Silenced

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Devon Sullivan and her husband, defense attorney Clark Jager, lived on a sprawling country estate in Chantilly, Virginia, about forty minutes southwest of DC.

Sean stopped far from the property line, uncertain of the security layout. He downloaded all public satellite data of the spread as well as property records. There was only one way to get to the main house, down a quarter-mile-long driveway.

With all that land, Sean figured there would be security cameras at any potential breach point. A seasonal creek ran along the western edge of the property. The southern edge backed up to their neighbor’s horse stables. Twelve properties were listed on the long, narrow dead-end street.

The benefit for surveillance was that Sean could park out of sight on the main road because everyone in the Sullivan/Jager neighborhood had to drive to the main road to leave. To the right was the small town of Chantilly. To the left, two miles away, freeway access.

Sean parked his Mustang at a closed business on the main road where he could watch the cars leaving. He had pulled the vehicle ownership records for both Sullivan and Jager. She drove either a gold E-class Mercedes or a white Lexus SUV. Jager had a small black Mercedes C300. Sean would love to drive the C300 someday. All three vehicles were pricey. The spread had been bought when they first married nine years ago, for nearly three million dollars. Now, even with the market slump, it was worth over four million.

Sean had run basic financial profiles on the couple. Jager was a partner in his law firm and specialized in criminal defense. Sullivan had opened her lobbying firm nearly twenty years ago, after she divorced her first husband, with whom she had two sons. Both of them lived in the greater DC area.

Even with two successful careers, this was an expensive piece of land filled with expensive toys. A place that would have hired staff.

Normally, a breach like this required intelligence gathering and extensive planning, but Sean didn’t have time for anything like that. Winging it was his MO, and if he was feeling nervous, he had to trust his instincts.

He considered what little he knew of Sullivan and Jager. They blackmailed people either for money or out of the thrill of the game, or both. Information was power. They would be extremely private people. Have staff, but probably not live-in. If they did have live-in help, they would have a separate residence on the property, not in the main house. Security would be tight, but primarily they would rely on surveillance equipment with a direct line to the police rather than more involved options. Response times would be quick, considering Jager’s line of work. Though many cops probably didn’t care for him, no one would want a defense attorney dead on their watch.

Sean needed a partner. He was loath to call Sergio Russo, but he didn’t have a choice. He needed backup.

Paxton must have already given Russo a heads-up, because he told Sean he was less than ten minutes away. Sean wouldn’t let his guard down—the senator had been furious with Sean when he’d left this morning. He might be thinking he could get the locket and simultaneously take out Sean.

Sean scanned additional information about Jager on his laptop while he waited and came across an article dated more than twenty years ago, showing a young, suave attorney. He’d just won his first case, an acquittal for a suspected killer.

Harper Acquitted!

Prosecution “Stunned”; Defense “Pleased”

Falls Church, VA

Reginald Douglas Harper was acquitted this morning of all charges in the rape and torture of coed Amanda Jane Morris. Morris died of her injuries four days after she was found, without regaining consciousness.

Harper, who didn’t take the stand in his defense, sat stone-faced during the reading of the jury’s verdict, which came after six hours of deliberation. Harper’s attorney, Clark Jager of Acuna & Bigelow Law Offices, took Harper’s case pro bono because he said the defendant wasn’t getting a fair trial.

At a press conference immediately following the reading of the verdict, Jager said, “Justice has been served. For too long, prosecutors in our state have been violating the constitutional liberties guaranteed to all citizens, both victims and criminals. When one innocent man goes to jail, the entire system is corrupt. Reginald Harper is innocent of the charges he faced; a corrupt system extracted a confession under extreme duress. As we proved to the jury, Mr. Harper was tortured through the denial of water, bathroom breaks, and sleep. Six detectives questioned him for twenty-nine hours straight until he broke down and confessed to a crime he didn’t commit.”

Jager, who has a degree in criminal justice from Boston College and a law degree from Columbia Law School, practiced in the public defender’s office in New York City for three years before joining the established law firm of Acuna & Bigelow late last year. His biography says, in part, “I became a defense lawyer because my brother was convicted of a crime he did not commit, and died in a prison brawl five years later. After his death, a court overturned his conviction when DNA evidence proved him innocent.”

Sean suspected that “Hang ’em High” Senator Jonathon Paxton wasn’t Jager’s favorite person. Yet Jager had represented Fran Buckley, charged with conspiracy in the murders of several paroled felons. Was it for information? Jager and his wife thrived on information, and who better to share than Paxton’s bitter fall guy.

Sean looked up to see a car stopped at the end of the private road. Jager. He turned left toward the highway. It was 7:10 A.M.

A few minutes later, Sergio Russo pulled up. He slid into Sean’s passenger seat. “I’m glad you called.”

“I’m not,” Sean said. “I need backup, and you’re the only one who can do it.”

“‘Thanks’ doesn’t seem quite right for the comment.”

“I don’t trust you, but I trust you more than Paxton. That’s not saying much.”

* * *

Brian figured out where the girls were hiding based on the unmarked federal car on the street out front.

He was tired and punchy, but finding the little church had been divine providence. He’d have laughed at the thought if he weren’t so weary and depressed.

Brian hadn’t thought twice about killing the others. Except the social worker. She had stared at him, eyes wide like a deer, and said, “Please, don’t.”

He lost it with her. She made him think about what he’d been doing, made him feel bad about it when it was just a damn job. He shouldn’t feel bad about cleaning up this mess.

He’d gotten over it, because once she was dead it didn’t matter anymore. The choice had been made. But last night at Betty’s …

He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Betty had been nicer to him than his own mother, admired his intelligence, and done her job well. He’d wanted to give her enough money to leave the country. He’d have joined her. And if Betty hadn’t been so demanding, he could have gotten his mother to agree.

But she asked for a million dollars. His mother said a hundred thou. And Betty laughed at her. Big mistake.

Once again, Brian was sent to fix the problem. No second chances.

He didn’t want to scare her, he didn’t want her to know that he was going to kill her. So he went over to see her and lied that he had a deposit on the million Betty wanted. That he would take her to a cabin in West Virginia that he owned, until everything settled down.

While Betty was packing, he came up from behind her, pushed her down. Heard a bone break and she cried out. As he grabbed a pillow from her bed, she began to crawl away.

“Brian, please don’t do this.”

Please, don’t

Please don’t do this

He held the pillow on the back of her head and fired two bullets into her brain before he could change his mind. He destroyed all the records he found and left.

That’s how Betty ended up dead and Brian ended up with a guilty conscience. He couldn’t stop picturing Betty on the ground, scared, crawling away from him. Why couldn’t she have been like the others?

He told Ned, “I’m parking around the corner. You go sit at the bus stop across the street, got it? Let me know immediately if anyone goes inside.”

“I still think we should burn it down,” Ned said.

“Because that worked so well for us last time?” Brian wanted to throttle him. “Do what I tell you.”

He must have looked more serious than usual because Ned said nothing.

He let Ned get settled at the bench before he left the car and walked around the block. There was no alleyway, which would have made it easier, but there was a four-story apartment building that backed up to the school.

The apartment building’s security was minimal, and he entered easily. He headed up the stairs to the roof. The door had a busted lock—people probably came up here to smoke or get fresh air. God knew he couldn’t live like this. The longer he was in DC, the more he wanted to return to the islands. Frankly, any island.

He didn’t care about the other girls, not anymore. Poison Ivy was the only one who knew anything, she was the only one he was going to kill. Then he was leaving Ned on that damn bus bench, driving to the train station, and saying adios to DC for good.

His duty to his family was over.

From the roof, he was blocked from the cops’ view by the surrounding buildings. That gave Brian the opportunity to use the fire escape. He looked at the metal—didn’t look like it would hold him. He didn’t trust these rickety pieces of crap city fire escapes. More than the weight of one person and it looked like the bolts would tear away from the building.

Carefully, he put his weight on the first landing. Surprisingly, it held him. As quietly as possible, he lowered the ladders to get to the second floor. The ladders didn’t cooperate. They made such a racket that a woman popped her head out of a window two over and yelled at him. He glared at her, and she went back inside.

On the second-floor landing, he inspected the cinder-block fence that surrounded the church. Barbed wire was embedded along the top of the fence, but if he jumped over it and landed with a roll, he should avoid the sharp barbs. It was only twelve feet.

He jumped before anyone else popped a head out of a window and made enough noise to alert the feds. He landed on his feet and immediately fell into a roll. But he rolled over a sprinkler head and felt the sharp edges cut into his back.

The pain made him angry.

Dammit, that he should have to go through this shit just to find one little whore who tried to play with the big girls. Maybe he would just kill them all before he left, just on general principle. He jumped up, trying to shake off the pain.

The back of the church was completely shielded from the front. Half the building had no windows, the other half had high windows. He went to the nearest door, turned the knob.

Locked.

He searched for an easier entrance, but there was none—the only other door in the back was also locked. But the second door was better concealed, so he had more time to break in. It took him several minutes. He became frustrated, especially since he could feel his shirt sticking to the blood on his back. Finally the lock popped.

When he stepped in, the first thing he heard were children singing.

Children.

He was not going to kill children.

This day could not have gotten worse.

He pulled out his gun and stepped into the room. Six pairs of pint-sized eyes stared at him. The teacher, a tall black woman, jumped up.

“Hold it,” Brian said. “I don’t want to hurt any of you, but I will if I have to. I want Ivy, I want her now. Or I will start shooting.”

He looked the teacher in the eye, could practically see her little mind running through all her options. “Don’t,” he warned, adrenaline combating his fatigue. “I’ve had a real shitty couple days and frankly, I’m not in the mood for heroes.”