Always Watching

by LS Sygnet

  “I like it,” Dev said. “I mean, it’s a sound theory. I wonder if there’s any way that we could get more information from the FBI on Alfred Preston. As you pointed out, Helen, it sounds like an unusual occurrence, that somebody with federal law enforcement authority would get sucked into such a heinous crime. What do we know about this guy?”

  “I talked to David Levine about him yesterday,” I said. “He remembered Preston, though I’m not sure why. David thought he was rather unremarkable, but aspired to great things. Unfortunately, he lacked the skill or ambition, I’m not sure which, to advance his career beyond Montgomery’s field office.”

  “So he was a wannabe climber,” Crevan said. “Is it possible that years of professional frustration, seeing himself as an agent more deserving of recognition and position made him vulnerable to being part of a criminal enterprise like this?”

  I nibbled the edge of another cracker, experienced a moment of chagrin that Johnny’s home remedy for nausea seemed to be doing the trick. I eyed him suspiciously.

  “What do you think, sweetheart?”

  “Beyond my spidey sense that you’re keeping something from me?”

  He grinned. “What do you think about Crevan’s theory?”

  “Some of the things he said to me yesterday after I shot him would support the notion that our Agent Preston might’ve been a little grandiose, a little self-important. It’s possible.”

  “What makes you say that? Did you actually tell us what he said before the paramedics arrived?” Devlin asked.

  “I think it was during that couple of hours where Johnny really didn’t want to speak to you, Dev,” Crevan chuckled. His glee that Johnny’s jealousy seemed to be utterly gone made me more wary of the behavior as well.

  “I asked Preston if Sully Marcos hired him to kill Datello, Devlin. He basically laughed at me and said I wasn’t nearly as smart as everyone thinks I am.”

  “Ouch,” Dev muttered.

  “And then she asked him if he was working for Sherman’s crew,” Johnny said, “and he looked like he couldn’t believe she knew anything about Sherman or his alleged crew.”

  “Technically, we don’t know there is one, and we don’t know that Sherman or his wife were involved in the planning and execution of this slavery thing. It was a hunch, but it made him tip his hand,” I said. “We have one dead little girl who was abducted from the Philippines, and a local infant who ended up being fobbed off as Sherman’s new baby. That’s hardly compelling evidence that there’s a human trafficking operation.”

  “Except for the fact that Florence Payette believes that Sherman owned her,” Johnny said. “Don’t forget that, Helen. That’s the most damning bit of evidence that we’ve got so far.”

  “When Devlin and I talked to that hospital CEO –”

  “Fangman?” Devlin interrupted.

  “Yeah, he told me that there were two other infant abductions out of Saint Mary’s in the past. One of them happened during Lowe’s tenure on the police force. I’d like more information about those cases.”

  “Why? Do you think these people have snatched local babies before?” Crevan asked. His eyes darted to the floor.

  I frowned. “It’s a distinct possibility. Especially the one that happened during Lowe’s reign of terror. Fangman said the first one happened decades ago, before hospitals really conceived of the notion that babies needed extra protection.”

  “I’ll see what we can dig up on both of them,” Johnny said. He picked up my left hand and kissed the ring finger. “You never know how long this has been going on, right?”

  Dev stuffed the rest of his pastry into his mouth and mumbled, “Well, if we’ve got our orders for the day, I guess I need to head to the airport.”

  “You’re flying to Montgomery?” I asked.

  “Time is a luxury we don’t have right now, sweetheart,” Johnny said. “We can work from here, but if Devlin’s gonna get through that house, he needs to get moving.”

  “You’ll call if you find anything right away, won’t you?”

  He grinned at me. “Yes, Helen. I’ll call with regular updates. Right now, I need to jet. Johnny, you’ll take care of getting the manpower I need once I get to Montgomery?”

  “I’m on it.”

  He and Crevan walked Devlin to the door. I wondered what they were discussing out of earshot. No matter. I trusted that Johnny would tell me later, although some of his behavior this morning had raised my suspicion to yellow alert.

  I slipped off the barstool and took the ginger ale with me into the office. Before long, I was up to my eyeballs in data, mostly about the functions of attaché’s to U.S. ambassadors. My eyes started to blur over the vague descriptions of functions.

  “To hell with this. There’s an easier way.” I reached for the telephone on the desk.

  “Any progress?” Crevan interrupted.

  “Hmm? Oh, not really. I decided that it might be easier to cut through the bullshit and get to the bottom of this a hell of a lot faster than Google.” I paused. “Where’s Johnny?”

  “He went out for a bit.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Where did he go?”

  “He mentioned something about meeting with Zack about Melissa Sherman and stopping by Central Division to see if he can get the records on those kidnapped babies from Saint Mary’s.”

  “I’m probably being paranoid about it,” I said. “Every time I hear Jerry Lowe’s name, or find out that something horrible happened while he held the police force under his thumb, I can’t pretend that he might’ve been ignorant.”

  “Johnny told me something the other day, Helen.”

  “What’s that?” I said absently. The phone call to my old friend Will Cutter at the State Department weighed heavily on my mind. Would I be able to track him down on the weekend? If I did, there was no guarantee that he could give me the information on Eugene Sherman until Monday anyway.

  “He said that your birthday is the day after mine.”

  “Yeah, he mentioned that awhile back. I think he said you were born a minute before midnight.”

  “And you were born ten minutes after,” he said.

  “Has all this talk of births got you feeling nostalgic?”

  “I don’t think nostalgic is the right word. Just can’t stop wondering what things might’ve been like if my brother had lived, you know? Dad would’ve been a lot happier, I think. At least he’d have one son who wasn’t a complete disappointment.”

  “Aidan is an ass,” I said. One hand crept across the desk and gripped Crevan’s. “I can’t imagine a world without you, Crevan. If he can’t see what a wonderful human being you are, he doesn’t deserve children at all.”

  “No grandkids. Did I tell you that was the last thing he said to me?”

  “I wasn’t aware you’d seen him after we arrested Belle’s killer.”

  “It wasn’t planned,” he said softly. “I was at dinner one night, not long after we closed that case. Zack had just agreed to let Scott Madden have treatment for post traumatic stress or whatever it was you guys decided wrapped him up in his shell. I… uh… I got a call from someone…”

  “Alex?”

  He nodded. “He wanted to talk. I figured he needed to talk about it, how Underwood got off too easy, how Madden probably wasn’t going to be punished at all for killing Underwood. I agreed to meet him for dinner.”

  I couldn’t suppress the grin. “Only Alex didn’t care about any of that, did he?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, I’m sure he cared a little bit, since his brother was killed too,” I said, “but I knew that he was interested in you, Crevan. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Not according to Dad.”

  “He’s wrong.”

  Crevan whispered, “He said that it was a mistake that his real son died, that I probably wasn’t even meant to be.”

  Again, I couldn’t help thinking that even though the rest of the world saw my father as a monster,
I was damned lucky to have him. Johnny was right. It was time for me to see the man who taught me what love between a parent and child really looks like.

  Chapter 19

  Will Cutter was a fixture at the State Department since the Clinton administration. I was reluctant to ever call in a marker with someone I helped, but the dead child in the Bay County morgue, and the notion that there might be more children in peril erased that hesitation. Will Cutter owed me a huge debt. Today, the loan was due, with interest.

  Eight years ago, Will’s granddaughter was running with a crowd destined for trouble. In the beginning, it had been petty stuff. Shoplifting. Minor vandalism. But Will saw the proverbial writing on the wall in some of that graffiti. He asked me to scare the young girl into making better friends.

  Turned out that I was the only thing that prevented Deanna from being with her gangster wannabe friends when they beat a homeless man to death – for kicks.

  I only hoped that Will remained as grateful today as he was eight years ago.

  He wasn’t in the office on the weekend, but after I explained the investigation, that a former attaché’s very young wife was apprehended with an abducted baby in her custody, it answered my question about his gratitude.

  Cutter told me he’d go into the office and look up Sherman’s record right away. In the meantime, just to cover all the bases, I had OSI send Eugene Sherman’s digital thumbprint to Cutter.

  The phone rang. I snatched it mid-ring. “Eriksson.”

  “Helen, it’s Will. Sorry it took so long to get back to you. It seems you’ve uncovered a rather baffling case of mistaken identity.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Before I get into this, I’ve got to know. What made you send me the thumbprint for this Sherman character? Did you suspect that he wasn’t who he claimed to be?”

  “No,” I said. I dropped into the chair at my desk and started rubbing one temple. “Eugene Sherman isn’t really Eugene Sherman? Shit. Who the hell is he?”

  “Well, I ran the print through the database we maintain here, which after how many years of using prints to identify people, you can imagine is quite extensive. Anyone who has ever worked for anyone affiliated with the United States Department of State is vetted and identified by fingerprints.”

  “All right. Are you telling me that whoever the man was using the name Eugene Sherman wasn’t an attaché?”

  “I can tell you he wasn’t Eugene Sherman. Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to share more –”

  “Will, are you telling me you know the identity of this man, but that you’re refusing to share that information with me?”

  “I can’t say anything. The file is sealed, eyes only.”

  “You have clearance for everything.”

  “I do, but that doesn’t put me at liberty to share anything with anyone. There would be dire consequences for me if I simply ignored protocol every time someone called.”

  “How is Deanna doing these days?” I asked. “Because as I recall, the night I stopped her with those friends of hers, flashed my badge and demanded that she come with me, it wasn’t exactly bureau protocol either. If she had stayed with those so-called friends, she’d be in prison right now, not doing whatever it is she’s doing with her life.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re just anyone, Helen. You know I’m grateful for what you did. Deanna is doing very well. She graduated from Georgetown last spring, passed the bar exam –”

  “The man using the identity of Eugene Sherman is dead, Will. He died of old age, warm and safe in a comfortable bed. This isn’t going to come back to reflect poorly on anyone other than the man who apparently stole someone else’s identity. Believe me, the State Department won’t have egg on its face.”

  “It’s not that,” Will said. “I shouldn’t even tell you this much.”

  “But you’re going to.”

  “There was a bit of a scandal surrounding his termination of employment. I really can’t say more than that.”

  “So the State Department could be complicit in this.”

  “Helen, I never said that.”

  “If I could tell you what the scandal involved, without even knowing the true identity of this man, would you be inclined to unseal that file and tell me what you know about him?”

  He sighed heavily.

  “He was fired because allegations were made that he was engaged in slave trade.”

  I think Will dropped the phone.

  “The State Department fired him, but he was living in a country that didn’t share the same distaste for slavery that we do, so this man known as Sherman camped out where his behavior was welcome. You had no idea he crept back into the U.S., did you Will?”

  “How can you possibly know this?”

  “Because I’ve got a woman who claims that Sherman owns her locked up in relation to the missing infant who Sherman’s wife tried to pass off as her own child.”

  “Jesus,” he rasped.

  “If you won’t tell me his identity, will you at least tell me what position he held? I don’t know, maybe there’s a way we can minimize the damage to the State Department when the details of this investigation become public.”

  Will coughed softly. “He was a chef.”

  “And a chef rates an eyes only file?”

  “Helen, this is a sensitive issue. Human trafficking is reaching alarming proportions in the world. If it ever became common knowledge that someone from the State Department was involved in something even remotely similar some 40 plus years ago, the impact would be devastating. We’re applying a great deal of pressure on countries to reverse their stance on this practice. If people learn that someone from this agency was guilty so long ago, that we knew it and essentially slapped him on the wrist and told him not to bother to come home, you can’t imagine –”

  “Especially since he did come home. I have every reason to believe that he brought his little business back to the United States with him.”

  “I can tell you that Eugene Sherman was an attaché to our ambassador in a small, but very controversial country in Southeast Asia in the late fifties.”

  “And?”

  “I believe that the man who may have stolen his identity possibly worked as a chef at the embassy where Sherman served in that region.”

  “It might be helpful to me if you told me where this mystery chef served in addition to Southeast Asia.”

  “His tenure began in Paris. I believe he trained there. After that, it was Southeast Asia, the Philippines, and finally Saudi Arabia.”

  “And that was where the State Department first questioned his relationship to Graciella Payette.”

  “I don’t want to know how you know this information.” Will’s groan was uttered so softly, I barely heard it.

  “The woman who claims Sherman owned her? Florence Payette, Graciella’s daughter. We’ve had a team working for almost two days digging up information on Florence and her mother, Will. Graciella seems to have fallen off the face of the earth five years ago. Were you aware that she gave birth to her daughter at the age of twelve?”

  “Jesus,” he muttered. “This man produced documents that indicated –” He stopped abruptly.

  “He claimed that Graciella was his wife, yes? It makes sense. I suspected that Florence was really Sherman’s daughter, or whoever this man really was. Let me guess. It was a slip of the tongue that young Florence made that tipped the State Department off that something was very wrong with the picture.”

  “Yes,” he rasped. “The little girl said, when asked if… he was her father, that he owned her. It resulted in his termination from the embassy in Saudi Arabia in 1972. I believe that Florence was eight or ten years old at the time. We wanted him arrested. He didn’t live on U.S. soil and the Saudi government didn’t see why such an arrangement would warrant their intervention.”

  “Why should they?” I snorted softly. “Why would they give a damn if a chef owned women in a country where it’s not at all un
common?”

  “I –”

  “Do I need to remind you of some rather high profile cases that migrated across the pond to this country regarding forced servitude by Saudi nationals? I think there was one that got a ton of attention in Colorado a few years ago.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “This is about more than a missing baby that we happened to recover before any lasting damage was done, Will. We found the body of a seven year old girl on the beach of our bay two nights ago.”

  “Helen, I wish –”

  “Her name was Analynn Villanueva. She was abducted from her home in the Philippines. Consider this your formal notification, by the way. I didn’t get a chance to fill you in sooner, since the man who identified her, Agent Alfred Preston of the FBI, died yesterday after he assassinated an accused murderer in our county jail. Oh, and before he killed Danny Datello, he managed to extract a bogus confession that looks like it’ll exonerate Melissa Sherman for her role in the kidnapping of that infant.”

  “Gill Vorre,” he rasped. “That’s the man’s name, the chef that we fired over 40 years ago.”

  “Thank you, Will.”

  “Helen, you’ve got to believe that if we knew he managed to get back into the United States that he would’ve been arrested immediately.”

  “I expect that was a recent development relative to the length of his life. If you think about it, he couldn’t have picked a better place to come home. Darkwater Bay is a gateway, a haven for criminals of the worst kind. He impersonated a diplomat, and nobody questioned it. Meanwhile, he not only continued to own human beings, I suspect he was selling them to others.”

  “Is the bureau investigating this case?”

  Nearly a year since I left the FBI, and Will hadn’t heard about it yet. Nobody sweeps the dirt under the rug better than the federal government. “What do you think, Will? Why wouldn’t we be all over this? We’ve got a agent from a field office who murdered someone about to go on trial for killing a district attorney. Not only that, the murder victim was of great interest to the US Attorney because his uncle is Sullivan Marcos.”