“But this is murder,” Dillon said.
The digital recording registered a loud noise, then files slamming and papers ruffling.
Fran’s voice, “Dammit, where is it?” More movement, a loud, long sigh of frustration. “I just don’t believe this.” Sounds of the filing cabinet opening, a furious perusal of papers, then silence for a good two minutes. Lucy thought Fran had left, then there was a jingle of keys, followed by a door slamming shut.
Sean looked at Dillon. “I should have found a way to bug her purse.”
“Not Fran,” Lucy said, not wanting to believe it. She looked at Dillon.
“You think it’s her, too,” he said quietly.
She nodded, blinking back tears. “It’s what you said earlier—about why vigilantes target certain criminals. Fran’s younger sister was repeatedly molested by their uncle. They lived in virtual poverty, their mom worked two jobs, Fran worked nearly full-time in addition to school so she could save money for college, and no one knew what a sick pervert the uncle was.”
“Most repeat child molesters are well versed at keeping their victims quiet,” Dillon said. “A combination of treats and threats, and by the time the child outgrows both, they are made to feel so guilty—convinced that they are to blame for the abuse—that they never talk about it. How did Fran find out?”
“When her sister was strangled by the uncle. The day she started her first menstrual cycle, he raped and killed her. He told the police she’d lost her innocence and he had to stop her from turning into a whore.” Lucy spoke matter-of-factly, but the case bothered her deep down in a place she kept sealed.
“There’s another difference in these targets,” Dillon said, looking at Lucy’s spreadsheet.
“Right—they’re spread out. No two in the same city.”
“Or, if you look at it another way, Prenter is the only local parolee who was killed. That’s one more reason Prenter doesn’t fit with the others.”
“You mean different killer?” Sean asked.
“No, same killer. Or same group—I’m certain there are at the minimum two killers, but most likely three or more people involved, for a conspiracy this large. They targeted Prenter for a different reason, otherwise they wouldn’t have risked hitting so close to home—not just D.C., but a personal hit. We need to look at all his victims. I think one of the people involved is related to one of his victims. When he got out, that individual used their position in the group to put Prenter on the list, even though he didn’t fit their profile.”
“I’ve looked at the victims,” Lucy said. “Nothing jumps out. I asked Sean to look deeper.”
“Good,” Dillon said.
“We need to talk to Cody,” she said. “He’ll help, tell us everyone he spoke with. Maybe something will ring a bell.”
“Lucy,” Sean said sharply. “Cody has other problems. He’s stalking you.”
“Maybe he didn’t mean to make the message sound so disturbing.”
“And what about all those times you thought someone was watching you? That didn’t freak you out?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do not make excuses for that man!”
“Ease up, Rogan,” Dillon said.
Lucy shook her head. “Sean’s right.” She had to accept the fact that Cody had tried to scare her. “Cody followed us from church to brunch to the ice-skating rink—I didn’t tell him where we were going because I didn’t know. It’s just so hard to put him in the role of a bad guy.”
“Did he call you back?”
She shook her head. “I’ll track him down tomorrow morning.”
“Not alone,” Sean said.
She glanced at Sean. She understood that he was worried and being protective, but the tension coming off him was palpable. He’d been so understanding earlier, but now he was acting just like her brothers.
She raised an eyebrow at him and, keeping her voice cool, said, “I don’t have a death wish, Sean, and I already have four overprotective brothers—I don’t need another one.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”
“I appreciate your concern, though, and I promise I won’t cut him any slack, okay? But I think Dillon should come with me when I talk to him. Less testosterone.”
“Gee, thanks,” Dillon said, lightening the conversation.
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
TWENTY-SIX
Abigail hailed Noah as soon as he turned down the aisle of their squad’s cubicles early Tuesday morning. “I got the GPS data.”
“We were supposed to have it yesterday.”
“Yeah, and I harassed the poor CEO mercilessly all day even though there is no immediate risk to life or limb for this data.”
“Sorry.” Noah rubbed his eyes. “Kate and I split Morton’s emails. I still have a headache.”
“Learn anything?”
“Quite a bit. Our victim from Saturday, Robert Ralston?”
“I remember.”
“If I’m reading these messages right, he’s the one who first contacted Morton. Morton got out of prison, sent a few emails letting people know he was around, and then nothing—until the first week of August, when Ralston sends Morton a message.”
Noah put down his files and pulled the summary he’d typed out at home. “August sixth, Ralston asks Morton if he’s interested in a new game plan, that Ralston wants to retire to Florida but doesn’t have any money. Morton responds that he’s broke, too, and he hates being a mechanic. Ralston says he’ll see what he hears, but he’s not a techie.”
“Morton bought his computer a few weeks later.”
“I think that was incidental—he needed to earn the money to buy it, and after seven weeks working he had the funds. He immediately started going to all the online porn sites. Possibly doing research on how the technology and offerings changed.”
“Or maybe he was just a horny bastard after spending six years in prison.”
Noah shrugged. “Then Morton contacts Ralston in late September and says he has a new game plan—same phrase Ralston used—and would be ready in a few months. That’s about the time he started collecting porn and archiving it on his computer. A lot of the tapes and disks were older. I don’t know what his plan was—nothing in the messages give any details. But he had a lot of webcam films and our techs say it’s obvious one or both participants didn’t know they were being filmed.”
“Blackmail, maybe?”
“Possibly. And he would need money for equipment, setup, planning, and then of course the blackmail angle, if that’s what he was doing. Or, he could simply have been creating a voyeur site. I don’t know if we’ll ever learn the truth, considering both Ralston and Morton are dead.”
“Until whoever killed them launches the venture.”
Noah nodded. “We don’t have Ralston’s emails, but he must have been doing some work for Morton, because he gets back to Morton in late November and says he found a ‘game-player.’ ”
“Why didn’t Morton come out here then?”
“I don’t know. I can’t find any other messages from Ralston until late December. I’m wondering if they might have talked on the phone, and Guardino in Denver is going through Morton’s records. There were no 202 or 703 calls, but in this day and age disposable phones could have any number of area codes, Morton could even have had one we didn’t find. Our analysts are going through Ralston’s phone records. Something is going to match up but it’s going to take time.”
“So in December Ralston says what?”
“Pick a time and place. But get this—Morton didn’t tell Ralston when and where. There are no more communications from them.”
“Then you’ll love what I have here.” Abigail grinned like the Cheshire Cat and spread a greater D.C. map on his desk. “I mapped out everywhere Morton went in the rental car from the moment he drove out of the Dulles Airport parking lot. And two of his stops? Ralston’s apartment.”
Noah followed Abigail’s f
inger as she traced her pencil mark. “He was busy those two days.”
“Yes, he was.”
Noah scanned it. In addition to Ralston’s apartment, it included the Washington Marina where he was killed. He arrived there at 11:23 p.m. He died at approximately midnight. His body hadn’t been moved. At 11:59 p.m. the car left. “He went to the meeting—possibly to hook up with the money people for his new ‘game plan’—and they killed him. Took his car and went back to his motel—why?”
“If we’re going with the blackmail angle, maybe that was how he was going to fund his new project—and he blackmailed the wrong person.”
Noah considered. “He doesn’t bring the incriminating evidence, so the killer goes to his motel to look for it. Then drives the car to within blocks of Dulles Airport.”
“No—the car went one other place.” She put her finger down.
Noah’s mouth almost dropped open. “Back to Ralston’s apartment?”
“You know what I think? I think the killer was looking for something.”
“That would support the blackmail theory.”
“Morton didn’t have it on him. It wasn’t in his car, it wasn’t in his motel—”
“So they went to Ralston.”
Abigail nodded. “And killed him. Then they left the car in the warehouse near Dulles at four-thirty in the morning.”
Blackmail. It could pay enough to fund Morton’s “game plan.”
“How did the killer get to the marina if he drove away in Morton’s car?” Noah pondered.
“He came with Morton?”
“Unlikely. Unless they were meeting someone else.”
“So the killer has a partner. Or took public transportation.”
Noah considered. “Or, Ralston went with Morton.”
Abigail frowned. “But if Ralston and Morton were working together as closely as they appeared, why go back to Morton’s motel after he was killed? The manager’s description, though vague, doesn’t come close to fitting Ralston. If the killer wanted both of them dead, why take Ralston back to his apartment?”
“Maybe Ralston was scared, trying to buy time.”
“It’s possible.”
But something was missing. It seemed too convoluted a plan, but until they knew who Morton was meeting and what Morton was supposed to exchange for the money he expected to get, they wouldn’t know.
“Did you check taxi and limo companies?”
“No licensed driver took anyone out to the marina that night.”
Noah tapped his finger on a mark in Somerset, Maryland. “What’s this? It looks residential.”
“I haven’t checked it out yet; I just got this an hour ago.”
“He drove there Thursday night.”
His computer beeped, telling him he had a new email. He glanced at it, then did a double-take. “Here’s something new,” Noah said.
As he opened up the message, Abigail looked over his shoulder. It was from one of their analysts.
Agent Armstrong,
Per your instructions, I retraced Roger Morton’s steps prior to his arrival at Dulles. Under his name, there was no travel. Under his cousin’s name Cliff Skinner there was only the ticket from Denver to DIA. However, there was a charge to Skinner’s credit card for a round-trip ticket from Dulles to Seattle on January third, returning on January fourth, under the name Robert Ralston. I contacted the airlines and they confirmed that the ticket was issued and used.
Let me know if you need anything else.
—Sandy Young, Analyst II
“Ralston went to Seattle? What for?” Abigail asked.
Noah didn’t respond. Morton paid for the ticket, but Ralston did the travel. One day, overnight, why? What was Morton’s connection to Seattle?
He replied to Sandy:
Thanks Sandy. See what you can find on Ralston in Seattle. If he got a rental car, hotel, under his name or Skinner. Noah.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Abigail said.
Noah agreed. “Let’s go check out the location in Somerset.” He started walking, then stopped so abruptly that Abigail nearly ran into him.
“I see a flash of brilliance,” she said.
“Seattle. It was in the files Stockton gave me. It’s where Adam Scott and Morton took Lucy Kincaid after they kidnapped her.”
“You think it’s connected?”
“I doubt it’s a coincidence.”
Noah turned around and went back to his computer. He quickly sent a message to Assistant Director Rick Stockton and Hans Vigo, who would be able to get answers faster.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Sean pulled up as close to the employee entrance of the D.C. Medical Examiner’s Office as he could get, double-parking because there was no street parking available. He wasn’t about to let Lucy walk far, not until they knew what Cody was up to. And whether Fran Buckley or the people she worked with were dangerous. Lucy hadn’t agreed or disagreed with Dillon and Sean’s belief that Fran was behind the vigilante group, and Sean didn’t push. She’d had a lot dumped on her in the last few days, and he wanted to give her the room to come to her own conclusions. She’d get there.
Lucy said, “I could get used to having a car service. Sweet car, hot guy, door-to-door service.”
“Shouldn’t that be ‘hot car, sweet guy’?” Sean teased. He kissed her grin. “Be careful, Luce. Remember, if Cody comes by, call your brother or Kate. And avoid Fran until we figure out if she’s involved in this.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
“I’m just worried.” He touched her face. She looked tired, and he said, “You know, when this is all over you deserve a vacation. A three-day weekend anywhere my plane can take us.”
She smiled mischievously. “Anywhere? I don’t think you should give me such freedom.”
“I said anywhere, I mean it. What time do you get off?”
“Three.”
“I’ll be here.”
Sean watched Lucy until she entered the building, then made sure that no one followed her before the security door closed.
He drove back to Lucy’s house. Kate had emailed him earlier and asked that he come by at ten.
When Kate opened the door she looked at her watch. “You’re an hour early,” she said.
“It didn’t take long to pick up Lucy, take her to work, and get back here.”
She closed the door behind him. “Coffee’s in the kitchen.”
Sean followed Kate down the hall. Like Lucy, she looked exhausted. Her hair was still damp from her shower, and thick sections fell in her face. She impatiently tucked them behind her ears.
Dillon was sitting at the kitchen table reading a thick file. A man of about fifty with glasses, a slight paunch, and graying hair sat across from Dillon.
Dillon glanced up. “Sean,” he said, gesturing to the stranger, “this is a good friend of ours, Dr. Hans Vigo. He’s FBI.”
“Vigo.” Sean knew that name. “You’re the profiler?”
“Good memory.” Hans shook Sean’s hand. “We haven’t met.”
“No, but my brother Duke—everyone at RCK—speaks highly of you.”
“How is Duke?” Hans asked.
“Same as always.” Sean had been inching closer to see what Dillon was reading.
Kate stood next to Sean and said, “It’s Fran Buckley’s personnel file from the Bureau, Mr. Nosy.”
“Is that why you asked me here?”
“No, Noah Armstrong wants to talk to you.”
Sean abruptly turned to her. “You’re setting me up to talk to a Fed?”
It was Hans who answered. “You were seen on a surveillance tape entering a restaurant owned by Sergey Yuran. Considering his name has come up in the course of this investigation, we need to know what he said.”
Sean frowned. “If I learned something that would have helped, I would have shared the information with Agent Armstrong on Saturday.”
Sean didn’t feel comfortable talking to the FBI about something t
hat could get him in hot water—he stood by his decision. He considered calling Duke for advice on whether to pull in a lawyer, but quickly dismissed the thought. He wasn’t going to lean on his brother every time he came head to head with law enforcement. He was a big boy, he would make his own decisions, and he knew he hadn’t been out of line in talking to Sergey Yuran. There was no way Yuran would have spoken to a cop, and if it was true he was under surveillance, Armstrong wouldn’t even be able to get in there. Shaking the trafficker down for the murder of a scumbag like Morton was way down on the priority list from trafficking in guns and human beings—which told Sean that Noah wanted this meeting off the record, hence here at Kate’s house. Maybe the Fed wasn’t the “by-the-book” hard-ass Sean had thought when he met him on Saturday.
Yet, every time Sean had spoken to cops in the past it had come back to bite him in the ass.
Before he’d been kicked out of Stanford, Sean discovered one of his professors liked child porn. Sean exposed his repulsive obsession so everyone would know what kind of pervert he really was. The Feds promised nothing would happen to Sean if he told the truth about how he’d hacked into the professor’s system and what initially tipped him off. Sean told the truth. Next thing he knew, Stanford expelled him for hacking into the school database. Duke had said the FBI did what they could, and Sean was damn lucky he wasn’t in prison. They’d agreed to expunge the record; however, Sean was certain his FBI file was an inch thick. The incident with the sick Stanford professor wasn’t the only time he’d been in hot water when trying to right wrongs.
Kate said, “Sean, you’d better watch yourself around Armstrong. He’s good, and he doesn’t like interference.”
“I didn’t interfere with anything.”
“Showing up at Ralston’s apartment wasn’t interfering?”
“I’m not going to rehash this. You know why I was there. I didn’t screw with his investigation.”
Hans said, “No one is looking to get you in trouble, Sean.”
Sean didn’t know whether to believe him, but Duke thought Hans Vigo walked on water, and that couldn’t be said of a lot of people, so Sean gave the profiler the benefit of the doubt.
Mortal Sin Page 22