“And you were willing to give her the proof?”
“Only on Jones! I swear, it was just him. I needed out. I needed out, and he doesn’t let people walk.”
“Of course not.” Noel didn’t like this development. The FBI played by strict rules. Homeland Security, and ICE, had arms that stretched much farther and crossed U.S. borders.
“What exactly did you tell her?”
“I told you!”
“She wouldn’t get you out without something tangible.”
Vega swallowed nervously, shaking, glancing at his wife. Noel stepped to the left and blocked his view. “You will answer me.”
“I confirmed information that she already knew.”
Noel pulled the knife from Vega’s foot and the traitor cried out, his muscles straining as he fought the pain and restraints. He put the knife to Vega’s neck and said, “Specifics.”
“The Omega Shipping Lines is controlled by Jones’s people. That he uses the Sacramento Deep Shipping Channel but moves the merchandise before they reach the Port of Stockton. I confirmed the operatives she knew, but didn’t give her any she didn’t—she had about half of Jones’s people.”
“I want the list that she has.”
“Okay.”
“Now.”
Vega recited names and Noel ordered Ignacio to take them down.
“What else?”
“J-Just that he uses multiple holding facilities. She’d discovered one two years ago and—You must know this, she took the girls.”
Noel didn’t know; Jones had hidden that raid from him. If he weren’t already dead, Noel would kill him far more painfully than the easy way he had, the bastard.
But Noel wasn’t going to tell this cabrón that he hadn’t known. “I only confirmed it,” Vega said. “And I gave her two more abandoned facilities—you know, for g-good faith, so she’d get my wife protection.”
“She’s certainly done a good job, hasn’t she?” Noel stepped aside so Vega could see his wife, still tied to the chair, lying on the floor.
“God please God please, please, please,” Vega begged.
“Does she know how we move the women when they get here?”
“No, she assumes trucks, and I didn’t correct her. I was holding back in case she tried to renege on our agreement.”
Vega seemed motivated by Noel’s calm demeanor to keep talking, as if his compliance now would save his life. “She knew about the Omega shipment from China, and they searched Omega ships headed for Stockton, but couldn’t find them. She’s frustrated, and—”
He was rambling and saying nothing important, so Noel cut him off. “Do you know where the Zamora kid is?”
The confusion on Vega’s face made it clear he didn’t know the kid’s name. Noel elaborated. “Last week, Jones made a mistake and brought a boy to his house. He escaped. What do you know about it?”
“He was kept in the garage of the old house, over a mile away. I didn’t even know he’d been brought there until I was told he’d escaped. I looked, couldn’t find him, and Jones was worried about it, and—Oh!”
“Yes?”
“Someone told Agent Knight about the kid. Anonymous.”
“Not you?”
He shook his head. “No, not me, I didn’t tell her, someone else told her. I swear to God.”
“Who knew?”
“A lot of people. Everyone on the inner security team. We all were looking. Donny, Juan, Chuck, Lars, his accountant I think, Chris—”
Ignacio interrupted. “There’s no Chuck on this list.”
“Who’s Chuck?” Noel demanded.
“Ch-Chuck Angelo. Jones’s driver.”
“Why is he not on your list?”
“That list was the people Agent Knight knew about. She didn’t ask about Chuck, so I didn’t tell her. He’s new, three or four months.”
Driver. Noel had made a mistake. He’d assumed Jones drove himself to the restaurant. Jones often met with principals alone—or so Noel had thought. Where was the driver last night? Had Jones’s driver witnessed his assassination? Or had Jones left him home?
“Where can I find Chuck Angelo?”
“He lives on the property. The old caretaker’s house.”
“Is that anywhere near where the kid escaped?”
“I-I-I guess. Walking distance.”
“Is there anything you have neglected to tell me? Anything?
“No. I swear.”
“If you lie to me, I will know. And your wife will suffer greatly. Perhaps you’d like to see your child carved out of her stomach?”
“Please, please, I told you everything Knight knows, everything I know. I don’t even know where the shipment went after it arrived in Stockton. I don’t know, I don’t know where they are, I don’t know where the meeting is, please, please let us go. I’ll disappear, I’m so sorry.”
Noel said to Ling, “I think we’re done here.”
Ling aimed his gun at Kendra Vega’s head and shot her three times.
Vega screamed. “No! NO! You bastard! You prom ised!”
“I said she wouldn’t suffer. I didn’t say you wouldn’t.”
Noel took the knife he had in his hand and cut out Vega’s tongue. Vega’s screams of agony gave Noel neither pleasure nor remorse. Murder as punishment was simply a job that needed to be done; Noel didn’t dwell on it. He stabbed the blade into Vega’s stomach up to the hilt. He’d live ten minutes. Maybe a little more, or a little less. Though Noel was certain he wouldn’t survive, he wasn’t about to take chances.
“Ignacio, stay for a while. If he’s not dead in twenty minutes, put a bullet in his head.”
Noel left with Mr. Ling. The sky was just on the lighter side of night. “Will he be alive at sunrise?” he asked.
“What time is sunrise?”
“Four fifty-eight A.M.”
“No,” Ling said.
“Do you want to wager?”
“A hundred?”
“You’re on,” Noel said.
They got into the rental car and Noel said, “Find everything you can on this Chuck Angelo. He may be a mole. And I want renewed efforts put into tracking down the boy. If he’s in federal custody, we have a problem.” Two kids—the Zamora boy and the girl Tobias failed to kill and dispose of properly—were the greatest threats to his freedom. “I want that boy and the woman in the hospital dead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have to take care of Agent Sonia Knight.”
“I agree.”
“She’s not going to be easy to take out.” His anger had been simmering from the minute he heard Sonia’s name. She had been a pain in the ass since the minute he laid eyes on her. He should have killed her years ago when he’d had the chance. “Mr. Ling, when we get back to the hotel, pull together whatever information we have on her. Address, adopted family, friends, habits—anything you can find.”
“Sir, if I may?”
It’s what Ling always said when he had an idea Noel wasn’t going to like.
“Go ahead.”
“A sniper’s bullet is the best way.”
Noel knew he was right. But it wasn’t what Sonia Knight knew about this upcoming transfer, it was her activities in general that negatively impacted his business. He wasn’t going to give up the entire western states because one bitch had made it her personal vendetta to stop people like him. In actuality, Noel offered poor girls a chance to get out of the farms where they were already virtually slaves by being born into the decrepit, poor villages. He removed them from the squalor they lived in and employed them. Sex was a viable commodity. They provided a good fucking—or whatever the client wanted—and Noel and those he sold to made sure they had a place to live, food to eat, and medical care. Hell, most of the girls he handled had never seen a doctor before Noel took them for brothels around the world.
Sonia Knight would never be able to stop this profitable business. It was getting stronger every day. But she could hurt his bottom line, and No
el took that very seriously.
Especially coming from her. He wanted to see her face when he killed her. He wanted her to know who he was before she went to her grave. He wanted to make her suffer for every dollar she’d cost him over the years.
Of course, he didn’t want to be caught. He was in his prime, his business thriving especially after he took over when his father died.
“Very well, Mr. Ling. We’ll do it your way.” He sighed. “Too bad I can’t take her back to Mexico and make her work off all the money she’s cost us—on her back.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
The sun had barely crept over the Sierra Nevada Mountains far east of the Sacramento River when the Sheriff’s Department underwater rescue team dove to recover the first body.
Dean crossed the parking lot of the closed restaurant. One deputy muttered, “We have Sac P.D., Sac Sheriff’s, Immigration, and now the FBI.”
Not being based in Sacramento meant that Dean was not only an outsider because he was a fed, but also because he didn’t know any of the local cops. He should have brought Callahan with him, but he’d left him in charge at Jones’s house. Or, rather, the cabin that Cammarata had been staying in. Until there was confirmation as to whether Jones was in fact dead, Dean couldn’t enter his house without permission. And he didn’t see Jones’s attorney giving it.
Dean walked to the back of the restaurant and spotted Sonia. Maybe it was just seeing a familiar face, or maybe it was because she was so beautiful and regal that Dean stopped for a moment just to watch her.
She stood straight, legs slightly apart, hands behind her back, in the middle of the pier in a short-sleeved black T-shirt with police ice in large white block letters. Her hair was up and looked more red than brown in the early-morning light. Her tan face glowed from the morning chill, colder here on the river.
Her call to him had been brief. He had a million questions for her but couldn’t ask until he’d swept Cammarata’s cabin.
“Charlie broke into my house this morning. He told me Jones is dead, killed by an unknown associate, and dumped in the river behind his restaurant. Can you check on Jones at his place? If there’s anyone who’s seen him since last night? Then check out Charlie’s cabin. If he’s there, arrest him. Breaking and entering, assault on a federal police officer, and anything else you can think of.”
She’d sounded professional and calm on the phone—too calm. Dean would have preferred her fiery anger at Charlie’s invasion into her home over her cool detachment. Something was troubling her over and above the events of last night; Dean aimed to find out what.
When Sonia turned her head toward him, as if sensing she was being watched, he saw a large Band-Aid on her cheek. That bastard had hit her. The sudden urge to protect Sonia surprised Dean, but more than the need to stand guard was his instinct to hunt down Cammarata. His hands clenched and unclenched, the only physical sign of his outrage.
Sonia raised her hand and beckoned him over, meeting him halfway. “They’re bringing up a body now,” she said. “It was caught in the roots of a tree about a hundred yards downriver.” She gestured to the sheriff’s rescue boat. Several divers were in and out of the water. “Ten minutes or so, they think.”
She seemed distracted. Before Dean realized what he was doing, he reached up and lightly touched the bandage on her cheek. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, but averted her eyes.
“Why did he break into your house? Just to tell you about Jones’s body?”
“I don’t know. That was part of it. I guess you rattled him a bit last night when you told him I wanted to talk to him.” She smiled, but Dean didn’t see the humor.
“If I had known he would attack you in your own home, I’d have been there watching the place. I’m sorry.”
“You have no reason to be sorry. You’re not the problem. Charlie doesn’t play by anyone else’s rules.” She turned from Dean and looked out at the river. “Did you find anything at Jones’s house?”
Dean suspected there was far more about Charlie Cammarata that Sonia wasn’t saying. She’d alluded to some of their history yesterday, but there was more, and it was eating her up. Still, now was not the time or place to ask. “Locked up tight. I have Richardson looking into getting a warrant whether or not we recover his body. Cammarata’s cabin was clean. I suspect he cleared out either right before or after the alleged murder.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Do you?”
“Yes. There was no reason for him to lie, and there’s a fresh body down there.”
“Confirmation that it’s Jones?”
“Not yet, but if the time line holds, it’s only been about six hours and the body won’t be too damaged. We should know immediately after they bring it up.” She glanced at him. “Charlie said Jones kept a coded journal documenting everything.”
“Coded?”
“He has a copy, wouldn’t give it to me, that asshole. I put an APB out on him, I have everyone looking. He’s so damn fixated on this missing girl, Ashley Fox, he can’t see the bigger picture.”
“We’ll find him.”
“Don’t be so sure. He’s good at hiding. He said he didn’t know where the girls are now, but he did know that at midnight Saturday the exchange would be made.”
“Even with Jones dead?”
“I don’t know. But if Jones isn’t there, those girls will die. My informant didn’t know when, but I’ll bet he knows where.”
“I don’t follow.”
“He’s been involved with dozens of sales. There has to be a limited number of places Jones can keep twenty to thirty young women. He gave us two places Jones no longer used as a sign of good faith, but insisted that if he said anything else, Jones would know it was him talking. We raided the two places—one an abandoned farm not far from here, another a warehouse in Stockton near the river. There was evidence that a large group of people had been there—biological matter, garbage. Vega promised to contact me when he had an exact time and place, and I’d have about four hours to set up the raid. But now I have to push him.”
“There’s a pattern,” Dean said. “Even when criminals attempt to randomize, people unknowingly create patterns.”
“If Charlie would have just given me the fucking journal, this wouldn’t be an issue! Between the FBI and ICE we could break the code in short order.”
It bothered Dean just as much. “Why is he doing this?”
“He wants to save the girl I told you about yesterday, Ashley Fox. She’s been missing for a year. A few days more isn’t going to matter for her, but it could mean the difference between more young women suffering her same fate. Dammit!”
She turned her back on him so he couldn’t see that this had gotten to her, but he hadn’t missed the pain and frustration in her expressive eyes.
“Are you certain Charlie was telling the truth about the journals?”
“Absolutely.”
“They’re not anywhere at his house,” Dean said. “We searched extensively, had Jones open his safe. But most criminal enterprises keep two sets of books—their public books and the real books.”
“Have you been to his offices? The consulting firm and the security business?”
“Someone from our office has, but only to retrieve financial data per the warrant. Not to search the establishments for journals or anything else.”
“If you can’t get another warrant, I will. We need to push hard, whether Jones is dead or not. We don’t have a lot of time. Two and a half days.”
“If the books aren’t at his businesses, then maybe one of his employees is working with him. Maintaining the second set of books.”
Dean shook his head. “His businesses are what kept him legit. When laundering money, the more people who know how it works the more risk. But I can’t figure out how Jones was doing it. His office expenses are a little high, but in line with the income he generates from his clients, which is substantial.”
>
“Do you have a list of his clients?”
“Of course. We didn’t have time to get to it yesterday.”
“Maybe after we’re done here and we talk to my informant, we should go back to your office and look again at his clients.” The sheriff’s boat started toward the pier. “Jones is getting money from buying and selling people, and I doubt he’s hiding it under his mattress,” Sonia said.
Dean and Sonia approached the vessel when it docked. The deputy coroner was on the boat bagging the victim. Floaters were put in clear plastic to preserve evidence and fluids, as the body decomposed much differently than it would on dry land. Then the victim was put into a body bag for transport.
Dean had a sudden realization. “I’m going at Jones all wrong,” he admitted. “I was focusing on the money trail. Ninety-five percent of the time, going backward in financial records gets you exactly what you need. But with Jones, that hadn’t been working. All his records check out. I need to spend more time looking at his clients.”
“But you said not ten minutes ago that you looked into his clients.”
“I did. They’re all legitimate businesses with no red flags on their tax filings or bank accounts. But I need to dig deeper on them like I was doing with Jones.”
Sonia frowned. “That sounds like it’s going to take hundreds of hours of manpower. We don’t have the time.”
“That’s why I need your help. You know this area. With you and Sam going through the names and addresses, I think we can narrow it down to a handful of possibilities.”
“It still sounds like a long shot.”
“Perhaps, but unless we find a safe with gold, cash, or black-market diamonds on Jones’s property, a client is the only way he can clean his money.”
Trace Anderson jumped off the rescue boat and approached them. He said, “It’s not Jones.”
“Charlie said there were two victims,” Sonia said.
“Yeah, but who the hell is the second victim?”
Sonia watched as the deputy coroner and his team carried the body from the boat to the dock. A white sheet had been draped over the gurney. Charlie’s story about the man Jones met with killing one of his own people was now far more terrifying with a body. There was a predator in town even more ruthless than Xavier Jones.
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