“Then we arrest him.”
Sonia didn’t say anything.
“Sonia, dammit, we will arrest him. He withheld evidence, for one. He broke into your house. He assaulted you.”
“I’m giving him a onetime pass. I need his information, and there’s no way in hell he’ll meet with me unless I promise not to take him into custody.”
“Fine, I will.”
“Dean—” Sonia rubbed her eyes and stared out the window as Dean drove south toward Lodi. “I need the information.”
“This is about your biological father, isn’t it?” Dean asked.
“No.” She paused. Dean deserved honesty. “Partly. Charlie may recognize him. He knows most of the major players. It’s obvious he’s no longer using the name Sergio Martin. He may not—” she stopped.
“Sonia?”
“My whole life is a farce. What if I had never been Martin? What if that name was an alias? I feel like I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“You’re Sonia Knight,” Dean said firmly. “Cop, sister, daughter … lover.”
She glanced at Dean and something shifted inside her. A calmness blanketed her, a wholly unfamiliar sensation. He reached for her hand. Held it. She wondered if he felt what she did.
She wanted to ask, but she feared voicing her feelings would somehow threaten this new beginning. And the last thing she wanted to think about was Dean returning to Washington. But maybe … maybe now would be the time to clarify their relationship. Their careers and family and residences on opposite coasts.
When Sonia gathered the courage to finally speak, Dean said first, “This is the exit. Ready?”
She nodded. “Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
By all appearances, the small industrial warehouse north of Lodi was abandoned. Weeds pushed through cracks in concrete, and garbage from nearby Highway 99 had blown against the buildings, making the row of fifties-era cinder-block and metal buildings look like a ghost town.
Except for the brand-new padlocks on the doors.
Four San Joaquin County sheriff’s deputies were already on-site. Brian Stone and three trained FBI-SWAT agents pulled up behind Dean and Sonia in a black Suburban.
“I hope this isn’t a wild-goose chase,” Sonia said. “We don’t have the time to screw up.”
“Don’t second-guess yourself. Ready?”
“Absolutely.”
She got out of the car and stepped into the dry valley heat. The noonday sun glistened off the river—Sonia thought it was the Mokelumne River, but she wasn’t certain. Traffic from the highway was audible, but not visible. At night the area would be pitch-black except for sparse street lighting and security lights above each door.
If the traffickers were using this waterway to maneuver inland from the deep-water channel, they could walk the women into any of these buildings at night without fear of discovery.
Stone and his team inspected the perimeter, then Dean directed them to break down the door of the main warehouse—the others branched off this one.
Guns drawn and their badges clearly displayed, the six federal cops and four sheriff’s deputies prepared for a possible attack even though there was no sign of anyone.
“On three.” Stone used his fingers to count down.
A SWAT team member broke the padlock with one swift hit with the heavy handheld battering ram. As soon as the doors swung open, a foul stench of vomit and human excrement hit them.
Sonia’s stomach turned, not from the stench but from what it meant. No sounds—no shouts or cries—came with the smell; there was no one inside.
The SWAT team rolled into the warehouse, Dean and Sonia on their heels. Calls of clear! rang out as they inspected the interior.
The filthy windows let in only a minimum of sunlight, and the only noise was their own movement, their own voices. It was clear that the huge storage room was empty.
A door on the far side was open, leading to a darker room.
“Sonia,” Dean said in a low voice. “Do you smell it?”
He wasn’t talking about the urine. Only blood smelled so sweetly metallic.
She nodded. Her training and extensive experience kept her calm and alert. Adrendaline sharpened her instincts.
They had their guns poised over their flashlights as they cautiously entered the dark room.
“Lights?” Sonia whispered.
“None here either,” Stone said.
She felt along the wall. “I found them,” Sonia said. “Be ready on three—they could be bright. Three. Two. One.” She flipped them on, narrowing her eyes.
Old-style fluorescent lights flickered on. This room was empty of cargo, but they found the source of the blood.
Three partially clothed Chinese women lay in a heap against the wall, their throats slit. Arterial spray on the wall closest to Sonia said they’d been killed right there, one after the other. Their hands were bound but not their feet.
“Dear Lord,” one of the deputies muttered.
From the pile of feces in one corner of the room it was apparent that at one point far more than three women had been held captive in this room.
Sonia slipped on gloves and touched the bodies. “Full rigor. Twelve to twenty-four hours, my guess, but we should get the coroner in here ASAP.”
“They moved them at night,” Dean said.
“Yes. Last night.” Sonia looked at the women. Girls. They were sixteen or seventeen. Long black hair and too-thin bodies. These were the girls she had wanted to save.
Where had they taken the others? Had they been killed too?
She wanted to cover the bodies, but knew better than to disturb them.
“Hooper!” Stone called from the far side of the room.
Sonia turned at the same time Dean did. At first she didn’t see anything.
“Shit,” Dean said, taking a step toward Sonia.
Then she saw. In block letters, written in blood on the gray cinder-block interior wall, was a message.
YOU ARE TOO LATE.
* * *
Sam Callahan had been emboldened by Assistant Director Dean Hooper’s confidence in handling the Jones investigation, starting from the minute he came to town, through the execution of the warrant on Jones, and the subsequent confrontation in the restaurant downtown. He’d convinced Hooper to give him this shot at Omega—they might get lucky and find someone who knew something, and was willing to talk.
Trace Anderson had clued him in on more details of Omega’s suspected involvement in trafficking. He finished by saying, “We have no hard evidence. It’s one thing to know in your gut that someone is guilty, it’s quite another to prove it.”
“You’re telling me.”
Omega Shipping, on the books, was a huge enterprise; their headquarters on Washington Street were small. One car was parked in the front of the industrial building. Activity on the opposite end was heavier, but they weren’t Omega facilities.
“Is this it?” Sam asked Trace.
“Yep. Sonia and I came out here last year, not to talk to them, just to check it out. It was the same.”
“Looks like a front.”
“Looks like.”
“Let’s go.”
The interior was bigger than the outside suggested. The warehouse had been converted into large offices, all of which were dark. The reception area was cheerful with bright, fake flowers and a tidy reception desk. The young woman who sat behind it was typing triplicate forms on an electric typewriter. When they stepped through the door, a bell rang overhead and she turned to them, smiling brightly. She was blond and petite, and seemed thrilled to have potential customers.
“Can I help you?”
Sam smiled back, showed her his badge. “I’m Sam Callahan. And you are?”
She was a bit flustered, but responded. “Daisy Sajeck.”
“We’re following up on a murder investigation—”
“Someone was killed?”
He
nodded solemnly. “Xavier Jones. Did you know him?”
“Mr. Jones! That’s awful?”
Sam wanted to ask if she watched the news, but refrained. “I know he did business with Mr. Christopoulis, and I hoped I could have a word with him. We’re trying to find out who might have had a grievance with Mr. Jones.”
“George and Mr. Jones were very good friends. He’s going to be shocked when he hears.”
“He’s not here?”
She shook her head. “He’s on the Crius II. They’re taking medical supplies to Argentina.”
Argentina. Again. Sam mentally filed the information and asked, “Is Mrs. Christopoulis available?”
“Ms.” Daisy corrected. “She’s divorced.”
“And they still work together?” Trace asked.
She blinked. “Well, George was upset about the divorce—I think he likes his dad a lot more than his mother—but they get along okay.”
Sam glanced at Trace. They’d assumed that Victoria Christopoulis was George’s wife.
Trace said, “The senior Christopoulises are still Greek citizens, correct?”
“Oh, yes. Ms. Christopoulis would never want to live here.”
“Is she in Greece now?”
“No, she’s in town. She stays with George, which is why I think he took this extra assignment.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I wouldn’t want to live under the same roof with her. And I thought my mom was bad.” She rolled her eyes like a teenager. Sam realized she wasn’t much older than one.
“How long have you worked here?” he asked.
“Ten months. Longest job I’ve held. My daddy says if I can keep the same job for one year, he’ll buy me a convertible. I’m almost there.”
“Good for you. We were hoping Mr. Christopoulis could help with our investigation. Was he in town Wednesday night?”
“Wednesday? I don’t think so. He docked late Tuesday, after I was gone for the day. I had a manifest and billing on my desk Wednesday morning. He came in late in the afternoon to work, then told me about the Cruis II shipments.”
“It wasn’t scheduled?”
“It was an emergency. Another shipper canceled at the last minute, and Mr. Christopoulis took the job. He works so hard.” She sounded like she was infatuated.
“Does Ms. Christopoulis come in to work here?”
“She hates coming down here. She works from the house. But I can call her for you, you can set up an appointment—”
“No, that’s okay. It’s not important right now.” It was hugely important, but Sam didn’t want Daisy talking to Victoria Christopoulis about him before he could track her down. “When is George coming back to town?”
“Two weeks,” she said.
“Great. We’ll call then.”
“I can tell him you came by—he calls every night.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. It sounded like something might be going on between George and Daisy. By the light flush in her cheeks, he suspected he was right.
“That’s okay, Daisy. Two weeks is fine.”
Sam and Trace left Omega. “That was interesting,” Trace said. “Want to go chat with Mommy Christo poulis?”
“Absolutely. Christopoulis’s house is only a couple miles from here, on Country Club Drive. Let’s see what she has to say.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Noel stood on the pathetic excuse for a balcony on the tenth floor of the Hyatt Hotel and spoke to his buyer.
“Everything is running smoothly,” he assured the man on the other end of the phone. He went by the name Richter. Noel knew that wasn’t his name; Noel knew far more about “Richter” than the buyer, and the organization he represented, suspected, but information was crucial at this stage of the process. He’d reveal his intelligence only when and if it became necessary.
“We’re getting nervous with the increased federal activity,” Richter said.
“They are chasing their tails. They don’t know what to think or where to turn. The merchandise is secure. I confirmed it personally.”
Noel knew what Richter’s plan was, and Noel wasn’t going to let the bastard undercut him. He had far too much invested in this deal to allow Richter’s organization to cut the price. Reduce the cost once and no one would ever pay full market value again.
“Because of the increased risks and security measures, we feel that a reduction in price is warranted.”
Noel would have smiled at being right had he not been so irritated that they wanted to stiff him.
“Price is not negotiable.”
“We have additional costs, and it’s not our people who brought the feds swooping down.”
“If you’re concerned, feel free to back out. I have another buyer lined up,” Noel bluffed. He could get a new buyer with time, but that would mean staying in America beyond Saturday night. That was not a true option. Noel would rather destroy the merchandise and relinquish this particular market than stay in the United States longer than he had planned. This corridor had always been profitable, but his freedom was more important. He could open another route easily enough. Annoying, but not deadly.
Richter attempted to bluff as well. “That’s your decision. We feel that fifteen thousand a head is too high.”
“Fifteen thousand is the group price. Individually, they go for twenty to twenty-five thousand each, and you know that with good management you’ll make back your money in a year. You’re getting thirty ripe vessels. You can sell a few yourself to recoup some of your costs, but I don’t need to tell you how to run your business.”
“We’re offering ten thousand.”
“I am not open to negotiation in this matter.”
“I’m afraid we’re firm. We can cancel the exchange.”
Noel’s hand clenched the metal rail so tightly the edges left impressions in his palm. The stifling air, not even a breeze, had him burning inside and out. Yet his voice was calm when he said, “Very well, the deal is canceled. You understand that I don’t take these setbacks lightly, Roger.”
There was silence on the phone line. Noel fumed, unable to enjoy this judicious release of information. Yes, Roger Applegate, I know who you are. I will expose you and destroy you if you fuck me.
He hoped there would be an opportunity to break this idiot’s neck during the exchange. It would please Noel to see him dead.
“I need to discuss this with the organization,” Richter said, his voice cracking just a fraction.
“You have twenty minutes.”
Noel hung up the phone. Ling said, “Well done, sir.”
“Trying to renege on me. He’ll pay, maybe not tomorrow night, but one day.”
“They say revenge is a dish best served cold.”
“Whoever came up with that is an idiot as well. Revenge is best when you can see its results, hot or cold.”
Ignacio walked in without knocking. Noel glared at him.
“Excuse me, it’s urgent,” Ignacio said.
Noel continued to stare.
Ignacio left the room and closed the door behind him. A moment later, he knocked.
“Ling,” Noel nodded toward the door.
Mr. Ling opened the door and Ignacio walked in. “Sir.”
“Yes?”
“The feds found the warehouse.”
Noel smiled. Government cops were so predictable. People were predictable. No one surprised him anymore. Sonia Knight had once, but she wouldn’t again. Dread and panic would keep them occupied and following the wrong leads. It bought him time.
He hoped she liked the message he’d left for her.
“Find out where they’re headed and keep me informed.”
* * *
Driving back from Lodi after the ERT arrived to process the crime scene, Dean was worried about Sonia’s silence.
“Are you okay?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, I’m fine.” She was absently drumming her fingers on her door handle.
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know—I’m just wondering about the time line.”
“Talk it out.”
“Jones was killed around midnight Wednesday, twenty-four hours after the raid of his house. But those three women weren’t killed until last night, twenty-four hours after Jones.”
“Right.” He didn’t see the connection.
“If the killer thought Jones or Vega had talked, he would have moved the girls before last night.”
“We don’t know that he didn’t,” Dean said.
“But it doesn’t make sense to move the girls the night Jones was killed, then bring three of them back to kill.”
“It was a message. He knows we’re close. He’s trying to throw us off.”
“It’s going to take a hell of a lot more to scare me off this case.” Sonia shifted in the passenger seat to face him. “I’m going to find these people and bring them all to justice. I don’t think they were moved until last night. It’s not easy arranging transportation of that many illegal aliens who are being held against their will, even if they’re too terrified to attempt escape. He had to have had inside information, information that he knew could lead to the girls even if we didn’t know.”
“Like that we were looking into Weber Trucking.”
“Exactly! That’s it. I’ve been after Omega since the beginning, but Weber is new. It was only a matter of time until we pulled Weber property records and started looking at places the women could be safely kept. So he moved them—”
Dean interrupted. “I don’t know. That means he has a mole in ICE or the FBI. I don’t think so. Not many of us were privy to our investigation into Weber. That only came up yesterday when I went further back into Xavier Jones’s client records—”
“—after realizing the importance,” Sonia said, practically jumping up in the seat. “When we talked to Craig Gleason.”
Dean sped up. “You think he’s involved.”
“It’s the only way. He’s the only other person who knew we were even asking about Jones’s clients. If he knew who was involved, he could tip them off.”
“I think you’re right. I hope he’s in the office right now, otherwise I’m putting out an APB and he can talk to us from jail.”
“Where do you think the woman is?” Trace asked Sam as they sat in their car down the street from George Christopoulis’s stately home in Stockton. They were parked under a tree and had the windows rolled down, but still the heat was nearly unbearable.
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