Now You See It (24 page)

Gemma watched as he scrolled down the columns.

Brady gave a low whistle. “There are some really heavy players on this list. CEOs, political movers, a couple of philanthropists. Jesus! A bishop. Most of the names I don’t recognize, but they were able to pay heavy chunks of—I’m guessing cash—for sex games.”

“Blackmail?”

“Best guess, this file was for insurance. I could be wrong, but that would make a lot of sense, with everything that’s happened. I doubt anything here would stand up in court. He calls it a ‘catering service,’ but I’m betting it’s prostitution. From the size of some of these amounts, maybe he was wholesaling.”

“Where did you find it?”

“In
MYST
. It was pretty clever, really. He just changed the extension on some of the files from .txt to .wks and put his own stuff in there.” He opened another file. “Oops!”

“What’s that?”

“More pictures.”

Gemma made a face. “Can we just skip those?”

“No problem. Here’s another text file.” Brady scanned the lines quickly. “We’ve got everything here except his partner’s name. It’s clear there was someone else on his level, and he talks about somebody named ‘Dave.” He looked over at Gemma, but she shook her head. “Gotta be an alias.”

“‘On his level?’ You think there were more people involved?” she said and moved closer.

“Oh, yeah. Somebody higher up, maybe several somebodies, in the shadows, pulling strings and fronting the money—collecting a good chunk of it, too, I’ll bet. Ned and this ‘Dave’ guy were more or less middlemen. My guess is they found the clients, delivered the merchandise, accepted payment. They were the only ones the customers saw, so the big boys were safe.”

“So, who killed Ned?”

“Could be it really was a relative of one of the women. They weren’t all sold into prostitution or sex slavery or whatever. Obviously some were just used by the ‘catering service’ and then either bought their way out, or escaped, or something.”

“But in the pictures—turn back to that, will you?”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. It’s just—Ned looks like he’s really enjoying himself.”

Brady raised his eyebrows and cut his eyes toward her. “Sorry, Gemma, but what’s not to enjoy?”

“But—help me with this. He’s supposed to be a supplier, right? Not a customer?”

“Probably. Yeah.”

“So what if somebody who’s supposed to be a supplier gets too involved with the women, the merchandise? What if it starts to cut into productivity?”

“I don’t see how it could. But an addict in the organization does make the whole operation a lot riskier.”

“I wish I couldn’t believe it. Any of this. I keep wondering how I could have not known.”

“That’s the point. Sex networks are usually self-contained. They may link with other groups now and then. Maybe somebody in an S and M cluster needs a lawyer or, hell, I don’t know, a carpenter. Lots of times spouses don’t even know about it, if they don’t ‘play.’ That’s the way they phrase it. So, if your wife finds out and freaks, and there’s nobody in your group, maybe there’s a bunch of swingers in another part of town with a shrink or counselor you know will be on your side.”

“That’s scary. Sick, and scary, but there’s nothing illegal about it.”

“Nope, not a thing, as long as it’s consenting adults. But you start charging money, or using kids, or bringing in illegal aliens for sex slaves, and that kicks it up to a whole new level.”

“What are you doing?”

“Sending all these files to an off-site archiving service I use sometimes.” He touched her hair. “Then if somebody decides to torch this place, the evidence is still intact.”

Chapter Eighteen

Brady lifted Gemma’s hair off her face and kissed her. “Coffee’s made.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight a.m.”

“You should have woken me up.”

“I just did. Look, I’ve got a couple of things to tie up this morning. I’ll meet you at Ned’s apartment at—what—noon? So try for a couple more hours.” He kissed her again.

Her eyelids squinted open and quickly closed again. “Ten minutes,” she mumbled, and fell back into oblivion.

Smiling, he took a minute to watch her sleep. It still amazed him she could be so perfect. Intelligent, passionate, honest. A little hot-tempered, maybe, but with a generous spirit under all the prickle. He guessed maybe in fifty years or so, they’d run out of things to laugh about.

He took the steps down to the first level two at a time, and went quickly to the small inner room where he kept his weapons locked away. From a safe hidden behind one of several glass-fronted display cases of knives and instruments of mayhem, he took a handful of cash, tucked the Glock into the middle of his back under his waistband. He slipped a snub-nosed .38 into his ankle holster, winced when the Velcro strapping rubbed against the healing burn from the fire. He spent the next few minutes selecting an assortment of knives, a length of cord, and a set of lock picks.

Finally, he reached deep into the back of the safe and removed a small square box covered in cobalt velvet. He held it in his hand for a few seconds, breathing deeply. Then he smiled and opened the lid to reveal a pear-shaped emerald set in antique gold filigree. It had belonged to his grandmother, and to hers before her. Echoes of their personalities still resonated from the stone, and always surprised him with their warmth and power. He pictured the ring on Gemma’s hand, and it felt right, there. He closed the lid and fisted his hand tightly around the box again before slipping it into the front pocket of his chinos.

* * *

The clock read half-past nine when Gemma finally woke up. Guilt washed through her, and she barely paused to smooth out the bed on her way to the coffee pot.

A visit to her brother was first on her list of things to do this morning.

With her fingers firmly gripped around a pint of Brady’s delicious coffee, she stumbled into the bathroom. Taped to the mirror, a note in his strong, sure handwriting warmed her as she read: “Called the hospital. Mike’s okay. He woke up this morning fuzzy but conscious. See you at noon. L.B.”

As stressed and busy as he was, Brady had taken time to check on Mike and to reassure her, and to say he loved her. ‘L.B.—Love, Brady.’

She was still smiling when she headed to the hospital twenty minutes later.

Mike looked a little better. He was still so pale the freckles that usually were almost invisible stood out startlingly across this face, and his hair looked fire bright against his pallor. But the tubes were mostly gone this morning. He was breathing on his own, and watching TV. Gemma felt tears rise, but forced them back. “Hey.”

He turned his head to look at her, but didn’t smile. “Hey, Brat.” His eyes were smudged with dark bruising, and drooped at the corners, the way they always did when he was sick or unhappy.

“You had us so scared,” she said.

“Yeah. Me, too.” He unfolded his unbandaged arm and reached out to her.

She came up to the bed and took his hand, careful of the IV in his forearm. “What did the doctor say this morning?”

“Not much. I’m healing well. I’ll start physical therapy tomorrow. God, Gemma. Cinda’s funeral is Saturday. Clarissa was here to see me, see if I was all right. I can’t even imagine what she must be going through right now, but she still came here to comfort me.”

“She’s a great lady.”

“Yeah. Why’d the bastard have to shoot Cinda, of all people?”

“I don’t know. He shot you, too. Brady’s best guess is he thought he’d killed you both.”

“Yeah. I figured that.”

“But you’re a lawyer, so...”

“...so it’s understandable someone would want to kill me.” Mike gave a brief snort. “I feel like shit.”

“Want me to call someone?”

“Nah. Not pain, just, like shit. Generally.

She decided it was time to change the subject. “M-K on a break?”

“Yeah. I asked her to bring me some serious food. Think she will?”

“Did you see the size of the cop on your door?”

His expression brightened. “You should have seen him frisk Brady this morning. Jesus, that guy was loaded for bear. Damn SEAL. I think he had everything in his pockets but exploding dental floss.”

Gemma laughed.

“Cop’s a Marine, so he took it as a personal challenge to find everything.”

“Did he?”

Mike grinned. “Nope.”

“Did Brady tell you about the files?”

“Yeah. You’ve had some tough blows, kiddo.”

“I was an idiot. And I brought it on myself. Not like Clarissa. What courage she has.”

“There’s all kinds of courage, Gemma.”

The door opened to admit a nurse and a lab tech with a container of test tubes.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said brightly, “but we need a few minutes with Mr. Cavanagh.”

“I’ll be back later this afternoon,” Gemma told him.

“Where are you headed?”

“I’m treating myself to a spa day. I think I deserve it.” She looked him straight in the eyes as she spoke, and he gave her a slight smile in return. Only a faint tightening of the muscles in his eyelids told her he understood it wasn’t safe for him to talk too freely.

“Brady said something like that.”

Seeing Mary Kate sitting in the small ICU waiting area was a wonderful surprise. When Gemma stepped in, M-K stood up and opened her arms and they hugged for a long moment.

“I’m so sorry,” they both said at the same time, and smiled with tears of relief and remorse.

“Mike’s getting stuff done,” Gemma said. “We’ve got a few minutes.”

Mary Kate looked rueful. “Why does it take something like this to clear my head?”

“Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself. We’re back, and Mike’s going to be all right. That’s all that matters.”

Another quick hug, and they sat down at opposite ends of the small couch. “How’s Timmy?”

“Getting spoiled to death. He’s got his grampa hooked on playing Winnie the Pooh on the Playstation.” She paused. “I’m trying to decide how much to tell Mike.”

“About Tim’s
Link
to him?”

Mary Kate nodded. “You know, all these years, I’ve seen what you and Mike do, but I never let myself really believe in it. I mean, I’m Irish, too. I know all the legends about the Sight, and being fey, and all that. But it just couldn’t affect
my
family.
My
husband. We were rational, reasonable,
normal
people. Do you know how much I hated that he knows when you’re in trouble?”

“I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“I felt so left out, Gemma. And I couldn’t even let myself admit that. So ridiculous. I finally just snapped when that lunatic came to Tim’s window, and Mike didn’t even know until I called him.”

“Oh, M-K.” Gemma reached for her hand.

“I didn’t get it, until Mike was shot, and Timmy knew. He felt it all, and he was absolutely terrified. I never understood until then it wasn’t all bright lights and butterflies. I had no idea there was so much pain involved. Is it always like that?”

“It is for us. It only works when one of us is hurt, or in trouble. Then we can see it, sense it, but we’re totally helpless to do anything about it. Maybe with other people, it’s different. But not in our family. Mom knew every time Mike or I skinned a knee, but not when Dad’s plane went in the drink and he nearly died.”

Mary Kate looked up. “Did he understand?”

Gemma shook her head. “Not really. I think it hurt him. I know it did. But it’s not something we can control. I’d change it if I could. And Mike probably would, too.”

Mary Kate looked away.

“You know, though,” Gemma said, “we always thought it made us special. I think Mike would probably like to know Tim shares it.”

Chapter Nineteen

Gemma let herself into Ned’s apartment with the keys the management company had generously provided. They had been so sympathetic to the new widow, and so eager to convince her to continue Ned’s lease. She’d been politely noncommittal. The building soared through the city skyline, and the upper floors must have given spectacular views, but Ned’s fourth floor apartment faced two other buildings across a busy street. Extra-high ceilings and oyster-white walls let in a lot of light, but she couldn’t imagine spending much time there, especially during Seattle’s eight-month-long “gray season.”

Brady didn’t seem to have been there, yet. But then, she was still early. She gazed around, curious to see what choices Ned had made on his own. At one time the spacious apartment must have had the semblance of stylishness. Now, after several days of being deserted, it felt more than empty.
Abandoned
, she thought. That was the word she was looking for. She wondered if it was just her imagination, but the rooms had no sense of life in them. The air smelled stale, though maybe not as stale as it should have. She thought she could still smell a vaguely familiar trace of something masculine and expensive.

Nothing seemed out of place. She didn’t remember Ned being that good a housekeeper. Some junk mail lay piled on a small table near the front door, alongside a small wooden bowl for keys and spare change. She looked briefly into each room as she wandered down the hall, oppressed by the feeling she was invading Ned’s privacy. She tried to shrug it off and had to keep actively remembering this place belonged to her, now, legally, if nothing else, and she had every right to be here. It didn’t help.

The bedroom was bleak, half-decorated—
a Room in a box.
Like
Bed in a Bag
. She spent very little time in the office, struck again by the stark orderliness of it. She would need hours to go through the file cabinet, the computer, Ned’s desk and papers. The kitchen was small—Ned never liked to cook. A faint smell of decay came from boxes of week-old take-out in the sink. Discouraged, she headed back out into the living/great room.

On the coffee table, pushed toward the upper left-hand corner was a file folder that stopped her heart. A generic green folder, its edges framed in red tape with black stripes, marked “Secret, Eyes Only.” On the tab formed by the longer bottom edge a computer-printed label read “McGrath, Braden John.” Her heart began to pound in her hollow chest and her hand trembled as she reached for the folder.

Brady’s federal personnel folder. She’d seen similar ones in her dad’s briefcase when he brought work home. She’d always wondered what the secrets were. She pulled it closer, opened the cover. Her vision blurred as words leapt out at her.
Dishonorable Discharge
.
Assault.
Murder. Selling information to the enemy
. She barely made it to the kitchen sink in time to throw up into the container of moldy lo mein.

She braced her elbows on the sink rim and stared at the blank wall as the water ran. How could she have been so blind? There had been clues: Nikki in the closet, the way he went straight to the piece of ginger in her fridge the day he came to the house. How had he known that was there, unless he’d been in the house before? What else had she willfully ignored in her rush to get him into her bed?

Adrenaline speared through her as she realized the enormity of her mistake. He would be there any minute. She hadn’t seen a back way out, except to go down over the balcony. She rushed toward the door. He’d be coming in the main building entrance. She couldn’t let him see her. She hurried down the fire stairs, out the back doors, onto the street behind, her heart pounding and her breath coming short and painfully. She had to put some distance between herself and the apartment. She had to think. Too late, she realized she’d left the file in the living room, but at least she had the keys, and Brady didn’t.

She stumbled and leaned against a building, her hand pressed to her head.
God, that file.
Everything began falling into place for her—Brady’s mysteriousness, his dangerous edge, his reluctance to involve himself with police or federal cops. How could Mike have been so wrong about him all these years? But Brady hadn’t told Mike the whole truth about himself.

She raced blindly along. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t let him find her. How could she have been such a fool? A picture of his face flashed in her mind, his mouth half-smiling as it moved to hers.

Gemma shuddered. God, she’d been so stupid! She had a real instinct for picking losers. She’d refused to see the simple truth because she was feeling so totally hot for him.

She looked up to get her bearings. She had no idea where was she going or what she was going to do. Get safe. That was first. Get help.

She ducked into a small café and took a table halfway down the wall, where she could see anyone approaching the door but would be hard to see, herself. She nodded when the waitress approached with coffee. The warm white china mug stopped her hands from shaking, and the coffee, hot and black, warmed the cold inside her. She didn’t know how long she sat, staring at nothing.

The door swung open, and Gemma looked up as a shaft of sunlight struck gold from a head of blond hair. She stood shakily, nearly fainting with relief.

* * *

Tran grimaced and gave his head a single shake. “Like I said before, Brady, if anybody is hunting your friend, I can’t find any trace of it,” he said.

“I believe you,” Brady answered. “I just needed to be sure. I brought you two something.” He drew a CD case out of his inside pocket. “Merry Christmas.”

Caz leaned forward. “What’s this?”

“I found it on Ned Carrow’s computer. There’s not enough to use in court as it sits right now, but the Task Force has the resources to crack it and uncover enough evidence to put a stop to this one, at least.” Brady gritted his teeth against a sudden surge of rage. “At least one of the men on that list is very high up in federal law enforcement.”

“We were expecting something like that,” Tran said. “It pretty much goes with the territory—you know that, but you never get used to it. The guys at the top of these organizations need to get key people roped in so they’ll have protection when it all starts to come down.”

“Still pisses me off,” Brady growled.

“The women in the pictures were professionals, as I told you.” Tran sounded calm and reasonable, but then he almost always did. “Except the girl who committed suicide. We did find out she was sold to Carrow for sex games, but far as we can tell, that was to pay her passage and her little girl’s. She wasn’t in the life. We know some of the women, though, were brought here for that specific purpose. It did occur to me, when the killing and mayhem started. He paused.

“What did?” Brady asked.

“Maybe Carrow was more than just a one-time customer. We’ve been hearing rumors there are mainstream power players involved in this trafficking ring, but they’re unlikely to be at the top.”

“‘Mainstream,’ meaning ‘Anglo?’”

“Yes. They’d be tools—never trusted by the ones who really run things, but we’re thinking it’s a very strong possibility this time. Everybody ‘knows’ these slave rings are all-Asian—all one family, all Thai, or all Vietnamese, whatever. But we keep getting hints this one isn’t.”

“A break in the pattern?” Caz sounded doubtful.

“There would be advantages. A white attorney, somebody like Ned Carrow, would be ideal, for example. Only the people at the top would know who’s on either side of the Anglo link.”

“Damn. That would explain a lot.”

Brady thought about it a few seconds. “How closely are you working with the Seattle P.D. on this?”

“We have liaisons,” Tran answered. “Why?”

“There’s some information I can’t back up, but they need to factor it in.”

“It’s good?”

“Solid.”

Tran sipped his diet Coke as Brady told him about Ned. “That’s the solid part. Now, we’ve been saying all along that the revenge motive didn’t play.”

Tran nodded.

“But if Ned Carrow’s death was a message, that changes things,” Caz said. “If the ‘Anglo link’ was Ned, then there had to be at least one other guy, or else who was the message for?”

Brady nodded toward the screen. “The chain of custody is compromised all to hell on this.”

Tran shrugged and smiled.

“Another thing,” Brady said. “Doug Wheeler has a copy of my NSA file.”

Tran’s eyes went wide. “No shit? How did he get that?”

“Well, that’s got to be the question, doesn’t it? Cops have it, too. Probably got it from him, since he wants to convince everybody and their cousins I’m the guy that’s been doing all this. Point is, we built that file for a specific bunch of bad guys. In Asia. And they were smuggling drugs. Smuggling weapons.”

“But it’s not that big a leap to smuggling people. You think it’s the same guys?”

“Yeah. That’s what I think. Or somehow linked to them. And I think the Task Force needs to know there’s some kind of connection.”

“Why can’t you tell them?”

“What can I say? I’m not in the loop, any more.”

Tran was quiet. He looked up at Brady. “You should be.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Maybe one of these days I’ll re-up.”

“I’ll pass the info on.” He held up the CD case. “It may be a big missing piece.”

Caz leaned forward on his elbows again. “Cops know your file’s a phony?”

“Yeah. They were heads-up enough to make a call. Which is why I’m still running around loose and not in the basement of the Federal Building with a light shining in my face.”

Tran laughed. “We could use you back, brother.”

Brady shook his head. “I’m out. I’m not supposed to even be in the field, remember?”

“For a guy who’s out, you’re pretty deep in,” Caz commented.

“Favor for a friend,” Brady said. “Started out that way, at any rate.” He looked down, then back up at Tran. “I can’t do it anymore. I know someone has to—for the victims, if for no other reason. Not anymore. I’m done. Maybe I’ll stick to the internet security business and turn myself into a genuine civilian.”

“Your new clients know about the—” Tran wiggled his fingers in mid-air in a woo-woo gesture.

“No. Well, Mike Cavanagh does, but nobody else. Anyway, my ability doesn’t work unless the bad guy’s got a conscience. I’m not sure what that’s about. The sociopaths of the world can sleep soundly at night in their blood-soaked little beds. So what good is it?”

Tran put a hand on his shoulder. “If there’s ever anything—”

“I know,” Brady said. “Same goes.”

* * *

Doug’s eyes went perfectly round in an astonished expression as Gemma approached him.

“Gemma? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Doug. Thank God. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you come in.”

“What is it? You’re white as a ghost.”

“Can you give me a ride?”

“Of course. Come on, My car’s right outside.”

As he held the door for her, she stepped through and peered anxiously up and down the street.

He unlocked the doors and she slid in. He smiled. “Now, what’s happened?”

Gemma bit her lower lip and shook her head. She couldn’t talk about Brady. Not to Doug. Not yet.

“Okay. Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere safe.”

He was quiet for a minute. “I have an idea. Best of all, it’s not far. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to get there.”

“And it’s out of pattern,” she said. “That’s good.”

“Out of—oh, right. I forgot your father was a cop.”

She looked up as he pulled the car into the flow of traffic and the locks engaged. He turned left and down the hill toward the waterfront. The movement of his arm sent his scent toward her. Suddenly her senses kicked in, and she recognized his cologne from Ned’s apartment.

Cold washed through her, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t move.

“Gemma, what is it?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

She forced a smile onto her lips and shook her head. “Nothing. I’m just...strung out, you know. I can’t believe I trusted him.” She glanced out the window. There was no way she could jump and survive at this speed.

“Who? You mean McGrath? I’m sorry, Gemma. I did try to warn you.” His hand landed on her knee and she gasped, grasping onto the door handle.

“Gemma?” he questioned, his eyes narrowing on her. “You can trust me.”

She couldn’t even nod, couldn’t move as she stared at him with wide eyes. She felt her stomach heave again.

He must have sensed the change in her. His whole body seemed to tighten and his face shifted. “You’ve managed this all very stupidly, Gemma. I expected better from you. That was probably foolish of me. But I’ve loved you for so long. Wanted you for so long.” He reached over to touch her face. She flinched but he didn’t react, just moved his hand back to the wheel. “It would have been so much simpler if you had just let me love you. I was angry at first. I was trying to protect you. I’d have done anything for you. And you dismissed me as though I’d been of no importance to you at all.”

“Who killed Ned?” She swallowed acid.

“He said you had the goods on him, and he panicked.”

“Goods? You mean that picture? It proved he was sleeping around, and I’m not sure that’s news to anybody. Why should he—”

“
That’s
what you had? A photo of him with another woman? Christ.” Doug started to laugh, but he didn’t sound amused. “The idiot was afraid you’d divorce him and blow everything out into the open. So was I, when he finally told me. He decided killing you was a neat way to solve all his problems. No nasty divorce, no ugly rumors, no publicity. You didn’t know that, did you? He would have done it, if I hadn’t gotten to him first.”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe you. You’re not capable of that kind of butchery.”

“Not with my own hands. Don’t be so literal. You know better. I just dropped a word to a few concerned parties. It would have gotten too much attention for me to kill him.”

“Attention? Jesus, Doug! This has been a total media circus.”

His fist slammed the wheel so hard Gemma jumped. “Do you have any idea what it was like for me?” His voice was too loud for the confined space and it was making her head ache. “After everything I’d done for you? And you were so uninterested, so blasé, so quick to dismiss me. You wouldn’t even let me hold your hand. Did you even realize that? You wouldn’t let me touch you. Every time I tried, you shrank away from me.”