“I wish he would leave me alone. I don’t want his help and I don’t want to talk to him. Yet the one time I could use good intel, he decides to play undercover spy and go deep into Jones’s operation without giving me a heads-up. I was hoping he was working for you.”
“He’s not.”
“I didn’t think so. You and he wouldn’t get along.”
“You’re right, I don’t think we would.” Dean didn’t like what Sonia wasn’t saying. He had a feeling there was far more to this story than she’d told him. But instead of pushing her, he asked, “He called you about Andres?”
“Yes. And when I talked to Andres today, I found out that Charlie Cammarata intentionally let Andres go. It was no accident. He probably knew what was going to happen to the boy, and Charlie wouldn’t be able to let him die. Not a child.”
Not a child? Did that mean he’d let an adult die to protect his cover? Dean wanted to ask, but didn’t.
Sonia continued. “I need to get to Charlie. I have to talk to him and find out what he’s doing, but I have no way to approach him without setting off warning bells with Jones. I don’t want Charlie dead, I just want to cut him out. If I go in and arrest him, Jones may think we’re getting too close and cancel whatever is going down in the next couple of days. I’m hoping you can help me.”
“You want me to slip him a note or something?”
She shrugged. “Or something.” Her intention was clear.
Dean nodded. “I can do that.”
Sonia continued. “We have to be extremely careful how we handle this. If we push Jones, he could cancel or divert the suspected shipment and we lose the victims. They’ll be sent underground so fast that even if Jones told us everything he knew, we’d never be able to find them. I have to have solid confirmation as to their location before we arrest Jones.”
“I understand,” Dean said.
Sonia glanced at her phone and frowned. “Hello?”
As Dean watched, Sonia’s face paled, and her bottom lip quivered, then her jaw tightened and she stood up, moving toward the door. “I’ll on my way.”
She snapped her phone shut. “Someone tried to kill Ann tonight and stabbed my brother. I have to go.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No—”
“You’re shaking.”
“I am not.” She stared at her hands as if she couldn’t believe they had betrayed her fear.
Dean took both her hands and squeezed. They were icy cold and he rubbed them between his palms. “If it were my brother, I’d let you drive.”
“Thank you.”
Sonia could scarcely breathe until she saw Riley.
It took pulling her badge and pitching a fit before a nurse let her look through the window of the surgery where Riley’s leg was being stitched. A bag of blood dripped into his arm. “Why the blood?” she demanded.
“I’ll explain in the lobby,” the nurse said.
Dean took hold of Sonia’s arm and led her back to the waiting room. She was grateful for the support. She didn’t know if she was going to lose her temper or collapse. Every nerve ending burned. Riley was not just her brother, he was her best friend. If he died … she didn’t realize she was shivering until Dean put his arm around her shoulders. She took a deep breath and asked, “The blood? And why does he have a bandage on his cheek? When—”
The nurse, Tina according to her name badge, interrupted. “He lost a lot of blood. He was fortunate that no major artery was severed, but the cut was four inches long, and deep enough to cause extensive blood loss. We got to him quickly. A couple days’ bed rest and he should be up and around.”
“And Ann?”
“Ann?”
“Ann Charles—the Jane Doe he was protecting—where is she?”
“Detective Black supervised her move to another wing. I can take you.”
“Please do.”
“Thank you,” Dean added.
Sonia glanced at him. He was a rock, which calmed her tremendously. “Thank you for coming with me,” she whispered.
“No thanks are necessary,” he said.
They passed at least a dozen cops and detectives between surgery and Ann’s new room. Whether they were there because of the attack on Ann or to check on Riley, Sonia didn’t know, but she appreciated the strong police presence.
Outside Ann’s room were four uniformed officers and the towering Detective Black. He approached when he saw her. “Let’s go in here,” he said, opening the door to an empty room. “I had them clear this wing. We’re going to have a rotation of six officers—two on the victim, two on the grounds, and two roaming.”
“I should have done that from the beginning,” Sonia said, critical of herself.
“You?” Black said, dark eyes showing some of the pain that Sonia felt inside. “This isn’t on you.”
“What happened isn’t on anyone,” Dean said. “Someone wants that girl dead, which makes me believe that she knows who tried to kill her. She can I.D. him.”
“Exactly,” Sonia said. “What happened, John?”
“Someone tried to get into the room dressed as an orderly. He acted suspicious, distracting Riley, then another man slipped through the door. Riley tried to Taser him, but he had a vest on. He stabbed Riley with a scalpel, then made a move toward the victim with a syringe—we now know it was liquid arsenic, which would have killed anyone with a fraction of the dose in the tube—Riley tackled him, I came in, and we subdued the perp with no further incident.”
“Who is this guy? Her rapist?”
“We don’t know, but we have his DNA and we’ll find out damn quick. He tried to kill a cop, he’s not getting off.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“He’s going through booking right now.”
“I don’t care, I need to talk to him. Ann has a unique tattoo on her shoulder, and—”
“I know what it means, Sonia. But right now no one’s talking to him. He’s said only four words. ‘I want my lawyer.’”
Sonia kicked the empty bed. “Shit!”
“He’s not getting bail,” John pointed out.
“That’s not the point. I need to know what he knows.”
“He’s a cold bastard. He had no identification on him. He refuses to tell us his name. He even refuses to tell us who his lawyer is. I suspect that when he doesn’t report in to whoever he’s working for, we’ll have a lawyer show up at the jailhouse claiming to represent him.”
Sonia’s fists clenched and she closed her eyes. “You printed him?”
“Of course. Sooner or later, we’ll find out who he is.”
“I need his picture.”
“Within the hour.”
Dean said, “If you have his DNA, prints, and photo sent to Quantico, I’ll pull some strings as well.”
“I don’t think he’s an American,” Black said.
“Does he speak English?” Sonia asked.
“Yes, with an accent.”
“Hispanic?”
“No. Blond, blue-eyed, Caucasian. Eastern European of some kind.”
“He could still be a citizen,” Sonia said. “There’s a large Russian population here. How old?”
“Thirties.”
Sonia rubbed her eyes. She didn’t have any evidence or information that Xavier Jones was working with any of the Russians. They liked to keep their smuggling in-house, so to speak. Jones worked with a variety of nationalities, and with Smitty Daniels out of the way, Jones had something of a monopoly. But that didn’t mean someone wasn’t freelancing. Or this had nothing to do with Jones, was simply one more tragedy in this business of human trafficking. It just wasn’t going to stop.
Dean asked, “How’s Ann?”
“The same. The doctor said that’s good, her body’s fighting back. They’re planning surgery for tomorrow. There’s damage to her kidney, and possible internal bleeding. Dr. Miller says as long as she doesn’t get worse, he’s putting her on the table at oh six hundred hours.”
<
br /> “You’ll be here?” Sonia said.
“Along with half the Sacramento P.D. Nothing is going to happen to that girl, Sonia. I give you my word.”
When Sonia’s parents arrived at the hospital, Dean left and called Sam Callahan.
“Where’s Jones right now?”
“At his house.”
“What about his driver?”
“He dropped Jones off at five this evening and left. I don’t know where he went.”
“I need to talk to him. I thought he lived somewhere on Jones’s property.”
“What I got out of him last night was that he lived in a cabin on Jones’s property, not in the house itself.”
“Can you email me directions?”
“Sure.” Callahan sounded like he wanted more, but when Dean didn’t elaborate, Callahan said, “Do you need backup?”
“Not now.”
Dean followed the directions to Jones’s property, passed Jones’s driveway, then turned onto a narrow, gravel-lined road a mile farther up the main road. It was after eight in the evening, and the summer sun was just descending on the horizon though the temperature still hovered in the high eighties. Dean was ready to crash; it had been a long day, starting late the night before when he’d pleaded his case for a warrant to Judge Barnhardt. Had less than twenty-four hours passed? It seemed like days.
This was his last task, then he would return to his borrowed apartment and crash. Tomorrow promised to be another long day.
A sporty sedan was parked in the carport of the small cabin. Dean drove up and parked behind the car. Lights glowed dully behind drawn shades. All he knew about Charlie Cammarata was that he and Sonia used to work together, and Cammarata got himself fired, with Sonia’s help. Cops rarely turned in other cops unless the situation was so egregious that there was no avoiding it. Problems were usually dealt with internally.
The situation involving Sonia and Cammarata must have been huge. Dean wondered why he didn’t know about it—except, it was Immigration. People thought the FBI kept things close to the vest; they’d never worked with ICE before. They gave tight-lipped a whole new meaning.
The cabin was small, one room by all appearances. A small porch up three steps. Nothing homespun, in all appearances vacant except for the car and lights.
Dean had to assume that Jones had the cabin bugged, so he needed to make this look good.
He rapped on the door, searching his memory for the goon’s name, the one Jones used. He didn’t know—Jones had never used it in front of him. He glanced at the message from Sam Callahan. In the subject line:
CHUCK ANGELO
“Angelo! This is Agent Hooper with the FBI. I have some questions.”
“Get the fuck off my property.”
“I’d be happy to put you under arrest.”
“Bullshit, you fucking federal prick. You have nothing to arrest me for.”
“Aiding and abetting.”
On the other side of the door Cammarata laughed. “I know the law better than you think.”
“I’m sure you do. Five minutes.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll call my partner to get the arrest warrant—”
The door opened. Cammarata had a gun in his hand. He was shorter than Dean by an inch, broad-shouldered with a barrel chest. Solid muscle, this guy worked out regularly. He was in his late forties but had the physical body of a man ten years younger. The lines around his eyes betrayed his age: they had seen the world.
On the table behind Cammarata was a virtual arsenal of weapons, one of which was disassembled. Cleaning supplies were visible, and the pungent scent of solvent hung in the stifling heat.
“You should open your windows,” Dean said, “unless you’re getting high off the fumes. Which is a crime.”
Cammarata glared at him.
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
Dean shrugged casually. “We didn’t get a chance to talk this morning. But I wanted to make sure you understood that we’re investigating Mr. Jones on money laundering and racketeering. Very serious charges. You’ll be charged as an accessory when I prove my case. And I will prove my case. I’m giving you the chance to help. I’m sure—”
Cammarata rolled his eyes and started to close the door. Dean stuck his foot between the door and jamb. Cammarata glanced down and said, “You want that foot shot off, don’t you?”
“You are treading in dangerous waters, Mr. Angelo.”
“So are you. I have nothing to say.”
“Are you certain—”
“Back off.”
“I tried.” He extended his hand. Cammarata made no move to shake it. Dean pushed the small piece of paper between his fingers so it couldn’t be missed.
Cammarata glared at it.
“Just drop the good-cop act, you’re all a bunch of fascist pricks.”
Dean dropped his hand, letting the note fall to the floor. Cammarata made an aggressive move toward him, his foot falling squarely on the paper. “Get off my property or I’ll file charges for harassment.”
“You’d better watch that temper of yours, Chuck, or I’ll be hauling you in just because I don’t like you.”
Cammarata dragged his foot—and the paper—inside and slammed the door shut.
Dean got back into his car and hoped Sonia got what she needed, but after meeting the man, Dean doubted Charlie Cammarata cared about anything but his personal cause, whatever that was.
CHAPTER
TEN
Noel Marchand did not react well to bad news.
Mr. Ling drove. They were headed to the river, to his meeting with Jones. Noel glanced at Tobias in the rear seat watching the lights pass by as if he were a child. Noel harbored no guilt for what he planned.
That Johan had failed to terminate the whore made this miserable day worse. What was so complicated about walking into a hospital room and injecting arsenic into the veins of an unconscious girl?
Mr. Ling said, “Perhaps we should abandon this project and go home.”
Ling meant home to Mexico, not the hotel. If any other employee suggested such a thing, Noel would have killed him. But he valued and respected Ling, whose advice and loyalty were exemplary.
“Perhaps,” he said without seriously considering the option. “There is a lot riding on this exchange. A new venue, a new client, new opportunities. I like their innovative ideas. Interactive online sex. Brilliant. We provide the girls, and we get residuals for years. Like royalties on movies. One girl will pay off long after she’s used up. And they want a minimum of two hundred annually? No more dealing with middlemen like Jones.”
True, Xavier Jones had originated this deal and expected a cut from every sale, but a dead man couldn’t get paid, could he?
“We can approach them later. When things settle.”
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Ling, but it won’t be much longer. If we abandon this deal now, they’ll go to someone else—like the damn Russians. I’ll be cautious. On our other matter of the girl, find an attorney and educate him. As long as Johan doesn’t talk before Monday, the attorney will be paid handsomely.”
“Very well, Mr. Marchand.”
Noel wasn’t personally worried about Johan. He was a hired assassin and didn’t know anything about Noel or Tobias. His contact was Mr. Ling.
Mr. Ling continued. “I’ve narrowed the possibilities of Jones’s betrayer.”
“Who are the lucky dead men?”
“Craig Gleason, his chief of staff.”
“Gleason?”
“Thinking as Machiavelli would, he may figure that with Mr. Jones out of the picture, he would rise quicker in the hierarchy.”
Noel considered the arrogant lobbyist. “He doesn’t have the balls to risk it.”
“You may be right.”
“Anyone else?”
“Gregory Vega.”
“Far more likely—he certainly has the spine for it. He’s straightforward and
has been with Jones for many years.” Noel had intended to put Vega in charge once Jones was out of the way. If he was a traitor … “Why him?”
“His wife has been getting her affairs in order.”
“Elaborate.”
“She allowed her magazine subscriptions to lapse. She’s searched the Internet for houses and school districts in other states.”
“School districts?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“And Jones didn’t insist on terminating the pregnancy?”
“It’s not his child.”
“Does not matter. Kids are nothing but problems. They force Americans to make stupid business decisions. But that’s no reason to think Vega is talking to the feds.”
Mr. Ling pushed a button on the dashboard of the car. He said, “After our conversation this morning, I took the liberty of planting a bug in the Vega residence. He sweeps the place regularly, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try one. He doesn’t sweep daily, after all.”
Another reason Noel appreciated Mr. Ling: his foresight.
“This conversation took place shortly before we left the hotel.”
Through the car speakers, an indistinct verbal banter could be heard over the clattering of dishes. A chair scraped the floor. The pouring of liquid, ring of utensils.
“It’s great, Kendra,” a male voice said. Greg Vega.
“Thanks.”
“You shouldn’t be on your feet. I don’t mind eating takeout.”
“I like to cook. The baby likes it. If it’s a girl, what do you think about the name Emily? I know, it’s trendy, but ‘Emily Vega’ has a nice sound. Or Elizabeth.”
“You like the ‘E’ names? For a boy you wanted Ethan.”
“You nixed that idea.”
Noel snapped, “This is ridiculous.”
“It gets better.”
If Noel was willingly going to have a kid, he would choose the name. He didn’t give a damn what the whore wanted. She’d be dead as soon as she delivered. There would be no emotional maternal influence over any child of his.
“—in Pennsylvania.”
“Shh,” Vega said.
“Do you think they’ll send us there? It’s beautiful. Very green. Maybe you can ask—”
A loud crash of dishes followed by the bellow, “Shut up!”
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