Mortal Sin (11 page)

She couldn’t finish her sandwich, her stomach still uneasy, so she walked the short block to WCF. Though the sun was peeking out between clouds, it was still cold, and she pulled her coat tight around her.

When she stepped into the WCF building, she was surprised that the place wasn’t packed. Fran was in the conference
room by herself, checking the fund-raiser name tags against her master list.

“Where is everyone?” Lucy asked.

“I had lunch brought in and we finished everything we needed to, and since they’re all working on Saturday, I gave them the afternoon off.”

“You’re really done?”

“Just last minute details left. I’m triple-checking the guest list. The last thing I need is a major donor with a misspelling.”

Lucy tried not to show her relief.

Fran looked up from the list and frowned. “You look tired.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” Lucy considered telling Fran about Roger Morton. Fran knew about her past, and was one of only a few who Lucy could talk to about what happened. Fran was one of the most steadfast, loyal people Lucy knew—and she didn’t treat Lucy like a victim. If anything, she pushed her harder, knowing that hard work gave Lucy intense pride.

But with the fund-raiser on Fran’s mind, Lucy decided to wait until next week. Morton would still be dead, and maybe a few days was what Lucy needed to redistance herself from her past. Right now, it felt too raw, too real—and she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

She was already embarrassed about crying all over Sean Rogan last night. Except … she wasn’t. He hadn’t talked much, but what he did say had calmed her. Then, he’d stood up to Kate when she tried to bully him into letting her take Lucy home. He’d agreed that Lucy needed an attorney before talking to the FBI, but he’d also said he trusted her to make the right choice for herself. That kind of support—that deep faith in her
decisions—was surprising, especially from someone she hadn’t known for long. In the month she’d known Sean, he’d been more fun than serious, but last night she’d seen another side of him.

“I didn’t hear from Cody,” Lucy said instead, taking the name tags that Fran had verified and sorting them into alphabetical order. “Did Prenter go up in front of a judge this morning? Did they send him back to Hagerstown?”

Fran stopped her chore and frowned at Lucy. “I thought Cody would have told you—Prenter didn’t show.”

“He didn’t?”

“He could have suspected a setup. Sex predators have a sixth sense about cops. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last. But we have far more successes than most organizations doing what we do.”

“But Prenter believed me.”

“Maybe he pegged Cody. Lorenzo looks like a cop.”

“But Cody’s done this dozens of times! He knows the drill. And if Prenter had pegged either me or Cody, he would have contacted ‘Tanya’ to gloat or taunt or threaten. He wouldn’t just be quiet about it. It’s not in his personality—his mouth got him in big trouble at the trial.”

“Lucy, just because you have a psychology degree doesn’t make you a criminal psychiatrist,” Fran said. Lucy blinked, surprised by Fran’s comment. Fran immediately backtracked. “I didn’t mean that to sound so harsh. You know I think your predator tracking program is the best I’ve seen—it’s going to give law enforcement amazing tools to find these guys when they go to
ground. It’s just—I don’t have to explain to you the difference between online communication, where comments can be considered before typed, and face-to-face conversation. These guys are good at hiding their true identity. So maybe you’re right and Prenter would have taunted you if he ID’d Cody as a cop. Or maybe you’re wrong and Prenter wants to disappear and not do anything to get himself tossed back into prison. Maybe his car got a flat tire. For one reason or another, he didn’t show.”

“You’re right. Maybe I should reach out.”

“I don’t think that’s a wise idea. If he does suspect you’re a cop or working with the cops, he could get violent.”

“He doesn’t know who I really am.”

“True, but if he sets up another meet, he may ambush our volunteer cops. If he contacts you, go ahead, keep it going. But don’t initiate contact, okay?”

Lucy reluctantly agreed. She didn’t like being so passive and reactionary.

“I have good news—you remember that case you worked a few months ago? The seven-year-old girl who was exploited by her father on the Internet?”

“In Atlanta? I’ll never forget.”

“He pled out yesterday when confronted with additional evidence the FBI found on his computer and the medical evidence of abuse. Eighteen years.”

“That’s terrific. Did they find her mother?”

“Sadly, no. She’d been a drug addict for years—she could be dead, or she could be so strung out she doesn’t know her name. But they did find her maternal grandmother, who’s overjoyed to take custody of the girl.”

The child would need counseling and love, but Lucy
was confident that with enough of both, and a strong will, she would survive and lead a normal, happy life.

Normal
. Was anyone who’d been abused considered normal? Victims never truly forgot their abuse. But they could develop strategies to live with it, to tolerate the pain and the memories—never easy, but essential if any of them were to find even a modicum of peace in the future.

Fran gave Lucy a spontaneous hug. “We need to celebrate our victories. If Prenter contacts you, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? Go home and rest.”

“I will. Thanks.” Lucy gathered her bag. She glanced out the window and noticed the sun was gone and a chill wind tore down the street. She was so tired and drained from her near-sleepless night, she decided to grab a taxi.

The fucking bitch hails a taxi
.

I watch Lucy open the rear door. She pauses and looks across the street, right at me. She doesn’t see me; I am in the deli—the same deli she ate at earlier this afternoon
.

That ignorance angers me, yet somehow I am thrilled. I cannot explain the exhilaration rising in my chest. I despise being ignored, yet she doesn’t truly ignore me, does she?

I know Lucy Kincaid. I know where she lives. I know where she works, where she gets her coffee, where her brother lives, where she runs in the park
.

She gets into the taxi and it drives off. Taking her home? Taking her to dinner? I do not know, but I am patient
.

Her family makes me nervous. A brother who is a private
investigator. A sister-in-law who is an FBI agent. This is why I am cautious—I cannot afford to make a mistake
.

Should I walk away and wash my hands of Lucy Kincaid? I could easily kill her and run, but would they hunt me down? Her family? The organization she works for? Can I defeat them? I want to believe I can, but I’m not an idiot
.

I am patient, but my time is valuable. I keep a log of the time she has cost me. That time will be repaid
.

No one understands the concept of time as I do. I sleep exactly six hours every night. No more, no less. I exercise for twenty-two minutes each morning, followed by four minutes in the shower. And while I understand the need for flexibility, if I am not disciplined, how can I expect my females to be disciplined?

I am the keeper of truth, and I will not forget her betrayal. I will forget no betrayals. They will all be disciplined in turn. They will all be nothing, not even a speck of DNA. Which seems appropriate since they are merely females; worse, females who do not obey
.

But Lucy Kincaid is by far the most disobedient woman I have come across. I need to act wisely or else I should disappear
.

But walking away from her is not an option. What kind of man would I be if a female scared me off?

I consider my options. I can take her almost anytime I want. I let two good opportunities pass me by because I do not want to be hasty. Rash action leads to mistakes, and because of her family, I cannot afford to err. I need a plan
.

No woman will defeat me
. She
started this game. She
is the mightier-than-thou female who does not know her proper place
.

I do not fear Lucy Kincaid. She is no threat. The men in her life are potential threats, but by the time they figure it out, if they can, I will be gone
.

This situation presents a certain challenge
.

I exit the deli and walk to my car. Ideas flood my brain: how and when to take her. I must have as much time with her as possible to teach her. All the time she has cost me will be repaid with her obedience, or it will be repaid with blood
.

There was a time when Sean could have gone either way—become a criminal mastermind or choose the law-abiding road. If he’d ever doubted that staying more or less on the side of the law was the right choice, he didn’t now.

Sean drove to the east side, the most depressed part of D.C., with his notes on known Morton and Scott associates who lived in the greater D.C. area. Their criminal enterprise had lasted nearly two decades, and while several of their associates were dead or in prison—and a few appeared to have cleaned up their act—most were still criminals ranging from petty to Mafia.

He had time to hit at least one today. Because she was the easiest to track down, he chose the lone female on the list.

Former prostitute Melinda Winslow had been released from prison six months ago after serving three years for possession of heroin with the intent to sell. It was her fourth conviction in eleven years. According to the information Jayne sent to Sean, she’d been a regular “star” at Trask Enterprises. When Trask closed up after Scott and Morton went underground following the murder of federal agent Paige Henshaw—Kate Donovan’s
partner—Winslow lost control of her addiction and had spiraled farther downward.

When she answered the door of her hovel, Sean nearly left, certain he had the wrong person. Melinda Winslow was thirty-six; this woman looked fifty on a good day.

It was not a good day. If drugs didn’t kill you outright, they certainly sucked the life out of you.

“Well, fuck me, you pricks can waltz in here whenever you fucking please? Pig.”

“Hello, Ms. Winslow,” Sean said, mildly amused. “I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Like I can? Last time one of you tossed me back in jail because I wouldn’t give you a blow job, and fuck that.”

She thought he was a cop, and Sean did nothing to dissuade her. He didn’t always see eye-to-eye with law enforcement. Some cops were just fine; others were too black-and-white for his taste. And some were, as Ms. Winslow so ungraciously stated, simply pricks.

“I don’t want to see you back in jail.”

She snorted, then rubbed her wet nose with the back of her hand. Sean wouldn’t be touching her or anything in her filthy apartment.

“I have only a couple questions, like I said. May I?”

“Like you need to ask.” She flung the door open, knocking a teetering stack of yellowed tabloid newspapers off a sagging bookshelf. She didn’t seem to notice, stepping over the fallen rags.

Sean stepped in, keeping his hands to himself. “You had a business relationship eleven years ago with two men—Adam Scott, also known as ‘Trask,’ and Roger Morton.”

At the mention of the names, her pasty face paled even
more, then she thrust her chin out. “I haven’t seen them. Trask is dead, I heard. Roger in prison. I wouldn’t talk to him if he were the last john on the planet.”

“You were an employee of Trask Enterprises, correct?”

She cackled. “
Employee
. You know what I was. They paid me for sex tapes. It was legal, all legal—at least on my end it was.”

Sean highly doubted she reported her income to the Internal Revenue Service, but he didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t know what they were doing on the side. I fucking swear to God.”

“You associated with them for how long?”

“A few months. And then—a few times here and there when I needed the money. They paid more for hard-core action. But—shit, Trask nearly killed me once while getting off. Roger gave me two g’s to keep silent. Told me I was lucky I wasn’t dead, and not to come back or call. I didn’t. That was years ago. I went to jail after that, in Minnesota, for drugs. Cleaned myself up.” She nodded in pride. Sean noted the plethora of empty wine jugs around the apartment, and the stale smell of human body odor and spilled alcohol. Maybe she didn’t shoot heroin anymore, but she was still slowly killing herself.

“Did Roger contact you within the last six months?” he asked.

“No. And if he tried, I’d tell him to go to Hell.” She glared at Sean. “I thought he was in prison.”

“Yes, ma’am, he was. He was released on probation in July.”

She laughed, a hearty laugh, and Sean saw for a brief moment that she had once been a beautiful woman. “Probation? After the shit he did? I got three fucking
years for drug possession, and he got what? Five? Ten? For prostitution, murder, drugs, and fuck knows what else.”

She pulled down the collar of her T-shirt, revealing her neck. “See this scar?”

Sean saw a two-inch scar at the base of her throat. His jaw tightened as his protective instincts surged.

“Roger did that to you?”

She shook her head and let go of her collar. “Trask. I thought I was dead. But Roger watched and then later he paid me. I heard they made a fortune on that tape of Trask fucking me. Roger did everything for that bastard. We all knew Trask was a psycho, and Roger covered for him. So why’d he get out?”

“Because the justice system is fucked.”

Sean dropped fifty dollars on her sofa and left, unable to stay another minute.

To say what happened with Morton was due to a messed-up justice system was the world’s greatest understatement. Winslow wasn’t a saint, but no one deserved to be treated as she had been, nearly killed in such a vicious manner. Adam Scott was the psychopath, but Morton had watched from the sidelines, helped clean up Scott’s messes, kept the damn trains running on time.

Sean slid into his black GT, shooting a glance at the teenage boys eyeing his ride. They didn’t bother him, and a glance in the rearview mirror showed him why. He looked ready for a fight.