No return address in the upper left. Postcode over the stamps was Caldwell.
Heavy and stiff.
Photographs.
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t open potential evidence on his own, but this was not ordinary, considering what the hell he’d found in the sink cabinet in Stan’s crapper.
Taking out his Swiss Army knife, he slid the blade into the flap and cut carefully down the seam. The back had been taped in a sloppy fashion, the wide, shiny swaths pressed into a mess.
José put the knife down and slid out . . .
Black-and-white glossies.
At first, his eyes refused to focus properly on the two figures who were facing each other. When things finally became clearer, he found that the images had been taken at a distance, but from a telephoto lens, so they were laser accurate—
Stan was on the left.
And on the right, a tall, elegant man in a tuxedo.
Stephan Fontaine.
There were easily fifteen pictures, and the succession of them told a story. There was an argument going on, both men leaning in, gesturing with hands, throwing up arms in frustration. And then . . . there was one where a photograph changed hands. The first image of it didn’t register. But the second caught the old-school picture at just the right angle.
It was Rio. It was Officer Hernandez-Guerrero.
Why in the hell would Stan be providing the picture of an undercover officer, whose identity was known only to Stan and one or two others on the entire force, to a civilian?
Under any circumstance, it was a breach in protocol and confidentiality. Under the fact pattern that one undercover officer was dead—and had likely been the person taking the pictures—and Rio was missing?
The photographs looked like a negotiation, where Stephan was giving Stan something, and Stan . . . was providing the identity of Rio in return.
Now, José freely made the sign of the cross over his heart.
Then he turned the envelope back over and stared at the handwriting. He was willing to bet his almost-mortgage-free house that analysis would show the writing was Leon Roberts’s. If it didn’t, it was because he’d tried to disguise his cursive by using his opposite hand.
The man had been going to Rio directly because he didn’t trust internal channels, not even internal affairs.
And he’d known her life was in danger.
The question, almost as important as what Stan had gotten for the intel . . . was why Stephan Fontaine would need or want to know who Rio was.
Lucan would have let his wolven out to run if he hadn’t needed to keep a set of clothes on himself. As it was, he got through the woods as fast as his two-legged form could take him, even though under his skin, his other side chomped at the proverbial bit to get free and four-paw the ground.
Now was not the time for that.
And that abandoned farmhouse was only a mile or two away.
He was about two hundred yards from the property, scaling a fallen tree in a hurdle, when the scent first reached his nose. Slowing, he had to make sure he was catching it right.
Gasoline. In the middle of the woods?
And it was fresh—accompanied by oil and exhaust. The bouquet of it all was faint, but unmistakable.
Tracking the smell, he changed direction, moving laterally over the acreage to make sure he didn’t catch anyone’s attention—
There it was. Tucked into a thicket of brambles that was so dense, the silver SUV might as well have been covered by a tarp of evergreen vegetation.
Was it possible, he thought as his heart quickened.
“Rio?” he whispered as he closed in on the vehicle.
Circling the tinted windows, he couldn’t see much inside, but it was locked.
Lucan turned and looked through the interlacing branches of the tangle. That farmhouse was just in the distance—but he felt like it was across the country. Surging forward, he all but shot himself out of a cannon as he raced to the back door. But just as he grabbed the knob, he stopped and made sure his instincts weren’t sensing anything.
“Rio,” he said out loud. “It’s me. Don’t shoot.”
Lucan knocked. A couple of times. Called out her name again.
The door squeaked as he opened it, and he spoke up louder as he leaned into the kitchen. “Rio. Don’t shoot.”
His voice echoed around the abandoned rooms.
“Rio?” He stepped in. Closed the door. “It’s me.”
What if she were injured, he thought—
Across the way, the cellar entry opened a crack, and he put his hands in the air. “Just me. No one else—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Rio raced out and threw herself at him. As his arms wrapped around her, he held her so tight, he had to force himself to loosen his grip for fear of crushing her.