Death Echo

give a damn. Her blond-gray hair wasn’t dyed and she wore no makeup. She was dressed in a pale windbreaker and dark slacks. As she walked up to the firemen, the floodlights caught three large block letters on the back of her jacket.
    FBI.
    Hold your ankles and brace yourselves, boys and girls, Mac thought bitterly. This just became an official Mongolian goat-fuck.
    He eased back into thicker cover and silently, quickly made his way to Emma. A curt signal had her wriggling backward. When he was certain her retreat hadn’t attracted any attention, he followed.
    Once they were well back into the forest, hidden by the night and the restless wind, he signaled for her to stand. Silently he led the way deeper into the trees. Neither of them spoke until they were in the Jeep and had driven down the road, out of sight of the cluster of vehicles. He flipped on the headlights.
    â€œYou okay?” Mac asked.
    â€œSwallowing hard,” Emma said tightly.
    â€œTell me if you need to pull over.”
    â€œTough guy, huh? The smell didn’t get to you.”
    â€œYou learn not to throw up. Too much noise will get you dead real quick.” His hands flexed on the wheel, as hard as his voice. “FBI was on the fire scene.”
    Emma’s head hit the back of the seat. “This just gets better and better.”
    â€œLet’s go wake up Faroe. I’m signing on.”

20
    DAY THREE
ROSARIO
3:15 A.M .
    M ac, Emma, and Grace Silva-Faroe sat at a small dinette table in the motel suite Faroe had rented. Nobody spoke while Mac read and signed the papers that would make him a contract agent for St. Kilda Consulting, assigned to missing yachts in general and one called Blackbird in particular.
    From a nearby bedroom came the pealing laughter of Annalise Faroe as her daddy took her for a shoulder-high tour of the suite. His “Shhhh, sweetie, let the civilians sleep” was ignored by Annalise.
    Grace watched out the window toward the Blue Water Marine Group. People were still crawling over Blackbird. But not as many. Empty boxes went up the ramp much more often now than full boxes went down.
    She had been as relieved as Faroe when Mac turned up at their door in the middle of the night. With a silent sigh, she stacked papers Mac had signed and handed him a St. Kilda sat/cell phone.
    â€œYou’ll continue working with Emma,” Grace said. “She’ll be the senior partner.”
    â€œExcept if we’re on a boat,” Mac said. “I know more about the water than she does.”
    Grace looked at Emma.
    â€œNo problem,” Emma said. “If it floats, I’m junior partner.”
    Grace stashed the papers in her briefcase and looked at Mac. “What do you know about Bob Lovich and Stan Amanar?”
    â€œThey’re descended from a long line of hardworking fishermen and part-time smugglers.”
    â€œArrests?”
    Mac shook his head. “You have to understand how it is in Rosario. There are three major factions. One is the Eastern European immigrants and their descendants who still speak the mother language. Or languages. They’re a hard-headed, suspicious clan. Damn few marry out, especially if you’re talking about the smugglers.”
    â€œCommon enough for immigrant communities,” Grace said. “Particularly those who make a living outside the law.”
    â€œLike the Sicilians,” Emma said.
    Grace nodded. “Or the Asian tongs.”
    â€œThe second faction is the white businessmen who have been here long enough to own the mayor and city council,” Mac continued. “They have a lot of the official, legal power, but they don’t mess with the immigrants and their ways. The white power structure ignores nearly all the smuggling, gambling, prostitution, after-hours bottle clubs, and the like.”
    â€œWhat about the police?” Emma asked.
    â€œAnyone who tries to do real cop work finds himself out of a job pretty quick.” Mac shrugged. “Basically, the police keep the streets clean for the businessmen and yachties.”
    â€œAgain, pretty standard,” Grace said.
    â€œExcept for the murder rate,” Mac said. “This sweet little town holds the lowest U.S. record for unsolved murders per capita.”
    Grace lifted her dark eyebrows. “Like the one on the rez tonight?”
    â€œMost aren’t that obvious. Just people who go missing when there’s a shift in the immigrant