Mortal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  When Yuran didn’t continue, Sean barely restrained himself from prompting the Russian. There had been a subtle shift in the bodyguards behind him, but Sean didn’t feel that the threat level had been raised.

  “Word came down from a scumbag named Ralston. I heard he was spreading the offer far and wide, and I don’t appreciate competing for business. I had Johan follow up—” Yuran looked at Mr. Big Guy. “What did you learn, Johan?”

  “Ralston was full of shit.”

  Yuran smiled. “Someone put the word out and used Ralston to do it, but when I showed interest, it dried up. Frankly, Mr. Rogan, if I may be blunt, I wanted to gut the prick for wasting my time. But I have a heart.”

  Sean smiled and Yuran smiled back. Coldly.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Yuran.”

  He stood. Big Guy didn’t budge until Yuran nodded so faintly Sean almost missed it.

  “Mr. Rogan.”

  Sean turned back to the trafficker.

  “Tell your brother Liam I haven’t forgotten.”

  A chill ran up Sean’s spine. He gave Yuran a faint nod, then retrieved his weapons.

  When he reached the door, Yuran said, “The only reason you’re alive is because I know you haven’t seen your brother in fifteen years. Make it another fifteen.”

  * * *

  Lucy met Cody at the Starbucks on M Street during his lunch break.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting down as soon as he saw her.

  “I need to talk to you about Brad Prenter’s murder.”

  He stared at her with cop eyes, assessing, curious, and a bit worried. “You saw the paper.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know until this morning.”

  “Did you know he was shot four times? Three times in the abdomen and once in the back of the head?”

  He straightened. “How do you know that? It wasn’t released—” He caught himself. “You went to the morgue.”

  “I read the autopsy report.”

  “Why on earth would you do that? You could have asked me.”

  “I wanted more information before we talked. He was supposed to be at the Firehouse, not Club 10. Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you? That Prenter was supposed to meet a girl at one club, and ends up twenty miles away and across the river at about the same time?”

  “How do you know it was the same time?”

  “Because he was killed between nine-thirty and ten. The article stated that he was in the bar hitting on a girl before he left with her—”

  “Lucy, we talked about this last night. I thought we’d agreed that he had pegged the date with ‘Tanya’ as a setup.”

  “I don’t know.” She frowned and stared at her coffee cup.

  “Lucy?”

  She glanced at him.

  “Even though it’s popular, Club 10 is in the center of six blocks of bad streets,” Cody said. “There’s a mugging practically every night. Even two homicides just last month. They found drugs on him—I haven’t seen the lab reports, but maybe he was trying to score, and it went south. Do you know how many drug-related murders we have in D.C.?”

  “I know, but—” She sighed. Maybe Cody was right. There was a logical explanation.

  “Would you feel better if I looked into it?”

  She nodded. “I’d appreciate it.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to know why he was at that bar. Why he stood Tanya up. If I tipped him off, I need to know how I did it. I went over every chat transcript with him last night—I don’t see it.”

  “Send them to me. I’ll take a look. And maybe it wasn’t you—he could have spotted me.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Even if you just find out he goes there all the time—that’s good enough for me. Or if he got a better offer. Whatever, there’s a reason, and I need to know.”

  “Your curiosity will make you a great FBI agent.”

  She smiled. “I still haven’t heard back about my interview.”

  “You will. You know how slow those bureaucrats can be.” He reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’ll see what I can find out about Prenter’s death, and I’ll bet there’s a logical explanation as to why he bailed on ‘Tanya’ and went to Club 10.”

  Robbie “RNR” Ralston lived in a third-floor flat of a tiny row house in a decrepit area on the edge of the D.C. limits. Sean rapped on the door, then stepped back, listening for movement inside. He heard nothing, but something felt strange. He shivered. He squatted in front of the door and pressed his fingers to the crack between the door and the floor. The air was ice cold—colder than it should be even if the guy was keeping his heat low to save on the bill. In this cold spell, even with blue skies, if Ralston had turned off his heat, he probably hadn’t been home for quite a while.

  Sean considered trying to find someone to let him in. He could talk himself in and out of nearly any situation, but a rental property this small probably didn’t have an on-site manager and he didn’t want to prolong the situation. He pulled out his lock pick and popped the old lock in seconds.

  As soon as he slipped in and closed the door behind him he knew exactly why the apartment was so cold—every window had been cracked open an inch. He pulled his gun, though he suspected that if anyone was in this apartment, he was dead.

  The front room was cluttered but neat. However, the computer on a small desk against the far wall had been smashed. The hard drive had been removed; the shell of the CPU was open and exposed. There were only two rooms in the apartment, and Sean found Ralston, long dead, on the bedroom floor, shot in the back of the head. On the bed was a half-packed suitcase.

  “Fuck,” Sean muttered. He pulled out his phone and stared at it. He considered, just for a second, calling the D.C. police, coming up with a plausible excuse for his presence. But that would prolong the inevitable. Ralston was connected to Morton, which made this murder likely connected to Morton. Which made this murder connected to Lucy.

  The apartment had been kept cold to slow the rate of decomposition and minimize the smell to avoid quick discovery. Why? To avoid connecting this murder with Morton’s?

  He dialed Kate Donovan. “It’s Sean Rogan. I would have called the cavalry, but I don’t know who’s in charge of Morton’s murder investigation.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I was doing my own side investigation and came across an associate of Morton’s. He’s dead.” Sean glanced at the body. “A very cold stiff.”

  FOURTEEN

  Noah had spent more time than he’d planned at Quantico talking to Kate and the cybercrimes task force about the files they’d recovered from Morton’s computer. That had been followed by a conference-call briefing with Hans Vigo and Rick Stockton. When he finally broke away well after the lunch hour, Abigail had a sandwich waiting for him, which he ate during their drive to the Triple Tree Motel near Dulles Airport.

  The manager, Paul Grunelli, was a scrawny guy in his fifties with stringy, thinning gray hair and the aroma of a heavy smoker. He looked up from his television when Noah and Abigail entered the motel’s small, dingy office.

  “Room?” he asked.

  Noah flashed his badge. “Questions.”

  Grunelli turned back to the television with a shrug. “Ask.”

  “Turn the TV off, please, Mr. Grunelli,” Abigail said.

  “I don’t want to miss—”

  “We can ask the questions in the quiet interview room of FBI headquarters, if you’d prefer,” Noah said.

  “Fuck,” Grunelli mumbled, but he turned off the television. “What?”

  Abigail slid a picture of Morton across the counter. “This man registered early in the morning on January sixth, according to your logs. He paid for three days in cash up front, used the name Cliff Skinner. Do you remember him?”

  Grunelli shrugged.

  “He never checked out,” Noah added.

  “Oh, him.” He narrowed his
eyes at them. “Weren’t one of your people here yesterday picking up his crap from the room?”

  “That would be me,” Abigail said. “But your relief manager hadn’t actually seen Mr. Morton, said you’d checked him in and had been working that weekend. He was in room 103—you can see it from your chair there.”

  “If the blinds are open,” Grunelli added.

  Noah didn’t have patience for the back-and-forth with a jerk like Grunelli. “Morton was killed in Alexandria less than two days after he checked in. We’re retracing his steps. When did you see him?”

  “Dead, eh? Well—he checked in at eight-something on Thursday, which I noted in the log. And he was gone most of the day after that. Came back that night, then left again Friday morning. Didn’t see him after that.”

  “How did he get here? Taxi?”

  Grunelli shook his head. “Car.”

  “Rental?” They hadn’t heard back from the rental companies yet.

  “Probably, I didn’t check.”

  “Did you write down the plates?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, many motels do it for security, so only guests park in their lot.”

  Grunelli barked out a laugh. “Like I have that problem. Don’t know the plates, can’t tell you the make. It was white, that’s all I remember. Foreign sedan-type. Like a Toyota Corolla or Honda or something.”

  Noah made a note to stop at Dulles, the most likely place that Morton had rented a car. The analysts had looked for a rental, but if Morton used a name other than his own or Cliff Skinner, they might not have tracked it down yet. Sometimes face-to-face interviews could yield better information, faster.

  “And the last time you saw Morton was when he drove away on Friday morning. What time?”

  “Before lunch. I don’t know when. He’d paid up; I didn’t think much about him until he didn’t check out on Sunday. By three, I had to haul my ass to his room. He wasn’t there. I boxed his stuff and that was it.”

  “Did Morton have any visitors while he was here?”

  “No.” Grunelli frowned and looked down.

  “Do you remember something?” Abigail asked.

  “The car. I thought I saw his car in the lot early Saturday morning. I mean, real early, like two or three. I was outside having a smoke, upstairs on my deck—the owner gets all anal about me smoking inside. It was fucking cold, but I couldn’t sleep. And I saw the car. I hadn’t heard it come in, so I was like just watching and smoking and this guy left room 103.”

  “Morton?”

  “No. Another guy. Not as big as Morton. Different shape, but I couldn’t tell you if he was taller or shorter or whatever. It was dark. I just knew it wasn’t the guy who rented the room, and he got into the white car and drove off. That was the last time I saw the car.”

  “And you weren’t suspicious?”

  “Hell no. The guests here have people come and go all the time. As long as they’re not loud or fighting, they mind their business and I mind my business.”

  “And you’re certain it was the same car?”

  He shrugged. “No, but I don’t get many people driving brand-new cars into this place, unless it’s a rental, and most of the guests here don’t drive rentals, either.”

  When they stepped out of Grunelli’s squalid office, Noah said to Abigail, “Contact Vigo and get an administrative warrant in the works for the rental agencies. Once we ID the company, we’ll want all the logs and GPS tracking, if they have it.”

  “Most do these days.”

  “It should be pretty straightforward.” Noah pulled out his phone. It had vibrated several times during his conversation with Grunelli.

  “Donovan has been ringing me.” He called Kate right back. “It’s Noah.”

  “Robbie Ralston, one of Morton’s closest associates from the old days, is dead.”

  “Ralston?” Noah didn’t remember the name.

  “He was a low-level pimp, but provided a steady stream of girls for Trask and Morton back when Trask Enterprises was mostly legal. I ran him while waiting for you to call me back. He served a few years in prison, was on disability, and get this—he had a ticket bought and paid for to Miami last Sunday.”

  Noah was confused. “He was killed in Miami?”

  “No, he was killed in his apartment. He never made the flight.”

  “Send me the information—I’ll head over there immediately. Who’s on scene?”

  “No one yet. I have an ERT unit standing by.”

  “Why didn’t you call the local police?”

  “Sean Rogan found the body.”

  Rogan? “What?”

  He must have sounded as pissed off as he felt, because Kate quickly said, “Talk to him. He called me because he didn’t have your number.” She paused, then said, “Sean’s looking into Morton’s past because my family asked him to.”

  “And you knew?”

  “I just found out. After all, Patrick is his partner, and Patrick is out of town and worried about the situation. Sean called me as soon as he found the body. He’s not screwing around.”

  A Rogan in the middle of his investigation was not what Noah wanted.

  “Noah?”

  “Where’s Rogan now?”

  “At the scene.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Sean stood outside Ralston’s building while the FBI’s Evidence Response Team did their forensic work upstairs. He supposed he had Kate to thank that he wasn’t officially detained, but while he waited for Agent Noah Armstrong to arrive he called Jayne instructing her to dig deeper into Ralston and Morton’s history, focusing on shared connections. Clearly, Ralston’s murder was no coincidence.

  Why had Sergey Yuran sent him here? Did the Russian trafficker know that Ralston was dead? Had he killed him when the deal into the online sex trade went south? It didn’t seem to be up Yuran’s alley—he was ruthless, but this wasn’t his M.O.—and the smashed computer was a sign that Ralston had information that the killer didn’t want getting out.

  Or was there something more here? Who else had Ralston talked to about Morton’s deal? And who ultimately bought into the scheme? Had Morton and Ralston cut out an unknown partner? Taken the money and run? Ralston had the suitcase, Morton had violated his probation—there was something just out of reach. He needed more information. But there was no doubt in his mind that Morton and Ralston’s murders were connected. He’d inspected the body and the guy had been dead for several days. The cold apartment slowed decomp, but Sean knew enough about forensics that the coroner could account for ambient temperature and give a good range for time of death.

  An elderly black woman with a small Pomeranian in her purse and a canvas grocery bag over her shoulder turned the corner and walked slowly down the damp sidewalk toward Sean. He covered the distance quickly and said, “Let me help.”

  She smiled, revealing perfect teeth that didn’t quite look real. “Thank you, young man.” She handed him her grocery bag.

  Sean put his hand on her elbow. “Where are you going?”

  She gestured toward Ralston’s building. “The first-floor apartment on the right.”

  The entrance was only about 150 feet away, but it took several minutes to reach the front stoop. The little dog stared at Sean but didn’t bark. “Cute dog.” Not his type of pet, but he figured the woman was a possible witness.

  “She’s a little bitch, but I like her.”

  Sean suppressed a grin.

  The woman glanced at him as she climbed the front step. “You’re not from here.”

  “No. There was a homicide upstairs.”

  She shook her head and sighed. “I’m not surprised. Two B or Three D?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Three D.”

  “Robbie. I hadn’t seen him this week.”

  “Did you know he was planning a trip?”

  “He don’t like me.”

  “Why not? He must not have been friendly.”

  “He do
n’t like blacks. He tolerated me. I own this building.” She winked, then took another step and leaned against Sean. Her hand was tight with arthritis.

  “Doesn’t the grocery deliver?”

  She laughed. “Here? Naw. I go out once a week, and my granddaughter comes by every Wednesday to take me to bingo and brings my medicine and groceries. But sometimes I need a few other things. Look in the bag.”

  Sean did. There was a fifth of Scotch—good stuff, too, not the cheap rotgut—and a pack of Marlboro Lights, along with a small steak.

  “Missy won’t buy me liquor.” She shook her head in disgust. “It’s not like I’m an alcoholic—one shot a night. And she won’t buy me steak, neither. Says it’s not good for my arteries. And don’t get me started on the cigarettes. I’m eighty-nine years old, dammit, and I don’t much care if I see ninety. I don’t think one damn cigarette a day is going to kill me.”

  “I’m Sean Rogan,” he said as he helped her onto the final step. “I’m a private investigator, and very pleased to meet you, Mrs.—”

  “Tessie. Call me Tessie, everyone does. You have questions about Robbie?”

  “I do, in fact.”

  He held open the door that led to the small lobby of the row house. She walked to the door with 1A painted in white.

  “Who’s upstairs? I didn’t see any police cars.”

  “The FBI.”

  She turned and craned her neck up to look at him, eyes wide. “The FBI? Well, Robbie did get himself into a little situation, didn’t he? Was he playing both sides?”

  “Both sides?”

  Tessie laughed. “He was an informant, you know. Used to be, anyhow. Come on in, I’ll tell you all about him. Did you know he used to be a pimp? Yep, I’ve lived here forty-six years, Robbie moved in—oh, nineteen ninety-three. Four? Was in prison once, but paid his rent so I aired out his place once a week.”

  “He paid his rent from prison?”

  She shrugged. “His cop did.”

  His cop. Sean was very interested in who this cop was, and what kind of information Ralston gave him that paid the rent on a place for however many months Ralston was in prison.

  Tessie continued as she pushed open the door. “He’d get drunk and blah blah blah. Didn’t know what to believe, but after a while I learned to tell his bullshit from the truth.”