Fatal Secrets

CHAPTER THREE

Towering was the only word Dean Hooper could think of to describe the Jones residence. With three-story ceilings, a sweeping staircase, and an excessively large great room with floor-to-ceiling windows, during the day it would have a view of Devils Lake and the San Joaquin Valley beyond. The decor was dark, rustic, and minimal, with a cloying scent of Pine Sol and wood polish. Not a speck of dust or a cobweb in sight.

Jones had his fingers in many, many pies outside of his consulting firm. He owned enough property to make Donald Trump jealous, and enough toys to send up red flags to the IRS. Had Dean not already been looking at Jones after taking down Thomas Daniels and finding Jones’s name in Daniels’s records, the IRS would have launched their own investigation. But Jones had been audited twice in the last eight years, and the IRS could not find anything illegal.

His longtime friend, a U.S. Treasury Department analyst, had told him, “My gut tells me the guy is dirty, but every path I follow somehow ends up legitimate. I’ve been working on this for months and I’m no further along. You’re the whiz kid. Maybe you can find what I’m missing.”

Dean didn’t always like his reputation; it put him in a place with few friends and lots of people waiting for him to screw up. But he did see patterns of illegal behavior in the numbers that others missed, including computers. It was the human element. Putting the information together in different ways and factoring in human psychology, coupled with the personality of his target. That experience, and intuition, couldn’t be replicated by a computer.

This was the first time Dean had met Xavier Jones in person, and he wasn’t wasting a moment. Already he had better insight into his character and personality. Clean to a fault. Sanitary. Uptight that strangers were in his house touching his things. Extremely confident that the FBI would find nothing incriminating, irritated and arrogant at the same time. There was nothing personal-no photos, diplomas, or awards of recognition. If he had any of these things, they were hidden from guests.

“I’m happy to assist in your investigation, Agent Hooper,” Jones said, “but I’m afraid you aren’t going to find what you’re looking for.”

“What am I looking for?”

Jones shrugged, his smirk arrogant. “Who knows? A businessman does well, and the government thinks I don’t pay my fair share. I can assure you, Agent Hooper, my tax returns are squeaky clean.”

And that, Dean knew, was his biggest obstacle. As far as he could figure, Jones was paying his taxes. Jones’s main business enterprise was his consulting firm-he lobbied both state and federal governments on behalf of a huge number of clients, mostly the big-money players like city government, Indian gaming, and labor.

Jones glanced at the armed goon standing at his side and Dean said in a preemptive move, in case Callahan didn’t see the weapon strapped to the goon’s belt, “You do have a permit for that gun.”

The hulking man stepped forward. His tattoo bulging ndetta mia on his arm. Vendetta? Interesting.

Jones stopped his bodyguard with a glance. “He doesn’t need one. He lives here.”

“And did he bring the gun into Mexico?”

“You’re beginning to irritate me, Agent Hooper.”

I’m sure I am.

“Just want to make sure your gorilla doesn’t make any sudden moves.”

The gorilla comment made the goon scowl.

“You may leave now, Agent Hooper.”

“I’d love to, it’s certainly past my bedtime, but the subpoena states that you are required to turn over all financial documents immediately to my office. Agent Callahan will go with you and provide a receipt for everything we confiscate. We’ll also require your hard drive and any other computers, flash drives, or disks you have.”

Anger and annoyance crossed Jones’s face. He didn’t like being told what to do. So Dean pushed, refraining from showing too much satisfaction. He loved his job.

“We can wait for your attorney if you like, but I’m not leaving until we have everything we came for.”

“You’re fishing, Agent Hooper. I’m not giving you anything. My attorney will be fighting this subpoena in court first thing tomorrow morning.”

Dean showed a concerned, understanding expression. “I understand your frustration, Mr. Jones, but you can’t refuse to comply with this subpoena. The judge agreed that to leave the documents in your possession could potentially cause said documents to disappear or be altered. We have the authority to seize everything in this warrant now, and I only offered to wait for your attorney as a courtesy.”

A fire lit Jones’s eyes and Dean caught a glimpse of the criminal underneath the facade of a respected businessman. Cold, calculating, and criminally brilliant. Dean saw his own head on a platter held by Jones, and that pleased him. He was getting to this guy, which was the whole purpose of this exercise.

I will put you in prison, Xavier Jones. That’s a promise.

Dean kept a level head and let Jones quietly fume. Patience was, fortunately, Dean’s strong suit. Jones quickly got himself under control, showing Dean that while he was a narcissistic racketeer and suspected human trafficker, self-preservation was at the top of his list. He wouldn’t slip up because he lost his temper. He was too sharp for that.

Yet Jones’s methodical approach to business might also be his downfall. Criminals like Jones need to keep all of their accounts balanced, all the dollars counted and recounted. Dean could use that. Already, after ten minutes in Jones’s presence, he had new ideas to pursue using Jones’s financial history as the foundation for his case. Watching his reaction had proven hugely beneficial, as Dean had suspected.

Finding ICE Agent Sonia Knight involved with this character could prove to be a real break. She might see something he didn’t because she knew far more about the money trail in human trafficking than he did.

Sonia Knight had testified in no less than five major human trafficking cases in the last two years. Dean had watched one hearing on closed-circuit television after Knight’s squad had taken over an FBI case and arrested a husband-and-wife team who lured women from China to be domestic servants. Only “servant” meant “slave” to those who held the contracts. The women, here illegally, were stripped of all their papers and identity, and then subjected to forced sex, long hours of labor, and no pay-all “earnings” were used to repay the “fee” to bring them to America in the first place. They were kept in line with threats and their illegal status. Sonia’s team had uncovered the operation and took all the players out. It was a major coup for ICE. Sonia’s written report on how the investigation played out was now used as part of ICE and FBI undercover training.

Dean had long admired Sonia Knight, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control her. A case like Xavier Jones required delicacy.

Jones said to his gorilla, “Watch them closely. They take nothing that isn’t explicitly on this warrant. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Jones.”

“I’ll be in my bedroom.”

“I’ll join you,” Dean said. No way was he letting Jones out of his sight until Callahan had everything in their possession. “Call in the rest of the team, Sam. It’s going to be a long night.”

Dawn broke over the Sierra Nevadas, tracing the mountains in bright orange. Any other person would have paused to stare at the awesome vista, but Xavier Jones had no use for pretty scenery. He’d been quietly fuming at the way his possessions had been handled by the FBI. Pawing through his personal belongings, touching his clothing-everything would have to be laundered.

He wasn’t surprised when his phone rang before six A.M., not thirty minutes after the FBI left. Nor was he surprised that it was Marchand.

“I heard about your trouble.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“It had better not be.”

His anger at what the FBI had put him through simmered. They would find nothing in his records; did they think he was an idiot? They were fishing, nothing more, but the knowledge that they had a grand jury giving his finances a rectal exam infuriated him. He was quite good with his money and he knew no one had talked. Everyone had as much to lose as he did, but more than that, no one had all the information necessary to do him serious damage.

“You have no need to worry about your shipment,” he said.

“We’re not going to talk about this here.”

“I have protection.” No way was the FBI wiretapping his phone. He had state-of-the-art security to prevent it.

“We’ll meet. Tonight.”

Xavier didn’t like Noel Marchand, but he was one of his best customers, on both ends-importing and exporting. In this business, one didn’t have to like one’s business associates. As long as they paid and did their job with discretion, Xavier was happy to do business with them. Besides, he wasn’t in it to make friends. He’d buy whatever friends he needed through his philanthropic donations.

“Here?” Xavier asked, loath to bring the man into his sanctuary, but it was a gesture of goodwill, and right now Xavier needed to keep Marchand happy.

“Of course not. Midnight. Your restaurant.”

Xavier had purchased a riverfront restaurant last year and was renovating it. The place was convenient and private, off the west River Road. It was Xavier’s turf, so Marchand wasn’t overly upset.

“I’ll be there.”

He hung up and stood on the balcony of his bedroom. Marchand was a minor annoyance compared to what had just happened with the FBI. They had gone through his things. Pawed everything with greasy fingers. Pictures were crooked, drawers misaligned, dirty footprints on his polished wood floor.

He dialed his secretary on her cell phone. She worked out of his consulting office, but handled both personal and professional appointments. And while he had no desire to screw her, Denise provided him with a weekly blow job that was satisfying. He refused to stick his dick into any man or woman; what other men had been there before him? Disgusting.

“Call in the cleaning service,” he demanded. “I need them to come early-I want the house cleaned top to bottom, before noon.”

He next called Craig Gleason, the attorney and head lobbyist who ran the day-to-day management at XCJ Consulting. “I’ll be coming by late this morning for a briefing. Have you had any strange calls or visitors?”

“Define strange.”

“This isn’t a joke, Craig. There’s been some excitement here at the house. I want to make sure that reporters and other vultures aren’t circling.”

“It’s a Wednesday during the middle of a budget crisis in the California capitol-business as usual.”

“Good. Just put everything I need to know together and the status of the key bills we’re pushing. I’ll give you one hour; use it wisely.”

“Yes, sir.”

More often than not, for the last twenty-some years he had called himself Noel Marchand. He stood on the balcony of his penthouse suite at the Hyatt Hotel across from the California State Capitol. He rarely came to America, and when he did he took a great many precautions. Of course, he was registered under a false identity: Pierre Devereaux, a French Canadian from Montreal. It amused him to remember that he had, in fact, been born in Montreal and was part French Canadian. But his life as Franz Corbert had ended when he was nine, when his father killed his mother and fled to South America with Franz and his younger brother Tobias. He’d never returned to Canada even after his father died; he had no attachment to the country.

Nor did he care for the United States. He could not be king here, no matter what he did or who he controlled. He preferred places where he could wield power so great that when he killed, no one questioned his action. Where, when his car drove past, people cowered. Where, when he walked into a room, the women did what he said, and if he had to punish them, no one asked why.

Americans had money, and rich Americans liked their toys. He provided the toys; Xavier Jones provided the buyers.

His business certainly wasn’t limited to the States, but Americans usually overpaid for everything, and considering the risks of importing under the federal radar, Noel felt justified in charging his North American buyers far more than he needed to cover his expenses.

He paced his hotel room, antsy, yet well aware that keeping to himself until the Saturday-night exchange would protect him. The less time he spent in the States, the less opportunity that a savvy cop might recognize him. He wasn’t worried about just any cop-there were only a handful who could identify him as Noel Marchand-but one of those called Sacramento home. He wouldn’t have come here this early at all, except for the situation with the Zamora kid.

Noel Marchand deplored incompetence, and until this last week, Xavier Jones had been the pinnacle of professionalism and discretion. And while Jones had made good on providing another boy, letting the first one escape was a disaster. Perhaps not for Jones, but to Noel the boy was a threat: the brat had seen him.

The Zamora kid needed to die or disappear-Noel didn’t much care which, as long as he didn’t talk to anyone. Though even if he did tell what he knew, putting all the damning information together would be virtually impossible. Only the fact that Noel was in the same city as the kid made the risk a sliver more than nonexistent. But what really irked Noel was that he had made two mistakes. First, he had underestimated the boy, never suspecting that Andres Zamora would run when he had the chance. Most of his captives were too scared to flee, knowing they would be hunted down and severely punished. Noel’s second error was in not leaving at least one family member alive as leverage over the two Zamora kids. Threats against family back home were the single best tool to keep the slaves in line.

Noel didn’t make mistakes like these. He’d been furious that the mother had challenged him, that the brother had attacked him, that the girl had wanted to renege on her agreement. Allowing his anger to dictate decisions inevitably led to problems. Problems like a missing kid in California who could identify him.

Noel was successful because he was discreet. He employed enough people, and paid them well, to ensure that he could fill the high demand for males and females of all ages and types. While he specialized in teenage and young adult females for prostitution throughout the Western Hemisphere, he also provided a few bonded workers when the money was good enough. When he was putting together his next shipment of females, he’d received an order for two boys. One of the girls he’d spoken with had two brothers. She was eager to bring them along, with his promise that they, too, would have jobs in America.

He lied smoothly. But almost immediately there were problems with the older Zamora. And when the younger boy saw him dispose of the mother-who had become a major liability, he had had no choice but to kill her-Noel should have also shot the two boys and put the girl on the truck alone. But he was on a tight schedule and timing was critical. His trip to California was far more important than the troublesome Zamora family.

Noel was upset by the series of events that resulted in the younger boy ending up under Jones’s watch, of course, but he could let it go because, ultimately, the situation wasn’t completely Jones’s fault. What truly frustrated him was the FBI looking at Jones. He didn’t care one iota that the warrant was for financial records, Jones was a threat to Noel if he was arrested. Noel knew exactly how the government worked. They did what he did-leveraged. You give me this, we’ll give you that. The only difference was that Noel’s punishment was far more permanent than prison if the person didn’t agree with the terms.

Jones was a potential threat. And while Noel didn’t want to kill one of the best people he’d ever worked with in this business, he wouldn’t lose sleep over it.

Noel was training someone to take over for Jones should it become necessary. They might have to make the change sooner than planned, since business demanded continuous adjustments in personnel.

And if he had to let Sacramento go altogether, so be it. He dealt with other brokers like Jones. While there were few with Jones’s breadth of clients-and the added service of providing squeaky-clean money was a major allure-Noel could withstand some losses in order to protect his larger empire. Obviously, the “squeaky-clean” money Jones guaranteed was being looked at by American law enforcement. It was no longer safe to do business with him.

Noel made his decision. He’d gather the rest of the information about Saturday’s exchange, ensure that the girls had arrived safely and were secured, and then kill Jones.

His assistant came in through one of the suite’s doors and cleared his throat.

Noel motioned for Mr. Ling to join him by the balcony window. Ling was Chinese, bald, and in his early forties. He could kill a man with little effort, and had a sharp intellect. He’d been with Noel for more than a decade.

“Yes, Mr. Ling?”

“Tobias neglected to properly dispose of the girl.”

Noel’s fists clenched, the only outward sign of his anger. His brother was yet another liability. Had he been able to leave him behind in Mexico, he would have. But the last time he left Tobias for more than a day, his brother had disappeared for three weeks and left behind too many dead bodies for Noel to cover up. Noel resented having to care for the twisted, weak retard. Before their father had died, Noel didn’t have to see or talk to Tobias. But now he was truly his brother’s keeper-a job Noel resented.

“I should have killed him when Father died.”

Mr. Ling bowed in agreement, though both men knew that Noel wouldn’t have done it at the time. His father had asked him to spare Tobias. And Noel had genuine affection for the brilliant man. After traveling throughout South America for years, Johan Marchand settled farther north, in Mexico, and turned a small brothel into a thriving international organization of prostitution. Because Noel had the charm, good looks, and ability to lie as smoothly as he killed, he went on the road most of his early adulthood, recruiting or kidnapping young women to feed the business. It was lucrative and satisfied the wanderlust of his youth.

Women were good for not much outside of sex, and most of them couldn’t even do that right. So when Tobias killed for the first time, when he was fifteen and screwing one of the whores their father had given him as a birthday present, Johan finally admitted what Noel had known from the beginning: Tobias was not right in the head. Not just dumb as an ox, Tobias had been killing animals from when he was young not for sport or pleasure, but just because, as he once told Noel, he liked to hear their bones break.

Johan had allowed Tobias an occasional whore. Four out of five ended up dead, and Noel had had to clean up after him, until Noel convinced his father he was a better recruiter. Johan agreed and taught Tobias to clean up after himself when Noel traveled.

Obviously, the lessons hadn’t stuck. Noel could no longer afford to spare his brother’s life. His father would understand. Hadn’t Noel risked enough by letting Tobias play? It was over.

“Where is he?”

“In his room.”

“Watch him. I don’t trust anyone else. I’ll come up with a plan, but he won’t be returning to Mexico with us.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Send a team to retrieve the body.”

“They’re already on their way. She was left in a potentially exposed place.”

“What the fuck did he do?”

“He dumped her in the river, but her arm got caught on a bush and he didn’t want to get wet.”

Tobias couldn’t swim. Noel should drown him. Would serve him right.

Have mercy on him, son. Tobias doesn’t have full mental faculties.

Noel would live up to the promise he made his father for mercy. He’d put a bullet in his brother’s head before he weighted him down and tossed him into the river. By the time his body surfaced, Noel would be long gone, and he had no plans to return to the States. Ever.

“Four days,” Noel said. “Four days was all I needed and he screws up in less than six hours.”

“And Jones?”

“We’ll see to him tonight. In the meantime, I want full backgrounds on all his employees-”

“You have that, and-”

“Go deeper. I want to know who they’ve talked to and where they’ve been in the last two months. I want to know who tipped off the FBI about Jones, and how much they know about me. I don’t give a fuck what happens to Jones, but I’m not going to let them take me down with him.”

And at this point Noel would prefer to just kill everyone involved in Jones’s operation. Unfortunately, in the States, the murder or disappearance of a couple dozen people would cause more than a small ripple in the landscape.

“Give me everyone who has any hand in our business, and everyone who’s just window dressing. We’ll pick and choose, decide who stays and goes. Start building a list of people I can trust to do their job right.”

Noel would find out who tipped off the FBI and make a clear statement. No one would dare turn against him.

Not that it would matter. In four days he’d be back home, safe, far away from the long arm of American law enforcement. They’d need an army to get him.