Fatal Secrets f-2

by Allison Brennan

  The American Dream that predators used to lure those who had nothing into their deadly web.

  The sheer mountain of corruption and hate, of slavery and despair, and Charlie was a small nothing compared to all the evil in the world.

  He wasn’t sure exactly when he snapped, when he decided working within the law wasn’t helping. There had been crime scenes he would never be able to forget, that came to him not only when he slept, but when he was awake. The prostitutes with syphilis who were shot and buried in a mass grave-unmarked and unremembered. The young teenage boys kidnapped and forced to fight in wars they had no hand in creating, in countries not their own. How many of these child soldiers had Charlie buried? But the one pivotal moment, when he knew they’d lost the war, was in New Mexico on a scorching August afternoon.

  The big rig had been left by the side of the road when it broke down on Highway 10. It was a refrigerated rig that had air holes drilled into each corner because the truck wasn’t being used to transport food. It held thirty-six women, young and old, who had been left in the hot sun while the driver fled because he’d brought them into the country illegally to work in a sweatshop in Southern California. Charlie knew that because he’d tracked down the driver and extracted the information from him.

  When the truck broke down, so did the cooling system. The compartment became an oven. Eighteen hours in a slow cooker. The coroner said they’d suffered for eight to twelve hours before dying. While alive they endured heat stroke, their core body temperatures quickly rose to over 110 degrees, at which point they suffered brain damage and hallucinations, and severe-fatal-dehydration.

  The hot, moist environment sped up the rate of decomposition and insect activity. Their bodies were fully bloated with bacteria and gases, and the skin had begun to slough off.

  The cop who opened the back of the truck and first witnessed the morbidity quit that day.

  Charlie couldn’t stop them, and when he thought about the masses of people who were bought, sold, tortured, abused, and murdered each and every day, he couldn’t breathe. So many times he had wanted to kill himself, moments when the burden of memory stripped him of all sanity.

  Then he’d think of Sonia.

  She had escaped. One of the few, she had fought back and won. She was a survivor, refused to be a victim. She turned around and became part of the solution, using her knowledge and skills to take down those who traded in human lives.

  If Charlie focused on saving individual victims, he could make it through each day. Ashley Fox had become his salvation. If only he could find her, reunite her with her mother, he’d be a hero to two people. He could point to Ashley as someone he’d saved. He could put her pretty face in his mind when the dead and dying haunted him. Like he’d done with Sonia until he’d hurt her.

  “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen, Sonia,” he whispered, his voice raw and dry. “I never wanted you to be hurt. Please believe me. Please understand why I had to do it.”

  He’d saved hundreds-thousands-of people over the years, but it all blended together. The bloodshed still outweighed the souls he’d salvaged. He was drowning in it.

  Charlie slowly rose to his feet. He drank half a water bottle and ate a tasteless protein bar. Then he started the hike back to his car.

  He was close to breaking the code in Jones’s journal. He just needed some time at the library. The main library in downtown Sacramento was large enough to have the information he needed, and discreet enough that he didn’t worry about anyone paying him any attention. He’d put on a long-sleeved shirt to hide his recognizable tattoo, and he looked average enough that no one should remember him. As soon as he had it all figured out, he’d give Sonia the rest of the information.

  And if he didn’t figure it out, he’d still tell her where the girls were being exchanged. He’d lied to her last night, but it hadn’t been the first time.

  He had indeed recognized one of the killers last night: Sun Ling, a Chinese American who Charlie knew to be a player. Ling was a vicious killer who could snap a man’s neck in two without expending much effort or showing any remorse. Charlie had gone up against Ling in the past and the bastard had slipped away. But Ling was always the number two. An enforcer. Charlie hadn’t recognized the man who had shot Jones, though he was confident this was the man in charge. Jones had said he was a major player who controlled more than half the trafficking out of southern Mexico, Central America, and South America. He operated from a little place south of Acapulco. But Charlie didn’t know his name or nationality or anything else about the prick.

  But the information was in Jones’s journal, Charlie was certain of it. By the time this was over, he planned on killing both of them. First, he needed to find Ashley.

  Focus on the goal.

  A few hours at the library and he would have the answers he needed.

  When he shared those answers with Sonia, maybe she’d forgive him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Vegas’ sprawling, secluded ranch-style house was located in the farming community of Galt, on the Sacramento-San Joaquin County border. The privacy probably made the Vegas feel secure, but it also gave their killers freedom to kill.

  Torture and kill, Sonia thought as she stared at the bodies.

  Kendra Vega had been tied to a straight-back chair that had been pushed onto its side. By the look of the blood spatter, she’d been on the ground when she was shot in the head.

  Compared to her husband, her suffering had been mercifully short. Greg Vega had been grossly tortured and beaten. Blood had soaked his entire shirt so none of the original color showed. The deputy coroner-a tall, slender woman in her fifties-said that he’d likely bled to death from the stab wound in his abdomen.

  “The autopsy can confirm, but it took him several minutes to die. The hilt of the knife kept some pressure on the wound to prevent rapid blood loss, but the internal body damage is severe.”

  “You can tell how long he was alive?” Sonia asked.

  “We’ll have a scientifically sound estimate, but it’s still a guess. He probably went into shock after a few minutes and then his body would begin to shut down. The whole process could take three minutes or an hour, depending on a variety of factors. He wouldn’t have been conscious the entire time.”

  Sonia touched Dean’s arm to whisper something. His muscles were taut, his entire body tense.

  “What?” she asked.

  “They shot his pregnant wife first. Made him watch her die, then stabbed him and left him to slowly die.”

  “They couldn’t be certain he’d die from the wound,” Sonia said.

  The deputy coroner disagreed. “I think they probably could-there would be no surviving this without immediate medical attention. Immediate meaning within minutes. Even then, I doubt he’d make it to surgery.”

  “They probably waited for him to die,” Dean said.

  The deputy coroner was still examining the body. She frowned when she looked into his mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” Sonia asked.

  “Someone cut out his tongue.”

  Sonia’s stomach rolled and she became light-headed. Dean grabbed her arm. “Let’s go outside.”

  It wasn’t the crime scene itself that disturbed Sonia so much-she’d seen other death scenes that were more grotesque. But she’d been responsible for the Vegas.

  “Oh God, Dean. This is my fault. I should have-”

  “You are not to blame,” Dean interrupted. He found a semi-private spot on the back patio.

  “How did Jones find out-” she stopped. “But Jones is dead. The Vegas weren’t killed before midnight.”

  “It’s looking more and more like Cammarata was right,” Dean said. “There’s no sign of Jones at home, his offices, or his known haunts. His Escalade is in the garage and his plane is in the hangar.”

  “Did the killers think Jones was going to turn state’s evidence?” Sonia thought out loud.

  “Or the murders had to do with a territory batt
le and not Vega’s agreement with you.”

  “They cut out his tongue! They knew he’d talked to the authorities.”

  Dean didn’t respond. He was looking beyond her into the house as if trying to recall something important.

  “You know I’m right,” she said.

  He turned to her, his dark eyes more intense than she’d ever seen them. “You’re in danger.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He told them. Everything they wanted to know.”

  “He had no reason to-he had to know they’d kill him either way.”

  “Vega’s pregnant wife was tied to a chair not ten feet from him. He watched her suffer, he saw her fear-you think he wasn’t going to tell them everything?”

  Sonia swallowed uneasily. “But there’s no reason for them to go after me. If they thought I knew something that could lead to an arrest, they’d also be smart enough to know that my boss would know, there’d be reports and documentation.”

  She wasn’t concerned for her own safety. She was a cop, and while she had no death wish, she understood and accepted the risks inherent with her position.

  “I appreciate your concern, really, but what we need to figure out is their next step. We assume Vega told them everything he told me, but would that change their plans? They killed Vega because he was an informant, but why Jones? Jones was a big player in this business. Taking him out, and his chief lieutenant, will cause a huge void in the western United States. Are they seeking to fill it? With who? Jones’s team? Their own people? Where are they coming from?”

  Dean said, “All good questions, but do not minimize their vendetta. They may have thought Jones was part of Vega’s deal. Or that Jones was losing control. Either way, they are ruthless, and just because you’re a cop isn’t going to stop them from going after you. They are old school.” He waved his hand toward the Vega house. “Restraints. Torture. Executions. Cutting out his tongue. Hell, I’d think they were old-style gangsters. And we have no idea if Jones was killed by the same people or not.”

  “There’s an easy way to find out,” Sonia said. “Ballistics.”

  “You need a body first.”

  “We have one. The first victim they dragged out of the river.”

  Dean rubbed his temple. “Okay. I’ll pull every string I have to expedite ballistics. The sheriff’s department has been great in sharing jurisdiction.”

  “Because state and local government dollars are scarce. They’re happy to share the credit and have the feds foot the bill. But it works in our favor most of the time,” Sonia said. “I think we should pull in every known Jones associate for questioning in his disappearance and Greg Vega’s murder.”

  “Arrest them? On what grounds?”

  “Not at first. Just to ask questions. Last time they saw Jones, last time they saw Vega, what they know about Omega Shipping and a shipment that was supposed to arrive this week.”

  Dean nodded, excited about the prospect. “You know, this might work. They don’t know what evidence we have. We play them up, see where the questioning goes, follow anyone who isn’t cooperating. I think we can pull it off. I’ll call it in, get S.A.C. Richardson to free up some agents, talk to the sheriff’s department about a few plainclothes.”

  Deputy Sheriff Azevedo approached them. “The killers did a mighty fine job of destroying the victim’s office. Computers, papers, books-the damage is extensive, and probably permanent.”

  Dean asked, “Would you mind if the FBI’s Evidence Response Team came by to process the office?”

  “Not at all. We can use whatever help you can offer.”

  “I appreciate it. And as I just told Agent Knight, I can help expedite ballistics, at least on the national database end.”

  “Fantastic. I’ll let the coroner’s office know. Thought you might be interested in this.” He held up a small plastic evidence bag. Inside was a tiny metal circle that looked like the battery for a garage door opener or other small device. But it wasn’t.

  “A bug?” Dean and Sonia said simultaneously.

  “Where’d you find it?” Sonia asked. “I know Vega swept the place regularly.”

  “His wife’s cell phone. There was another just laying on the table. I thought maybe it was the victim’s, until we found this.”

  “Why were you looking for a bug?”

  “I wouldn’t have been, except for the one we found in plain sight. Then I thought maybe we should sweep the place. This was the only one we found so far, and we neutralized it.”

  “Now we know how they figured out Vega was an informant,” Dean said. “I’ll bet Kendra Vega talked to someone. It could have been as innocuous as asking about a school district in Georgia. Anything that implied leaving Sacramento would make Jones nervous.”

  “But Jones is dead. Who else was listening?”

  “Like I said, someone making a move on the territory.”

  Sonia turned to Azevedo. “Agent Hooper and I are going to talk to the victim’s colleagues. You should know that Greg Vega was a federal informant and Xavier Jones is under investigation for money laundering, racketeering, and human trafficking.”

  Azevedo was obviously surprised. “Xavier Jones the philanthropist? He just had some arts center downtown named after him.”

  “That’s him. And we’re investigating a witness statement that Jones is dead.”

  “I heard about the body they found in the river. That was Jones?”

  “No. We think he’s still under. But we need to talk to his employees, and they may or may not be involved with Jones’s criminal enterprises.”

  Dean explained. “We may need the sheriff’s department to help tail those we flag as suspect. See where they go, who they talk to.”

  “I get it. I’ll talk to my boss. My men want whoever did this. The woman was pregnant, for chrissake. Yeah, we’ll help, I’ll just clear it. Give me a couple minutes.”

  “Thank you, Deputy,” Sonia said as Azevedo walked away. She frowned. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

  “What’s that frown for?” Dean asked.

  “We might spook them,” Sonia considered. “Should we wait until Saturday and follow key people?”

  “Don’t second-guess yourself.” Dean put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed lightly. That familiar, hot tingle returned full force as soon as he touched her. “For all we know, Vega’s killers are going to completely cut out Jones’s people. The more information we have now the better, especially if anyone knows who did this, or who is capable of doing it. We need names. The killers are still in town. They’ll be here Saturday night, otherwise these killings were for nothing. We have less than sixty hours to find out where those girls are being kept.”

  “We should go to the security office first,” Sonia suggested. “That’s the entity that paid Vega, and where most of Jones’s goons were employed.”

  Dean disagreed. “The first person we need to talk to is Craig Gleason.”

  “The lobbyist? Isn’t he a little white collar to be involved with such a brutal crime?”

  “You’d be surprised at what white-collar criminals are capable of, especially when a substantial amount of money is involved. Remember, we track the money, we’ll figure out Jones’s entire operation.”

  “Even where the Chinese women are being kept?” she asked, skeptical.

  “Oh, yeah. It’s there, somewhere. We just have to figure out the pattern. If Gleason isn’t involved, he may still know which of Jones’s clients are suspect.”

  “And if he is involved?”

  “Then he’ll be crying lawyer before we say good afternoon.”

  “You sound confident.”

  “Nine times out of ten I’m right.”

  She gave him a half-smile, remembering their conversation the day before. “No ego?”

  Dean raised an eyebrow. “Me?” He handed her the keys to his car. “Why don’t you drive so I can pull out Jones’s client list and we can talk about how to proceed with Gleason
before we meet with him.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Like Jones’s house, the decor of XCJ Consulting was minimalist and functional. Sterile, Dean thought as he and Sonia entered Jones’s suite of offices in the Senator Hotel Office Building.

  There was no receptionist in the small waiting area, but a secretary leaned through the doorway and asked, “May I help you?”

  Dean showed his badge. “Craig Gleason, please.”

  If the secretary was flustered, she didn’t show it. “Would you like to wait for him in the conference room? He’s on a call.”

  “Thank you,” Dean said.

  They walked through the common area to the glass-walled conference room on the far side. There were two small offices with closed doors and a larger office in the opposite corner with open double doors. Jones’s spread, no doubt. Odd, considering his schedule showed he was rarely in the office. Three other desks, including the secretary’s, filled the common area.

  “Coffee? Water?”

  “No thanks,” Sonia said impatiently.

  When the secretary left, Dean leaned over and whispered in Sonia’s ear, “Not many employees. A company with the revenue he has?”

  “Is that suspicious?” she asked. “Some small businesses do very well with only a couple people on staff.”

  “Some.” Dean didn’t believe Jones’s was one of those, especially since he was not an active principal in the business by all appearances.

  Craig Gleason stepped into the conference room. He was in his mid to late thirties with sleek black hair and blue eyes. Dean figured women might find Gleason attractive-he was well dressed, polished, in shape-but Dean saw him as too slick, too perfect. Smart, and he knew it. Criminals who thought they were smarter than the cops were often the easiest to catch.

  “We weren’t properly introduced yesterday, Mr. Gleason,” Dean said, shaking his proffered hand. Gleason was the late arrival to Jones’s lunch.