Best Laid Plans

by Allison Brennan

  Sean inspected the bug carefully because he didn’t want to damage it. “Expensive. Completely undetectable unless it’s activated, and it’s activated only when he’s on the phone. This is high quality. Used by governments or well-financed criminals.”

  “Can you trace it?”

  “They may have turned off the receiver, which means there’s no way to trace it. And depending on how it was initially set up, I don’t know that it’s traceable at all. Unless we can get prints off the bug or trace the serial number. If I were the one bugging an office, they’d never trace the number back to me. Still—if it’s possible, I can do it. I need to get some equipment, and then I want your permission to bring in the FBI.”

  “Of course. They’re investigating Harper’s murder. This may be connected.”

  There were a couple of reasons Sean wanted the FBI involved, though he’d never consider bringing them in if Lucy wasn’t an agent. He wanted to leak information and give whoever had bugged Harper’s phone actionable intelligence—but nothing that would jeopardize the case.

  He said to Gregor, “This only works if there are no other bugs in here, otherwise they already know our plan.”

  “I already sent a message to the head of IT to sweep the entire building,” Gregor said. “Why didn’t Harper tell me about the bug?” He was both angry and hurt that his boss hadn’t trusted him, and not a little furious that someone had bugged the phone.

  Sean was wondering the same thing. Why had Harper been so secretive? Did he think someone inside HWI had betrayed him? The first person Sean had cleared was Gregor Smith himself—as head of security, he would have the most access. But so far, he was clean. Sean would dig deeper into his finances, but Sean didn’t think Gregor was corrupt.

  Sean said, “The big question for me is—how did Harper know the bug was here in the first place? And even if he didn’t want anyone to know, why didn’t he destroy it himself?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Brad Donnelly stood with his SAPD liaison, Sergeant Jerry Fielding, next to the tactical van outside the crime scene. The dilapidated strip mall had once housed a video rental store, a small grocery, and a Mexican restaurant. Now it was completely boarded up. The fence that had once surrounded the long, narrow building had been torn down. Heaps of jagged chain-link fencing and barbed wire lay tangled on the broken cement. Weeds grew through the holes in the metal, a testament to how long it had been abandoned. Gang graffiti covered the sagging structure.

  He’d been here for hours, walked through the scene before the bodies had been removed, and imparted what knowledge he had about the victims to Jerry and his team. Brad recognized three as known associates of Jaime Sanchez, which meant that they were affiliated with Vasco Trejo. It held to reason the rest of the victims were also part of Trejo’s group—possibly new recruits after others had been killed or imprisoned.

  “I haven’t heard of anything this big in a long time,” Jerry said, not for the first time. He was antsy and it showed. Brad kept his nerves to himself. A hit of this magnitude put everyone in law enforcement on high alert.

  FBI Agent Ryan Quiroz had arrived shortly after Brad, but went off with one of the SAPD detectives to canvass the neighborhood. So far, no one would talk, but Brad hoped that Ryan could convince someone to step forward. Ryan, a sixth-generation Hispanic Texan, spoke fluent Spanish with a keen ear for different dialects. Ryan had been helpful in past joint operations because of his linguistic skills and non-cop-like demeanor, but Brad wasn’t as confident this time around. Getting drugs out of neighborhoods was one thing—many of the residents, while completely distrustful of law enforcement, didn’t like the proliferation of drugs in their schools and communities. Turning in a mass murderer with gang or cartel affiliations was a far more dangerous ball game.

  “Fielding,” one of the senior crime scene techs called over to them.

  Brad followed Jerry to where the crime techs were cataloging evidence.

  “Have something?”

  “A whole lot of weird something.” He looked at Brad. “I’m Ash Dominguez. Donnelly, right?”

  “Brad. You processed the Sanchez storage facility a couple months ago.”

  “Yep. So, we’ve counted two hundred shots fired, which is a rough estimate.”

  “Shit. Do you know what type of weapons?”

  “M4. There were several rounds that were ejected or dropped. They didn’t police their brass. We’ll process everything—might get some prints. These gang bangers don’t usually wear gloves. Not that prints are going to help us find these bastards.”

  “M4s are primarily military issue.”

  “Yep. But you know as well as I do that the US government has sent them far and wide, not to mention that shipments have been stolen.”

  Two months ago, the DEA had recovered part of a stolen shipment of military rifles down in Mexico that had been stolen by Trejo’s operation. Had someone in Trejo’s organization sold the rest of the guns? Was this an exchange gone bad? Or a completely different set of weapons?

  “You have an idea?” Jerry asked Brad.

  “I might. But I need more intel. We’re certain the dead men were all Sanchez/Trejo’s group?”

  “No doubt on three of them. Working on the others,” Jerry said.

  “Want more weird?” Ash asked. “The killers didn’t take the drugs. We’re still processing, but there’s approximately twelve pounds of heroin, thirty-six packages. Of course, we need to test it at the lab. How much is that worth?”

  “Depending on the quality, that’s probably a street value of a million bucks.” Definitely a hefty score. “Was it hidden?”

  Ash shook his head. “And if there’d been money, the shooters took it.”

  “Did you get any electronics?”

  “Yeah, bagged and tagged and photographed. There was a computer system in the drug room, all shot up. Don’t know if we can get anything from it, but we’ll try.”

  “Vigilante?” Jerry asked.

  “God, I hope not,” Brad said. But leaving the drugs behind didn’t scream that this was a gang hit. A rival gang would take the drugs.

  Ash said, “Just a gut feeling looking at the evidence, I still need to talk to my team and recreate the scene, but here’s my take. Minimum of four shooters. Looks like the building was taken from all points of entry. These guys didn’t have a chance. Half of them couldn’t even draw their own guns. They were all carrying, even the girls. The killers opened fire until everyone was down, then they went around and put a bullet in everyone’s head, to guarantee they were dead. I have some possibly helpful news. We collected blood by one of the rear doors, with a trail leading to the road. A sufficient amount to suggest one of the attackers got hit.”

  “Good—we’ll alert hospitals and clinics,” Jerry said.

  “Already done,” Ash said, “but some clinics won’t report.”

  Brad had some ideas on where someone would go who didn’t want the shooting to get back to the police. Brad would be persona non grata there, but he could get Ryan to do it, if he grunged down a bit.

  “With four or more shooters, we’re probably not looking at vigilante,” Brad said. “Why not take the drugs?”

  “To make a statement? Punishment?” Jerry suggested. “But damn, they wouldn’t leave a million dollars, so why leave a million in drugs?”

  Brad had no answer. Kane Rogan had said the hit was retaliation. But for what? And how had Rogan learned about it only hours after it went down?

  Ryan approached them. “Almost a complete waste of the last three hours.”

  “Almost?”

  He held up a small videotape. “No one said a word other than admitting to hearing the shots, and the time was consistent with the nine-one-one calls that came in. However, I got a hint that one of the homeowners wouldn’t care if I took this tape out of a camera he had mounted on the corner of his garage. If the getaway car went south, it’s here. If it didn’t, we have nothing.”

  “Fifty-f
ifty chance? I’ll take it,” Brad said to Ryan. “Anything else, Ash?”

  “Naw. We’ll be here another hour or two. It’s going to take a few days for the coroner’s report, but from the amount of blood, they all died from gunshot wounds. If there’s anything odd, Jerry’ll let you know.”

  “I’m particularly interested in the bullets and if you can determine how many shooters, vehicles, and prints.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem, give me a little time and I’ll have the answers. I’ll run all prints through AFIS. We have already identified most of the deceased, and the others we should have by tomorrow.”

  “We might be able to get more information from the families,” Ryan said.

  “Maybe.” Brad wasn’t optimistic. “Let’s focus on IDing the female victims and child. Those families might be more willing to talk to us.”

  “The female victims were Julianna Romero and Maria Romero,” Ash said, looking down at his notes. “They both had purses with photo identification.” He shook his head. “Sisters. I feel bad for that family.”

  “I’ll bet the kid belonged to one of them,” Brad said. “Find the family and go from there.”

  “I’m going to finish up here then send ya’ll my report.” Ash waved his hand as he departed and went back inside the strip mall.

  “Thanks for coming out,” Jerry said to Brad and Ryan. “SAPD appreciates your assistance.”

  “Anytime, Jerry,” Brad said. “Keep me in the loop, and if I learn anything I’ll pass it on.”

  “Do you want to talk to the girl’s family?” Jerry asked.

  “You take a run at them, this is still an SAPD case,” Brad said. “If you get any wonky vibes, call me.”

  “Are you back on duty?” Ryan asked.

  “Desk duty,” Brad said. “But I’ll clear it with Archer.” Samantha Archer, his boss, had been a stickler for him staying at his damn desk, but Brad had a feeling she was reacting more emotionally than professionally. He just needed to get his doctor to give him the official all clear. “And I’ll get that damn doctor’s note,” he added.

  Brad and Ryan walked back to where they’d parked in an open field across the street.

  Brad asked, “You want to come to my office and look at the tape?”

  “I can’t. I have my boys this week and need to pick them up at my mom’s.”

  “How are they?”

  “Good, thanks. I miss them. Divorce sucks.”

  “It’s why I never married.”

  Brad opened his car door. Before he could leave, Ryan asked, “You asked Juan for Lucy. Why?”

  “It wasn’t personal.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “What happened in Hidalgo?”

  Brad couldn’t give Lucy up—not only would she get in trouble, but he would be suspended for lying in a report. She’d already told him that Juan suspected she’d gone down to Mexico to help rescue him from Sanchez and Trejo, but she hadn’t admitted it, and Juan hadn’t said a word. Sam Archer had no clue what had really happened at Trejo’s compound, and Brad had no desire to fill her in on the details. He would only get reprimanded, but Lucy could lose her job.

  “All I can say, Ryan, is that if it weren’t for Lucy, I’d be dead. So would those boys. Whatever she did or didn’t do, her motives were pure. The last two months have been rough on her.”

  “I know,” Ryan said. “I’m partly to blame, I was hard on her. But, Brad—it’s hard to trust your partner when she isn’t honest with you.”

  “Believe me, after what happened in my own operation, I get it.” One of his own people, someone he trusted explicitly, had been working with the cartel and was party to the murder of a band of Marines who were transporting recovered weapons back to the States. Nicole Rollins was now in jail pending trial, though word was that she wanted to make a deal. If Brad had his way, there would be no deal: Nicole would be tried for treason and murder and executed.

  There was really nothing left to say on the subject. Ryan would come around—Brad thought he already had, it was just his ego that was still wounded.

  “Speaking of your former partner,” Ryan said. “She might know something about this attack. She was high up in the Trejo/Sanchez organization. She might talk to you.”

  “I hate that woman,” Brad said. “There’s no guarantee that she knows anything and, if she does, that she’ll tell us. The DOJ is still playing games with her, and I wish they’d just locked her up. Instead, she’s sitting in the county jail.”

  “She’s not high up on my list of beer buddies, either.” Ryan frowned and glanced back at the crime scene. “If there’s a new player in town taking out the rest of Trejo’s gang, they could go for her.”

  “And that would be a bad thing?”

  “Murder is always a bad thing. They killed a kid, Brad. Don’t let your hatred for Rollins cloud your judgment.”

  Ryan was right. But Brad didn’t have to like it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lucy had worked several cases related to the sex trade, but she wasn’t prepared for Mona Hill.

  Rather, she was partly prepared because of the files Tia had sent over. She knew, for example, that Mona’s childhood was sketchy. She’d been raised by a single mom in Houston who’d been in and out of prison for prostitution and drugs. Mona appeared to have raised herself or lived with relatives during her mother’s imprisonment, because there was no record of her going into foster care. In fact, there was no documentation on Mona until she was eighteen. Everything Tia wrote was conjecture she’d picked up over the years, though Tia noted that there was no juvenile record, sealed or otherwise.

  When Mona was nineteen, she’d pled guilty to attempted murder and had spent eighteen months in a California prison. There was no explanation as to why the sentence was so short, and Lucy made a note to look into it. There might be something there that would give her insight into the woman.

  Mona had been arrested multiple times since her release from prison: California, Nevada and Texas all had arrest records. But she’d never served more than a night in jail—all the cases had been dismissed or pled out with a fine. She’d starred in legal pornography for years before moving to San Antonio four years ago, where she took over part of the sex trade. According to Tia, at least a third of the “working girls” in San Antonio worked for Mona at least part of the time. A client called a special phone number, told her what he wanted, and she got it for him—charging a premium. The johns paid Mona for the “referral” and paid the girls directly, so no girl ever gave Mona money.

  Tia had listed Mona’s known associates, and in her notes wrote that she suspected at least one judge had been compromised—but if Tia knew who, she hadn’t put the name in the file.

  The question Lucy most wanted answered was why Mona had sent Elise to James Everett. There had to be a specific reason, over and above that his regular girl Bella was sick. If she had been sick.

  “Barry,” Lucy said as they were driving to Mona Hill’s residence, “I think we should talk to Bella first.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this whole thing feels wrong. Bella gets sick and Elise is sent to Everett instead—after she either killed Harper Worthington or witnessed his murder.”

  “You’re jumping to a conclusion.”

  “Am I? A witness put Elise at the motel at Worthington’s time of death; she then goes to Everett and that’s where we find Worthington’s phone. It’s like someone is dropping breadcrumbs for us to follow. I feel like we’re being led from point A to point B because that’s where someone wants us to go.”

  “The evidence hasn’t been that easy to obtain,” Barry countered. “We’re good investigators, and we have access to a lot of information and resources. Plus, young prostitutes aren’t the smartest girls on the street.”

  “I know what you’re thinking—Elise took the phone, probably wanted to sell it or get information off i
t, and accidentally left it in Everett’s room not realizing that tracking the phone would be so easy.” Lucy just didn’t believe it. It felt off to her, and she couldn’t explain why. “It seems too coincidental.”

  “Let’s assume that Elise was involved in Worthington’s death,” Barry said.

  “That’s an easy assumption.”

  “What if she was ordered last-minute to take over Bella’s client?”

  “Okay,” Lucy said.

  “Okay? You’re giving in too easily.”

  “I’m not giving in. I think it’s possible. But that’s why I want to talk to Bella before Mona Hill knows what we want. If this woman is as dangerous as Tia thinks, she may intimidate Bella into silence.”

  Lucy looked up Bella’s address from Tia’s records. “Well, dammit,” she said. “Mona Hill owns and lives in a twelve-unit apartment building west of downtown. Bella rents an apartment from her. Bella isn’t going to talk to us, especially at her apartment.”

  “Because someone will rat on her.”

  Lucy nodded. “Tia might be able to track her down and talk to her off-site. Can I send her a message?”

  “You don’t have to ask me.”

  Lucy hesitated, then said, “I don’t really know what my role is in this investigation.” There. She’d said it.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Sometimes, you keep me out of the loop, on a need-to-know basis. Or you get irritated when I ask questions. Or completely dismiss a theory. Then other times, you seem to want a dialogue, or seem surprised when I don’t automatically do something—like email Tia.”

  He didn’t say anything and Lucy hit herself for being so damn needy. No, it wasn’t that. It was that she wanted to know exactly where she stood. Was there something wrong in that?

  “I’m a rookie, and I took your conversation to heart on Saturday night. I had a wonderful dinner with Sean, we spent all day Sunday doing yard work at St. Catherine’s Boys Home, and I barely thought about the case. I know that I’m obsessive and a workaholic. But I also have an impression that you’re waiting for me to slip up.”