He would not allow anyone to jeopardize what he had built, especially a child.
Xavier caught Greg Vega’s eye and tapped his watch, then pointed to the cockpit of his Learjet. They’d been delayed leaving Mexico; now all he wanted was to land and take care of the schedule changes that had come up after the Zamora kid disappeared. Vega left the cabin to talk to the pilot.
Xavier leaned back into the leather seat and sipped his cabernet. It had been a productive trip. He’d finalized an agreement that would continue the flow of merchandise through his network instead of diverting a portion to a competitor. He persuaded the seller by highlighting Sacramento’s many benefits—ease of access by plane, boat, and truck; not as heavily monitored by authorities as major ports like San Francisco and Long Beach; and since most of the merchandise left the area within forty-eight hours, the centrally located city provided another layer of protection to those involved. Once his plans were clearly presented, almost everyone Xavier spoke with agreed that his location was ideal. And no one had more experience.
Vega returned and sat across from Xavier. “We’re east of Fresno. Twenty minutes and we’ll be descending.”
“Good. Any word on the kid?”
“No. I have feelers out everywhere. He seems to have disappeared.”
“No one disappears. He’s hiding. Find him.”
As far as Xavier was concerned, the kid knew nothing, but when Marchand found out he had escaped, the man became livid. Xavier feared little in a business that bred violence, but he was more than a little wary of Noel Marchand. Xavier was cold; he had no qualms about killing those who interfered, but it was never personal, and he took no pleasure in murder. Marchand, however, enjoyed it. It wasn’t just business with that man.
“You contacted Child Protective Services?”
“Yes, sir. I looked at all possible kids before we left town,” Vega said. “He wasn’t there. I swear, Mr. Jones, he’s nowhere. He probably got lost and died in the woods.”
“If you say that one more time, I will shoot you myself. Until we find his body, he’s alive. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
More likely the brat had made it into the city and was living off the streets. There was an extensive runaway population in Sacramento, a big city that pretended it was a small town. The kid spoke no English, had never been to America, and was distrustful of people in uniform. All that played in Xavier’s favor. If the police picked up the kid, he wouldn’t talk. And if he did talk, he didn’t know anything of true value. It had been more than a week, and everything he might have learned had all been changed. Xavier had never set eyes on the kid, and even if he fingered one or more of Xavier’s men, Xavier wasn’t worried. He picked men who had families for a reason. They would remain silent.
It was Marchand who was turning this minor annoyance into a major headache.
“Finding the Zamora kid is our number-one priority. When you find him, you know what to do.” Xavier sipped his wine, then asked, “How’s Kendra?”
Vega paused. “Doing well.”
“The baby is due soon. A boy, you said.”
“Next month.”
“Wonderful. I hope this is resolved by then so you can spend time with your family. If the situation is taken care of to my satisfaction, I’ll give you time off to spend with Kendra after she gives birth.”
Again, silence. Xavier smiled at Vega, satisfied that his message had gotten through. The slight panic in the eyes, the resolve settling across his hard face: Vega was solid and would do the job he needed to do.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones. I appreciate it. It will be handled.”
“Is my driver waiting?”
“I’ll check. Excuse me.”
Vega went to the rear of the plane and Xavier took out his planner, making a meticulous and coded annotation regarding the Saturday-night exchange. The merchandise should have arrived tonight, which was earlier than Xavier preferred, but the storage facility was secure.
He closed his planner and returned it to his breast pocket, then leaned back in his seat. He had just closed his eyes when his business line beeped. He answered.
It was Paul Haas, his accountant. “Are you in town?”
“We’re about to land.”
“The feds are all over your house.”
Xavier sat straight up, his blood pressure rising. “Why?”
“They got a subpoena. Your financial records.”
“Financials? What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen the subpoena. It’s probably taxes.”
“My taxes are clean.”
“I know, I know, but—”
Xavier interrupted. “Do they have an arrest warrant?” He would not go to jail, even for the night. It was a disgusting place filled with pathetic and sick petty criminals. He would have his pilot turn the plane around and go back to the border. They had plenty of fuel, and he had more than enough money to keep the U.S. government at bay while he fought back.
“No, just a subpoena for your records. But—”
“There’s nothing at the house.”
“Then why are they there?”
“They’re not at your office?”
“No, but I don’t keep anything important here.”
“What about my downtown offices?”
“As far as I know, they’re only at your house, but that doesn’t mean they won’t go downtown next.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s after one in the morning. Why so late?”
“The judge just approved the subpoena. You need to talk to Leland. He can probably fight it in court. But this means they’ve had a grand jury convened for God knows how long—they couldn’t get a subpoena like this without one.”
His attorney might be helpful in these circumstances, but Xavier wanted more information before he acted. Information was the difference between a bad businessman and a good businessman. Xavier might be able to diffuse the situation without causing a ruckus.
“Get me the details first. I want to know how the investigation started, when it started, and why. I want to know what they know. I want everything about the FBI agents in charge. Then we can decide how to proceed.”
“It was Dean Hooper who went before the judge.”
Xavier felt an inner twinge, of what exactly he was uncertain. Not a man prone to fear, this painful knot in his stomach made him tense and unsteady.
The FBI’s top cop for white-collar crimes, Dean Hooper’s reputation was legendary in Xavier’s circles. He’d been the man who took down Ricardo Tattori, a crime boss in Chicago, reputedly a distant relative of the fallen Bonanno family of New York. Hooper had also led the takedown of someone closer to home, Thomas “Smitty” Daniels, who had been Xavier’s competitor in the importation of human beings. While Xavier was pleased that Smitty was out of the picture—he was a vile businessman, sampling his imports too regularly and trolling locally—he was displeased that Smitty had been fingered by the government. Though Smitty was now dead after a shoot-out with the feds, Xavier had feared the man had left evidence implicating Xavier or his people. The subpoena tonight proved that his fears about Smitty’s troubles were well founded.
But that was four years ago, and Xavier had cleaned enough of his books in a sufficient manner. His confidence was high that Hooper would find nothing in his records, and had someone talked, they wouldn’t have been able to tell the whole story. Spreading pieces of information among several people had saved his businesses more than once. None of Xavier’s associates had enough pieces of the puzzle to take him down.
Still, Hooper could be a big problem. He had the reputation of being a tenacious bastard.
“Xavier?” Paul whined. “Are you there?”
“I think I’ll go home.”
“Didn’t you just hear me—”
“The best way to confront pompous prick cops like Dean Hooper is head-on. Show him that I have nothing to hide, that I am not scared of what he might
find. That he sought to deliver the subpoena while I was out of town—rude, to say the least. I should be there while they paw through my things.”
“But—”
“Trust me. Who was the judge?”
“Barnhardt.”
“Hmm.” Barnhardt wasn’t one of his, but he also wasn’t one of theirs—the jurist distrusted cops as well as criminals. A wild card. Xavier didn’t like the unknown. Like the missing Zamora kid. He wondered why Hooper had gone to a judge like Barnhardt. He’d have thought Tucci was the more logical choice, considering that he liked fishing expeditions. Perhaps Tucci wasn’t available.
Vega said from the rear of the jet, “Your driver is at the runway.”
“Good. Did he say anything?”
“Excuse me?”
“Are there any problems down below?”
“No. Nothing. He’s been there since eleven-thirty, like you asked.”
His driver doubled as a bodyguard. Xavier liked Chuck. He was quiet, punctual, and lethal, all appreciable qualities. He was beginning to think maybe Chuck could replace Vega—if a replacement was necessary. He hoped not. It would be messy, since Vega had been with him for many years and the other men took orders from him as well. Xavier didn’t want dissension, but sometimes it became unavoidable.
He could always make it look like an accident.
If it was necessary.
The Learjet descended and touched down at the private airstrip outside Jackson. As they taxied to the waiting Escalade, Xavier called his favorite information broker.
“Darla, it’s me. I need you to find everything you can on Dean Hooper, an FBI agent currently in Sacramento.”
“Do you have anything else on him?”
“He arrested Smitty.”
“Good place to start. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Sooner, Darla. I’ll make it worth your time.”
The rumors were wrong: Sonia Knight wasn’t just pretty, she was a knockout. Long, long legs packaged seductively in jeans that hugged round hips; a masculine black T-shirt that couldn’t hide her feminine attributes; and functional black boots that only added to her allure. Hell, Sonia would look good in a burlap sack.
To avoid looking at the sexy ICE agent, Dean Hooper pulled out his notepad and scrawled notes he didn’t need to write. He still saw her hazel cat eyes watching with the quiet intensity of a feline predator deciding when to pounce on a mouse. Any other woman with looks like Sonia Knight and Dean would suspect—rightfully from his experience—that she’d obtained her position on her back. But Sonia was not a woman to compromise, either a case or her principles. In that, her reputation was dead-on. Fiery, dedicated, smart, and a marksman. He’d seen the first three in short order; he looked forward to seeing her in action as well.
No warm-blooded male could ignore the passionate and notorious ICE agent, but Dean put his physical reaction on the back burner. He had a more immediate concern: Jones wasn’t home. He should have been here an hour ago. Dean had planned the raid to coincide with his return. Had someone talked? Alerted Jones while he was still in the air that the FBI was coming? Dean didn’t see how—he’d gone to the judge at the same time Jones was scheduled to land.
There could have been delays, Dean knew, but he didn’t have anyone inside the organization to give him up-to-the-minute status reports, and he feared Jones would flee if he knew the FBI was on his ass. He had enough money to make it extremely difficult for anyone to find him. Especially since Dean didn’t have an arrest warrant and not enough evidence for the U.S. attorney to take over the case.
He’d already taken a huge risk going to Barnhardt and pushing for a full-on search-and-arrest warrant without actually wanting it. He’d played a delicate game, but in the end got exactly what he wanted: a limited and specific subpoena for Xavier Jones’s personal and professional tax records at his home. He didn’t expect to find anything, but he couldn’t tell that to Barnhardt. A man like Jones wouldn’t leave incriminating documentation lying around where it could be easily seized. What Dean needed to complete his analysis were the unconnected details, but those innocuous items wouldn’t give him enough cause for a warrant. He had to use Jones’s link to a known criminal to make the case to Barnhardt.
All Dean wanted to do was rattle Jones’s cage. Make him nervous. Force him to make bad decisions. But men like Xavier Jones didn’t rattle easily. The subpoena was just the first step. He did keep a record of his illegal finances somewhere; Dean would find it. It’s what he did best.
Having ICE and Homeland Security involved was a problem, but not such a hindrance that Dean couldn’t turn it to his advantage. He needed to make a few calls to neutralize Sonia Knight. She was a hothead who could jeopardize his investigation. Corruption of this magnitude demanded patience and finesse.
Sam Callahan returned with Sonia’s partner and reported that no one was on the property.
“No one?” Dean asked.
“I could have told you that,” Sonia Knight snapped. “We’ve been sitting on this house for two days.”
Dean wanted to ask why, but that would have to wait. “Did you reach his attorney?” he asked Sam.
“Left a message at eleven-thirty when we left Barnhardt’s house.”
“Has his plane landed?”
“What?” Sonia asked.
He raised an eyebrow and said rather mockingly, “You didn’t know he was out of town? I’m surprised.”
She tensed and Dean was almost sorry that he’d rubbed it in, but she’d pissed him off with her not-so-veiled comments about his motivations. He cared more about the people Jones hurt than he wanted to talk about.
“He didn’t take a commercial flight,” she snapped.
“He has a private plane. Learjet.”
“I know that.” But it was clear from her expression that she thought it was still at the airfield. Which made him think she had some bad intel. Or was ICE running with too much work and too few resources, like the FBI?
“We’re on the same team,” Dean said, extending the olive branch. “I want to compare notes. But right now we need to prepare for his arrival.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s after oh one hundred hours. When did he land?” He’d been told Jones was going to be back between eleven-thirty and midnight, which was why he had delayed arriving by an hour.
“Twenty minutes ago.”
Sonia put her finger to her ear, listening. Dean waited, hoping she would share the information without being asked. Any branch of Homeland Security could be dicey to work with, but ICE used to be independent, and while the FBI didn’t have the best relations with their sister agency, Dean had never encountered any problems himself.
Sonia said, “Jones’s car turned off the highway. ETA four minutes.”
“You really do have a—” he stopped. An idea occurred to him. “Jones knows who you are.” He said it matter-of-factly.
“Of course he does, I’ve been in his face enough.”
“Right now I’m serving a limited warrant for specific financial documentation.”
“Why would—”
“I don’t have time to explain, but I’m asking you to trust me. Take your partner and go back to your surveillance post. You’re entrenched right now; we didn’t make your team anywhere on the property.”
A hint of a cocky smile emerged on her lips. “Of course you didn’t.”
He gave her an appreciative nod. “You train your people well. I’m asking you to let me serve the subpoena and shake Jones’s confidence. Then we’ll leave, and you monitor comings and goings, see who Jones taps when he’s on the hot seat. Do you have a wiretap?”
“Do you?”
“Dean,” Sam Callahan interrupted. “Three minutes.”
“We’ll meet at the FBI office at noon,” Dean said. “Okay?”
“We’ll meet at my office at one,” Sonia said. “Full disclosure.”
He extended his hand to seal the agreement and smiled. “My office. One is fine with me. I have too m
uch paper and equipment to transport downtown, and believe me, you’re going to want to take a look at it.”
Her hand was soft and cold, but her grip strong. “Don’t disappoint me.” She reached into her pocket and dropped an extra-strong magnet into his hand, then gestured toward the security cameras around the house. “The security office is in a room off the kitchen. The door is unmarked. If you don’t have a warrant for the tapes, you might want to erase them—though I don’t really care one bit if Jones knows I’m on his ass.”
Sonia didn’t want to walk away, but Hooper’s identity threw her off her game. She hoped she hadn’t given away her surprise when the Fibbie gave his full name. Dean Hooper.
She had already started down the porch steps when she remembered the reason she was here in the first place. She ran back up the stairs and leaned close to Hooper’s ear. He smelled of expensive cologne and leather. Voice low, she said, “I’m looking for an Hispanic teenager, a thirteen-year-old female. She was kidnapped from Argentina two weeks ago, and I have good reason to believe that Jones knows where she is. If you see or hear anything—”
Sam said, “Sixty seconds.”
Sonia caught Dean’s eye. He’d understood. Motioning for Trace to follow, she ran down the stairs and stayed low to the ground, in the shadows, until she was out of sight.
Dean Hooper. She hadn’t made the connection when he had first introduced himself as Hooper. Agent? An understatement if she’d ever heard one.
Everyone in the business for more than a couple years knew Assistant FBI Director Dean Hooper. The FBI’s own Eliot Ness. He’d said her reputation preceded her? She had nothing on Hooper, and under any other circumstances she may have had a fan-girl moment and asked about some of his more interesting cases.
She didn’t like that a fed with such a high rank was on Jones’s ass, because while she wanted to nail him, she needed more than his tenure in prison. She needed information, and her man inside was still working. If Hooper acted too soon, she’d lose names and files and more people—women and children—would disappear or die. What was he doing in the field, anyway? She assumed he worked out of Washington; if he was in Sacramento or San Francisco, she would have known.
Fatal Secrets Page 3
