by J. M. LeDuc
Charlie swigged the last of his cold coffee. “Yeah, it was taken on the day you graduated from the academy, six years ago. The original had you, me, and Alex in the foreground.” He leaned over Sin’s shoulder and moved the mouse to another file and clicked. “Here’s the original picture.”
On the screen was the picture Sin remembered from Charlie’s hangar. In the background were the mysterious redhead and Westcott.
Sin raked her fingers through her hair. “What made you think of looking at this photo?”
Charlie poured another mug of coffee and sat down in the metal folding chair beside Sin.
“After Heap was killed, there was a picture of his wife in the paper. Something about it didn’t sit right. It was as if she was too familiar and, it gnawed at me. I drove to the airport because I always think better when I pace the hangar. That’s when I saw this picture.” He pointed to the original. “Every time I looked at it, those eyes kept looking back at me. I scanned it into my computer, enhanced it, and stared at it with the same expression on my face as you have on yours right now.”
Sin sat back in her chair and stretched. “As farfetched as that is, I can accept it because you’re such a conspiracy theorist. But how did you go from point A,” she pointed at the before picture, “to point B?” she asked, pointing at the after photo. “I mean, damn, look at her. She must be at least eighty pounds lighter and her entire facial structure is different, not to mention the blond hair.”
“In this business, Sinclair, sometimes it’s not the things you see, but the things you don’t that are the biggest clues.”
“Come again, Obi Wan?”
“You can change a lot with plastic surgery. Hell, look at her. Every physical attribute was changed. But, what you can’t change in people are their postural cues. When people get stressed or too relaxed, they always go back to their natural movements.” Charlie took the mouse and scrolled down to another file. Opening it, he brought up a series of photos.
“You have to remember, I’ve been around Washington and Westcott for longer than I care to mention. I’d been in the company of Ms. Magdalene Ramirez a number of times.” He enlarged two photos. “This is the old Maggie. Look at the way she cocks her hip and stands with her right foot turned in. Back then,” Charlie said, “she used to walk with a limp.
“Now, look at the new and improved Maggie.” He enlarged a second photo. “I took this one two days after Heap’s funeral. Notice her posture.”
Sin eyed both photos. “I’ll be damned, same hip angle and same turning in of the foot.”
“Yeah, she even had a slight limp,” Charlie added, “it was just hard to notice because of her exaggerated hip sway.”
Sin stood and poured herself another cup of coffee. “Magdalene,” Sin mumbled under her breath, “all this time, I thought York was saying Marilyn and he was saying Magdalene.”
She looked at Charlie who had a smug expression on his face.
“Are you going to tell me how Westcott’s girlfriend; the fat, frumpy wall flower—Magdalene Ramirez, became the pious yet sexy, Maggie Heap or am I going to have to read the entire file?”
“Sit back down, young lady, and let Uncle Charlie tell you a story.”
“Wise ass,” Sin laughed. “I’m not sitting on your lap so don’t go there.”
Charlie chuckled. “As you know, everything is connected, and I’m not just talking this case.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Sin waved for him to proceed. “I know, the entire world is one big conspiracy. God and Satan are brothers and Bin Laden is still alive. So tell me something I don’t know.”
Charlie cut his eyes at Sin, turned his attention back to the monitor, and brought up another file. “Heap’s obituary told of how he had been married for nine years, but when I checked, there was no marriage license, so—”
“So, you kept digging.”
“Yeah,” Charlie pulled on his beard, “I kept digging. Now stay with me on this because it gets a little disjointed until it isn’t.”
“You mean like that sentence?”
“Anyway,” Charlie let the word hang for a few seconds before continuing, “Westcott has always kept his private life very private. A lot of people thought he was gay. Hell, maybe he is, it doesn’t really matter. Five years ago, he started to show up at functions unattended. A year later, Heap showed up in Tumbleboat with his wife.”
“Why would Heap show up with a fake wife?”
“It was all part Westcott’s plan. He handpicked Heap from the back woods of Louisiana. Heap was a small-time street preacher who claimed to be a prophet. He even preached that he was the second coming. He had no following and was just a bit delusional.”
“A bit? He sounds like he was more than two slices short of a loaf.”
“Maybe a little more than ‘a bit’,” Charlie agreed, “but that all made him easy pickings for Westcott. Folsom needed a front, a solid front for his trafficking ring. The church and orphanage were perfect for him and Heap was the perfect chump.”
“Okay,” Sin interjected, “I get why Heap went along with it. He actually thought Westcott was trying to help him.”
“Right, and Westcott convinced him that any respectable, conservative, southern preacher needed a conservative, southern wife.”
“As fucked up and bizarre as all that is, I get it,” Sin said. “Heap was just a dumbass, backwoods preacher who saw himself as the second coming, who was easy prey, but why Tumbleboat and where does Miller fit into all of this.”
“Tumbleboat was in financial trouble. After the hurricanes of a few years ago, the fishing company was in shambles and there were more boats dry-docked than on the water.” Charlie had a gleam in his eye. “You could say, the citizens of Tumbleboat were looking for a savior.”
Sin made an expression like she just bit into a lemon. “That was cheesy, even for you.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Anyway, Westcott knew Miller from some of his twisted chat rooms. He became aware of Tumbleboat through Miller. The Keys have always been an accessible port of ingress for all types of smuggling due to its proximity to Central America and the Caribbean, so it all made sense. Westcott was able to ply Miller with more money than he had ever seen and supply him with girls for his perverted games. All Miller had to do was agree to play dungeon master in their little films.”
“I know you prefaced that this story would be disjointed, but help bring this back to Magdalene,” Sin said.
“I did a lot of digging into Westcott’s private life. I tapped his personal and business computers.”
“How?”
Charlie’s right eyebrow rose. “You of all people should know that if I fish long enough, I’m bound to catch what I need.”
Sin rolled her eyes and gestured for him to continue.
“Finding Miller and Tumbleboat were a dream come true for him, but . . .” Charlie stopped Sin from interrupting, “he needed someone to oversee the operation. That’s when he came up with the idea of sending Magdalene down there with Heap.”
“I am so confused,” Sin said.
“Stay with me,” Charlie pressed. “It will come together in just a minute.”
“It better, you’re giving me a freaking headache.”
“You need to read Maggie’s bio, later. It will fill in a lot of gaps, but for the sake of time just realize that Maggie was very pliable. She may be a dominant bitch now, but that wasn’t always the case. Westcott knew her weaknesses and he used them for all they were worth.”
Sin slouched in the chair, her head hung back over the metal frame, her legs splayed, and arms hung by her side. “My head is pounding,” she whined.
“Once Westcott had all the pieces of the puzzle,” Charlie continued, “all he had to do was assemble them. If Miller hadn’t been so careless when dumping the bodies of the girls, he’d still be in business.”<
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Sin sat straight up in the chair. “Did you find proof that Miller killed Alex and the other agents?”
Charlie turned his eyes downcast. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Frank had Miller’s computer confiscated and I was able to find erased emails between Miller and Westcott detailing the agents’ assignments, Westcott’s termination orders, and Miller’s affirmation of the completed kills.”
Sin eyed a photo of Miller that Charlie had brought up on the computer monitor. “I’m glad he’s dead. I’ll be happier on January first.”
CHAPTER 59
Sin sat alone in her apartment, in front of the computer, reading and re-reading Maggie’s bio until her eyes ached. It read like a poorly written soap opera.
The file told of a girl who was given up for adoption at birth. The adoption fell through and she was rendered to a state facility. There were report after report from caregivers and administrators saying how she was a sweet, vulnerable child, but always over-looked for adoption because she was too shy to speak and not as ‘cute’ as the other children.
Sin scrolled up to a particular passage and read it verbatim.
“On June fifth, Nineteen Hundred and Eighty Seven, Magdalene R., a thirteen-year-old girl, was found beaten and unconscious in the stairwell of Stallings Home for Girls. Miss. R. could not or would not identify any of her attackers.”
After that date, Maggie regressed further into her own world. No other incidents were noted in the file and the state lost track of her when she was released at the age of eighteen.
There was a gap in Maggie’s bio until she was spotted ten years later on the arm of Folsom Westcott: up and coming attorney and political juggernaut.
Charlie had described her as meek and submissive in nature whenever she was in public. She never looked anyone in the eye and never initiated conversation.
She was typical of a lot of abused women I’ve known, thought Sin. But all that seemed to change after her plastic surgery. The abused became the abusive.
For a moment, Sin felt sad for Magdalene Ramirez, but then she scrolled the computer files and viewed the pictures of the dead girls.
“I don’t give a shit what hand the world dealt you, Magdalene,” Sin said aloud. “You could have risen above it. Instead, you chose to sink deep into it.”
For the next two weeks, Sin followed Maggie while Troy kept a constant eye on Westcott.
On the night of December thirtieth, she met with Charlie at the coffee shop.
“Sin,” Charlie said, “let me bring Frank in on this—”
“No,” she interrupted.
“Why not, we know we can trust him. We have concrete proof of Westcott’s involvement in the trafficking ring and the filming.” He reached out and held Sin’s hand. “We have him dead to rights.”
“It’s not Frank I’m worried about,” Sin said. “Westcott is too connected to leave it up to chance. Two of the ‘guests’ we disposed of were federal judges. How many more does Westcott have in his back pocket?” She shook her head, “I’m not leaving this one up to the courts.” Her expression darkened. “This can only end one way. I’m judge, jury, and executioner!”
Charlie grabbed Sin’s coat. “You play this hand, Sinclair; there is no going back.”
She placed the file under coat and winked. “I still have one ace up my sleeve.”
CHAPTER 60
“I’m glad you accepted my invitation,” Graham said.
“Your invitation? I could have sworn it came from the White House.”
Graham sipped his martini. “I figured that would help get you here. I knew you would love another chance to lurk around the halls of the White House.”
Charlie laughed. “It’s been a while since I’ve been inside. It’s always nice to see what changes a new administration makes.”
Their chitchat stopped as Westcott entered Charlie’s peripheral vision. Like everyone else, he was in formal attire. He strutted around like Napoleon Bonaparte and on his arm was his Josephine.
Graham watched Charlie watch Westcott. “Did you bring me the evidence proving your allegations against him?”
Charlie accepted another drink from a passing waiter. “Not tonight, Frank. Let’s just ring in the New Year like a couple of spies and talk business tomorrow.”
Graham waved to a couple of passing politicians. “What about O’Malley? How is she?”
“Why do you speak of the dead, Frank?”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Then, I guess, you will just have to wait and ask her yourself the next time you see her.”
“Tell her I’m still holding her position open for her when you talk to her.”
Charlie tipped his glass toward Graham. “I’m too old for all this glitz. I’m going to call it an early evening. Good night, Frank.”
Charlie handed his valet ticket to an all American looking young man—Troy—who soon returned with his car. Along with a tip, Charlie slid a piece of paper in his palm.
Troy grabbed the next ticket and ran for the guest’s ride. In the car, he read the note and called Sin.
“Black Tails and Emerald Green gown.”
“Gotcha,” Sin answered.
Shortly after the guests counted down the New Year, the event ended. Troy watched for Westcott and Maggie to leave and grabbed Westcott’s ticket as soon as he laid eyes on them.
Again, he phoned Sin. “Black Lincoln Towne car. I’m placing a GPS inside the passenger rear wheel-well.”
“That’s his ‘company’ car. Fully armored,” Sin said. “I’ll take it from here. Let me know if the bastard tips.”
“Will do,” Troy laughed.
“Charlie, you copy?”
“I’m here, Sinclair.”
“I have eyes on Westcott’s townhome, I just need you to follow them and let me know if they deviate from the destination.”
“I have the GPS pinging on my dash. I’ll stay in touch.”
Thirty minutes later, Sin watched as Westcott drove his car into his garage.
Sin leaned away from her vantage point, watched, and waited. In that moment of silence, she thought of all the pain they had caused and of the words Westcott said when they had raided the church.
With money comes power and with power, we can do and live as we please, and nothing you do will change that.
The stupid bastard gave himself away with that ‘Modus Operandi’ bullshit, she silently snickered.
She took a deep breath and waited for Westcott to enter his townhome.
Sin watched as Westcott and Magdalene entered the bedroom and waited for the perfect moment. As they hurried out of their evening attire, she threw open the closet door and stepped out.
Westcott’s mouth dropped open and his complexion ashened at her sight.
“It’s like seeing a ghost, isn’t it, Folsom,” she said as she pointed both of her 45s at the pair.
“How could you—” he stammered.
“I thought she was dead!”
Sin looked at Maggie. “Not everything is as it seems, is it Mrs. Heap?”
Perspiration clung to Maggie’s bare shoulders. “I can explain,” she said. “I was a victim, just like you, and—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sin yelled.
She looked back at Westcott who seemed to gain confidence in his situation. He held his hands out and smirked. “Go ahead and cuff me. This isn’t over yet.”
“Yes, it is,” Sin said, looking at both of them with dead eyes.
With a steady pull of the triggers, she thought, Tonight, I am an instrument of change.
La Perla Angel de la Muerte.
CHAPTER 61
The rifles aimed high and the shots rang out in a twenty-one gun salute. Politicians, friends, and acquaintances gathered around Folsom Westcott’s gravesite as the nation sa
id its final goodbye.
All the guests were dressed in their finest mourning dress—black suits for the men and black dresses for the women. All but one. One was dressed in black leather pants, a black tee-shirt, and black stiletto heels, all covered in an ankle length black leather coat with an open seam up the back.
Once the crowd dispersed, Graham stood face-to-face with Sin. “There aren’t many people who could have entered the Secretary of Homeland Security’s townhome and shot him from point-blank range,” Graham said.
“No, nice to see you alive, or how have you been. That’s not very politically correct of you, Frank.”
“Cut the shit, O’Malley,” Graham steamed. “It didn’t have to end this way and you know it.”
“Yes, it did.” Sin turned to walk back towards her bike.
“Sin,” Frank yelled, “I have to take you in. Damn it, you know that!”
She turned to face him. “This all seems so familiar, doesn’t it, Frank. Do you remember when you asked me to take this assignment? Do you remember standing here at Alex’s funeral?”
“What’s your point, Sin?”
“My point is,” she pointed to Westcott’s gravesite, “I finished the assignment. You wanted justice for Alex and the others? Now, you have it.”
“But—”
“But, nothing, Frank.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to take the law into your own hands.”
“Bullshit, Frank. The bureau does it all the time. You want to take me in? Be my guest,” Sin pulled a file out of her coat and handed it to Graham, “but before you do, read this.”
He opened the file. “Jesus, O’Malley,” he said, shutting the file, “where did you get pictures like this?”
“Just the tip of the iceberg, Frank. In that file is everything Westcott was involved in: human trafficking, pedophilia, and snuff films, not to mention being a government mole. Copies of all the files are in there.”
