“Mia Gonzales. I know it’s a long shot, Frye, but the description fits her. Right age, right distinguishing characteristics.”

“Ink?”

“That we don’t have.”

“What’s your theory?”

“If it’s her, she’s either doing work for Hector up there—muling maybe—or she’s running.”

Rebecca sighed. “If she skipped out on MS-13, they’ll chase her until they find her. And they won’t care about leaving a trail of bodies.”

“I know. But if it’s her, and we get to her first—we’ve been looking for some way into 13 for a long time. She could be our key.”

“Do we have anything on her?”

Sloan tapped keys and another database opened. “I’m looking. Hector is pretty damn arrogant—he takes credit for just about everything that goes down in the region, but no one has any evidence to make anything stick. If she’s his girl, she’s got to know what he’s into. Makes her an accessory at the least.”

“Worth working it.” Rebecca sounded as if she was getting up. Her muffled voice said, “It’s okay. I’m not leaving yet.”

Sloan realized she’d probably woken Frye’s wife with her phone call. “Sorry about the hour.”

“Forget it. I’m up now, and Catherine is used to nighttime calls. I’m going for a run, then I’ll reach out to the Massachusetts people when the sun comes up. Text me the name and number of whoever’s in charge up there.”

“Good enough.”

“And, Sloan?”

“Yeah?”

“Go to bed.”

“Sure thing.” Sloan disconnected, swiveled to face another bank of monitors, and called up another program.

*

Provincetown

Mica felt as if she was walking through a dark room with her hands out in front of her, trying to identify familiar objects that were no longer where they used to be. She wasn’t a virgin. She knew what sex was. She’d thought, before the first time Flynn kissed her, she’d known what desire was. She’d been so wrong. The shape and texture of the landscape she’d thought she understood and knew how to travel had changed. She couldn’t recognize the landmarks, couldn’t find the guideposts. She was lost.

Her skin burned, her breasts ached, and she was so wet her own body was a foreign country. The pressure between her thighs was unbearable. Unbearable and scarily exciting. She had no idea what she was doing, she only knew she couldn’t stop. Flynn lay beneath her, soft and strong and warm. Part of her mind was aware Flynn was hurt, and she kept her weight on her forearms and thighs, but everywhere their bodies touched, Flynn’s heat seared through her protective layers and scorched her to the bone.

Mica had never experienced desire so exquisite, or as disorienting, as the brilliant surprise of Flynn’s caress. Her touch, gentle and sure, was as mysterious as it was reassuring. Mica knew what it was to be seen as a possession, to be touched with disregard, to be used without consideration. She’d never known the aching tenderness Flynn’s fingertips painted over her skin.