Fatal Secrets

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The River Cats minor league baseball team was playing at six that evening at Raley Field, and at three in the afternoon there were already employees and vendors showing up. Along the main entrance were places to eat and drink; inside everything was clean and well maintained. It was one of the nicest stadiums Dean had been in, though he’d admit that he hadn’t been in many over the years.

Dean didn’t know whether the team was already on-site. He wasn’t expecting trouble, but any time he went into an unknown situation he was cautious. It had saved his life, and the lives of his fellow soldiers, during his years in the Marines, and it had helped avoid danger when he was in the field for the FBI.

Dean showed his badge and told the security guard they wouldn’t be long. “When do ticket holders usually start to arrive?” Dean asked.

“We don’t open up the gates to the public until ninety minutes before game time. But there’s a high school singing the national anthem, and they’re already here getting ready. The players start arriving two hours before. Is something wrong? Should I notify management?”

“Just routine.” Dean was getting concerned. He didn’t like this arrangement, but being in the open stadium minimized the risk of being surprised. Still, there were civilians around, and that always increased the chances that something could go wrong.

They walked to the wide mezzanine level that curved around the back of the stadium, offering shade from the heat and a view of the field, plus access to all seating levels, restrooms, and food. A groundskeeper was walking the field and someone else was working near the scoreboard. But aside from employees in the corridor, the interior of the stadium was empty. Dean couldn’t see if there was anyone in the shadows of the home team dugout. He hated sending Sonia in there alone.

“He’ll know you brought someone,” Dean said. “You’re not so reckless as to walk into this alone. I’ll stand back, let you do the talking.”

“You would be a threat to him,” Sonia said. “He won’t come. I need him to look at this picture.”

“Do you think he knows that’s your father?”

“It’s not something I like to discuss, even though everyone and their brother in this business seems to know.”

That bothered her, Dean realized. The lack of privacy. Most people could dismiss a bad childhood, or simply not discuss it with their peers, but colleagues usually knew only what you told them. For Sonia, her childhood case had been high profile and well known among law enforcement. She didn’t shy away from her past, but she didn’t wear it on her sleeve, either.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Dean said.

Sonia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them they were troubled. “Charlie might know what name he’s using, but if he knows this man I doubt he knows its my father. Since no one could find him twenty years ago, it makes sense that he would be using a different identity. But Xavier Jones knew him, and Thomas Daniels-both men who worked out of northern California. I’m going to do this right. One step at a time. First, the case in hand. Then my father.”

Dean lightly rubbed Sonia’s arm. He greatly admired her inner strength. “I’ll help you any way I can.”

She gave him a half-smile. “That means a lot to me, Dean.”

He reiterated, “Whatever happens here, whatever you learn, wherever you find your investigation headed, I’ll be with you every step.”

Her eyes glistened, then she blinked the emotions away. She opened her mouth to say something, then looked away, unsure.

He put his fingers on her cheek and turned her to face him. “You have my word.” He kissed her softly, but felt surprising power between them in the light touch. It was a jolt of knowledge, something far more than he expected. “Be careful.”

She whispered, “I know you have my back.”

Dean felt the sincerity and weight of the trust she’d just placed in him. He skimmed his hand over her cheek, realizing this hadn’t been easy for her.

“I’ll watch you go down, then I’ll find a place to keep an eye on the dugout. Text me if you get in trouble.”

She cocked her head. “If I’m in trouble, I’m not going to take time to text you.”

He pulled her phone out of her belt and typed his phone number into a blank message, then locked the phone. “Just press unlock and send. You can probably do it in your sleep.”

“Thanks.” She put the phone back in its pouch, then jogged down the stairs and leaped over the small fence that led to the field.

Dean wished he hadn’t reacted so poorly when Sonia raised her hackles earlier. She’d simply reacted from her gut. She tried to backtrack, but Dean’s ego had been bruised. He’d thought after last night she would know he was not only on her side, but capable of assisting her on all levels of this investigation. He should have cut her some slack from the beginning, knowing trust didn’t come easy to her. But when she had compared him to that bastard Charlie Cammarata, Dean saw red. He didn’t lose his temper often, but for a moment he was blinded when he should have understood it wasn’t personal and, in fact, she’d been sharing something important with him. That she’d been betrayed and disappointed and was looking to him to prove that she could believe in him, trust him, love him.

She wanted to believe, but life had taught her differently. She wanted to trust, but people had proven they couldn’t be trusted.

Dean would die before he disappointed her again. He never wanted to see the doubt in her eyes, the disbelief.

Their relationship may be just beginning, but they shared something valuable. Dean felt it deep down where he rarely allowed himself to look because it had always been empty. With Sonia around, he no longer felt the emptiness.

When Sonia slipped into the dugout, Dean maneuvered around the stadium and reached the stairs that led to a private observation deck on the first-base line. While it afforded a good view of the dugout, it was a little farther than he would have liked.

Movement to his right had him leaning against the back wall of the stadium. A group of teens dressed in identical attire descended noisily from the observation deck toward the field. He pulled the teacher aside and identified himself. “Can I ask that you hold off a moment?”

“Is there something wrong?” the young woman, who didn’t look much older than her students, said.

“No, but my partner is checking into something. That young man over there”-he gestured toward one of the larger students-“can I borrow his T-shirt?” The shirt had the name of their school in white on blue.

“Um, would it help if I just gave you one of the extras?”

“It would help a lot. Thank you.”

“When can we go down?”

“I’ll let you know. Not more than thirty minutes.”

He took the shirt from the teacher and stretched it out. It was an extra large, but still clung tightly across his shoulders. Fortunately, it was square cut and concealed his sidearm nicely.

“If you’re going to use a disguise, I don’t know if that will help much.” She handed him her clipboard, then the River Cats cap from her head. “You can borrow these.”

“Thanks, ma’am.”

As soon as Sonia reached the dugout, she heard noise at the top of the bleachers where there was a semi-enclosed booth high up from the first-base line. A large group of teenagers dressed in blue-and-white T-shirts congregated, but they stayed in the bleachers. Good, she didn’t want to have any more civilians to worry about.

She looked over the dugout-fairly secure. No doors or access point except through the front. The area was quite large-she’d never been in a dugout before. There was a ramp and stairs that led to it, and it was set back a bit from the field. Private. Surprisingly quiet. The dugout was in the shade, the sun behind the stadium. Even now, in the heat of a Sacramento June, the temperature was comfortable.

There was no reason for Charlie to hurt her, but she liked knowing her escape options. She could run out anywhere along the dugout as long as she leaped over the railing, or slid under it. Good. And it would be fairly easy to get to the bleachers or across the field. Not that she needed to escape. As she walked the dugout, her senses sharpened and she twitched. A million needles pricked her skin and she began to sweat. She took a deep breath, not letting her anxiety-she refused to call her fear of dark, enclosed places a phobia-take control. The needles went away, but her eyesight and hearing still felt heightened and she was jittery, as if she’d had too much caffeine.

She blamed her father for this fear. After he had sold her she’d been stuck in the back of a dark truck for nearly two weeks, allowed out only under cover of night and then watched by heavily armed guards. And in the basement, where Izzy was murdered. She hated being underground. The dark, the bugs, the foul, moldy smell-she felt as if she were thirteen again. Trapped. The dugout had been dug into the ground and the fresh earth reminded her of a new grave. That was what was getting to her. Damn Charlie. But she couldn’t blame him completely; he didn’t know. She didn’t talk about it, she had never talked about it, hoping that by ignoring her reaction it would go away.

Another deep breath, and she grew calmer. She willed herself calm. She paced, unable to stay still, constantly checking each possible approach.

Twenty-two minutes had passed since Charlie called her. Where was he?

Movement on the field caught her sight, and she watched as a man in a blue shirt and cap crossed the field writing on a clipboard. It took her a couple seconds, but then she realized the man was Dean. She squinted and saw there were words in white printed on the back of the shirt. Resourceful. She had to admit to herself it relaxed her to have Dean in close proximity.

She sensed movement and turned, facing the far side of the long, narrow space. Charlie leaned against the wall, on the outside of the dugout, partly hidden in the shadows. When she saw him, he stepped inside and walked toward her.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

Complex emotions battled. She did not like Charlie, but she couldn’t forget that her training under him had been stellar. He was a lying, gloryhound bastard, but he also knew what he was doing and had freely shared his skills with her. It was ironic that the self-defense moves he’d taught her had saved her life when he put it in danger.

“You should have given me that journal two days ago. Three of those women are dead.”

His expression hardened. Whether out of guilt or her refusal to pretend they were still friends and colleagues, she didn’t know. “You wanted me to look at a picture.”

She handed him the photo without comment.

He looked at it and she knew he saw something. “Where did you get this?”

“Through my investigation. It’s seven to ten years old. You recognize Xavier Jones, of course. And Thomas Daniels-he was killed four years ago during a police investigation.”

“The FBI. I remember hearing about it. It wasn’t related to trafficking.”

“Not directly, but he was a competitor of Jones,” she said. “As I’m sure you knew.”

“This looks like Mexico or Central America.”

“Analysts believe it was taken outside of Acapulco.”

He said, “Ashley was last seen near Acapulco.”

“And you said there was a link between her and Jones. I need to know who the other men are. We don’t have I.D.s on these three.” She pointed to her father, the man next to him, and a man in the back on the far right. “Or the woman.”

“I want this picture.”

“No.”

He stared at her.

“Why?” she prompted.

He didn’t answer.

“Damn you, Charlie!”

“I can I.D. two of those men for you. If you want their names, and additional information, then you’ll give me that picture.”

Though it wasn’t Dean’s original photo, only a copy, Sonia didn’t want to give it to Charlie. She didn’t want to help him in any of his vendettas. But he was stubborn. He wouldn’t talk without getting something in return.

She handed it to him. “Name them.”

“I don’t know the man on the far right. But these two in the middle-Jaime Huerrera on the left. He’s a drug dealer. Trafficking is a sideline, only when it furthers his goals. More money in drugs. But he provides routes. He was nobody ten years ago, a mid-level hack whose only claim to fame was he kept under the radar of law enforcement. He’s also a great master of disguise. You probably have photos of him and don’t know it. He’s from Colombia and never crosses into the United States. I suspect that your friend from the FBI, the one watching us while pretending to be a choir boy, might be able to prove Jones was laundering drug money for Huerrera, once you decipher the journal.”

“And the other man?” Sonia’s heart raced and she was dizzy, whether from the confines of the dugout or what she expected to hear.

“I don’t know his name. But I have seen him.”

“Where? With who?”

“He’s the man who killed Xavier Jones.”

Charlie pocketed the photo. “I hope you catch him.”

“Do you know who the woman is?” Sonia asked, her voice surprisingly calm. “She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her.”

“You know who she is,” Charlie said.

“No, I don’t-” Dammit, she did. She’d only met Victoria Christopoulis once, over a year ago. And she looked much different now-older, with darker red hair. “Christopoulis.”

“Bingo.”

“I thought it was her son, not her-”

“He’s involved, but she’s in charge.” Charlie took a step toward her. “Sonia, this is too big, too deadly. That’s why you need people like me. I can go in and take care of-”

She put up her hand. Her voice was firm, though her insides burned. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to know what you’ve been up to, I don’t want to know who you’ve killed. I’m not a vigilante, Charlie. I’m a cop. And I can’t condone what you’ve done. This was your freebie. Now go. Before I arrest you.”

Dean walked along the base of the bleachers in the red clay gravel that separated the stands from the playing field. He’d seen Cammarata slip into the dugout, so Dean moved in closer. He heard voices but couldn’t make out the exact words. Then he heard Sonia distinctly say, “Go.”

He tensed, every instinct on alert. His phone didn’t vibrate, she wasn’t in trouble. Still … he didn’t like her tone. Practically hugging the wall, he ran to the edge of the dugout, then stood flush against the low wall.

Cammarata stepped from the dugout.

“Sonia-”

A flash of light in his periphery sent Dean back twenty years to his days in the Marines.

“Before I arrest you,” Sonia said.

Dean didn’t think; he acted solely on adrenaline and instinct.

“Down!” He rushed Cammarata who was in the line of fire and tackled him, pushing him down the short flight of stairs into the dugout.

Sonia hit the ground before they did, reacting on Dean’s command to get down while he was still moving.

The sniper’s bullet hit the wall where Sonia had been standing. It had been aimed at her chest, a perfect military sniper aim from more than three hundred yards. Which meant that the sniper was on the fence surrounding the stadium-the only buildings tall enough were across the river or not at the right angle to see into the dugout.

Dean crawled over to Sonia. “Are you hit?”

“No.”

“Stay down, in this corner. He can’t see you here. Flush against the wall. Do not move.”

“What the fuck?” Cammarata exclaimed.

Dean crawled over to him and grabbed him by the collar as they lay on the hard-packed dirt floor. “Did you set Sonia up?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“No one knew we were meeting you here. Someone followed you or you led them here.”

“No one followed me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Charlie pulled away from Dean and Dean barely resisted the urge to hit him. What that bastard had done to Sonia, he didn’t deserve to be walking free. But the movement would get them shot.

“Stay down!” Dean shouted, pushing himself up against the short wall and hoping the sniper wasn’t at a high enough angle to see fully into the dugout.

The ground in front of them suddenly jumped as bullets hit on the edge of the ground.

They were sitting ducks.

“I called nine-one-one,” Sonia said, “and emailed Richardson and Trace.”

“Quick thinking.”

The bullets stopped and they heard shouts and screams from the bleachers. The choir.

Charlie started to sit up.

“Down!” Dean pulled him down, though he deserved to get his head blown off.

“Don’t touch me!” Charlie scooted away. “I wasn’t being stupid.”

“There’s a first.” Dean glared.

“What’s your fucking problem, Fibbie?”

“You.”

There were sirens in the distance.

“Are we clear?” Sonia asked, her voice quivering.

“No,” Dean said. The sniper had aimed right at Sonia. Sonia was the primary target. Not Cammarata, not him, Sonia. What did she know that was dangerous to the traffickers? Who wanted her dead? Dean was ninety-nine percent certain no one had followed them, and had they, there’d been at least a dozen easier shots to take-getting in and out of the car, for example-than a sniper’s rifle from more than three hundred yards.

Charlie Cammarata had to have led the shooter here.

Dean pulled himself over to Sonia. She was shaking and her hands were ice cold. “Are you hit?” he asked again.

“N-no.”

“Stay low.”

Suddenly, rapid fire hit the wall behind them. Sonia’s fingers dug into his biceps.

Then it stopped. The sirens were closer. Dean waited. Waited. Minutes passed. Sonia was still shaking.

Someone called into the dugout. “Police! Is anyone there?”

Dean crawled to the dugout stairs and peered over. Police were all over the field, a large number by the fence halfway between center and right outfield.

“Special Agent Dean Hooper, FBI,” he shouted.

“You’re clear.”

Dean rose and offered his hand to Charlie Cammarata, who ignored it and stood on his own. Two West Sacramento police officers came over to them. Dean showed his I.D. and badge.

“Take this man into custody, please,” Dean said.

Cammarata fumed. “Fucking prick, that wasn’t the arrangement-” he pulled his arm back to hit Dean. Before the cops could run interference, Dean decked Cammarata square in the face with the palm of his hand. Blood spurted from his nose, and the two cops took him into custody. They read him his rights.

A third cop, this one a black man with rank, approached. “Chief of Police Rob Morrison.”

“Dean Hooper, FBI. Did you get him?”

“No. Had a driver waiting for him. We’re searching, but word is when they hit Cap City Freeway heading east, they lost the vehicle. We have a partial plate and description of the SUV, plus a possible witness. We’re on it.”

“Sounds like it. Though you have the lead, please work with my office on this. It’s part of an active investigation.”

Morrison jerked his head toward Cammarata. “Is this guy a suspect?”

“In the shooting?” Dean glared at Cammarata. “I don’t know.”

“Fuck you, Hooper.”

“What charges?”

“We’ll start with obstruction of justice.” Dean’s blood was still pumping.

“Sonia!” Cammarata shouted. “Dammit, Sonia! Tell him to let me go.” He fought against the cuffs and one of the cops tightened them.

Sonia.

Dean ran back into the dugout.

Sonia was sitting up, her back against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees. She was shaking, ghostly pale, and he heard her mumbling something to herself.

She was whispering, “Get up, Sonia. Don’t be a wimp. On your feet.”

“Sonia?” He squatted in front of her, touched her face.

She looked at him and he saw she was scared, as if suddenly the reality of the attack had hit her. “It’s over. He’s gone.”

She shook her head. “I–I.” She swallowed. “Dammit.” She took a deep breath. “I’m claustrophobic. Just give me. A minute. One minute.” Sonia sounded angry with herself, over and above the fear.

He picked her up and carried her from the dugout. As soon as the sun hit her face, he felt her sigh deeply.

Cammarata called out, “Sonia, are you hurt?”

Dean glared at him and said, “Take him to jail. I don’t want to look at him. I’ll be in contact with you later.”

“Bastard,” Cammarata said.

He didn’t respond, but walked Sonia to the middle of the field and sat her on the pitcher’s mound. The color returned to her face and she let out a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No apologies.”

“Time hasn’t changed anything. Twenty-one years hasn’t fixed me.”

“You’re so wrong.” He turned her face to his, made her look into his eyes, and said, “You didn’t panic when you had to act. You did what had to be done first and foremost. That’s what’s important.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his for a moment, then said, “I’m okay now.”

“We can sit here as long as you want.”

“It’s my father.”

“Excuse me? The photo-You knew that.”

She looked so sad and lost, but she was getting her fire back. He saw it with each breath she took. Dean was relieved; he didn’t like seeing her weak. It reminded him that she wasn’t invincible, that people wanted her dead. He couldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. They’d have to kill him first, and Dean was hard to hit. His former Marine buddies nicknamed him Syl vester because he had nine lives. He’d seen a lot of combat, but had never gotten so much as a scratch.

“Charlie didn’t know his name, but positively identified my father as the man who killed Xavier Jones.”

“You think he was telling the truth?”

“Yes. He didn’t know it was my father, and I didn’t tell him. The man standing next to him, one of the others you didn’t have an I.D. for, is Jaime Huerrera, a drug smuggler from Colombia and Charlie thinks Jones might have been laundering money for him, and proof will be in the journal.”

“I’ll pass the name and photo on to the DEA.”

“I gave Charlie the picture. That was his requirement.”

“Why?”

“Probably for his own vendetta. I don’t know, but I needed the information. I’m sorry. You can get it back now. Did you really arrest him?”

“Yes.”

“I promised-”

“That was before he led a sniper to you.”

“There’s no reason-”

“Maybe not on purpose, but there’s no other explanation. No one knew we were coming here, except my boss and your boss. And I didn’t tell Bob we were going to be in the dugout. I told him the stadium.”

“I didn’t tell Toni anything other than I was meeting him.”

“I don’t think I’m the best person to interrogate him. I can’t be impartial.” Dean ran his hand up and down Sonia’s arm. “Not after what he did to you. But I thought Callahan and your partner, Trace Anderson, could take it on. Cammarata has information about tomorrow night, I feel it in my gut.”

“I agree.”

Dean was relieved they were on the same page.

“There is one other possible explanation.”

“What’s that?”

“Craig Gleason. I got the call from Charlie when we were in his office. What if he eavesdropped on us?”

“Gleason was never in the military. He has no fire arms training in his background and, frankly, I don’t see him having the balls to kill.”

“He could have called someone.”

Dean agreed. “I can see him giving out information. The time line is so close, though. To put all this together in less than thirty minutes-from the time you got the call to execution? They had to know exactly where you would be. Cammarata called you, he decided on the venue, right down to the dugout. It has to be him.”

“There’s no reason he would want me dead.”

“Maybe he planned on saving your life and getting into your good graces again.”

She didn’t say anything for a long moment. “That’s stretching it.”

“But it’s in his personality. To play the hero, the great savior.” He couldn’t see Charlie Cammarata caring about anyone but himself.

“It’s not Charlie,” Sonia said, but in her tone Dean heard doubt. “I’m putting my money on Gleason.”

“Then let’s get over there and push hard,” Dean said. He stood and held out his hand to Sonia.

She took it.

“You’re filthy,” he said.

“So are you,” she said as he pulled her to her feet. “Nothing that sun and the clear blue sky can’t fix.”