“Of course.” Caitlin touched Spense’s arm. “Think about it. Grady’s going to get his license pulled, undoubtedly. His reputation will be ruined. And Tracy and Laura are planning to file a malpractice suit—so he’s going to pay with his pocketbook, too. With Cayman gone, Grady’s the best source of insider knowledge about the senator.”
Spense relaxed his fist and took her hand. “It’s your call, Caity.”
“I’m fine with that,” she told Hatcher. “Do we have any more information about Cayman?”
He nodded. “The bodyguard kept a journal. We found it in a safety-deposit box. It seems he’d been on edge about Chaucer ever since Inga’s ‘accident.’ According to his journal, Lisa Blake told Inga to rest easy, that it hadn’t been Grady who’d raped her. Inga already had suspicions about Chaucer, put two and two together, and confided in Cayman. She’d seen Chaucer sneaking in and out of hotels in the wee hours, and once she’d seen him in the company of a young woman Cayman had dated. The woman later turned up missing—I believe that will prove to be the woman he was with in the fun-booth photos.”
“So Chaucer pushed Inga off a hiking trail because he realized she was getting close to the truth,” Spense said.
“Cayman sure seemed to think so. It’s one of the many threads we’re going to need to follow up. And we don’t think Cayman lied about Laura’s dinner with Ronald Saas. Cayman had information that Laura was meeting with the editor of the Mountain Times, so when a man showed up at the appointed time and introduced himself as Saas, Cayman simply assumed that’s who he was. It looks like Cayman really was trying to protect Laura—but he didn’t have any proof to back up his suspicions about Chaucer. That’s why he dropped out of sight and started snooping around on his own.” Hatcher ripped a bite of ham sandwich off with his teeth, chewed and swallowed. “I’ve got some more news, but first I wanna say it’s been swell working with you two, and I hope the Interpol folks don’t turn out to be a bunch of dicks. Pardon my French.”
Caitlin had to shake her head at that apology. If she took offense at every off-color remark, she’d be toast, considering she spent her days working in the trenches with special agents and cops. “No worries. Let’s hear the news. You said, Interpol, so I assume you’re going to be putting together an international task force.”
“Correct. Search of the Chaucer home in DC turned up these.” Hatcher laid several photographs on the table, adjacent to the beef jerky.
Caitlin stopped breathing for a few seconds.
“Son of a bitch,” Spense said low and hard.
The photographs showed a collection of newspaper clippings—stories of young women gone missing or found dead all across the globe, as well as rows of locks of dark hair tied with pink ribbons.
“How many locks of hair?” Spense asked and looked away, but not before Caitlin saw the moisture in his eyes.
“Including the two Chaucer planted on Laura, which we believe belonged to Angelina and Harriet . . . thirteen,” Hatcher replied.
One for every year.
Chapter 50
Friday, November 1
Morning
On the road
Denver to Taos
The sun coming up over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains was one of the most spectacular events Spense had ever witnessed. Even after the sun had risen, the soft hues of the morning light enhanced the brown earth, green trees, and blue sky on the road to Taos. At first, he hadn’t been able to figure why Caity had wanted to roust the moms out of bed while it was still dark out, just so they could leave Boulder by 4 a.m.
But the magic show the light created made him glad she’d insisted.
Surprisingly, the moms hadn’t uttered a single grumble over the early departure.
Spense thought it might be nice to stop at the hot springs, but then Caity and the others announced they were on a tight schedule. Apparently that meant a side trip to the Great Sand Dunes was out of the question, so he didn’t bother asking.
The only reason he could think of that the ladies might be so anxious about the time was if they wanted to tool around Taos, then score a nice long nap before the gallery opening tonight—the only planned event for the day.
Get up early.
Drive like hell.
Take a nap.
Women.
He whistled at the wheel, while the ladies sang “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer.”
He wanted to participate, but was enjoying the sound of their feminine voices too much to drown them out with his loud, out-of-tune bass.
Luke Jericho, a well-to-do rancher that he and Caity met as a result of the Santa Fe Saint case, had just added a new venue in Taos to his string of New Mexico art galleries. Tonight’s opening gala promised paintings on loan from the Georgia O’Keeffe museum, as well as the best of the local artist community. Both Caity and her mother were big fans of O’Keeffe and of her colorful flowers in particular. Caity’s love of flora had come directly from her mom.