So when the news hit the team that they’d finally caught a break, and Victoria was calling an emergency meeting to fill them in, Lara practically ran into the conference room, anxious to hear something good.
“Big news,” Victoria announced. “Cass, would you like to start?”
“Sure.” Their tech guru sat up straight, her eyes shining with excitement. “You know how we were checking out prison communications yesterday? Well, after Lara mentioned the sewer work, I called the sewer treatment plant. It turns out they routinely pick things up. Mostly it’s just trash. Sometimes they find a homemade weapon, or even a message or two. They send anything suspicious back to the prison staff. Early this morning they found a plastic bag with a painting folded up inside.”
“You think Moretti sent it?” Nick asked from across the table.
“It’s possible.”
Lara wasn’t so sure. “That’s awfully coincidental.” Not to mention fast. “I mean, I saw him yesterday afternoon, and this morning something comes through?”
“Either way, we need to check it out.” Victoria handed a note to Nick. “The location of the sewage treatment plant is at the top. I want you to pick up the painting, then take it to Harold Walker. He’s a cryptologist who specializes in prison communications. That’s his address on the bottom. He’s retired now, but he still consults for the Bureau. See what he can make of it.”
“All right.”
“In the meantime I’ve got even better news. We got into that apartment Mei found. Forensics found something in the trash, an empty pill packet. It was on top of Anna’s food wrappers, so we know it hasn’t been there long. It had the name of the drug stamped on the back. Globexium. Turns out it’s an orphan drug.”
“What’s that?” Lara asked.
“A drug developed for a rare disease. In this case it’s some kind of blood disorder. We’ve been checking with pharmacies all morning to see who stocks it, but no one does. It has to be special-ordered. And only three pharmacies in the metropolitan area have filled prescriptions for it in the past two years. Last night I got a court order to get the patients’ names, then cross-referenced them for gender and age. We’ve narrowed it down to one woman. Rebecca Peterson. Seems she dropped off a prescription for a refill at the Good Herb Pharmacy on Canal Street last week.”
“You think she’s our kidnapper,” Lara guessed.
Victoria’s eyes gleamed. “The address she gave the pharmacy is bogus. The phone number belongs to a burner phone. We’re checking with the doctor who wrote the prescription, but we can’t afford to waste any time in case she bolts. So we’re going to set up a sting. The pharmacist is going to call her this afternoon and tell her the prescription is ready. He’ll pretend the pharmacy is closing for the rest of the week due to a water line break. That should force her to pick it up this afternoon. We need to move fast on this. We can’t let her slip away. So I’ll need everyone’s help.”
“How will we know it’s her?” Mei asked.
“I’ve asked Anna to help identify her.”
“But the kidnapper wore a disguise,” Xander pointed out.
“She should still be able to recognize her voice. We’ll put her in a van and wire the pharmacist for sound. Once we’re sure it’s her, we’ll move in.”
“I have another idea,” Lara said slowly, and everyone turned her way. “I’ve been thinking about the kidnapping.” There wasn’t much else to do in the dead of night when she couldn’t sleep. “And I’ve been wondering who Moretti would have used to pull it off. It’s possible that he hired some local thugs, but I can’t really see that, especially for something like this. He’s too careful, and too many things can go wrong. He’d want to use someone he could trust.”
“Go on,” Victoria said, sounding interested.
“The thing is...his inner circle was small, and most of those people are either dead or in prison now.”
“Except for the woman who escaped from that Chicago warehouse,” Victoria guessed, her mind obviously in sync with hers.
“Exactly. The twenty-ninth woman, the one whose voice Latanya didn’t recognize. Anna said the female kidnapper had a Midwestern accent. I know it’s a longshot—”
“But it’s possible.”
“Right. And if Latanya recognized her voice—”
“We’d have a direct tie to Moretti,” Xander finished. For the first time, he sounded optimistic. “Hell, we could even use that as leverage to get her to turn in her partner—and then we’ll have them both in custody.”
“But will Latanya help?” Victoria asked.
“I think so. She despises Moretti. As long as we arrange protection, I’m pretty sure she’ll do it, even if she’s scared. But I don’t know if we should risk it. She’s already in danger.” Latanya had barely survived an assassination attempt by The Ghost the previous week. “And if we put her in a public place...”
“We’ll put her in the van with Anna,” Victoria decided. “That should keep her safe enough. Go talk to her right now. Bring her back here to headquarters. I’ll get the sting set up for this afternoon.”
“What about the painting?” Nick asked.
“You can do that first. I don’t want to drop the ball on that. I’m worried about that home clue and what that bastard intends to do next. And if there’s any chance that painting will help...”
“I’m on my way.”
“Take Mei with you. You can both go straight to the pharmacy from there. I’d like to have you on the inside when this goes down.”
She rose. “Keep your fingers crossed, everybody. Hopefully we’ll get lucky this time.”
Lara seconded that—because, so far in this case, luck was in short supply.
* * *
“So, what do you think?” Nick asked Harold Walker two hours later. He stood in the cryptologist’s library with Mei, studying the painting they’d retrieved from the sewage treatment plant. It was smaller than he had expected, only about postcard size. The artist had drawn it in ink on a piece of art paper, then embellished it with splashes of color. The subject was Moretti himself with tattoos on his shoulders and neck, including his infamous double M. And it was good, surprisingly so. Whoever had painted it had some skill, even managing to capture the resentment in the subject’s eyes.
“It’s hard to say.” Harold Walker was a short, stocky man in his early seventies with a totally bald head and curious eyes. “Do you have any idea who this is?”
“It’s Moretti,” Mei answered. “The head of the syndicate we took down last year. We think he’s the one who sent it through the sewer.”
“Is this typical for him? To send messages out this way?”
“We don’t know,” Nick admitted. “We just started checking. But we know he’s communicating with his people somehow.”
“What do inmates usually do?” Mei asked.
“That’s a good question. And there isn’t an easy answer.” Walker rocked back on his heels and stroked his jaw. “They talk to visitors, obviously. That’s the most obvious way they communicate with the outside. They use gang signs or some sort of code to fool the guards. Or they write a letter. Sometimes they’ll get someone else to send the message, so the guards won’t know it’s from them.”
“I thought the guards read all the mail,” Mei said.
“They do, but that still doesn’t mean they’ll find a message hidden inside. You have to understand how smart these convicts are. People think they’re dumb—and some are, don’t get me wrong. But gang leaders...they’re in a league of their own. They’re clever, sometimes bordering on genius.”
“That sounds like Moretti,” Nick said. “Lara says he’s one of the most intelligent men she’s ever known.”
“They’ve also got time on their hands, a lot more than we do. Enough to develop some highly sophisticated ciphers and codes. The things they come up with...they’re brilliant, really. There was a case a few years ago, an inmate in California who taught himself an extinct language—an
cient Norse.”
Mei grinned at that. “I wonder who he sent his messages to?”
Walker returned her smile. “That I don’t know. But my point is that these guys are smart. And the codes they use are local. Individual. There isn’t a standard code for the entire gang. So we always have to start from scratch.”
“So, what do you do?” Mei asked.
“Well, if it’s a letter, we search for patterns. For example, the code word could come before a comma. Or every fifth word might be the code. They might insert numbers or symbols, or hide the message in a drawing like this. Every angle, every line, even a color could mean something only they know.”
Nick frowned at the little portrait. “It sounds impossible to figure out.”
“It’s not easy. It helps to know their history and what they care about. If you know their gang identifiers, their slang, the phrases they tend to use, it gives you an advantage, too. The better you know the gang member, the better the chance you have to decipher the code.”
Nick glanced at Mei. “You recognize anything?”
“Not really. Just the double M tattoo. But as for symbols...” She made a face.
Walker picked up the painting and held it up to the light. Then he flicked on an ultraviolet lamp and studied it again.
“What are you looking for?” Nick asked him.
“Writing under the paint. Sometimes they’ll hide the message that way. But I don’t see anything here. They can also use invisible ink.”
“Seriously?” Mei asked. “Where would they get that?”
“Urine. That technique’s been around for centuries. But to read it, we need to heat it up.”
He held the picture up to the lightbulb. A few seconds later, he set it down again. “No, there’s nothing there.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“I’ll have to study it for a while. I’ve got some books, some databases I can use. And I’ll need to learn more about the syndicate.”
“But what’s your initial impression?” he pressed.
“Honestly?” He studied the painting again. “My instincts tell me there’s nothing here. That it’s exactly what it looks like—a picture of the gang leader. But as I said, it isn’t usually obvious. Something that looks ordinary to us could be an order for a hit. I’ll do some research and let you know.”
“But if it doesn’t mean anything, why send it through the sewer?” Nick asked Mei a few minutes later when they’d left Walker’s apartment and were back on the busy street. Pedestrians streamed around them, hurrying to lunch or work. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Unless he just wanted to waste our time.”
“But how did he know we’d find it?”
Mei shook her head, her black hair glinting in the sun. “He saw Lara watching him. Maybe he assumed she’d check the sewer out. Or maybe he sent it earlier, and we intercepted it before his contact picked it up. But even so...”
“What?”
She nibbled her lip, her worried black eyes meeting his. “It’s just...the timing of this...it scares me. I have a feeling we’re missing something. Something vital. That while we’re running around in circles, he has something terrible planned.”
“Then we’d better hope this sting brings some results.” Because the last thing they needed was another murder.
Especially one close to home.
* * *
There were fewer things more boring than doing surveillance, Lara decided late that afternoon. Even a sting as vital as this one entailed hours of tedious waiting, with no guarantee that their target would even show up. She’d been cooped up inside the back of the van since noon, listening through a headset, and was ready to pack it in.
At least Anna and Latanya were holding up well, she thought with a smile. The two girls both sat quietly in their seats, reading magazines to pass the time. They’d been stuck in the van with her all afternoon, unable to leave, unable to draw any attention in case the kidnapper was scoping them out. Or The Ghost. They couldn’t forget that he was hiding in the shadows. But the girls seemed unfazed by the potential danger, calmly reading as the hours ground by.
It helped that the team had gone all out to protect them. Ty was half a block away at the pharmacy, washing windows. Xander was selling T-shirts in the shop across the street. Nick was peddling counterfeit watches in a nearby alley, while another group of agents worked farther down the street, doing road repairs. More agents were posing as shoppers. Mei was inside the pharmacy stocking shelves. They’d even sent a series of delivery trucks into the alley behind the pharmacy to unload crates of both real and fake supplies.
“Possible target entering the store,” Ty suddenly said into their headsets. The two girls froze, their gazes whipping to hers. Lara’s pulse began to accelerate.
She tried not to get her hopes up. Several young women had already entered the pharmacy that afternoon, and none of them had panned out. But it was hard. They desperately needed a win to get justice for Anna—and boost their flagging morale.
“Possible target approaching the pickup counter,” Mei said from inside the pharmacy. “She’s a brunette, Caucasian, wearing a gray sweatshirt and black jeans.”
The sound tech increased the volume. The strains of a once-popular song came over the wire. They all waited, the tension suddenly palpable in the stuffy van.
“May I help you?” Lara heard the pharmacist ask.
“Yeah. I’m here to pick up a prescription.”
Both Anna and Latanya straightened their spines.
“What’s your name?”
“Rebecca Peterson.”
“Month and day of birth?”
“March twenty-fifth.”
“And what was the prescription for?”
“Globexium. You called me this morning and told me it was in.”
“That’s her,” Latanya and Anna said at the same time.
“Target confirmed,” Lara said into her mouthpiece, adrenaline streaming through her veins. “Everyone get into position. I’m coming in for the takedown.”
Rising, she removed her headset. Half crouching, she slid the van’s side door open and hopped out. Just as she closed the door, the sound tech climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. As planned, they were whisking their witnesses to safety before anything could go wrong.
The van peeled away from the curb. Lara sprinted across the street, dodging traffic, then hurried into the pharmacy, Ty and Xander close on her heels. Nick and another agent raced toward the pharmacy from the opposite direction, preparing to secure the front door. Lara knew more agents would be swarming the rear exit to block any attempt to escape that way.
The prescription pickup counter was in the back. The agents all fanned out, each taking an aisle as they rushed through the store. Lara brushed past some startled shoppers and brandished her badge. “FBI, stay down,” she ordered, praying they’d obey. The last thing they needed was a hostage situation. Those always ended in disaster for everyone involved.
She reached the pickup counter a second later. The pharmacist was in the stacks, presumably searching for the medication, but in reality following their orders to stay out of the line of fire. The target stood at the counter with her back to her.
“FBI. You’re under arrest,” Lara announced, holding out her badge.
The woman whirled around. Her eyes widened as she saw the badge. Her gaze darted around the store, her face blanching as the reality of her predicament sank in.
But instead of surrendering, she bolted sideways. She burst through the Dutch door leading into the pharmaceutical area and disappeared. Lara instantly gave chase, crashing through the door, then sprinting down a narrow hallway crowded with boxes, trying not to slip on the linoleum floor.
The woman was fast. But Lara wasn’t about to let her get away. Ten feet from the exit, she caught up. She dove, tackling her with a flying leap and landing atop her with a heavy grunt.
But the woman refused to gi
ve up. She kicked and clawed, fighting with a frenzy, nearly managing to gouge Lara’s eyes. At the last second, Lara dodged a blow, losing her grip, and giving the woman the break she needed to regain her feet. But she grabbed her legs and knocked her down, then got hold of her arm and twisted it behind her back. The other agents caught up just as she got her cuffed.
Breathing heavily, Lara rose. Her pulse thundered as she stepped away. The other agents helped the woman to her feet, and Lara got her first good look at her face.
The kidnapper had plain brown hair and eyes. Her features were nondescript. She looked ordinary. Average. Like thousands of other twenty-somethings anywhere in the country. Not like a woman who would kidnap Anna. Not like a woman who would help Moretti commit despicable acts. And certainly not like a woman who would subject countless innocent women to the most awful depravity imaginable and destroy their lives.
But she was.
“Rebecca Peterson, you’re under arrest.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nick had always struck Lara as a dangerous man with his dark, craggy face, the black beard stubble coating his jaw, the menace in his brooding eyes. There was something disturbing about him, an aura of barely leashed violence—the kind of vibe that warned other men to stay away. And she understood its cause now that he’d revealed a little about his childhood and the suffering he had endured.
But she had to admit that it came in handy when interrogating a criminal. She stood behind the one-way glass in the observation room, watching him question the kidnapper they’d just hauled in. Mei sat at the table beside him, playing the good cop to his ruthless one. Victoria stood in the room with Lara, staring intently at the woman who’d kidnapped her daughter, looking as if she wanted to punch through the glass and shoot her dead.
“I’m not talking,” Rebecca repeated, her flat Midwestern accent coming through the speakers in the observation room. “And I want a lawyer.”
Tough Justice Box Set Page 35