Juan’s memo was brief and to the point. The deceased was Harper Worthington, owner of Harper Worthington International, a global accountancy corporation that primarily handled government contracts and audits. Because he specialized in auditing defense contractors, he had a high-level federal security clearance. In addition, he was married to Congresswoman Adeline Reyes-Worthington.
Worthington had been found dead and partially clothed in a motel room at the White Knight at approximately 1:00 A.M. by the motel manager when a taxi driver retained by Worthington insisted management check the room. The driver had been waiting for over an hour for the deceased, who had requested the pickup, and he’d witnessed a teenaged girl leaving just after midnight. When SAPD arrived and checked the deceased’s ID, they recognized the name and contacted their chief, who in turn contacted the FBI.
Juan ended with:
This case is need-to-know. I don’t have to explain the sensitivities of not only Worthington’s position as a government contractor, but the potential media interest because of his congressional ties. I expect this case to be handled with complete discretion and the utmost professionalism.
Lucy checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Sean was right, she looked tired. She added more concealer under her eyes and a touch more makeup than she usually wore before she got out of the car.
Lucy recognized Julie Peters, one of the deputy coroners. Lucy had met many of the SAPD and county staff during the two months she’d spent working on Operation Heatwave, which had culminated in hundreds of arrests of wanted fugitives through the combined efforts of all levels of law enforcement.
Julie was leaning against her van talking to one of the cops as Lucy approached. “I heard the feds were taking over,” Julie said.
“By mutual agreement,” Lucy said. “Good to see you again, Julie.”
“VIP,” Julie said and rolled her eyes. “Agent Kincaid, meet Officer Garcia. Garcia, Kincaid. She’s okay for a fed.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Lucy extended her hand to Garcia.
“You should. Julie doesn’t like anyone,” Garcia said.
Julie snorted. “Not true. I just prefer dead people. They don’t lie.”
Lucy didn’t know Julie’s story, but she was about forty years of age, dressed down almost to the point of being sloppy, wore no makeup, and had a barking laugh. She’d also graduated from the prestigious university Texas A&M with a degree in biology and a minor in chemistry. She was a well-respected forensic pathologist.
Lucy asked, “Is the body still inside?”
Julie nodded. “Waiting on the crime scene techs. I swear, they’re a bunch of prima donnas now that they have a gazillion television shows about them. Think they run the world. Well, that body’s gonna start stinking to high hell as soon as the sun comes up, so they’d better get a move on.” She glared at Garcia.
“I’ll make another call.” He stepped over to one of the patrol cars and picked up the radio.
“Is Agent Crawford here?”
Julie scowled. “Perfect Hair? Not yet.”
Lucy barely refrained from laughing. The moniker fit Crawford.
“Wanna see the body? He was caught with his pants down, literally. That’s why I love the dead. They have no secrets.”
She did want to see the room, because crime scenes were her specialty. But she’d been on thin ice for two months, and Barry was the lead agent. “I should wait for Barry.”
Julie shrugged.
Garcia came over and said, “Five minutes out, they said.”
“They mean fifteen,” Julia countered. She looked at her watch. “It’s quarter after five. They’d better get their asses here or I’m going to chew them a new one. I want the body on my table this morning—and considering who he is, he’ll go to the front of the line. If there’s anything wonky here, I’ll find it.”
That perked up Lucy’s ears. “Wonky? Prelim said heart attack.”
“Right, and patrol cops can tell that just by looking at a corpse. I did an external exam when I got here and sure, it has all the signs of a guy getting his rocks sucked off until his heart gives out, but…” She motioned for Lucy to follow her.
Lucy hesitated, glancing around for Barry, but he hadn’t yet arrived. Her curiosity won out and she followed Julie. Yellow tape sealed off room 115, but the door was open.
Worthington was flat on his back on top of the stained brown bedspread. His pants and boxers were around his ankles. His shoes were on his feet. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned and he wore an undershirt. The man was lean and looked like he exercised regularly.
On the dresser was a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka and two plastic cups. Lucy breathed deeply. The room smelled dirty, and there was a sharp liquor aroma as well as the stench of urine. He may have thrown up, though she didn’t see any evidence of it from the doorway. His wallet was on the lone nightstand.
“Are you tired, or what?” Julie asked. “You look like you’ve been up all night.”
“Just didn’t get enough sleep.”
Julie nodded in commiseration, but said, “Look again—you’ll see it.”
Lucy looked again, taking in first the big picture, then the smaller details. “Okay—it looks too neat. A sudden heart attack isn’t instantaneous. He would have bunched up the comforter, tried to get up, maybe knocked over the lamp. Collapsed on the floor, across the bed, not laid out on his back. Called for help, maybe. But if he didn’t know he was having an attack, which is possible, he may not have reacted, especially if he was drunk or on drugs. It would be a massive coronary event, though, and the prostitute would certainly have known something was wrong.”
“True—too scared to report but not too scared to empty his wallet?”
Lucy didn’t comment. She’d worked enough cases with prostitutes to know that their psychology could be complex. The girl was more scared of her pimp than the police.
“Okay, I’m giving you a rough time because you really can’t tell unless we inspect the body up close and personal, like I did a frickin’ hour ago when I got here,” Julie said, looking over her shoulder and muttering about entitled nerds. She pointed to Worthington’s pants around his ankles. “The deceased peed in his boxers when he croaked. Bladder totally released.”
“Which would suggest that he was wearing them when he died.”
“Suggest?” Julie laughed. “Cops. All about alleged this and possible that. He was wearing them. And his pants, which are also soaked with urine.”
“Not sperm?”
“I know the difference between sperm and urine, Kincaid.” Julie rolled her eyes. “Of course I’ll test to make sure, but I’m not usually wrong.” She shrugged. “Maybe there’s nothing to it. Maybe the girl didn’t realize he was having a heart attack and thought he was just excited to screw her. But I think that a rich guy like Worthington would have found a better place to screw a whore, ya know?”
“It’s about power. Secrets. Discretion.”
“He could have bought discretion two miles from here at a four-star hotel. And why a street girl? There’s a whole business of call girls in town, you pay for discretion and a modicum of class.”
“The girl was underage, according to the witness, and that makes him a pervert. Perverts like seedy motels.” She was getting angry. Not so much at Julie’s flippant conversation, but at how her tone seemed to suggest that she condoned the whole sex business. Or if not condoned, at least tolerated.
But when powerful men like Worthington started using underage prostitutes, it wasn’t a new or sudden obsession. He would continue and eventually look at younger girls. Because it was about power and control, the need to dominate, the belief that girls were chattel to be bought and sold like animals. It wasn’t the crime scene in front of her that made Lucy’s stomach turn over uncomfortably, it was the motivation of the dead guy. She couldn’t muster much compassion for him. Maybe his death was divine retribution.
Officer Garcia called over to them
. “CSI just pulled up.”
“It’s about effing time,” Julie said.
“And another fed.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said. She turned to Julie. “I’ve worked too many cases where prostitutes were beaten and murdered by men like Worthington. I don’t have a lot of sympathy.”
Julie assessed her. “Well, you’re welcome to sit in on the autopsy. Assist if you want—you have the creds. But trust me when I say this: I’ve worked in San Antonio for thirteen years, have been called to thousands of death scenes, and have performed over three thousand autopsies, everything from stabbings to strokes to heart attacks to sudden infant death syndrome. Some that looked suspicious, but were natural; some that looked natural but weren’t. Ninety-seven percent of my cases are routine, nonviolent deaths.” She paused to remove the crime scene tape so the two CSIs could go in and process the room. “My gut tells me Worthington falls in the three percent.”
* * *
Lucy approached Agent Barry Crawford as he was talking to one of the patrol officers. Barry was dressed impeccably, as always—pressed light gray suit, shiny black shoes, crisp white shirt. His blond hair was neatly trimmed and styled—and yes, perfect—and he looked like the stereotypical fed. He was physically fit and always wore a serious expression. Lucy couldn’t remember ever seeing him actually smile, and he never laughed. She knew very little about Barry because he rarely participated in casual conversation with the squad and never socialized after work.
Barry glanced at her. “You should have waited for me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You went into the room.”
“I just looked.”
Barry ignored the comment and said, “Officer Nava says the taxi driver wants to leave. We need to interview him before he does. You speak fluent Spanish, right?”
“Yes.”
“Mine is rough. Translate for me.”
“I can question him if you want to—”
“I need to ask the questions.”
Lucy bristled. She might be a rookie, but she was also a psychologist and had extensive training in interrogations and questioning witnesses. She could handle a simple interview. But she kept her mouth shut, remembering that she was a rookie, and already on thin ice with her boss. More than anything, she wanted to get back into Juan’s good graces, and if that meant taking orders from Crawford, she would do it.
Officer Nava led them across the parking lot to where the motel manager sat with the taxi driver on a worn bench outside of the small office. The office had bars on the windows and no place inside to sit.
The manager said, “Y’all need to get that body out of my motel and let me get back to work. You’re ruining my business.”
Barry said, “Officer, please take Mr. Valera to retrieve the logbooks and surveillance tapes.”
“We don’t have any of that,” Valera said.
“Then step aside so I can do my job. I’ll talk to you next.”
Barry nodded at Nava, who took the manager far enough to prevent eavesdropping. Valera lit up a cigarette and paced.
The taxi driver had been identified as Carlos Potrero. He showed his ID and cab license to Barry. He was edgy, but Lucy suspected it was simply because he’d been here for hours—he could have easily left before the police arrived. That told her he wanted to help, even though it had likely cost him half his daily income.
“Mr. Potrero, do you speak English?” Barry asked after identifying them as federal agents.
He moved his hand up and down. “A bit.”
“Agent Kincaid will translate if you’re more comfortable speaking in Spanish.”
“Si. Gracias.”
Barry instructed Lucy to ask the driver how he knew Mr. Worthington.
Lucy asked in Spanish, “Mr. Potrero, you told Officer Nava that you dropped Mr. Worthington off here at eleven P.M. and that he asked you to return at midnight, correct?”
“Si, Señora.”
“Have you driven Mr. Worthington before? Did he call and request you?”
“No, Señora.”
“Where did you pick him up?”
“Airport.”
“San Antonio Airport?”
“Si.”
Barry cleared his throat. “Agent Kincaid, you need to translate for me.”
Barry should have been able to pick up on the simple answers, even with basic Spanish. Was this his way of wielding his authority? “Mr. Potrero never met Mr. Worthington before tonight. He picked him up at San Antonio Airport, left him here at eleven, was asked to return at midnight.”
“Which airline?” Barry asked. “Did he pay by cash or credit?”
Lucy frowned and said to Barry, “I know what to ask. I’ll translate for you, and let me know if I forgot anything. This three-way conversation is going to make it difficult on all of us.”
Barry gave her a curt nod, but the pulsing vein in his neck showed his irritation.
She asked Mr. Potrero the questions, and translated for Barry. “He picked Worthington up at the United terminal. Worthington paid cash—two hundred dollars up front.”
“That’s high for a trip from the airport.”
Lucy agreed and asked Mr. Potrero why Worthington had paid so much.
In rapid Spanish, he replied, “He’s a very nice man. We talked about my family. My wife, my three girls. He said it was for a round trip, he was returning to the airport to catch another flight, and the money was for my waiting time. He told me to take a break and be back in an hour. I didn’t want to take so much, but he insisted. I came back in exactly one hour.” It seemed important to Potrero that Lucy believe he was honest.
Lucy relayed the information to Barry, then asked Mr. Potrero, “Did he say why he was coming here?”
“A meeting, Señora. He had a meeting and it would take no more than an hour.”
“But you knew which room he was in.”
“I watched him go into room 115”
Barry said, “Ask about the girl.”
“Mr. Potrero, you told the other officers that you saw a girl coming out of the room. Can you describe her?”
“Si. Young. Fifteen. Sixteen, no more. But old—you know—street old.”
“I understand. Hair color? Eye color? What did she wear?”
“Hair was blond, but from dye, you know? Brown eyes.”
“Hispanic?”
“No, white.”
“White like me or like Agent Crawford?” Lucy asked because she was half-Cuban, and while she had the dark hair and eyes, her skin was lighter than most Hispanics’. Crawford was clearly Caucasian.
“Whiter than both of you. Very pale skin.”
“That’s good. And what did she wear?”
He looked almost embarrassed. “Short shorts. A short T-shirt, you know.” He put his hand across his midriff. “Lots of makeup. Too much. I see a lot of girls like her because I drive nights. Sometimes, I give them a ride. Do nothing with them!” he added, as if she would think he was a pervert. “Just a ride. But I’ve never seen her before.”
“Would you recognize her?”
“Si.”
“Would you be able to go down to the station and look at some pictures?”
He looked panicked. “Now? I must be home by seven. My wife goes to work then, someone needs to watch my girls.”
“Anytime before five this afternoon.”
He sighed in relief. “Si, after I take my girls to school, I come in.”
Lucy looked at Barry, told him what Mr. Potrero said about the prostitute, then asked, “Do you think Detective Mancini can work with him?”
“You know Mancini?”
“From Operation Heatwave.” Tia Mancini had been on the joint task force because she was the lead SAPD detective for sex crimes. In her capacity, she also worked with victims of the sex trade—particularly underage prostitutes. She helped at-risk girls get off the streets. If the girl had been on the streets a while, Tia would know who she was.
“I’l
l call her,” Barry said.
Lucy reached into her wallet and handed Mr. Potrero one of Tia’s cards. “This detective will show you some pictures.”
“You carry her cards with you?” Barry asked.
“We’re friends,” she said, “and worked together in the past.”
Barry said, “Ask him why he waited so long.”
Lucy thought on that—Barry’s question was a bit hostile, and Potrero had clearly understood him, but opted to feign ignorance.
“Carlos,” she said, using his first name to build a better rapport, “not many taxi drivers would wait for a client for so long.”
“He paid me. A lot of money. The girl said he was sleeping.”
“What else did the girl say to you?”
“I—I can’t repeat it.” He averted his eyes.
“You don’t have to use exact words. Can you give me the basics?”
He looked pained. He looked at Barry and answered in broken English. “She offered her … services.”
Like many devout Hispanic men, he didn’t want to discuss sex in front of a female. Lucy understood—it was a cultural consideration.
Barry nodded. “Did you take her up on her offer?”
Lucy bit her tongue to refrain from saying something to Barry. No way was she going to ask that—it was clear from Potrero’s body language that the mere thought disturbed him.
“No, no, no!” Potrero shook his head.
Lucy interrupted. “Where did the girl go? Did she have a car? Did she leave on foot?”
He pointed between the office and the main building. “She ran down that path. Told me she had to go, her boss would beat her.” He shook his head. “Where’s her family? How do girls do this? So many, too many, and bad men beat them. I don’t understand.”
“Go home and hug your children,” Lucy said and gave him her card. “We have your contact information, and may be following up with you after you talk to Detective Mancini.”
Best Laid Plans Page 2
