"Have you checked with the harbormaster?"

"I'll take care of it personally. Right away."

He reached out and put his hand on the other man's beefy shoulder. But the ice in his eyes belied his serene expression. "We've been good to you."

"Yes, you have."

"The benefits have been rewarding?"

"The benefits have exceeded my expectations."

"If you want things to remain that way, find the woman and the boy and eliminate them. Are we clear?"

"Crystal." The man was sweating when he left the room.

BENEATH THE YELLOW LIGHT of the banker's lamp Madrid studied the photo. The poor resolution and lighting made it difficult to make out details. Either the camera had been hidden or the photographer had been rushed. He wished for his computer and photo enhancing software. Unfortunately none of that was available, so he was going to have to make do with his naked eye.

The photo showed seventeen young women, most of Asian descent, crowded into a small, dark room. At least nine of the women were bound. Two had visible facial bruising. Were they being held against their will? If so, by whom? Where had the photo been taken?

In the background he saw what could be a bare mattress. A beat-up bucket. There were no windows, and only one wall was visible, made of what looked to be some type of corrugated steel.

He wondered if Angela had snapped the picture from a tiny camera hidden on her person. Had this been part of her mission? Had her cover been blown and she'd been murdered before she could report back to the agency?

"What the h.e.l.l were you onto?" he whispered.

The floor creaked behind him. In one smooth motion Madrid snagged the pistol off the desk and spun. Surprise rippled through him at the sight of Jessica Atwood standing at the bedroom door.

Her eyes flicked to the gun leveled at her chest and she went white. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Frowning, he set the pistol on the desk. "You'd be wise not to sneak up on a man when he's armed."

She wore an oversize T-shirt and a pair of drawstring pants she must have found in the dresser. Her feet were bare. She wasn't wearing a bra. Another thing he shouldn't be noticing.

He'd left her sleeping with Nicolas a couple of hours earlier. He wished she'd stayed in the bedroom. She was pretty, and he didn't want her distracting him from his work.

He turned back to the photo.

"My fever broke," she said. "I'm feeling better. Clearheaded."

"The antibiotics must be working."

A pause. "What are you doing?"

Madrid didn't answer. He didn't want to engage her; he still wasn't totally convinced she was innocent. On the other hand, the more he thought about the circ.u.mstances surrounding Angela's death, the more he came to believe there was something sinister going on in Lighthouse Point. Something that went far beyond Jessica Atwood.

"Does it tell you anything?"

He turned, gave her a look he hoped conveyed his annoyance. "What?"

"The photo."

Realizing he was staring-and that she'd noticed-he tore his gaze away from her and looked at the photo. "Maybe."

"Hard to tell much with the graininess and bad lighting." She came up beside him and looked at the photo. "They look scared."

That was the first thing that had struck him, too-the terror in the women's eyes. "I'll bet the farm they're being held against their will."

"In a place where there are no windows. No light." She leaned closer. "I don't see any doors."

He let her think aloud. "Except for where the photographer was standing. Might be a door there."

"A cave, maybe? A truck?"

"A container," he said. "Cargo."

She looked at him, nodded. "You're right."

Madrid scowled at the thought. Human smuggling was an ugly business. He knew it happened overseas. Was it possible someone was operating in the United States? He was going to have to call Sean Cutter. He only hoped the head of MIDNIGHT would tell him what he needed to know. They hadn't exactly parted on friendly terms.

"Do you think Angela stumbled upon something she shouldn't have?" Jess asked.

"I think her murder is just the tip of the iceberg. I think we're dealing with something large scale that involves a lot of very bad people."

She thought about that for a moment. "I don't understand how that involves Nicolas and me. We don't know anything."

"Are you sure about that?"

Her gaze flicked to his. Madrid steeled himself against her beauty. Against the attraction simmering low in his gut. He listened hard to the little voice telling him, Don't go there.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Are you sure Nicolas didn't see anything?"

"He can't speak."

"Maybe they're not willing to risk their lives on the possibility that one day he will, or maybe communicate what he saw."

Her eyes widened. "My G.o.d. You think he saw the murder?" Jess pressed a hand to her abdomen. "Poor little guy."

"That's just one scenario."

"What's the other?"

"Maybe they're not after Nicolas. Maybe they think Angela told you something before she died."

"Like what?"

"Like what she was onto. Names. Locations. Something damaging to them."

"She didn't."

"Her killer doesn't know that."

A tremor went through her, but her eyes took on a look of determination. Against his will he found his respect for her b.u.mping up a notch.

"What kind of person could be so cold-blooded?" she asked.

"The kind of person ruthless enough to deal in human cargo."

"You mean smuggling?"

He lifted a shoulder, let it drop. "It's my best guess."

She absently rubbed her hand over the bandage. "We can't let them get away with what they've done."

"I don't plan on it," he said.

"What if they run?"

"If there's a container ship sitting somewhere in the United States with human cargo on board, they've already got too much invested." He gave her a hard look. "You can bet they're not going to leave two loose ends dangling."

Realization darkened her eyes. "You mean Nicolas and me."

"That's exactly what I mean."

Shaking her head, she motioned toward the door where the little boy slept. "He's already been through so much. He's an innocent kid who's just lost his mom. He doesn't deserve this."

Madrid felt something go soft in his chest. Sympathy, he realized. For a little boy who would never know his mother. For a mother who would never see her child grow up. "Do you think he'll be able to tell us anything?"

"I don't know. Angela and I were talking about it one day. She told me communication problems are common with autistic children. They tend to go inside themselves, into their own world, and Nicolas is no different."

"Can he draw? Or if we showed him photos, could he identify a killer?"

"I don't know him well enough to say." She shrugged. "All I know is that Angela loved him more than anything in the world. She worked with him daily. She'd enrolled him in a special school. She even took him to equine therapy twice a week. She was a great mom."

"Did she tell you Nicolas is gifted?" Madrid asked.

"I knew." She turned questioning eyes on him. "How do you know that? Angela didn't talk about that much."

He didn't answer. Angela had told him the last time he'd talked to her. That had been almost a year ago. Madrid wished he'd done a better job of keeping in touch.

"He plays the piano like a little fiend," she said fondly. "From chopsticks to Chopin."

"He also does high-school level math."

She turned a surprised gaze on him. "How do you know so much about Nicolas?"

"I knew Angela once," he said. "A long time ago."

"She never mentioned you."

"I'm not the kind of guy you talk about."

She contemplated him. "How did you know her?"

Because he wasn't quite sure how to answer, Madrid steered the conversation back to the topic at hand. "In any case, I think Nicolas saw something that night."

"The murder," she murmured.

"We have to find a way to reach him without traumatizing him further. The question is how."

She jumped when a gust of wind rattled a loose shutter. Madrid stared at her. Even sleep-rumpled and recovering from a fever she was pretty. Her face was as smooth and pale as porcelain, her mouth as wet and soft as some exotic tropical fruit. He wondered what she would taste like if he leaned close and brushed his mouth against hers.

Pulling himself back from a place he didn't want to go, he stood abruptly and started to walk away. "Get some sleep," he growled.

"Madrid."

He stopped, but didn't turn to her.

"Why haven't you turned me in?" she asked. "Taken me back?"

He thought about the exchange with Cutter and knew at some point he was going to have to fix things. "I like to know who the good guys are first."

"The good guys don't shoot at an unarmed woman and innocent child."

He didn't need to be reminded of that. "An innocent woman doesn't run when the police tell her to stop."

"They would have shot me on the spot. I didn't want to end up like Angela."

He turned and gave her a hard look, searching for a lie, finding none. "Get some sleep. I've got some calls to make."

Unclipping his cell phone from his belt, he turned and walked away.

MADRID LISTENED to the bedroom door close, then dialed the number from memory. Even though it was going on one o'clock in the morning in D.C., fellow MIDNIGHT operative Jake Vanderpol answered on the second ring.

"I thought it might be you," Jake growled.

"That's because I'm the only person you know who's in enough trouble to warrant a call at this hour."

"Cutter told me what happened."

"Grapevine must be busy."

He sighed. "Madrid, you screwed up big-time."

"Not the first time."

"Might be the last. Cutter is royally ticked."