Silenced

by Allison Brennan

  “I’ve worked in political corruption for more than a decade, and I don’t care who it is, they’re all corruptible. Some easier than others.”

  “But he’s not under investigation for political corruption, Josh! He’s a person of interest in a homicide. Once I clear him, you can do whatever you want, but for now, we focus on the murder of Wendy James.”

  “And if they’re connected?”

  “When we solve the murder, we’ll know.”

  The elevator opened. Lucy followed behind the two men. Stein was on his phone and walked ahead. Noah still looked irritated.

  “Noah,” Lucy said cautiously. “We need to check out apartment seven-ten. Remember how I said it didn’t look like she lived there? Maybe she doesn’t, not full-time.”

  “You should have talked to me before questioning Crowley.”

  “I tried—”

  “We could get the information in other ways. It was already a tense situation.”

  “That wasn’t my fault.” Why was Noah angry with her? She hadn’t gone into Crowley’s office on a rant. “Crowley is a classic power narcissist. He responds negatively to attacks, he needs to be praised and made to feel important, then you can get him to talk about anything.”

  She hadn’t realized Stein overheard her comment. He snapped his phone off and said, “I understand politicians better than you, Kincaid. I’m not going to coddle them when I know in my gut they’re crooked, and I’m not going to play pop psychology games.”

  Noah said, “Josh, I understand where you’re coming from, but right now you’re fishing on influence peddling. You have no evidence. On the other hand, we have a dead body and interviewing Crowley is part of the process. I need his statement.”

  Stein shook his head. “I get it, Armstrong, but I stand by my approach. Now we wait and watch. He’ll do something to tip his hand, I guarantee it. And then maybe we’ll both get what we want—I’ll nail him for corruption, you get him for murder.”

  “If he’s guilty,” Lucy said. She wanted to say, he’s not guilty, but didn’t want another argument, with Stein or Noah.

  “He’s guilty of something.” Stein glanced at his watch. “Can you get a taxi back to your car? I have to get back to headquarters.” He left without waiting for an answer.

  Lucy followed Noah, who was walking quickly and ignoring her. “Noah, wait,” she finally said. The heat made her hot and irritable.

  He stopped under a tree near the sidewalk. “I know what you’re going to say. Josh Stein is an asshole. He’s impulsive and arrogant. But he’s also my superior, and yours.” He added under his breath, “It’s my fault.” He started walking again, but Lucy stopped him.

  “Noah, what did I do?” Her heart was racing and she began to panic that she’d overstepped. “I’m sorry I said anything to the congressman, but I was only thinking about what we’d been talking about earlier, that maybe Wendy James has another place. And we confirmed it!”

  “I planned on coming back to talk to Crowley without Stein.”

  “I didn’t know.” She felt foolish, but wished Noah had given her a clue to his plans.

  “I’ve given you a lot of slack these last two months, but that can’t continue. This case is far too complicated and high-profile.”

  “I haven’t jeopardized anything, have I?” She couldn’t imagine what she’d said or done that would put a conviction at risk.

  “Not yet.” Noah flagged down a taxi and opened the door for Lucy.

  She slid into the cab.

  Not yet.

  Which meant he expected her to screw up.

  * * *

  It was after six by the time Noah and Lucy arrived back at Wendy James’s apartment. Noah was on the phone the entire drive, talking to an analyst about property records. Apartment 710 was owned by the corporation that managed the condo and two floors down from Wendy’s official residence, 910.

  The manager let them in. “I don’t think Wendy ever used this place,” Betty Dare said. “It’s leased for short-term stays—less than a month.”

  “Do you have the printout of who’s leased it in the past year?” Noah asked.

  She handed him a folder.

  Noah glanced through it. “These are businesses.”

  “Yes—they will lease the place for staff who are coming into the city to testify, sometimes staying a week, sometimes longer.”

  Lucy held her hand out. “I can go through them tonight.”

  Noah didn’t give her the file. “We have a well-staffed office, Lucy. You don’t have to volunteer for everything.”

  Ms. Dare hesitated, then handed Noah the key. “If you can lock up and return the key on your way out?”

  “Of course.”

  After the manager left, Lucy looked around.

  The place was lavishly decorated with expensive, durable furniture befitting a high-end lease. Leather couch, plush carpet, granite in the kitchen, and a fifty-inch television on the wall. A plethora of plants made the place appear homey, but upon closer inspection, Lucy realized they were silk. The refrigerator had two unopened bottles of white wine and long-shelf-life barrel cheese. The kitchen cabinets included unopened packages of crackers and a wide array of alcohol. There were plates, glasses, utensils, all clean.

  “Looks standard,” Noah said.

  “With food and drink?”

  “For executives who come in after hours—hotels do it.”

  “Something seems—off.”

  “Maybe Wendy didn’t want to bring Crowley into her apartment. Nosy neighbor, maybe she had a boyfriend.” Noah added, “We got nothing from the neighbors earlier, but we should follow up now that it’s after six.”

  Lucy was only half-listening to Noah. She stared at a discolored strip of molding along the ceiling. There was a dark mark near the edge that caught her attention.

  She pulled over a chair from the dining area and put it against the wall. As soon as she got closer to the molding, she saw that it was loose. The smudge appeared to be grease. She wiggled the piece and realized it was on a hinge.

  “What are you doing?” Noah asked.

  “There’s a hidey-hole here.”

  “Hidey-hole?” Noah sounded amused.

  Lucy pushed up and the little door snapped off. “Sorry,” she said.

  “Lucy, I’ll bring a team in—”

  “It’s wires. Lots of them. The space is only four inches wide. A building like this would have a separate room for its wiring.” Lucy handed Noah the broken door. “This molding is different than the rest. It’s PVC, not wood.”

  She stepped off the chair and led the way into the bedroom. She saw the same slightly off-color strip of molding.

  Her instincts buzzed that she’d discovered something important. “Look—same thing here.”

  “Let me do it this time,” Noah said. He brought over a chair and used it as a step stool to stand on the dresser. “There’s definitely a door here.” He tapped in several locations and suddenly a door sprang up. “And I didn’t break it,” he said, grinning.

  He shined a flashlight into the hole. “Empty. But something was definitely here. There’re outlets.”

  “Outlets inside the wall?”

  “What’s on the backside of this wall?”

  Lucy walked around and opened the door. “A linen closet. There are sheets, towels, toiletries.”

  “Eight feet deep?”

  She eyeballed it. “It’s about three feet wide and four feet deep.”

  “This section of wall is over eight feet.”

  Noah jumped down.

  Lucy knew exactly what he was thinking. Her heart pounded as she took the linens and two loose shelves from the closet. Behind the sheets was an obvious “hidden” panel.

  Wires in the walls and ceiling, in the bedroom and living room, an apartment with no owner, where a congressman met with his mistress—sex tapes. Lucy’s face flushed as she fumbled with the panel.

  Don’t panic! Dammit, this is your job. />
  She took a deep breath. Forced the memories back. Hot and cold flashes washed over her skin as snippets of her past assaulted her. The video camera with its mocking red light, reminding her that everyone who paid could watch her, tied naked to the floor. The pain and humiliation and the despair.

  She had wanted to die.

  Don’t look. Don’t look.

  She repeated the mantra. If she didn’t look at the past, she could forget it, at least for now.

  She didn’t want to break down. Not ever, but especially not in front of Noah.

  “Do you need help?” Noah stood right behind her.

  “I got it.”

  His voice reminded Lucy that no one was videotaping her. She was with a friend, a colleague, a mentor. She was safe.

  But deep down she felt a nightmare coming on, and wished with all her heart that Sean was back from Sacramento. Sean kept the nightmares away; he made her feel safe when nothing else could.

  His unconditional love healed her.

  She didn’t dare let on that this case disturbed her. Not to Noah, and especially not to Sean. Sean would quit his assignment in California and fly back to DC, jeopardizing his reputation and career, just because this case was stirring up memories that might lead to bad dreams.

  You’re a big girl, Lucy. You have to deal with life on your own.

  “Lucy.”

  It was Noah. How long had she been standing there, bent over the shelf, fumbling with the panel?

  “Sorry, mind wandering.”

  She swallowed, breathed deeply again, and pushed on the corner of the panel.

  It swung open, much bigger than she thought, and hit her on the head.

  “Ow, shit!” She jumped back, bumping up against Noah. She rubbed her forehead, came away with a small drop of blood.

  “Are you okay?” he turned her around and inspected her forehead. “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s just a bump.” She pulled off her right glove. “I don’t have another pair of gloves.”

  “Don’t touch anything.” He eyed her closely. “You’ll live.”

  “Thanks.” But she smiled. He could have made the situation even more awkward than it was, but Noah was a professional, and she needed that more than ever.

  They traded places. “There’s a light switch back here.” He flipped it on.

  A tiny, narrow room—carpeted along the walls—had been built behind the linen closet. It was three feet wide and about five feet long—two people might have been able to stand side by side, but it would have been a tight fit. Outlets, plugs, evidence of a full-tech operation was here, but no equipment.

  “She was recording Crowley,” Lucy said, almost in disbelief.

  “Recording him without his knowledge? That sounds like blackmail.”

  “No wonder he was defensive.”

  “She was involved publicly with other congressmen as well,” Noah said. “That’s what got Stein’s panties in a wad—and he might have been right.” He pulled out his phone. “I have to call in cyber crime for this one.”

  “Wireless,” Lucy said. “It would have been easy to set up. But then, why would she need this room? Why not use her own apartment?”

  “We’re going to find out. I wonder if the manager knows? Call her up, Lucy.”

  Ten minutes later, Noah showed Betty Dare the hidden room. She stared, a stunned expression on her face. “I had no idea,” she said repeatedly.

  “I need to seal off this room, it’s a potential crime scene, and we’ll contact the owners.”

  “I—yes—of course.”

  Lucy felt bad for the flustered manager. “This isn’t your fault,” she said. “There are over one hundred units in this building? Sixty-seven owned, thirty long-term leases, a dozen executive leases?”

  Betty looked surprised. “You have a good memory.”

  She shrugged. “That’s a lot of people for one person to manage. Thank you so much for your help.”

  “Lucy,” Noah said, “go home. I have to wait for the team to arrive.”

  “I can wait with you.”

  “Sean still in Sacramento?”

  She nodded.

  “Weren’t you going to give Ms. James’s cat temporary housing?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Go. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Brian loved his brother, but resented the fact that people called him stupid and Ned smart.

  Brian had handled his part of the plan perfectly. Wendy James was dead.

  After Ned found out that Wendy was still chummy with her hookers, Ned was supposed to poison them with carbon monoxide and make it look like an accident. But instead, he wanted a bang.

  Well, he got it—along with six living problems.

  And who did they call to solve problems?

  Brian. Because he did exactly what he was supposed to. He took orders. He was a good soldier and all that crap.

  Brian watched the news in his basement apartment. Ned wouldn’t be happy that Wendy’s body had been found so soon, but who the fuck cared? Nothing tied her to him, nothing tied him to her murder, and he wore gloves.

  * * *

  “The victim has been identified as Wendy James, the young secretary who admitted to having a longtime affair with Congressman Alan Crowley, the powerful chair of the Judiciary Committee.

  “Police have no leads at this time, but our sources report that the FBI has taken over the case, and they have yet to issue a public statement. Sources report that Ms. James had been jogging through Rock Creek Park Monday morning when she was attacked by a possible rapist. In the last three months, seven rapes and thirteen attempted rapes or muggings have been reported from the park. Public safety officials urge joggers to run in pairs or groups and be aware of their surroundings.”

  * * *

  Brian grinned. Attempted rape. Exactly what he’d wanted. All was right, he’d done his job, he should be the one sitting in the mansion, not in this pit of an apartment waiting for his next job.

  Ned called him. “Did you see the news?” Brian asked.

  “Good job,” Ned said, “except that she was found. The feds are everywhere asking questions. They have no clue, but too many questions make people nervous. Once you take care of the rest of the problems, we’re in the clear.”

  “You should have done it right the first time.”

  “Fuck off. I have an address for you, to start.” He read off the address of a hotel in the shittiest section of DC Brian could imagine.

  “That’s a pit. What about the others?”

  “I’m getting there. It takes time when I have to cover my tracks. But I’m close.”

  “When this is done, we should go on vacation. Maybe a cruise. That’d be fun, wouldn’t it?”

  Ned laughed. “Remember when we went to Miami for spring break? I want some more of those wild girls. I had more girls sucking me off that week than the whole previous year.” He cleared his throat, then said, “You know what to do?”

  “Yes.” Brian hated when his brother treated him like a child.

  “Wait until nighttime activity settles down, then—”

  “Don’t tell me how to do it. I didn’t fuck up my assignment.”

  “It’s not a competition, Bri.”

  “Good thing for you, ’cause I’d win.” He hung up.

  It was already midnight. Late enough.

  Brian dressed in dark jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt. He pocketed his favorite knife and left.

  The cheap motel was in an all-black neighborhood two miles from his place. He’d stick out if anyone saw him. So he stayed in his car across the street from the motel and watched.

  The area was unusually quiet. A gas station on one corner was still open. On the opposite corner were two fast-food joints sharing a wall and small parking lot. A group of gangbangers sat on the tables outside, even though the places were closed. Across from the motel was a section of crummy walk-ups. Half the busine
sses on the ground floor were boarded up; the other half had bars on their windows and doors. A dive bar next to the motel was open until two, but the parking lot was empty.

  Brian had thought that the cooler night would have brought people out of their cramped, stuffy apartments. He breathed in deeply, then grimaced at the thick, dirty air.

  Nearly every light in the motel was off. He watched as a street hooker knocked on an upstairs door, almost directly above the room he wanted. A pasty white guy let her in, the door closed, and Brian wrinkled his nose at what filthy diseases they shared. At least Wendy and the others were clean. Condoms and all that. And they didn’t prowl the streets looking to make a quick buck. They were paid a couple hundred dollars for an all-night screw.

  Not really fair. All they had to do was lie down and spread their legs and they got two, three, even five hundred dollars? He’d heard some of the horny bastards liked kinky shit, but still, a thousand bucks for two nights’ work? How’d they get so lucky to land such a cushy job?

  He laughed, then put his hand to his mouth to keep from being heard. They’d have no job when they were dead. One of those retribution things, he thought. Like the hand of God or some such thing. Be a whore, be dead. Be a whore no more—that sounded better. It rhymed.

  After Brian had seen no one else come or go for several minutes, he got out of his car and strode across the street with purpose. By the time he reached room 119, he had his tools in hand. He’d been worried about making too much noise, but the rumbling AC units masked any sound he made picking the flimsy lock. Slowly, he pushed open the door. Security chain was on. He took out a small, handheld bolt cutter and snipped the thin metal in two.

  Brian crept into the motel room and grimaced at the stink. Dirt and sweat and sex. The air-conditioning unit in the window ran full power, but only moved the stale air around the room. He doubted it had ever been recharged.

  He closed the door quickly, quietly, his eyes already adjusted to the night.

  One black girl—Nicole—slept in the queen-sized bed, on sheets he doubted had been washed after the last people slept—or screwed—in this room. The motel was a haven for whores. Maybe the black bitch thought she’d blend in, disappear into the streets. But she was mistaken. Ned knew everyone. Ned found people. No one could hide from his brother.