Page 169 of The Fourth Option
Matheson continued carefully. “Ever since Irene pushed the cartel narrative, she’s been at arm’s length from the FBI, but they’ve assured her they’re working on it. Killing an industry executive like this is beyond the pale. They will find him.”
Vargas turned, the camera tracking his movement.
“You lost your ace deputy. I lost an entire factory!”
Before Matheson could respond, a shriek pierced Vargas’s home office. Matheson watched the scene unfolding fifteen hundred miles to the south as Vargas’s daughter, no older than four, burst into the room, mid-tantrum. His wife, twenty years younger, stunning in a silk robe, snapped something in rapid Spanish. A nanny followed. It took Vargas thirty seconds to corral all three of them and send them out of his office.
“¡Ya basta!” he barked as he shut the door with a sharp snap.
As the tantrum behind him fell into muffled silence, Vargas returned to the camera, smoothing his shirt and compartmentalizing the domestic chaos. His face was taut, eyes glowing with restrained fury.
“How the hell are you going to get control of this?”
Matheson hesitated. “I’ll talk to Irene again. But it might not work. She’s under pressure. It might be better to—”
Vargas’s voice cut through Matheson’s like a machete. “To what? Give that bitch more money? She’s taken in five million already. She’s running for governor, not president. At least for now.”
Matheson swallowed. “I wasn’t talking about money. We could build a narrative around competitors coming after me because they hate the fact that Xylaxyn will eliminate the need for fentanyl-based products.”
Vargas stared at him, then shook his head slowly.
“You aren’t only a pharma CEO, Derek. You’re a drug dealer. You don’t invite wolves to investigate your sheep.”
Matheson blinked, rattled.
“You don’t have Kimbel to hide behind anymore. That means youhave to deal with all these nasty little bits of your business that deliver profits. Your job is Icy.”
Vargas reached for the remote, his hand steady.
“Make that bitch earn her money!”
The screen went black.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
New Orleans
THE MOON HUNGlow over the Quarter, casting long shadows across Gloria’s backyard. Upstairs, above the garage, blackout curtains hung from a clothesline, enclosing the makeshift darkroom in a soft, red glow. The air smelled faintly of vinegar and chemical fixing agent.
Belle moved with quiet precision, her hands gloved, her voice steady.
“Gloria taught me this years ago,” she said, gently agitating the tray. “You know, before music and fine-line tattoo artistry, I had a photography phase. Didn’t last long. But I remember the steps.”
Walker stood just inside the curtain, arms folded, watching the image emerge in the developer tray, an image he had taken with Gloria’s old Nikon F2 from the boxcar overlooking Dorado Freight. The black-and-white photo sharpened slowly, revealing three figures in the foreground: a male and female in FBI windbreakers and another man in a tight suit, hands on his hips, jacket open to reveal the badge on his belt. Behind all three, out of focus, lay the twisted wreckage of a truck and minivan. Bodies littered the ground.
“That’s Bates all right,” Belle said, lifting the print with tongs and sliding it into the stop bath. “The other photo is him getting out of an unmarked.”
Walker memorized the license plate.
“He’s the one I showed you from the Garden District press conference,” she said.
Walker leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “I remember. And the FBI people?”
Belle peeled off her gloves, dried her hands, and picked up her phone. She snapped a photo of the print and opened Google Images. A few keystrokes later, the screen lit up.
“Reverse image search,” she explained. “Let’s see what we get.”
Walker stepped beside her, watching over her shoulder. She was dressed in a black ribbed flared skirt and matching tight ribbed colored shirt buttoned to the neck. Belle had made Walker take a shower after his arrival while she prepared the makeshift darkroom, after which he had changed into more of Alexandre’s old clothes, jeans and a musty work shirt.
