Chapter Five

 

From his second-floor office, Seamus McGinn settled his gaze on a monitor angled at the Sip ‘N Strip bar. He treated every topless waitress as a possession, and followed Misty as she served drinks to customers. Look but don’t touch these prostitutes, he always said. Everyone knew he was a psycho and would beat the crap out of anyone fondling his girls’ tits during work hours except for him. If he weren’t on a timeline, he’d have Misty sent up to his office.

With enough IT skills to maneuver gadgets, he switched the live footage from inside to the outdoor parking lot. He tensed in expectation of Zeb Montgomery’s arrival but wished Zeb was as dirty as his dad. What mobster doesn’t need a cop in his pocket?

He’d worked with Zeb’s dad, Sergeant Gordon Montgomery, for years but knew from experience things can get out of hand even with the tightest net thrown around them. Tonight, McGinn widened the net to include Zeb.

Born without a silver spoon, Zeb, a Ph.D. candidate, choked on his student loans. Yes, loans, for what-the-fuck…botany? After Zeb had shared a story with his dad, Gordy the Greaser brought a business prospect to him.

Around the family dinner table, Zeb had spilled the beans about his mentor, Professor Joseph Winter’s failed botany project. If used a certain way, the project resulted in a deadly toxin.

Zeb’s opportunistic dad came up with an instantaneous scheme. Hijack the laptop, sell it to a terrorist, and pay off the loans. Why the hell not? After the kid received a hefty finder’s fee, his ‘F’ as in failed-to-make-payments would turn into an ‘A’ as in Auctioned-to-the-highest-bidder. After discussing the plan with his partner, Tim, he knew the plan had merit.

McGinn gazed through the monitor, his window to the parking lot. Streetlights blazed through trees and cast shadows across a young man, not someone he recognized.

A few minutes later, McGinn jumped into his private elevator. Soon delivered to a concealed entrance in the basement parking structure, he walked softly up the stairs to the ground level bar. Savoring this moneymaking venture, he made his way toward Zeb, who had the same soft, bulbous face as his father.

McGinn slid onto a bar stool next to him. “Good day to you, Zeb. Your predicament is a cause for celebration.” He reached out, patted the lad’s shoulder, and made eye contact with the bartender. “A triple shot of Crown for Gordy’s son.”

“Sure, boss.”

Zeb clenched his eyes shut as if he wanted to run. “I don’t like this. I’ll be responsible, and—”

“—nothing will leak.”

“No?” Wringing his hands, he said, “Don’t bully me.”

“Bully you? Nonsense, Zeb. I’m giving you a helping hand. Your loans will be paid off. Plus, you’ll get fifty thousand.” McGinn lacked patience for the wimp, and didn’t agonize over seeing him suffer.

“Problem is, I like Dr. Winter.” Zeb’s face drained of energy. “The prof’s lab has government protection. I can’t just walk out with a vial of this poisonous shit.”

“Settle down, Zeb. We just want his laptop. If it’s at the lab, you can pinch it, right?”

“Dr. Winter brings his laptop home.” Zeb exhaled, turned as white as a ghost, and shook his head. “I’d hate to see this formula used in the field.”

“What happens?”

“When used a certain way, death is inevitable. I just—”

“—Zeb, you’re a back-channel innocent. No one cares about you.” McGinn didn’t, and wasn’t in the bloody uplifting business. Time was money. Yesterday he’d contacted a wealthy homegrown radical for the laptop. The high number of kills impressed him.

“After today I’m out of the loop?” Zeb smiled, but the strange and unnatural flattening of his lips spoke of nervousness.

“Right.” He thanked him for his information and got to his feet. “Cheers,” he added in a pleasant tone and left through the front entrance.

McGinn caught a cab and instructed the driver to head to Longshoreman’s Credit Union. He never tapped into savings and chuckled to himself. His kidnap victim had trusted him to such an extent she’d paid her own ransom. Ten years ago, she’d liquidated her trust account to load up his getaway money. Year after year his savings account accrued interest while her trust in fairness plummeted.

Seated in the backseat, he leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Stop here. I’ll be right back.” He hustled to the cash machine and withdrew a stack of fifties. In the vain hope that he’d somehow miscalculated the last time he’d balanced his checkbook, he brought up the balance. When he saw the dwindling amount, his decision to get Dr. Winter’s laptop drove him to pull out his cellphone and dial Tim. “Ready? We’re going after it. Bring the usual.”

“Is the laptop enough?” Tim’s voice was sharp. “It’s not like it comes with instructions.”

“I agree. We need Dr. Winter,” he said. “The professor explains things to our buyer, and then what? He dies or disappears, let’s say.” He joked, “Or he—”

“—falls down the stairs, becomes incapacitated, has a stroke, or worse. Worse, because you snap,” Tim said. “I’ll drive to the prof’s home and wait for you.”

“See you in ten.” Someday he’d stop with the violence. Sooner or later, they’d screw up. Stopping was a ludicrous thought in these days of marginal profits. The protection and drug racket didn’t compare to this. The laptop landed in his lap. If he had to dig for something else, he might as well get out a shovel and aim for China.

After this last go-round, he’d pick up stakes and move to Mexico without Vee. She was still pretty, weaker but not broken. She tried to fight, tried to run, and she ran well, but where could she go on his island? He no longer cared if she drank and ate. His dick went hard thinking about her as she used to be, how she’d chosen to be with him, how she’d controlled the extortionists and cocaine crew with a meat cleaver. “Come up short, and I’ll shorten a finger.” Her cruelty amused him, but she couldn’t take the roughness he used on her.

Back then, he loved hunting her down, her sleek blonde hair swinging below her shoulders, her creamy skin, a narrow waist, high, full breasts, and long, strong legs. She wasn’t perfect now. Scratches, scrapes, and mottled bruises spoiled her once perfect skin.

Misty, on the other hand, showed a feisty promise. A hard smack to her plump ass settled her down nice and quick. His dick perked up when he envisioned where he wanted to take a belt to her. He’d get her to the island.

As the taxi drove him toward the professor’s fancy-pants Park Estates neighborhood, he imagined rural Irish patchwork. Paddocks and pastures were the green of shamrocks and emeralds and, like waves, rolled into the distance. Outcroppings of limestone burst forth with gravel beneath. Alder and ash trees marked pasture boundaries. He hadn’t seen wood smoke curl from chimneys of slated-front farm homes for a decade. The Dublin-based Kinahan cartel had driven him out. A gate opened to a greener pasture when domestic terrorists murdered the Long Beach Rourke kingpins.

“Can you speed it up?” he asked the taxi driver.

“Hard to see with the rain.” The driver stopped at a red light.

“This is good. Drop me here.” He spotted a 24-hour drugstore with fresh flowers. He bought a dozen roses and slogged two more blocks to the home of Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Winter.

Tim stood behind him when he rang the doorbell.

Rose Winter answered. “Flower delivery?”

* * *

The midmorning sun burned brightly when Grady returned from his second Starbucks run. His cellphone pinged, but he didn’t answer it. Hard enough to juggle two coffees while opening the door. “You’re here…finally.”

Inside, Maeve paced about the office. “Yeah, don’t say it.”

He already did. “Was it work or pleasure?”

“More like volunteer work. I started a missing person website for Tori’s cousin, Vivienne Rourke.”

“Aka Vivienne Valentine.” His ambivalence over Tori’s dedication pressed down on him like a leaden weight. His plan of action was to do nothing. “Do you know what’s weird about these websites?”

“I do. Some people make a strange hobby of following cases like this. Messages from well-wishers are downright eerie. Religious people send prayers. That’s nice. Were you thinking something else?”

On his lap, he clenched his hands into fists. “Vivienne might not want to be found.”

“What do you know that I don’t know?”

“When I worked Tori’s case, I bumped up on her cousin’s rebellion. She ran away from the boarding school. Had an older boyfriend. Got into dark stuff. My point? Vivienne herself is a bad element.”

“If McGinn kidnapped her, don’t rule out the Stockholm syndrome. Strong emotional ties develop between two persons where—”

“—one person intermittently harasses, beats, threatens, abuses, or intimidates the other. If the abuser lets up, the abused takes it as kindness,” he said, but didn’t buy into it.

“Anyway,” Maeve said, “setting up the website is my excuse for looking like hell.”

She mustered up her sense of humor. “Other news. Tori drove her pickup to a cemetery and dug up her gun.” The PI took a moment to explain Tori’s friendship with the owners of the funeral home. She’d taken up Mick Coley’s offer to hide a few of her belongings in the smallest casket he had. “I saw her wince with regret at the insensitive use intended for a precious stillborn. Anyway, it’s buried above Thomas’s vault and contains her gun and as many beanie babies as could be stuffed inside.”

“A gun and beanie babies, crazy combination.” A red flag went up over the gun, but he ignored it. He thrust a coffee cup at Maeve, keeping the other for himself. “Let’s start again. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Grady. Say hello to our new case.” Maeve slapped down paperwork, the beginnings of a new murder book. His private investigator had seen it all. Homicides, suicides, assaults, and no amount of horror surprised her.

He slid onto his chair in front of crime photos. “This can’t be.” His heart pounded like a wild animal bursting to be free. “Victim has broken teeth lodged in her throat.”

“The pattern mirrors Irene Brennan.” She scowled.

“Who’s our new client?”

“A handyman. Samuel Peterson repaired a leaky toilet at the Winters’ home yesterday afternoon. He left prior to the murder of Rose Winter.”

“A rose on ice,” he said, referring to this morning’s headline on the front page of the Los Angeles Globe. The body of the victim, found on her white marble floor, lay at an odd angle, arms and legs flung out like Raggedy Ann. Her shoulder-length hair of dyed burgundy surrounded her head in a puddle of her own blood and scattered long-stem roses. “Rose Winter’s features were smashed.”

“Beaten to a pulp,” Maeve said.

“Her husband, Dr. Joseph Winter, is missing.” Joseph Winter, Ph.D. taught a class in urban planting at Cal State Long Beach, but more importantly conducted research for the Department of Agriculture. “Dr. Winter and his laptop hold secrets vital to national security.”

“Maybe Rose Winter held back his location.” She removed the lid and sipped coffee from the cup.

He sank in his chair staring at the white board where she scrawled key events.

Maeve said, “Maybe her assailant enjoys torture for the heck of it.”

He squeezed his panic into iron fists. “Did Rose write our client a check?”

“Yes, and then Sam Peterson left.” As if it were an everyday occurrence, Maeve adjusted the purple scarf around her neck. “Mrs. Peterson phoned us. Assured me her husband has no hidden talents. Sam isn’t a secret novelist or computer nerd. He’s a struggling black handyman supporting a family of four.”

A text message pinged again. This time he read it aloud. “Tori Morningstar. Says her food truck is open for business.”

“Great, team up. You’re both on Seamus McGinn’s tail.” Maeve gathered her purse and two four-inch binders.

“You’ve got Irene Brennan and Rose Winter in those murder books. Off getting a warrant?”

“I am. When victims struggle for their lives, they put talons out. Scratch their assailants. I want to compare tissue caught under their fingernails.”

He nodded his approval. “Could be a match.” Medical examiners clipped a victim’s nails to see if DNA from trapped tissue matched any sample in the DNA database. Even without one, a new technique known as phenotyping revealed the assailant’s eye, skin, and hair color. “All is good for Samuel Peterson.”

“At Tori’s truck, go light on the fried stuff.” She winked and lugged her notebooks to the door.

“And you go light on those jaded detectives.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I make them care.” She elbowed her way through the door.

His temples throbbed. Taking stock of the kidnapping of Dr. Winter and the national security risk it entailed, he phoned his cousin, Finn, and explained the case against his client.

“You’re up against organized crime,” Finn said. “Sucks when you realize how small and defenseless you are.”

“Wormhole.” Ah, the ties that bind. “Will you pretty please give up your contact at the FBI?” Grady gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles ached.

“You are one lucky asshat,” Finn gloated. “I’ll phone Gary Guhleman, tell him you’ll be in touch. You’ll like him. He’s an amped-up hound dog. Hang up. I’ll text you his number.”

“Don’t face-plant on goose poop.” Grady chuckled at the memory, saved the agent’s number, and then texted it to Maeve with the message they’d hooked up with FBI Agent Gary Guhleman.

Next, he texted Tori. “I’m out the door, walking to your truck.” It took superhuman power not to ask her out. His dick knew she appealed to him. Down, boy. It’s good I’m wearing loose pants. She’s a client, and this wasn’t what he was here for. Attracted and fear of the attraction doubled his ability to be a jerk.

* * *

Tori had been so busy serving deep fried spaghetti on a stick to dock workers, she startled at her cell’s ping. Grady.

She texted back. “Look for me at Deep Fried to Taste.” She couldn’t wait to tell him. A dockworker had given her a lead on Seamus McGinn.

Scuffling outside the window drew her attention, and she looked down. Three school-age girls stood in front of the blackboard to read menu selections. Tori swore she saw tears of joy in their eyes.

One of the girls piped up. “Three peanut butter and jellies, bacon wrapped.”

“Coming right up, ladies.” A few seconds later, she handed down the deep-fried delicacies in brown waxed paper, with solo cups filled with ice cold lemonade. “Drinks are on the house.”

“Wow, thanks,” the shortest of the trio said.

A block away she spotted Grady taking long strides toward the truck lot. During her road trip, she’d thought several times about phoning him but had updated his detective instead.

Maeve designed a website, Missing Women, ages twenty-five to thirty, and scanned in victims who’d turned up dead. Searching for Vivienne was like living in one of those terrible dreams where she was running and running but going nowhere. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point, but these days were bright compared to the endless limbo of her incarceration.

She’d walked out of the Gladstone Prison a decade after she’d walked in. After ten years, she was free. Free because of Grady. The effects of imprisonment scarred her but also strengthened her resolve. Her heart swelled with gratitude for freedom.

She had a home in her food truck and proved in one day she could make money. She had friends who worked within two blocks of the lot. Ebony embalmed at Coley-Reece. Down the street, Grady appealed cases of the wrongly accused, and Maeve not only found evidence to support his efforts, but she also wanted to know if Vivienne was living in terror or dead and at peace. Earlier from her office desk Maeve had texted her the link for MissingWomen25to30.com. Amy and Finn were a phone call away. Her parents disappeared on the day of her conviction and bought a house in Carlow, Ireland. She trusted they longed for her, just as she expressed to them in her letter. She mourned the loss of her brother and worried over Vivienne.

A gaping hole in her heart ached to find her. When she did, she’d take a full breath. Her search began where it left off. Seamus McGinn.

What did Viv look like now? Was she using the new last name, Valentine? Fairytale beautiful with waves of blonde hair and a rosebud mouth, her flair for adventure sometimes led to trouble with wild boys.

She and Viv had survived trials, but nothing had ever compared to the terror at Rhubarb and Ginger.

Grady double-arm waved at her. It was as if he were a two-dimensional character in a dream. Handsome. As upstanding as any man could be. Her legs gave way. The figure in the distance did that, and she grabbed the counter. Dizzy and short of breath, she chastised herself for holding on to the romantic notions she fantasized about a hundred times a day. She stuck her head out the window. “I’m coming out.”

Grady met her on the stairs and offered a hand. The closer he got, the harder it was to concentrate on stepping down. His killer smile showed off two sexy dimples when he said, “It’s noon.”

“Good noon to you.” She gulped. Readying herself for conversation, she took his hand, rose on her toes, and sniffed. “Hmmm, what is that? Shaving lotion? Man perfume?”

He chuckled, and a weird electric awareness went off in her chest. In slow motion, it cracked open slowly, sent out sparkly runners to forgotten girl parts, and pulsed there.

She pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. Their gazes locked. Her hair loosened from her bandana. “Drat, I’m a chef. Hair is supposed to stay put.” She took it off, placed the center of the bandana on the nape of her neck, and tied a knot on the top of her head.

He reached to help tuck the ends under. “You’re so darn cute.”

“Oooo, that scent. Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“Eau des Baux Eau.” The warm, deep sound of his voice sent more sensations of want right through her. Behind him, the sun stretched a bit higher and seemed to shine just on him. “You like it?”

“I sure do. Vanilla. You smell like a cookie.” Her heart thudded harder than it should.

“Do you like cookies?” He bent his head for a kiss.

She kissed Mr. Good Noon with the wavy reddish-brown hair and body made to lose sleep over. Her breath hitched, and she took a step back from heartbreak. No reason to set sights on a man way out of her league. The glow dimmed, and the warmth backed off. “Care to look at my menu?” She stepped closer to the blackboard.

“Now you’re speaking my language. I’m starving.” He raised his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth lifted. “Pimento cheeseburger corn dog.”

“That’s my great food mash-up.”

“I can see why. It blends two favorites, the cheeseburger and the corn dog.”

“Come on up. Dine at my little table.” A loud thumping started to vibrate her body and draw her out of her reverie. It beat louder. “I’ll get used to that. People cruise around with their windows down and rap music pumping.”

Grady looked down the street. A black Escalade roared toward them before heading around the corner. “One of these days, somebody’s granddad will come running out, yelling at them to turn it down.”

The thought brought a glow into her heart. Nice people lived in this neighborhood.

“Tori.” He said her name like it was his favorite word in the entire English language, and she quivered with excitement. “Did you catch the news this morning?”

“No. Should I have?” She plunged two corn dogs into the deep fryer.

“A woman, Rose Winter, was beaten to death. Beaten about the head and face with a blunt instrument. Shattered her right eye socket. Bone shards penetrated the brain. Smashed jawbone.” His voice was deeper, rougher than usual. Other than that, he was a placid lake, and she envied his calm, his control, and tranquil nature.

“With teeth lodged in her throat?” Her stomach turned. She tasted bile, and no longer felt romantic. Adrenaline shot through her, but she shoved fear aside. “Let me guess. Your client is accused of killing her.”

He nodded. “Maeve headed out to make forensic comparisons. DNA samples from under the victims’ fingernails. We’ll prove the killer isn’t my client.”

“I take it Seamus McGinn’s DNA is not in the database.” She lifted the basket with shaking hands and placed the food on waxed paper. Drawn up tight and strung out so thin, her fingers vibrated like plucked strings. She moved food to the table and turned to fill a solo cup with iced tea.

“Odd but true.” He eyed the food before him and picked up the stick attached to the corn dog. “Looks delicious.” Those dimples of his creased.

“You can’t eat after thinking about Rose Winter.” She looked at his large hand for a moment and then snuggled hers into it. His hand was warm and strong.

He squeezed her hand and let it go. “I’ll take the food home.” He watched as she grabbed a takeout bag. “You’re in a hard-luck neighborhood. More treacherous than Compton.”

She set the bag on the kitchen table. “That’s why I picked it. Irish thugs stopped by yesterday. Wanted me to pay two hundred a week. I paid up.” Holding a cup of iced tea for herself, she eased onto the seat opposite him.

“The good old payment for protection scheme.” He placed his food in the bag and then glanced out the serving window of her truck.

“You’re looking at the playground.”

“It has a slide, monkey bars, and swings. Kids don’t play there. Two teens hung out and caught stray bullets. They recovered, thank God.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I’m pretty sure gang members shot them.” He said it to her as if she were a total dimwit.

She sucked in a hissing breath. “I’m not naïve, remember? Where there are drugs, there are gangs who sell them. Drive-by shootings are a warning from the dealer who sells to those kids.”

“This is Irish turf. Mexicans push in.” He grinned, and looked happy when she returned it. “Down the other way, there’s a row of shops.”

“In this neighborhood, shopkeepers and their families live above their businesses,” she said.

“I do the same but don’t live upstairs.” His fitted oxford shirt showed off his muscled chest in an understated way that made it hard for her to think of anything but what he’d look like without it. “Squirrels live in the attic. I have rooms behind my office.”

“Sometimes squirrels scamper overhead.”

“Look at all we have in common.” He inclined his head toward her. “Back to the mall, I’ve stopped for gas. I noticed a tire shop, a garden center, beauty parlor, and laundromat.”

“Maeve took me to SoCal Cuts.” She shook her head to show it off. “I drop my laundry off at Sudzy Fluff and Fold.”

“Me, too.” Tall and handsome grinned. “Lihua Chen at Sudzy charges a tad more than what I paid downtown. You know why.”

“They pay the Irish five hundred a week.” She held his stare.

He hesitated, rubbed a hand over his five o’clock shadow. “You learned that, how?”

“When I bought tires for my pickup,” she said. “Music blared, and the shop owner’s wife danced up to the counter. No worries, no fears. She handed me a bill.

“While I paid for my set of Goodyears, we talked about how nice it’d be if the park held concerts. An Irish thug breezed in, and she cowered, and counted out five hundred-dollar-bills. He took the money and then pulled her close, smashing her body right against his.”

He sighed. “Serious creep. Did his eyes go to you?”

She waved it off.

“In prison—”

“—Ebony and I made up a condition. We called it torticollis. Involuntary muscles spasm around the penis, shrinking it to a fourth of its size.”

Grady, all six feet, two inches of him, bent down and wrapped his arms around her. “I’d laugh except I’m sorry. Sorry for what you faced. You’re really something.” A light line of reddish stubble darkened his jaw. His dangerous expression attracted her, a woman who should know better than to fall into his deep green eyes.

She stared up at him, totally lost. Everything about Grady was so sexy. He started to hum an old song, “Cowgirls don’t cry.”

She sang, “Ride, baby, ride. It’s gonna hurt now and then. Cowgirls don’t cry.”

He danced with her. Moving slowly. Sensuously. He hummed soft, smooth, and his fingers were just above the curve of her ass.

“What are you doing?” Tori asked. She hated that her voice sounded like a squeak.

Grady smiled. Her heart broke a little then. His smile did that to her. Twisted her up, made her want things she couldn’t have.

“If you’re asking,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, “then my dancing is even worse than I thought.”

“It isn’t.” What she’d give to let him love her. Wake up to see him above her. What she’d give to make him hers.

He moved closer. His hold tightened on her. “It’s not safe for you to screw with the Irish. You know that, don’t you?” His jaw was harder, his words rougher even than before. He was angry.

So was she. “I have a job to do.”

He shook his head. “No.” He was silent for a moment. The heat from his touch seemed to sear her.

She stepped back. “The Irish are fleecing shopkeepers and food truck owners. I’m appointing myself to fight this.”

“Tori, that’s crazy. This neighborhood sits on the drug smuggling route.”

Yeah, like I don’t know. “The Irish move cocaine and heroin in many creative ways. Bags of fertilizer used to be a favorite.”

“You said some shopkeepers. Who did you miss?” He moved a hand over his eye as if a blood vessel was about to burst from stress.

“The garden center had an out-to-lunch sign on the door.” It wasn’t lunchtime, and she swallowed a knot in her throat. A minute passed before she focused attention on how to proceed. “Is there a cop I can trust?”

“Luis Otero. He started a neighborhood watch program. Officially it’s an Anti-Kidnap and Extortion Unit.” Grady surveyed her for a moment. “It hasn’t evolved past watching out for each other’s property.”

“It’s a start. I’d like to talk with him. Take it a step further.” She cringed inwardly, afraid of people in uniform, and prayed her voice didn’t shake when she spoke with him.

“Let the cop do that. A shopkeeper will let the mob know where they can find you.” He hesitated and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “My enthusiasm doesn’t go to planning your funeral.” His smile was brief but flashy and caught her offguard.

“I know where your enthusiasm goes.” She brought her gaze to his. “For the rest of the year, I’m yours.”

He folded his arms across his chest and grinned. “Is that right?”

“You and I have a win-win situation. We’re after the same killer.” Whew. She fanned her face with her hand.

“Seamus McGinn,” he said. “From now on, we’re partners.”

“I drew a sketch of him.” She retrieved it from a drawer under the counter. “I showed this to a dockworker. He sees him once in a while.” Time stood still as he looked over her sketch.

“Good likeness except for the eyes. Not quite so round.”

“It’s hard to draw hollow eyes. His grin was nuclear. Not good nuclear. Hiroshima cruel.” She closed her eyes for a few erratic heartbeats, struggling to rein in her fear. She was a running engine going nowhere and not cooling down.

“Come here.” He tugged her close. “A dockworker saw him, where?”

She rocked forward into his arms, drawn to him by physics or hormones or old-fashioned need. “At a strip club off the Pacific Coast Highway on Cherry Avenue.”

“Well, hot damn, zip code 90813. Population is dangerous.” He kissed her forehead, stepped back and gazed into her eyes.

“I can’t promise he’ll be there. Want to go with me tonight?” She took a drink of tea but had a hard time swallowing. She pictured Vivienne hurt and alone. Tears came from dread, but she kept them at bay.

“Can I pick you up at ten?”

“I’ll be ready.” She twisted in her chair. “Just wondered. Dr. Winter taught classes in rooftop gardening. I took his online class. Why would his laptop be important?”

“His research centered on enriching soil in poor countries.”

“So that crops flourish,” she said, but waited for the shoe to drop.

“He made a discovery. Farmers who grow sorghum—”

“—for livestock.”

He nodded. “The compound improved clay and sandy soil.”

“Did something go wrong?”

“Not for the poor soil. It did for rich, loamy soil. When added to fertilizer and spread on nitrogen-rich soil, toxins flourish. Livestock die. People who ingest the meat die.”

“No.” She threw up her hands. “His formula is on his laptop.”

“It’ll be sold to the highest bidder.” He paused. “The highest bidder might be a terrorist who kills for the sake of killing.” He tilted his head in thought and then leaned across the table. “That’s just an assumption. No one knows.”

“Here’s what we do know. The richest soil in the United States is in the heartland.” Her heart pounded like a ticking clock. “Midwestern cattle farms are the target.”

“You have good instincts. Let’s find McGinn before millions die of poisoned beef.” He raised his eyebrow in silent question. “If Vivienne is with him, you’ll find her.”

Tori didn’t like how he said that but let it go. By bunching up with him and going to the strip club, she’d make more headway.

She shivered. What she knew about Seamus McGinn drove her imagination to terrible places, unspeakable places. Had he kidnapped Dr. Joseph Winter and Vivienne, too? Men who kidnapped young women were capable of a depravity that knew no bounds. How could she hope if her cousin was alive but in the hands of a madman?

Was hope another word for purgatory?