Mortal Sin (3 page)

Lucy’s pulse quickened.

Even though Prenter was on parole and Lucy wasn’t a cop—so this wasn’t technically entrapment—the conversation was moving into the gray area. Lucy would much prefer to have Prenter pick the place.

Lucy rolled her eyes. She didn’t hang out at bars, but everyone under the age of thirty knew of the Fairfax-area meat market that catered to a rowdy college crowd. Lots of drinking, music played too loud, and crowded. Not a place for quiet conversation; definitely a place to hook up. It was perfect for men like Prenter, and perfect for the WCF operation.

Lucy smiled herself as she typed the online happy face.

Fran called from the doorway: “Ten, nine, eight—”

“I got him!” she called out as she quickly typed a message to Prenter that she was logging off to study.

Then she sent the transcripts of all her conversations from the afternoon to her personal email, shut down each of the chat rooms she was monitoring, and logged off. She sent Officer Cody Lorenzo a text message.

“You got Prenter?” Fran looked over Lucy’s shoulder. “Good.”

“Hope so. Cody has twenty-four hours to set it up, Prenter picked the time and place.” She spontaneously gave Fran a hug. “Finally, I feel like I’ve accomplished something!”

“It’s been a while since we had a victory, but don’t count your chickens before—”

“They squawk. Right.” But nothing was going to diminish Lucy’s good mood. Now she had something to celebrate with her brother. She glanced at her watch. She was definitely going to have to run. “I wish I could be there when Cody arrests him.”

“Lucy, you know the rules.” Fran forbade any of them from getting involved in the field, even on the periphery.

“I know, I know.” Lucy shut down her monitor and grabbed her raincoat and scarf from under her desk. “I’ll be satisfied with Cody’s report.” Not as satisfied as seeing Brad Prenter’s expression when he realized his date was a setup, but it would have to be enough.

Movement in the lobby caught Lucy’s eye. Fran glanced over to the doorway at the same time Lucy did.

“Jonathon.” Fran smiled. “You’re early.”

“You work too hard, Fran.” Senator Jonathon Paxton kissed her cheek lightly. “Hello, Lucy.”

Lucy hid her grin. No wonder Fran wanted her out on time! She had a date, though Fran would never categorize her occasional evenings out with Senator Paxton as “dates.” She said it was all business, but Lucy had hopes that two of her favorite people would get together.

Lucy stood and gave the senator a hug. “I didn’t know you were coming by.”

“Fran and I have a lot to discuss before Saturday night. You will be at the fund-raiser, correct?”

“Of course,” she said automatically, though she didn’t want to go. She would do anything to support Fran and WCF, but she never liked the large public events. Her brother Patrick had promised to attend with her, but then he got an assignment out of state. He wouldn’t be back in time, which meant Lucy had to go alone.

“See you both later,” she said and pulled on her coat. She draped her purse over her shoulder.

“Need a ride?” Fran asked.

“The Metro is only three blocks away,” Lucy said. “But thanks.”

She left WCF and stepped into the chilly air. She loved walking and didn’t even mind the cold that much—though she still missed sunny, temperate So-Cal. She pulled her scarf up to cover her ears and neck and walked briskly toward the Metro.

The cold brought goose-bumps to her arms, like fingernails on a chalkboard. She told herself it was the frigid weather, but she knew better—the feeling of being watched was far too familiar. She faked a cough and stepped to the side so she could discreetly observe the people walking around her, the traffic on the street, the dinner crowd eating in the restaurant on the other side. A man passed her, nodded a greeting, and kept walking.

She sighed, frustrated with herself for being paranoid. For six years she’d never been able to shake the sensation that people were looking at her, that they knew what had happened, and somehow blamed her for her fate. The sensations had faded over time, but Lucy doubted they would ever disappear completely.

Her past would always be chasing her, no matter what she did.

“Suck it up,” she whispered to herself.

You’re about to put a rapist back in prison. You have a lot to celebrate
.

With that thought, she continued toward the Metro station, hyperaware of the people around her.

After ten years as an officer in the U.S. Air Force, Special Agent Noah Armstrong gave and took orders in stride, but even so, he found it unusual to be called into FBI Headquarters for a seven o’clock evening meeting with Assistant Director Rick Stockton. In addition to the time, it was odd that Stockton’s secretary didn’t give Noah a reason for the meeting. He was curious but unconcerned. He could think of no past or current case he’d worked to merit the attention of the higher-ups, and Noah didn’t care much for speculation.

Noah passed his shield and ID through the slot at the main desk on the ground floor of the Hoover Building. Reception was closed, but the night guard was on duty to check credentials. The building was a virtual fortress, protected by bulletproof glass and multiple levels of security just to get upstairs. Once he was cleared, it was smooth sailing to the top floor since it was after business hours.

When Noah stepped out of the elevator, he recognized Dr. Hans Vigo, a behavioral science instructor and assistant director at Quantico, the FBI training institution.

Dr. Vigo extended his hand. “Agent Armstrong, thank
you for coming after hours. Rick was delayed in a meeting, so I’ll brief you.”

He shook Vigo’s hand. “Not a problem, sir. I understand.”

“It’s good to see you again. You were in the class—seven-thirteen or fourteen, correct?”

Noah nodded. “Seven-fourteen, sir.”

“I’ve heard extensive praise of your work in the Bureau, most recently the Annapolis murders.”

Noah raised his eyebrow, surprised that someone of Dr. Vigo’s stature would concern himself with a typical mass murder. Under normal circumstances, the FBI wouldn’t have involved themselves with murders by a disgruntled employee, except that it had taken place in a federal building and the shooter and victims were all federal employees.

While he acknowledged that his military experience helped him rise above being merely a competent agent, Noah didn’t see why his record would have been brought to the assistant director’s attention.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Please call me Hans. I’m not one for formalities.”

Noah followed Hans down the quiet hall. Every office door was open, lights off. There were two people meeting in a small conference room, visible through the partly open blinds. But the normally bustling headquarters was nearly empty.

Hans asked, “Coffee? Water?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

Hans turned at the end of the hall and opened the door to Stockton’s office. He closed it behind them, then motioned for Noah to sit at the long table on the far side of the large, organized room.

Hans took a seat across from him. “We have an extremely sensitive investigation we would like you to head up, Noah.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Early Saturday morning, a park service employee found a body at the Washington Sailing Marina, on the Virginia side of the Potomac. The victim was shot once in the back of the head. He had no identification on his person, but his prints confirmed that he was Roger Morton. I got the call early this morning.”

The FBI didn’t handle routine homicides. Noah’s curiosity was piqued.

Hans said, “Morton was released from federal prison in Oregon six months ago, on July first.” Hans opened his file and slid over a prison mug shot. Morton had the hardened expression shared by many violent criminals, the half-snarl curling his lips telling Noah this guy felt remorse only over getting caught.

Hans continued. “This case is sensitive for two reasons. First, the nature of Morton’s crimes. He was the right-hand man for a vicious killer who ran both a legal and illegal pornography business, specializing in online sex videos. Most of Morton’s crimes were committed at the direction of his boss, Adam Scott, who was killed during a confrontation with federal agents.”

The case sounded familiar, but Noah couldn’t remember why. “How long ago?”

“Six years last June. Are you familiar with it?”

“I was still in the Air Force.” He hadn’t even been stationed in the States at the time.

“Scott charged online viewers to watch him rape and kill his victims live on the Internet.”

Now Noah remembered. “The case was discussed in my cybercrimes class at Quantico.”

“The agent who tracked Scott to his hideout made incredible strides in tracing masked Internet feeds. Many of her protocols have been integrated into our e-crimes unit.

“The reason this case is so sensitive,” Hans continued, “is because Morton was killed here, just outside D.C. We’ve taken the case from the local police; all evidence is being sent to the FBI lab. Traditionally, jurisdiction is ours anyway because the murder was on federal land, though we usually let the locals handle routine homicides.”

Apparently, this situation was not routine.

“As part of Morton’s probation,” Hans said, “he wasn’t allowed within ten miles of anyone involved in his case, including his victims and their families. His last victim lives in Georgetown, as well as one of the agents involved in his capture.”

“Victim?”

“He was a repeat rapist.”

“And he only got six years?” Noah frowned. “Sentencing guidelines require—”

Hans cut him off. “There was no trial. It was a plea agreement.” He slid over the file in front of him. “It’s sealed, not public. I made you a copy, but I don’t have to tell you how sensitive the information is. Morton was apprehended while Scott was still at-large. In exchange for leniency, Morton gave us information that helped lead us to Scott, which resulted in saving lives. In addition, he turned over all bank accounts and financial documentation from Scott’s money-laundering operation.
The legal sex industry brings in a small fortune, but that doesn’t even touch the amount of money in the illegal sex trade.”

Noah opened the file on Morton, slipped the mug shot back in, and skimmed the summary page while Hans continued to bring him up to speed on the case. A name in the files jumped out at him.

“Kate Donovan.” He looked up from the papers. “It says here she wasn’t an agent, but she’s the e-crimes instructor, correct?”

“Donovan was suspended at the time of Morton’s arrest,” Hans said. “I have another agent flying in from her current assignment to help—she can fill you in on the details not in that file because she was part of the original investigation.”

“Pardon me for asking, but why would you bring in an agent when Donovan—who was also involved in the investigation—is local?” When Hans didn’t immediately say anything, Noah added, “Do you think Donovan is involved in Morton’s murder?”

“No,” Hans said quickly, “but I’m personal friends with Kate and her family. That’s why you are investigating the murder, not me. Morton could have been killed for a hundred different reasons. But—”

Noah finished his thought. “A bullet to the back of the head suggests execution. Punishment.”

“Exactly.”

Noah skimmed the M.E. report. “Was he tortured prior to death?”

“Broken nose, bruising on his right wrist. The medical examiner believes his nose was broken when the killer pushed his head into the ground. However, someone
kicked him repeatedly in the groin area while he was prone. So violently that had he not been killed, he would have lost at least one of his testicles.”

Noah shifted in his seat and said, “Morton was a rapist; that sounds like revenge.”

“On the surface.”

More than on the surface, Noah thought, but he continued reading the file. “His last known address is in Denver. Do you know when he moved to D.C.?”

“We just got the case this morning,” Hans said. “We don’t know anything more than you do at this point, and what’s in Morton’s records. Rick Stockton wanted to speak with you directly, to explain the extreme sensitivity. He expects discreet due diligence. You will report directly to me, and I’ll keep Rick informed. Any clearances, anything you need from the U.S. Attorney—warrants, interviews, access—it’s yours. If you need to go to Denver to follow up, it’s approved. Anything you need, consider it approved. Just shoot me an email to CYA.”

“I understand what you need.” They had to believe someone in the Bureau was involved to go to such extreme lengths to avoid traditional channels. “Anything else?”