He also detected two distinct emotions in the inflections—fury . . . and fear.

Cate had suggested his singling out of Eduardo amounted to profiling.

Maybe it was, to a certain degree.

But from all indications, his suspicions were paying off.

Perhaps Eduardo didn’t have any involvement in the cartel pipeline under investigation, but it was looking more and more as if he had information that could be useful to law enforcement.

Yet every instinct in Zeke’s body told him there was a connection between the maintenance supervisor and the illegal activity taking place on the far end of Ivy Hill property.

Instead of continuing to the lounge, he detoured into another empty classroom. A background check on Miguel could turn up helpful information—if there was any to be found.

And therein lay a problem.

While Eduardo’s background check had indicated he was a legitimate immigrant with the proper papers who was trying to make a new life for himself, his wife, and his unborn child, his brother-in-law—if that was, indeed, the visitor’s connection to him—could be one of the many who came across the border illegally.

Some for nefarious purposes.

If that was the case, there likely wasn’t much information to be had—and hauling him in for questioning could be a mistake. If he was somehow connected to the pipeline, such a move could tip off the main man that law enforcement was onto the operation. Tents would fold, the players they’d already identified would melt into the night . . . and all the work they’d done would be in vain.

Best case was to convince Eduardo to talk.

But family loyalties were strong in Mexico—perhaps stronger than loyalties to an adopted country.

So for now, he’d keep watching, listening, probing—and hope either he or Cate came across a solid lead that would put them on track to solving a missing persons case . . . and blowing up a drug cartel pipeline.

“I have a tentative time frame for you.”

Will closed his eyes. Clenched his teeth. Slumped against the wall in his tiny kitchen.

The nightmare never ended.

These calls had become so routine, in fact, that his contact didn’t even bother with a greeting anymore. Just got straight to business.

“Already?”

“Business is booming. What can I say? And we’re planning a bit ahead. The target is around February 1. I’ll give you definite dates as soon as I have them. Same procedure. You’ve added physical patrols to the routine?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. A circuit in the appropriate areas around midnight on certain nights would be advisable to avoid any . . . complications.”

More confirmation that Stephanie Laurent and her boyfriend had tangled with the wrong people—as if he’d had any doubt.

The permanent knot in his stomach tightened.