Chapter 10

Dalton

Was this a setup?

I marched straight from the conference room, into my office, slamming the door.

I couldn’t believe what Brycen had just filled me in on. If Wentworth wanted me on this wild goose chase for him, the bastard should have been honest with me from the get-go. For the first time, I cursed the lead that had sent the politician my way.

And I couldn’t be any more thankful for Devolin’s warnings.

With the latest information, gathered by the woman, then assessed by both Brycen and myself, I picked up the desk phone and punched in the number to Minister Wentworth’s personal line.

“Mr. Kippers,” was my greeting upon the third ring. For a man whose son was incarcerated in Mexico, pending trial for being involved in the Canadian cabinet minister’s fiancée’s disappearance, possible manslaughter what with the extensive amount of blood at the scene, he was a little too chipper for my liking. “Do you have something for me?”

“The Juan Cartel is involved?” That’s right. No polite greeting. No pleasantries.

“How’d—”

“When were you going to divulge the fact that you’ve personally had business dealings with criminals, not only known in Mexico, but throughout the U.S.?” I was seething. “This changes everything.”

“Kippers—”

“I’m done sitting on this shit and playing this your way.” I was so done with these pompous assholes. If the money wasn’t so damn good, I’d be more selective of my cases, but I wasn’t quite at that level yet. I needed more manpower before that could happen. “From now on, we’re doing this my way. That means, I’m going to be dealing with the RCMP, Global Affairs Canada, and the Canadian Consulate directly. Any new information you receive, you forward to me or my colleague, Brycen Matthews, immediately. Answers are given when they come and not a second before, Wentworth. Be warned, the bill you thought you were going to be footing just got a fuck of a lot heftier. Do I make myself clear?”

“Wait just a goddamn minute!” the man bellowed.

“No! You omitted information that put me and my team at risk. We’re prepared to risk everything, our lives included, but playing me by being selective of the information I get, or don’t, doesn’t work well in this business.” I paused long enough to make sure the man got me with my next point. “You’ve got twenty-four fucking hours to get back to me before I bill you for hours worked and we part ways.” I slammed the phone into its cradle.

Seconds.

All it took was a few seconds before my line rang and I picked up the receiver.

“Find her.” The line went dead.

“I’m glad we could agree on something,” I grumbled to my office walls.

Reclining in my chair, my arms up, fingers interlaced behind my head, I released a long tension-filled sigh, as I turned my chair toward the large cork board bolted to the wall behind my desk.

I’d spent the better part of the day leaving messages and speaking with the proper channels to each Canadian agency, including the City of Ottawa Police. I also pulled my marker with my contact with the Mexican authorities, Miguel Sanchez, who happened to be a drinking buddy of the lead investigator in charge of the abduction and Wentworth’s son’s subsequent arrest.

Suffice to say, that massive board was getting loaded with information, from dishearteningly graphic images of the hotel crime scene, to various names associated with the victim, Nadia Alvarez-soon-to-be-Wentworth. Minister Max Wentworth and his son, Scott’s known associates were listed there as well, and that list was rapidly growing.

I took a minute to focus on both Wentworth men’s associates, drawing one parallel aside from the fact that they shared blood: Enrique Ortiz.

After a quick search of the INTERPOL Criminal Information System, Ortiz was now an open book to me. Well, what various law enforcement had been able to gather over the years that is. With the rap sheet on that fucker, I knew I’d have my work cut out for me.

Ortiz was one of the Juan Cartel’s chapter leaders. He was also on multiple international watch lists for crimes such as drug and human trafficking. The guy spent more time on U.S. soil than Mexican, tending mostly to the Southwest region of the States, but some Southeast parts were also in the mix now, which incidentally put him in my backyard. There’d been multiple attempts to indict him, all of which had failed. Let’s just say that the man had a knack at making people disappear. Being a massive man, at roughly two-hundred and ninety pounds of solid muscle and six foot six, people learned to fear him early on in his career, mainly because of his days as an enforcer.

I studied the most recent shot of the guy that I’d added to the board. Clean-cut, tailored suit, Italy’s best if I had to guess. He was good-looking, confident in his stance. From that shot alone, notwithstanding the others I’d perused, he seemed to hold a certain approachability, a charisma that most likely got him a whole hell of a lot more than women.

My email chimed, pulling me away from my target of study.

Scott Wentworth’s rap sheet.

An unsealed one, delineating each and every single infraction in the kid’s life.

At a quick glance, nothing seemed out of the usual: petty misdemeanors, theft, drug and weapons possession, small-time dealing, solicitation…all since the age of fourteen.

The minister’s son sure had been busy. If I were to hypothesize the reasons for the trouble the kid got into, I’d have to say that everything he’d done had been a push for attention from his father.

He was now twenty-one, and if Nadia Alvarez, his father’s soon-to-be-wife was found dead, Scott could be facing up to twenty years, with no possibility of parole, for murder in the second degree. At the very least, I was confident that the man would see at least four years for being an accessory to kidnapping. And since these alleged crimes were committed in Mexico, he would have to go through their system, and suffer the less than desirable accommodations and treatment. If he wasn’t already, I’d be willing to bet he’d wager double his sentence for the comfort of a Canadian cell right now.

As I scanned the rest of the email on Scott Wentworth, my cell began a vibrating dance to the Criminal Minds show tune. When Devolin had given me her number, I’d programmed it in to that jingle, seeing as she was a fan of the show, but mostly because she likened herself to Penelope Garcia, the program’s resident hacking guru.

This warranted a smile from me.

Probably the first of the day, and it was overdue considering it was past quitting time, and I was hungry.

“Have you eaten yet?” I asked in place of a greeting.

“Hello to you, too.” She giggled. “They just delivered my tray.”

“Don’t eat it,” I ordered. “How do you feel about burgers and fries?”

“Love ‘em.”

“Then hold on, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Kip?” Devolin said, a smile in her voice.

Wedging my phone between my ear and shoulder, I pressed the series of keys to lock down my system. “Yeah?”

There was a long pause before she answered. It was as if she couldn’t decide what she wanted to say. “I’ll be here,” she whispered.