“He’ll go after Mari next,” Arturo predicted, “thinking she’s hidden it somewhere.”
“That’s right. And it’s about damn time the stupid slut gets what she deserves.”
Arturo got in her face. “Tell us where he is, bitch.”
“She doesn’t know,” Don cut in. “Neither do I. He always made the first contact.”
Arturo stood and moved away, dialing Mari. “Straight to voicemail. Fuck.”
Into his headset, he spoke to Jonas. “Call your wife and have her tell Mari to stay put.”
“On it,” was the younger man’s immediate answer.
“I’ll send men over,” Cap said from behind him, also on his phone.
As he nodded, Arturo’s thumbs flew across the touch screen as he sent Mari a text.
Major developments in the case. Stay put until Rossi men get there. Your phone is going to voicemail. Call me!
“Arturo.” It was Jonas. “Bad news, bud. Lexie said Mari left a half hour ago.”
“Fuck,” he repeated, running his fingers through his hair in agitation.
“That’s good news and bad news,” Cap observed. “They don’t know she was in San Antonio or that she’s on her way back, which gives us over two hours to find him.”
“I’ll have the control room keep trying her and send her directly to the hotel,” Jonas said.
“He’ll stake out her house and business, don’t you think?” Taylor asked.
“If we’re lucky,” Arturo replied with a nod. “We’ve got both places covered.”
“We’ll take care of this bunch,” Delvecchio put in, “and join up with you in the search for Ashworth once they’re processed.”
Arturo barely grunted his agreement, having started toward the door, Cap at his side. He glanced at him, a brow arched in question. “What was the bad news?”
“Uh, bud, didn’t you hear? She’s driving your Porsche.”
“Well, good goddamn,” was his very Texan reply.
But he cared fuck all about a $150,000 vehicle with Mari’s life on the line. He’d take a burned-up clutch any day if he could only get her on the phone and safely under his watch.
As they walked out of the Clinton Drive warehouse into the humid Houston morning, his gut clenched with unease.