Page 15 of The Gift
His stare narrowed further.
The kid lifted his hands again. “Sorry. It’s an honest observation. And you gotta admit, she’s either the real deal or a damn good liar.”
Coop didn’t respond. She’d gotten under his skin pretty darn quick. Even his twenty-six-year-old partner had noticed. He still thought of O’Reilly as a kid—probably because the man was barely older than Tasha—but eight years as a trooperbefore pinning on a Ranger badgehad knocked the green right out of him. But he didn’t have time to unpack whatever was arcing between him and Erica, not in the middle of a murder-and-kidnapping investigation.
He had one glimmer of hope. If she was still getting signals from Cheyenne, the girl was alive. He had no idea what clock they needed to go by, but with only shadowy impressions, a vague location, and a cat’s collar, one thing was certain: time was running out.
“There’s no signature,” O’Reilly said after reading the note.
“The drama is the signature,” he said grimly. “I suspected. Now, I’m sure. This is Kedrov’s work.”
“Alexander Kedrov? The Russian mob boss?” O’Reilly’s gaze dropped to the finger. He grimaced, shoulders tightening. “If it’s Kedrov, this is bigger than a simple homicide.”
Coop studied him for a moment. “You up for this?”
“Hell, yeah,” O’Reilly said, though the slight hitch in his voice betrayed him. He grimaced once again at the finger. “First things first. I’m not letting that thing stink up the room any longer. I’m calling forensics.”
Agitated in a way Coop hadn’t seen before, O’Reilly hurried out.
Coop contemplated his next move briefly then picked up the phone again and dialed FBI headquarters in Austin. Because, as far as Coop was concerned, there was no if about it.
When they answered, he said two words. “Organized crime.”
“One moment,” he heard, before a click.
At first, he thought he’d been cut off. A curse of annoyance was on the tip of his tongue, but generic hold music kicked in—tinny, looping, and beyond irritating. Coop clocked the time on the display then hit the speaker button. From his experience, the FBI didn’t know what urgency meant. But they would have the intel he needed.
O’Reilly returned with the evidence tech in tow. While the tech photographed the finger and the packaging, O’Reilly stood back, barely breathing, as if the finger might come alive and lunge at him. Coop had to admit, the smell of decay was foul.
The kid didn’t move until it was sealed in a fresh biohazard container and carried out. Then he wasted no time grabbing latex gloves and a tub of Clorox wipes, using half the contents, as if trying to scrub the memory of it off the desk.
As he worked, he muttered, “I’m never eating lunch here again.”
Meanwhile, Coop was still on hold. The elevator music looped over and over. His impatience mounted with every cycle. He checked the time again. Eighteen minutes.
Finally, a flat, bored-sounding voice answered. “Special Agent Morgan.”
“Lieutenant Cooper. Texas Rangers out of San Antonio.”
“Just a minute.”
He heard the rustle of papers, someone murmuring in the background, then Morgan returned.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
Coop didn’t ease into it. “Give me what you have on Alexander Kedrov.”
Silence. Longer this time.
Then: “What’s he up to this time?”
“Nothing good.”
“When is he ever?” Morgan drawled. A quiet sigh followed. “He’s on our radar.”
“For what?”
“It’s a long list. It’d be easier to tell you what he’s not.” Morgan’s tone shifted, more professional now. “Officially, Kedrov is an international investor. Shipping logistics, warehousing, imports/exports. His company moves freight from Corpus Christi to Amarillo, including in your neck of the woods.”
