Her email was waiting when Cole reached his computer.

“Hang on. I’m opening it.”

Cole wasn’t surprised when the picture of Wilson Smith turned out to be a booking photo, but still felt a vague disappointment. The picture of Dru Rayne was a snapshot, showing her behind a bar, with her hair up, a crooked smile, and rainbows of cheap bracelets on her wrists. She was wearing a tight black T-shirt that read: Tip the Waitress or She’ll Spit in Your Drink.

“Yeah. This is them.”

Terry came back sounding pleased.

“Damn, boy.”

Lucy said, “What we’re about to tell you comes from a senior investigator with the Louisiana DOJ. Remember what I said about not being able to put the genie back in the bottle?”

“Are they going to call me?”

Terry spoke up again.

“He pressed me, buddy. I didn’t give him your name or location, but five will get you six he’s on the phone with the FBI. They’re tracking a string of murders tied to this case, and the number is growing.”

Cole felt a leaden I-knew-this-would-get-worse feeling as he stared at Smith’s mug shot.

“Smith’s a murderer?”

“Yeah, he probably is, but I’m not talking about him. At least eight and possibly nine murders have been committed by a person or persons trying to find the man you know as Wilson Smith.”

Cole felt a cold tingle in the center of his chest. Pike was right—something way more dangerous than street-corner bangers had been in the Venice Canals.

“He found them. He’s here.”

Lucy and Terry spoke over each other, garbling each other’s words before Lucy won out.

“How do you know he’s found them?”

Cole told them about Mendoza and Gomer.

“We’re not sure why they were watching the house, but they were found murdered the next morning. Joe believes they were murdered by someone who’s looking for Wilson and Dru.”

Terry’s low voice was directed to Lucy.

“This isn’t good. If this is the guy, we need to put our folks down here on his trail while it’s hot.”

“Elvis and I understand that, Terry. Tell him about Rainey.”

Cole thought he heard Terry take a breath, almost as if he was trying to regain composure before he could get back to the business at hand.

“Smith’s real name is William Allan Rainey. He smuggled cash out of the country for some boys down here hooked up with a Bolivian cartel. My guy says, all told, he probably transported six or seven hundred million dollars before he was done.”

“Drug money?”

“Where else you gonna see that kind of cash?”