Mortal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  Fran put a hand on the back of Lucy’s chair. “Tick-tock. It’s six o’clock, Lucy.”

  “Five more minutes. Prenter isn’t online yet, and he always logs on in the late afternoon.”

  “Life happens. You can’t sit here all night waiting for him. You have a life, too. Don’t you have dinner plans with your brother tonight?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Lucy, Prenter will be here tomorrow.”

  She said, “I have some time—twenty minutes and I’ll make it to Clyde’s by seven.”

  “If you sprint to the Metro.”

  “I’m a fast runner.” She smiled at Fran, mentally crossing her fingers.

  The older woman shook her head but returned the smile. “I’ll pull the plug if you’re still here at six-fifteen.”

  That wasn’t an idle threat—Fran had literally cut the power before. Lucy crossed her heart with her right index finger and blew Fran a kiss before she turned back to the fast-moving chat rooms.

  WCF had a secure bank of computers, as secure and untraceable as any in the FBI, where they investigated the illegal sexual exploitation of women and children. When they collected enough evidence to identify a victim or perpetrator, they turned over the files to the FBI or local police for further investigation.

  Aside from their primary charter, WCF tracked paroled sex offenders. By law, felony sex offenders had to register with local law enforcement after release from prison and with every subsequent change of residency.

  Yet, depending on the state, on average half of all sex offenders required to register either never did or moved and didn’t re-register. These parolees were the most likely to commit another sex-related crime, and therefore were the target of WCF’s tracking project. Creatures of habit, these guys often made small changes to their online profiles but still targeted the same types of children or women; they thought because they’d moved to another town or state, they wouldn’t be discovered. And if it were solely up to law enforcement, the predators would be right: they’d get away with it. There wasn’t enough time or manpower to track down every sex offender who skipped registration.

  For her master’s thesis, Lucy had deduced that while most sexual predators may modify their behavior after serving time in prison, usually these changes were superficial. They could still be identified by vigilant trackers by scientifically breaking down the creeps’ past activities: how they were caught, coupled with their victim preference—which rarely changed after incarceration. Lucy’s research told her that predators could still be spotted even if they changed their location or online identities. Since graduating, she had continued to develop her database to incorporate all known data as well as a psychological scale that factored in minor behavioral changes. The more information she added, the more powerful—and effective—the system became.

  Groups like WCF could use their private resources and volunteers to identify predators online and, if a parolee, it was much easier to put a predator back in prison if he violated parole. Lucy’s database, though still technically in beta testing, had been instrumental in finding and tracking parolees most likely to reoffend, resulting in more than a dozen arrests to date.

  For the past two weeks, Lucy had been working on one specific parolee, Brad Prenter, a convicted rapist who’d been paroled after serving only half his time. Normally, WCF targeted predators who hunted children and skipped town after parole, but Prenter was a special case. He used homemade GHB—Liquid X—on his dates. Mixed with alcohol, GHB was especially dangerous. The victim who’d sent him to jail—a Virginia college freshman he’d met because he was the teaching assistant in her chemistry class—had had the wherewithal to text her roommate when she started feeling strange. Otherwise Prenter would most likely have gotten away with his crime.

  During the investigation leading up to his trial, authorities learned that Prenter had been suspected of raping another girl in his hometown of Providence, Rhode Island, but there had not been enough evidence to go to trial. He’d given that victim such a high dose of GHB that it had left her in a coma. Due to a delayed investigation—the police weren’t immediately called, because the hospital didn’t find signs of forced sex and didn’t initially test for date-rape drugs—Prenter had time to dispose of his home chemistry lab.

  There had been circumstantial evidence that Prenter targeted other victims online. He’d hook up, drug and rape them, then drop them at their house. Waking up, the women remembered very little. The only reason Prenter’s name came up in another investigation was because a friend of the victim had seen him with her the night she was raped.

  But even in that case, there had been no physical evidence, and the victim didn’t remember anything. Prenter’s house and car were searched, but the investigators found no GHB.

  Two weeks ago, the research arm of WCF identified Prenter’s new online persona, and based on his profile he was living in northern Virginia. He had registered as a sex offender and received permission to attend college at American University. He trolled a particular dating website to hook up in the flesh, so Lucy created a fictional character that met Prenter’s personal criteria: a petite, blond college girl who liked running, rock music, and live bands. It didn’t matter that Lucy was tall with black hair, her job was to draw him to a public location where he’d have the opportunity to violate his parole in full view of law enforcement. It had worked many times during her three years volunteering for WCF, and Prenter was already hooked. Lucy just had to reel him in.

  And when she did? One of WCF’s volunteer off-duty cops would be there to cuff him and haul him back to prison.

  Justice would be fully served. All three to five years.

  For too long she’d felt helpless. Even with all the self-defense training, her education, and her dreams, Lucy had felt she needed to be doing more. Interning with Senator Jonathon Paxton on the Judiciary Committee had been interesting, but when he introduced her to Fran at WCF, it had changed Lucy’s life. She was a far stronger, better person today because of the work she did for WCF. She could almost believe she was a normal, average woman.

  Even her brother Patrick had admitted the last time they’d talked that Lucy was back to her old self.

  Perhaps not her old self. She was no longer the naïve teenager she’d been six years ago when she trusted too easily and thought she was invincible. But she’d finally let go of most of the pain and anger. Some righteous anger, the outrage for injustices in the world, kept her focused on what was important. Saving the innocent. Stopping criminals. Her inner drive was so strong that if she didn’t get into the FBI, she’d find something else in criminal justice. She could go to law school and become a prosecutor. Or join a local police force. Or even go to medical school and become a psychiatrist specializing in crime victims.

  But instead she wanted to be on the cutting edge of federal law enforcement in cybercrime.

  Talking to predators like Prenter, even in the anonymity of a secure chat room, made her physically ill, but it was for a greater good and taught her more about cybercrime than years in the classroom.

  Lucy had done her part to entice Prenter—playing coy and sexy, never suggesting they meet but always giving him the opportunity. He’d asked once, early on in their online chatting, about “hooking up” somewhere, but she’d declined. If she made it too easy for him, he’d smell a cop. And if the case ever came to trial—highly unlikely because he was a registered sex offender on parole—WCF would need to testify that Prenter had plenty of opportunities to walk away, that he actively pursued his intended victim.

  The second time he asked, she again declined, but hinted that she was interested, just busy. She’d never suggest a meeting, because WCF played by the same rules as law enforcement—don’t give them a chance to cry entrapment. Be as passive as possible while still giving the pervert the hints he needed to convince himself that he could have sex with the person behind the computer.

  At 6:10, Lucy’s computer softly beeped. aka_tanya receiv
ed a private message from bradman703.

  bradman703: u there?

  aka_tanya: yep. studying. sorta. lol.

  bradman703: u free tonight?

  Lucy’s pulse quickened.

  aka_tanya: i have a big test

  bradman703: 2mrrw?

  aka_tanya: where?

  bradman703: ur choice

  Even though Prenter was on parole and Lucy wasn’t a cop—so this wasn’t technically entrapment—the conversation was moving into the gray area. Lucy would much prefer to have Prenter pick the place.

  aka_tanya: i dunno. someplace fun. close to fx.

  bradman703: Firehouse?

  Lucy rolled her eyes. She didn’t hang out at bars, but everyone under the age of thirty knew of the Fairfax-area meat market that catered to a rowdy college crowd. Lots of drinking, music played too loud, and crowded. Not a place for quiet conversation; definitely a place to hook up. It was perfect for men like Prenter, and perfect for the WCF operation.

  aka_tanya: fab. time?

  bradman703: 8?

  aka_tanya:

  Lucy smiled herself as she typed the online happy face.

  Fran called from the doorway: “Ten, nine, eight—”

  “I got him!” she called out as she quickly typed a message to Prenter that she was logging off to study.

  Then she sent the transcripts of all her conversations from the afternoon to her personal email, shut down each of the chat rooms she was monitoring, and logged off. She sent Officer Cody Lorenzo a text message.

  Prenter will be waiting for “aka_tanya” at the Firehouse, eight tomorrow.

  “You got Prenter?” Fran looked over Lucy’s shoulder. “Good.”

  “Hope so. Cody has twenty-four hours to set it up, Prenter picked the time and place.” She spontaneously gave Fran a hug. “Finally, I feel like I’ve accomplished something!”

  “It’s been a while since we had a victory, but don’t count your chickens before—”

  “They squawk. Right.” But nothing was going to diminish Lucy’s good mood. Now she had something to celebrate with her brother. She glanced at her watch. She was definitely going to have to run. “I wish I could be there when Cody arrests him.”

  “Lucy, you know the rules.” Fran forbade any of them from getting involved in the field, even on the periphery.

  “I know, I know.” Lucy shut down her monitor and grabbed her raincoat and scarf from under her desk. “I’ll be satisfied with Cody’s report.” Not as satisfied as seeing Brad Prenter’s expression when he realized his date was a setup, but it would have to be enough.

  Movement in the lobby caught Lucy’s eye. Fran glanced over to the doorway at the same time Lucy did.

  “Jonathon.” Fran smiled. “You’re early.”

  “You work too hard, Fran.” Senator Jonathon Paxton kissed her cheek lightly. “Hello, Lucy.”

  Lucy hid her grin. No wonder Fran wanted her out on time! She had a date, though Fran would never categorize her occasional evenings out with Senator Paxton as “dates.” She said it was all business, but Lucy had hopes that two of her favorite people would get together.

  Lucy stood and gave the senator a hug. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”

  “Fran and I have a lot to discuss before Saturday night. You will be at the fund-raiser, correct?”

  “Of course,” she said automatically, though she didn’t want to go. She would do anything to support Fran and WCF, but she never liked the large public events. Her brother Patrick had promised to attend with her, but then he got an assignment out of state. He wouldn’t be back in time, which meant Lucy had to go alone.

  “See you both later,” she said and pulled on her coat. She draped her purse over her shoulder.

  “Need a ride?” Fran asked.

  “The Metro is only three blocks away,” Lucy said. “But thanks.”

  She left WCF and stepped into the chilly air. She loved walking and didn’t even mind the cold that much—though she still missed sunny, temperate So-Cal. She pulled her scarf up to cover her ears and neck and walked briskly toward the Metro.

  The cold brought goose-bumps to her arms, like fingernails on a chalkboard. She told herself it was the frigid weather, but she knew better—the feeling of being watched was far too familiar. She faked a cough and stepped to the side so she could discreetly observe the people walking around her, the traffic on the street, the dinner crowd eating in the restaurant on the other side. A man passed her, nodded a greeting, and kept walking.

  She sighed, frustrated with herself for being paranoid. For six years she’d never been able to shake the sensation that people were looking at her, that they knew what had happened, and somehow blamed her for her fate. The sensations had faded over time, but Lucy doubted they would ever disappear completely.

  Her past would always be chasing her, no matter what she did.

  “Suck it up,” she whispered to herself.

  You’re about to put a rapist back in prison. You have a lot to celebrate.

  With that thought, she continued toward the Metro station, hyperaware of the people around her.

  TWO

  After ten years as an officer in the U.S. Air Force, Special Agent Noah Armstrong gave and took orders in stride, but even so, he found it unusual to be called into FBI Headquarters for a seven o’clock evening meeting with Assistant Director Rick Stockton. In addition to the time, it was odd that Stockton’s secretary didn’t give Noah a reason for the meeting. He was curious but unconcerned. He could think of no past or current case he’d worked to merit the attention of the higher-ups, and Noah didn’t care much for speculation.

  Noah passed his shield and ID through the slot at the main desk on the ground floor of the Hoover Building. Reception was closed, but the night guard was on duty to check credentials. The building was a virtual fortress, protected by bulletproof glass and multiple levels of security just to get upstairs. Once he was cleared, it was smooth sailing to the top floor since it was after business hours.

  When Noah stepped out of the elevator, he recognized Dr. Hans Vigo, a behavioral science instructor and assistant director at Quantico, the FBI training institution.

  Dr. Vigo extended his hand. “Agent Armstrong, thank you for coming after hours. Rick was delayed in a meeting, so I’ll brief you.”

  He shook Vigo’s hand. “Not a problem, sir. I understand.”

  “It’s good to see you again. You were in the class—seven-thirteen or fourteen, correct?”

  Noah nodded. “Seven-fourteen, sir.”

  “I’ve heard extensive praise of your work in the Bureau, most recently the Annapolis murders.”

  Noah raised his eyebrow, surprised that someone of Dr. Vigo’s stature would concern himself with a typical mass murder. Under normal circumstances, the FBI wouldn’t have involved themselves with murders by a disgruntled employee, except that it had taken place in a federal building and the shooter and victims were all federal employees.

  While he acknowledged that his military experience helped him rise above being merely a competent agent, Noah didn’t see why his record would have been brought to the assistant director’s attention.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Please call me Hans. I’m not one for formalities.”

  Noah followed Hans down the quiet hall. Every office door was open, lights off. There were two people meeting in a small conference room, visible through the partly open blinds. But the normally bustling headquarters was nearly empty.

  Hans asked, “Coffee? Water?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  Hans turned at the end of the hall and opened the door to Stockton’s office. He closed it behind them, then motioned for Noah to sit at the long table on the far side of the large, organized room.

  Hans took a seat across from him. “We have an extremely sensitive investigation we would like you to head up, Noah.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Early Saturday morning, a park service employe
e found a body at the Washington Sailing Marina, on the Virginia side of the Potomac. The victim was shot once in the back of the head. He had no identification on his person, but his prints confirmed that he was Roger Morton. I got the call early this morning.”

  The FBI didn’t handle routine homicides. Noah’s curiosity was piqued.

  Hans said, “Morton was released from federal prison in Oregon six months ago, on July first.” Hans opened his file and slid over a prison mug shot. Morton had the hardened expression shared by many violent criminals, the half-snarl curling his lips telling Noah this guy felt remorse only over getting caught.

  Hans continued. “This case is sensitive for two reasons. First, the nature of Morton’s crimes. He was the right-hand man for a vicious killer who ran both a legal and illegal pornography business, specializing in online sex videos. Most of Morton’s crimes were committed at the direction of his boss, Adam Scott, who was killed during a confrontation with federal agents.”

  The case sounded familiar, but Noah couldn’t remember why. “How long ago?”

  “Six years last June. Are you familiar with it?”

  “I was still in the Air Force.” He hadn’t even been stationed in the States at the time.

  “Scott charged online viewers to watch him rape and kill his victims live on the Internet.”

  Now Noah remembered. “The case was discussed in my cybercrimes class at Quantico.”

  “The agent who tracked Scott to his hideout made incredible strides in tracing masked Internet feeds. Many of her protocols have been integrated into our e-crimes unit.

  “The reason this case is so sensitive,” Hans continued, “is because Morton was killed here, just outside D.C. We’ve taken the case from the local police; all evidence is being sent to the FBI lab. Traditionally, jurisdiction is ours anyway because the murder was on federal land, though we usually let the locals handle routine homicides.”