Fatal Secrets (8 page)

“As good as can be expected,” Marianne replied. “He’s worried about his sister, of course, but he’s eating well and seems to enjoy going to the park. And before you say it, yes, we’re keeping a close eye on him.”

“I know,” Sonia said.

The back door opened and Owen and Andres walked in, all smiles, with balls and bat and a large German shepherd who bounded over to Sonia when he saw her, and sat at attention, his tail barely restrained. She scratched the former police dog between the ears. “Hey, Sarge, I missed you, too.”

Andres’s smile faltered when he saw Sonia, and she felt awful that he expected bad news from her. “Hi, Andres,” she said in Spanish with a smile. “I hear you’re the next Jose Canseco.”

He beamed nervously, glancing up at Owen. After family, Owen’s next love was baseball.

“I have tickets to the Giants game tomorrow,” Owen said, “and I’d like to take Andres if it’s okay.”

“Sure,” Sonia said. “It sounds like fun.”

“You can come?” Andres asked hopefully.

She shook her head. “Sorry, I have to work.”

“I have the day off,” Riley said. “I’ll go.”

Andres smiled.

Sonia glanced at Riley, but said nothing. She knew he didn’t have the day off—he worked Monday through Friday—but their parents didn’t seem to catch on and Riley subtly shook his head at her.

“Andres, I have a couple questions for you.”

“Wash up,” Marianne interrupted, pointing them to the sink. “Lunch is ready.”

Sonia glanced at her watch. Marianne handed her a paper bag. “You can eat in the car, dear.”

She kissed her mother’s cheek and took the bag. “Thanks, Mom.”

When Andres sat down, Sonia said, “Andres, when you left the garage where you had been held, you said that a man left the door unbolted and told you to run when he walked away.”

Andres nodded, his brown eyes troubled.

Sonia took a picture out of the folder she’d brought with her. “Is this the man?”

Andres looked at the photograph of Charlie Cammarata.
Riley tensed beside her. Sonia hadn’t told her parents about her history with Charlie, but she kept few secrets from her brother.

“Si,”
he said. “He said run.”

Sonia’s chest tightened. Charlie was in the middle of a dangerous game. “Thank you.” Her voice was clipped as she forced a half-smile. She had to find Charlie and talk to him. Something big was going on, otherwise he wouldn’t have sidled up to a known trafficker like Xavier Jones. Charlie would have been more likely to assassinate Jones than go undercover and work for him simply to gather information.

And, Sonia reminded herself, Charlie was no longer in law enforcement. But that didn’t mean that an agency wouldn’t hire him freelance, even though he was a volatile maverick.

“I need to go,” she said, standing.

“I’ll walk you out,” Riley said.

She wished she could avoid her brother, at least until she had more information, but he’d hound her until she talked.

She grabbed her lunch and kissed Andres on the head. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun at the ball game.”

Before the front door shut, Riley asked, “What’s that bastard Cammarata doing here?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“Dammit, I don’t like this. He almost got you killed, Sonia, because he was a selfish, conniving rogue agent. And he was the one who freed Andres? What about his sister? Did he sell her? So he could track down her buyer?”

Sonia had always been quick to temper, and her
brother set her off worse than anyone. “That’s not fair,” she said. “Don’t you dare bring that up—”

“It’s true. He used you, Sonia. And you nearly died. Cammarata should have been put in
prison
, not just lost his badge.”

“Charlie snapped, but he was a damn good agent for a long time.”

“Don’t you defend him!”

“I’m not. I’m the one who turned him in!”

“And you’ve felt guilty about it ever since.”

“If the situation was reversed, wouldn’t you? The blue code is just as real to federal cops as it is to you. So don’t tell me you wouldn’t feel exactly like I did when I testified against Charlie, and don’t talk about him like he was a criminal. He made a mistake—”

“He made
a lot
of mistakes.” Riley ran both hands through his disheveled hair. “Sonia, I’m sorry, but I love you and I hate what he put you through.”

“I’m okay.”

Riley put his hands on her shoulders and looked hard at her. “Are you?”

“Yes
. I’m fine. I can handle Charlie. But I’ll admit this situation has me confused. My boss is trying to find out if Charlie is working undercover—freelance, maybe—for another agency. The FBI is after Jones for money laundering. There’s no trail on where Maya was taken. I’m at the end of my rope and am going to be late for a meeting with the FBI white-collar crimes unit to share notes on Jones. And to be honest, I don’t know what else to do but go along with them.”

“You can use what they have as leverage, get the information you need.”

“Absolutely. The thing is, I don’t think they have anything
solid, either. I think they have what I have: circumstantial evidence that is pointing to Jones, but with no hard facts to haul his ass into an interrogation room. But with Charlie inside—”

“Who would bring him on? No one trusts him.”

Sonia straightened. “That’s it.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“No one trusts him, but when you’re desperate you will do anything.”

“Still lost over here.”

“I know who hired him. Or rather, not who but why.”

“This dumb cop is still in the dark,” Riley said, irritated.

Sonia rolled her eyes at him. “Think about it. Charlie is a renegade, but he’s shared key information with ICE when he has it. He’s still involved, but in the private sector.”

“Who would hire him?”

“Someone desperate.”

“Who’s desperate enough to hire a volatile, disgraced cop who
might
share information when he feels like it?”

Sonia cringed. Riley was dead-on. Charlie only tossed them intel when he couldn’t do anything with it. But sometimes, law enforcement’s hands were tied and Sonia didn’t blame private citizens from doing everything in their power to find missing loved ones who all too often disappeared outside U.S. borders.

She said, “The last time he contacted me was four years ago. He gave me information about three college girls who’d gone missing during spring break. He’d been hired by one of the girls’ parents. If you’re desperate enough, you’ll do anything to find out what happened to your child.”

Riley’s voice softened. “I remember. They were found dead.”

She nodded. “But he had information about the trafficking ring that abducted them, and we were able to put together an international task force and take down several of the key players. I’ve heard through the grapevine he’s been taking cases like that for years.”

“And you think this is one of those?”

“It makes sense. And I know exactly who to call.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“Kane Rogan.” She pulled out her cell phone.

“I thought Rogan hated him as much as I do.”

“Maybe, but they were Marines together and Rogan has been known to take similar assignments. Maybe he’s familiar with whatever Charlie is working on. If not, he has enough contacts to find out.”

Promptly at noon, Xavier Jones walked through the entrance of Chops, a downtown Sacramento restaurant popular with the legislative and lobbyist crowd. Dean and Sam had used their badges to get a good table in the corner with a view of the entrance and most of the restaurant.

Jones entered alone, but he walked over to a booth in the back room where two men had been seated only a few minutes before. Once he sat down, Dean could no longer see him.

“Did you get a picture of those men?” Dean asked Sam, who’d been taking digital photos of everyone who entered the restaurant since they’d arrived.

“Yeah,” Sam said, flipping through the images on his camera. He turned the small screen toward Dean.

“Clear. Great.” The waitress came by with their order. “Can you box this up for us?” Dean asked. “We’re going to talk to someone in the back and we’ll pick it up on our way out.” He handed her his credit card.

They walked into the back room and approached the booth. Though Jones obviously recognized them, Dean still took out his badge and held it up—more to piss Jones off than because he needed to identify himself to the men sitting across from him. “Assistant Director
Dean Hooper, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said formally. “I just need to follow up with Mr. Jones, if you don’t mind.”

The only sign that Jones was more than a little irritated was a vein throbbing on the side of his neck, and a jaw clenched so tightly that Dean expected to hear his teeth grind.

“This can wait,” Jones told Dean. “You have no right following me.”

“I didn’t follow you. Agent Callahan and I were having lunch and saw you walk in. It saves me another trip to your residence. But I’ll come out this afternoon if that’s better for you.”

One of the two men said as he stood, “We’ll give you a minute, Xavier—”

“No,” Jones commanded. “Sit down.”

It was an order, and the man sat. Interesting, Dean thought. What businessman would talk to his clients like that?

“Agent Hooper, I know exactly what you’re trying to do, and it’s not working. You have nothing and you’ll find nothing because there is nothing. This is a complete waste of taxpayer money, and your boss will realize that sooner rather than later. I don’t have to talk to you. Leave, or I’ll call the police, have you removed, and sue you for harassment.”

“That sounds like fun,” Dean said. “I haven’t had a chance to meet any local police.” He slid into the seat next to Jones. “And you are?” he asked the men across from Jones.

“Don’t answer,” Jones said.

“I’m just making conversation, Xavier,” Dean said.

Jones leaned over and said in a voice so low that Dean
was certain no one but him heard the threat. “You do not want to make me angry.”

Dean whispered, “Yes, I do. I’m closer than you think.”

Certain he got his message through to Jones, Dean stood and smiled humorlessly at the men. “Enjoy your lunch.”

As he and Sam were walking away, a fourth man approached the table. “What’s going on?” Dean heard the stranger say.

“Shut up and sit down,” Jones growled.

Dean whispered to Sam, “Get his picture.”

“Already done, boss.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“That was impressive,” Sam said quietly. “I’m learning more from you than I did at Quantico.”

“Sometimes, you learn more by playing up to the stereotype.”

At the reception desk Dean signed his credit slip and grabbed their lunch. Sam said, “Well, that was a ballsy move. If Jones is half as dangerous as Sonia Knight thinks he is, you’d better watch your back.”

“I hope he goes for me. It’ll be easier to put him in prison.”

They stepped out of the restaurant into the dry Sacramento heat. “Not if you’re dead,” said Sam.

Sonia was halfway to FBI headquarters when her cell phone rang. She grabbed it, hoping it was Kane Rogan. But it was Grace Young, her administrative assistant.

“Hey Grace, I’m on my way to FBI headquarters. Are they already calling? I’m only a few minutes late.”

“The FBI hasn’t called, but Simone Charles from the
Sacramento Police Department is on the phone and says it’s urgent.”

Sonia frowned as she maneuvered her car through lunch-hour traffic. “I don’t know her. What’s it about?”

“She didn’t say, but asked for you specifically. I tried to put her off, but she’s stubborn, said she was at the hospital. I didn’t know if it was about your brother, the cop—”

Sonia’s stomach flipped, but she’d just left Riley at her parent’s house and he was fine. “No, I just saw him. I’ll talk to her. Patch her through.”

When Sonia heard the
click-click
of the transfer, she said, “This is Sonia Knight.”

“Agent Knight, I’m Simone Charles, supervisor with the forensic investigation division of SPD. I have a rape victim here at Sutter who I think you’re going to want to see.”

“How’d you get my name and number?”

“A memo you issued a couple years ago on criminal tattoos.”

Sonia remembered the memo. She’d sent it out three years ago, when she was first promoted to SSA of the Sacramento field office after raiding a brothel near the Oregon border. It had been full of illegal Russian women who’d been branded with an ownership tattoo. She compiled a list of all known tattoos and sent an extensive memo to local and federal law enforcement about what to look for on both victims and suspects. She’d received only a few calls over the years, but this was the first in her jurisdiction. And the first about a victim.

“You said a rape victim?”

“Yes. I heard you work exclusively on human trafficking cases, but the tattoo is a close match to one of the descriptions
on the memo. My Jane Doe is Caucasian, blond, blue eyes. I don’t know where she’s from. I’d think she was a runaway or something, except for the tats.”

“Russian?”

“Doesn’t have the bone structure, but maybe she’s part Russian or European. Frankly, she looks like the girl-next-door type. At least, that’s how I’d imagine she’d look if not for the blood and bruises and broken nose and cracked ribs.”

“Where’d you find her?”

“On the bank of the Sacramento River near Discovery Park. A fisherman found her early this morning, naked and half submerged. He thought she was dead, didn’t approach, and called nine-one-one. When the emergency crew arrived, they discovered she was breathing and rushed her to Sutter Hospital. I just finished taking the rape kit and collecting trace evidence. She’s in bad shape, and the doctor isn’t optimistic about her chances.”

“Is she conscious?”

“No, hasn’t been since she was found.”

“What does her tat look like?”

“Four stars on her upper left bicep, then a number: D1045. Does that mean anything?”

“I haven’t seen those numbers before, but the stars? Yeah. They mean something.” Sonia unconsciously flinched, as if she’d been poked with a sharp needle. “I’ll be right there.”