“First, housekeeping found the phone in room six oh six,” Jackson said. “The guest checked out early this morning via computer. The room was cleaned at noon today and staff left the phone in the main housekeeping office—Saturdays are busy and the supervisor hasn’t had the opportunity to contact the guest. No other personal effects were left behind. I sent one of my security people to retrieve it. But after I spoke to the floor manager, I was curious, so I pulled the sixth-floor security footage as well.” Jackson said to the tech, “Run both segments.”
The first segment wasn’t the main entrance, but a side entrance. “This is our northeast entrance,” the operator said. “It’s used by guests after hours—most of the popular restaurants are east of us, as well as River Walk access.”
A girl roughly fitting the description given to them by the taxi driver used a key card to access the door. There was no clear shot from that angle. She carried a large, oversized bag and wore heels with her very short shorts.
“She would have been stopped by security immediately in the lobby,” Jackson said. “Asked if she were a guest and in what room. We take a hard line against prostitution. We recognize that some of the more high-priced call girls would get by simply by how they present themselves or because they come in with a registered guest, but we discourage solicitation. The giveaway is not just the clothing—many young girls wear immodest shorts and tops—it’s her bag and overall appearance. When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you know.”
“Have you seen her before?” Lucy asked.
“Never,” Jackson said.
“This shot isn’t clear,” Barry said.
“The elevator footage is on a different feed and black and white. I’m working on getting that copied, but I have a better shot of her on the sixth floor.”
The operator pressed a couple buttons and the image changed to a wide-angle lens showing a generic hallway. “This is the sixth floor,” he said.
The girl who’d come in through the side entrance walked down the hall slowly, looking at each door number. The quality and lighting was better on these cameras. She turned abruptly and looked one way, as if something startled her, and when she did they were able to get a very clear shot of her face. Then she turned the other way and continued to look at the numbers. She stopped at one door, fumbled with the key, then slid it into the lock. It opened.
“That’s her,” Barry said. “She matches the description of our person of interest.”
“I made you copies. We only have digital files, so the copy is as high quality as the original. I’ll put it on a disk, but I can also email it to you.”
“That would be terrific. I appreciate your help, Mr. Jackson. I need the name of the guest registered in that room.”
“I thought you might. I’m going to need a warrant for that. It’s hotel policy. I can share anything that’s public—copies of security feeds, for example—but the names and addresses of our guests must remain confidential unless there is an official warrant. I’m sorry.”
He actually sounded like he was sorry.
Barry nodded. “I understand. I’ll have one first thing Monday morning.”
“I’ll have what you need ready.”
Lucy said, “Can you show us the security feeds from this morning? Around the time the guest checked out.”
Jackson hesitated, then said, “I don’t see why not. Like I said, hotel policy is to cooperate with law enforcement as much as possible, and there are signs posted about the hotel’s video surveillance.”
Jackson motioned for the operator to fast-forward the tape. It scrolled by quickly. There was little movement, then a lone person, then a couple with suitcases, then—
“Stop,” Lucy said.
The tech did.
“Back up a couple minutes. I want to see the girl as she’s leaving.”
The tech complied. At 4:47 A.M. per the time stamp, the blonde left room 606. She wore the same clothes but was walking like she was in pain. She kept her head down for the most part, and weaved a bit as if drunk. As she neared the elevator she turned her head. She had a cut on her face and bruises on her neck. Then she disappeared into the elevator.
“Bastard,” Lucy muttered. He’d had her in that room for four hours. Lucy didn’t care if she was a hooker, she didn’t deserve to be brutalized. It was clear she was well under eighteen. Certainly no older than sixteen, and Lucy would not have been surprised if she were younger. That’s why this john wanted her, not only because she was young but because she looked young.
“Do you need to take a break?” Barry asked Lucy.
She was surprised by the question. “No,” she said. “I’m fine.” She wanted to skewer whoever hurt the girl.
“Keep going,” Barry said, clearing his throat. The tech sped up the recording.
It was nearly three hours later that the guest left the room, dressed business casual. He carried a small overnight bag. He was well over forty.
“I’ll get the warrant to make it official,” Barry said. “But I know who that is.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Driving back to FBI headquarters from downtown San Antonio took twice as long as usual because of traffic, but Barry used the time productively. He first told Lucy that the man in room 606 was James Everett, a multimillionaire who’d made his money in real estate. “I don’t see what the connection is between Everett and Worthington, if there is a connection,” Barry said. “They could have known each other because they were both wealthy, established families in the city. Probably moved in the same circles, but they weren’t business partners. And Worthington is dead and Everett isn’t—otherwise I’d think maybe we did have a potential serial killer targeting dirty old men.”
He glanced at her. “You’re quiet. I expected you to have a theory.”
“There is a connection—that girl. She went from Worthington’s room to Everett’s room. She left Worthington’s phone in Everett’s hotel.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If she gave the phone to Everett, why would he leave it there? It connects Worthington—a suspicious death—to him.”
“Good point.”
“The girl must be working for someone who is getting her these jobs,” Lucy said. “She had the card key to the hotel room. She went straight up to the room, but the numbers aren’t on the cards.”
“You got intense back there. Are you okay with this case?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’m just mad.” And upset, but she had closed down her emotions as soon as Barry had seen her reaction in the security office.
Nothing about human nature surprised Lucy. She was only twenty-six, but had faced evil too many times, in her personal life and on the job. She’d interviewed hookers and johns, pimps and madams. She understood the business of sex better than almost anyone, and that didn’t make her happy. She wondered if that was why Juan had wanted her on this case, because she understood this world. An underage prostitute rarely worked for herself. Almost exclusively, they had managers. They were often exploited, especially at the beginning of their careers, but over time they became as hardened as those who recruited them.
There were many paths that led young girls into the life of selling themselves. Childhood abuse. Manipulation by a boyfriend or even a fellow girlfriend. Kidnapping. Runaways. Some went in knowing full well what they were doing; others had no clue. Many became addicted to alcohol and drugs; most died far too young, broken.
The men who used them were more predictable. For most, it was about power and control. To pay a submissive to do what they wanted when they wanted. For some, it was a fantasy; they pretended they weren’t paying the girls, that the girl was with them because she wanted to be. But wealthy, influential men like Harper Worthington and James Everett probably convinced themselves that because she was paid, it wasn’t child rape. Because she was willing, it wasn’t sexual exploitation. They wanted, they took.
Men like Worthington and Everett made her physica
lly ill. She didn’t harbor a lot of sympathy for the fact that Worthington was dead and Everett was going to be on the hot seat. She felt true empathy for the girl who’d been used and manipulated. If she did have a hand in Worthington’s death, she needed to get help more than punishment. Someone must have set her up to do this. And Lucy needed to convince her to overcome her fear—of law enforcement and her pimp—and talk to the authorities.
But first, they needed to find her.
“Send the photo to Tia Mancini at SAPD and see if she knows the girl,” Barry said. “I need to call Juan.”
“We’re going to talk to Everett, right?”
“Not tonight. It’s six o’clock. Neither of us is at the top of our game after thirteen hours in the field. After I talk to Juan, I’ll call you and let you know what the plan is.”
“I want to be in on it, Barry.”
“You want it too much, Lucy.”
“I’m pretty certain Juan called me in to work with you on this because of my experience working with victims of the sex trade. I can’t help this girl unless I know exactly what’s going on, and that means I need to be part of the conversation with James Everett.”
Barry didn’t say anything for several minutes as they crawled through traffic. Lucy sent the image Jackson had clipped from the video to Tia Mancini with a note that this was the girl they wanted to question about the death of Harper Worthington.
“I know I can be a little intense,” Lucy said. “I have a hard time lightening up. I wish I could be more fun like Kenzie or compartmentalize better like Ryan. But I am good at my job. All I want is to be part of this investigation. To contribute and not feel like I can’t say something or ask a question.”
Barry hesitated, then said, “I’m used to working alone,” he said. “When I get a rookie to work with, they usually don’t have much experience in the field. That probably wasn’t fair to you today.”
She hadn’t expected an apology, but she appreciated it. “If I mess up, tell me. I’m still learning.”
Barry turned into the secure FBI parking lot and shut off the car. “Will do. Go home. Relax. I’ll call you tomorrow if anything pops up. Likewise, if Mancini gets back to you about that girl, call me. If it seems best to interview Everett tomorrow instead of Monday, I’ll call you in. Fair?”
She nodded. “Thanks, Barry.”
* * *
Barry finished briefing Juan Casilla on the case. He hadn’t been lying to Lucy that he didn’t like working weekends. The squad rotated who was on call, and it was his weekend, but he didn’t have to like it. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his job; he did. He liked the authority and power that came with being a federal agent. He was good in the field, and the AUSAs loved him because he gave them prosecutable cases with no potential issues like illegal searches. In fact he worked so well with the AUSAs on cases that Juan usually assigned him to work anything legal. Plus, he did well with public relations. He’d been offered the position of public information officer a few years back, but declined it because it would have meant erratic hours.
He supposed his predilection for a regular eight-to-five schedule was the primary reason SAC Ritz Naygrew had brought in Juan Casilla as the SSA three years ago instead of promoting Barry. For a while, Barry was disgruntled and had considered leaving the Bureau, or at least San Antonio. Especially since Casilla rarely worked weekends because of his large family. Five kids under twelve with another on the way. Yet Juan had a solid management style that Barry respected, firm but flexible.
“What do you think?” Juan asked. “It seems clear that Worthington was murdered.”
“It appears that way, but I’m not going to make assumptions, not until the morgue comes back with the test results. The big hiccup here is how this girl connects with Worthington and Everett, and why she was in both hotel rooms on the same night. Aside from the obvious.”
“But your report indicated that Worthington hadn’t had sex with the girl.”
“Honestly, the whole case seems fishy. It appears that Worthington was set up to look like he was in a compromising position, but we still need to interview his daughter and find this prostitute. And I can’t shake the fact that he made this unscheduled trip to San Antonio and didn’t tell anyone.”
“I’ve fielded two calls from Jolene Hayden—one from her, and one from her husband.”
“I had Zach call her to set up a meeting for Monday morning. Kincaid and I have been going nonstop since before dawn. We’ll miss something if we talk to her tonight. Other than the taxi driver, she may have been the last person to see her father alive. She also may know why he left Dallas for San Antonio, but she wasn’t in town earlier for us to talk to.”
“I agree—talk to her fresh. Zach said she was amicable to meeting Monday morning once she knew that we were serious about the investigation and that we wouldn’t have any results from the coroner until Monday.”
“Is that what you told her?”
“I’m not going to give her the preliminary results over the phone.” Juan leaned forward. “Tread lightly with the congresswoman. That’s why I wanted you on this case, Barry. You understand the sensitivities of a potentially political investigation.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Which brings up Lucy Kincaid.”
“I’ve been watching her closely like you asked,” Barry said. He hadn’t been surprised by Juan’s request, and he didn’t feel guilty about it, either. The only way they could function in the law enforcement role established by Congress was to have good agents under the command of a strong leadership. He’d often assessed rookie agents, especially since joining the San Antonio office.
“She’s focused and has good instincts,” Barry said. “She took my direction, even when I could tell she was frustrated that I wouldn’t let her pursue something or ask questions. Though she’s only been here a few months, she’s already built relationships with local law enforcement, including the deputy coroner, Julie Peters, and SAPD detective Tia Mancini which, honestly, made the crime scene this morning go smoother than I would have expected after we took over the investigation.
“Lucy is like the Energizer Bunny—she doesn’t stop,” Barry continued. “Not in the same way as Kenzie, who simply can’t sit still, but her mind is continually turning over evidence and information. She wanted to continue working tonight, but I sent her home. It’s clear to me that she’s going to burn out quickly. She seems to recognize this in herself, but she doesn’t know how to turn off the job. And—to be honest—I don’t think she wants to turn it off. That would be my number-one concern.”
“I knew that when she was assigned to San Antonio,” Juan said.
“Are you having me assess her because of what happened in Hidalgo?” Barry knew Juan hadn’t told the staff the entire story, and Ryan wasn’t talking about it, either. Lucy had rescued a group of kidnapped boys being used as drug couriers, but she’d been put on unpaid administrative leave for two weeks for disobeying a direct order. Yet no one seemed to know what that order was, and the punishment seemed extreme considering what she’d accomplished. There were a few rumors going around about whether she’d violated federal law by crossing the border into Mexico while running an op, but there was nothing in the official record and Barry wasn’t going to ask. It wasn’t his place.
Juan didn’t answer his question, which made Barry think the rumors were accurate. Instead, Juan said, “How is she in the field?”
“Like I said, sharp. She was too confrontational with Congresswoman Reyes-Worthington, but I smoothed it over.”
“Why confrontational?”
“She didn’t think the congresswoman was surprised that her husband was with a prostitute. She thought the woman seemed calculating.”
“Maybe she wasn’t surprised. And politicians can be very calculating, always looking at poll numbers and how something will appear on the news.”
“It just seemed—I don’t know, Kincaid focuses on different things than other rooki
es I’ve worked with. I’m afraid she projects too much, and sees things that are simply not there.”
“She has a master’s in criminal psychology.”
Barry hadn’t known. “That explains a lot.” Like how she assessed the situation at the hotel, and how she worked through the possible scenarios from a personal point of view rather than simply making a factual summary. But had he known earlier would he have changed the way he investigated this case? Probably not.
“I need to make sure she’s not a danger to herself or others in the field,” Juan said. “I want to know if she has tunnel vision, if she takes unnecessary risks. You’re the most even-tempered agent on this squad, and you understand the regulations better than anyone. You’re also unbiased and the only one I trust with this particular assessment.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”
* * *
It was after seven Saturday evening when Lucy walked into her house. She was looking forward to brainstorming with Sean—she enjoyed discussing her cases with him. His insight was always sharp, and he seemed to enjoy walking through the facts with her.
She thought about what Barry Crawford had said, that she needed to learn to turn off the job. Easier said than done.
She stepped into the kitchen and was greeted by a mouth-watering, spicy aroma. “Sean?” she called. He didn’t answer.
The kitchen was a mess, with pots and pans in the sink, a couple empty beer bottles on the counter, and remains of chopped veggies on the cutting board.
Her phone vibrated. It was a message from Sean.
Welcome home. Go upstairs and change.
She laughed and responded.
Bossy, aren’t you?
He texted back:
Pretty please.
Best Laid Plans Page 7