Fatal Secrets

CHAPTER SIX

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.”

Noel Marchand concluded a particularly lucrative deal in Brazil over his secure cell phone, and rewarded himself with an after-lunch shot of fifteen-year-old Scotch whisky he’d brought with him. Laphroaig. He’d imported it from Glasgow, one of the finest, richest-flavored Scotches he’d tasted.

He brought the glass to his lips, sipped, reveling in the warmth that brought his taste buds to life. At home, he’d enjoy having one of his in-house women take his cock in her mouth while he listened to classical music from the early Baroque era, especially Monteverdi and Buxtehude. But he’d have to make do with a sip or two-and no blow job-because there was much work to be done.

His phone rang and he answered without identifying himself. “What?”

“We have a problem.”

It was one of his local men. “I don’t like problems.”

“We went to retrieve the used merchandise. It’s not there.”

“Did you check the morgue?” A problem, but not fatal.

“She’s at the hospital.”

Noel slammed down the phone. He crossed his suite and threw open the door to Tobias’s bedroom. Mr. Ling sat at the desk with his laptop computer. There was no one else who could control Noel’s brother, and Ling was an expensive babysitter. “She’s not dead,” Noel said through clenched teeth.

He unsheathed his knife, staring at his brother. Tobias smiled sweetly at Noel, then turned back to the ridiculous cartoons he watched most of the day. He didn’t notice Noel’s rage or the knife, or how close Noel was to slitting his throat right then. Since the day he was born, Tobias had been Noel’s fucking albatross. Noel had finally broken out on his own when he was twenty, only to be once again shackled to the lunatic after their father died.

“Mr. Marchand,” Ling said quietly. “There’s a better way.”

Ling was right. “We still have a major problem,” Noel said.

“I’ll get our best people on it.”

“I want the bitch dead before she opens her fucking mouth.”