Death Angel (36 page)

He hadn’t hacked into any system in months, hadn’t needed to. He didn’t know which airline she’d used, which hampered him, but he began systematically searching them all, just in case she either hadn’t taken her cell phone with her or didn’t bother turning it on until she needed to use it.

When the locator in the phone was powered up, he immediately typed in the commands that would tell him exactly where she was, and when the map popped up on the screen he felt icy sweat pop out on his skin.

She was in
New York
.

30

THE NEXT MORNING, ANDIE WORKED HER WAY THROUGH all the barricades and security checks at
Federal
Plaza
. She was given a visitor’s ID and an escort, shown where to wait, and eventually she went into a small office. Special Agent Rick Cotton got to his feet when she entered, shaking the hand she held out. He had a nice firm handshake, not too tight and not wimpy, but at first glance she didn’t see what was so special about him.

He was middle-aged and graying, though still trim, and he had a calm, mild expression. The impression she got from the way others acted around him was that he was liked, but there was no sizzle of electricity that said he was a mover and shaker. She knew sizzle, because she’d been in very close contact with it one summer afternoon last year. The force of Simon’s personality dominated any room he was in, while Rick Cotton would barely be noticed.

“Please have a seat, Ms. Pearson,” Agent Cotton said, indicating a battered-looking straight-backed chair. “I believe your message said you have some information about someone named Rafael Salinas?”

If those cards got any closer to his chest, Andie thought, he wouldn’t be able to see them himself. He wanted her to show her hand first, which was fine with her.

“My name isn’t Pearson,” Andie said. “It’s Andrea Butts. I used to go by the name Drea Rousseau, and I lived with Rafael Salinas for two years.”

She saw the shock in his face before he could school his expression. He blinked, staring at her. “I had long, blond, curly hair then,” she added helpfully.

He said, “Just a moment,” and picked up his phone and dialed an extension. He said, “Drea Rousseau is sitting in my office,” and replaced the handset.

He sat silently, and so did she. She honestly had no idea if she would be of any use to the FBI, or they to her, but they were the logical place to start. Offering herself as bait would work only if someone was watching the trap, otherwise the bait was just a meal. She might not be able to do anything about Rafael; if she couldn’t, then at least she had tried.

A sandy-haired man opened the door and came in. “Ms. Rousseau,” he said, “I’m Special Agent Brian Hulsey; I’m in charge of the
Salinas investigation now. Would you step into my office, please?”

Andie paused, her head cocked a little to the side as she studied him. He hadn’t knocked before entering Agent Cotton’s office, and she had caught the slight emphasis he’d placed on the word “now,” which had been completely unnecessary unless he was making a point to the agent who had been in charge of the investigation before. Office politics, she guessed, with ego and a power display thrown in. Agent Cotton, on the other hand, looked mild and unperturbed. No ego there, and he wasn’t interested in power.

“No,” she said, drawing the word out a little as she reached a decision. “I’ll talk with Special Agent Cotton.”

Special Agent Hulsey said, “You misunderstand. Agent Cotton is no longer in charge of—”

“I didn’t misunderstand anything,” she replied, her tone going cool. “English is my first language, so I know a lot of the words.” English was also her only language, but he didn’t need to know that.

His face turned red. “I apologize. I didn’t intend to imply—”

“That I’m stupid? That’s okay. A lot of men make that mistake.” She smiled at him, a sweet smile that, if he’d been paying close attention, would have made his blood curdle. “Rafael Salinas was one of them.”

“I assure you, Ms. Rousseau—”

“Butts,” she said, putting hard edges on all the consonants. “My real name is Andrea Butts. I thought you knew that.”

“Of course I—”

She hadn’t let him complete a single sentence after he’d introduced himself when he came in, so she saw no reason to start now. “Special Agent Cotton,” she said firmly, “or no one. Your choice.”

There it was, dumped in his lap. He either delegated his role in the investigation to Special Agent Cotton, or he would be the one responsible for losing the contact that could possibly bring down Rafael Salinas once and for all. He would see the first choice as an almost intolerable affront to his authority—he was the type—but the second choice could be a career-killer.

“I’ll get it cleared with the assistant director,” he muttered resentfully, walking out of the office and leaving the door open.

Andie got up and closed the door with a firm thud.

“I didn’t like him,” she confided as she resumed her seat.

Special Agent Cotton allowed himself a little smile, but all he said was, “He’s a good agent.”

“I assumed so, or he wouldn’t be stationed in
New York
, but I can also assume the same thing about you.” Agents vied to be posted in the larger cities, with D.C. and
New York
at the top of the heap, where the action was and where everything was high visibility.

“I work with some very sharp people. It’s easy to look good when all the people around you are on their toes.”

What Andie got from that was that he was willing to spread the credit around, while Hulsey wasn’t. She was satisfied with her decision in sticking with Special Agent Cotton.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to call in an agent who worked with me when I was assigned to the
Salinas case,” he said, lifting the phone again. “His name is Xavier Jackson, and he’s a genius at what he does. It was his bad luck to be partnered with me, but we still talk sometimes even though we aren’t on that case now.”

She gathered they’d been reassigned because they hadn’t produced any results, though she’d bet the farm that Hulsey hadn’t done any better than they had. No wonder Hulsey had been adamant that she talk with him rather than Cotton; she would have been a big feather in his cap, and maybe just what he needed for the case to reach the tipping point and actually produce some prosecutable evidence against Rafael.

She and Cotton chatted casually while waiting for Genius Jackson. Some fifteen minutes later there was a polite rap on the door, and a wait until Cotton raised his voice and said, “Come in.”

Xavier Jackson was young, maybe her age, and lean and dark and handsome, his features faintly exotic, his skin olive-tinted. He was a more dapper dresser than most of the FBI employees she’d seen in the building; though he wore the de rigueur sober suit and white dress shirt, his tie was a deep, rich red with a tiny design that, when she looked closer, turned out to be highly stylized horses in an even deeper red. Instead of the flat rectangular fold of white handkerchief, his breast pocket sported a few subtle peaks in the same rich red. Altogether he was subtly more flashy, his movements faster, his accent was as undefinable as that of a television news anchor. The expression in his eyes was decidedly sharklike, but unlike Hulsey, his attitude toward Agent Cotton was that of respect.

Neither of them was going to die anytime soon.

She got that, plucked the sudden conviction out of the air as if it were a ripe apple dangling in front of her, but saw no need to tell them.
Jackson thought he was bulletproof, and Cotton was looking forward to retirement and having more time to spend with his wife, doing things he enjoyed. No death worries darkened their minds, so she didn’t introduce the subject.

Jackson
gave her an incredulous look. “Are you really Drea Rousseau?”

She laughed, and he immediately said, “Oh, yeah, I recognize that laugh.” Curiosity burned in his eyes. “I thought you might be dead. You just disappeared.”

“On purpose,” she assured him. “Running for my life.”

“
Salinas wants you dead?”

“He did. After I left town, though, I was in a car accident and the news release mistakenly said I’d died in the accident, which was actually a lifesaver because Rafael called off his hounds.” There had been only one hound, and he’d been the one to report to Rafael that she was dead, which was true, but her glib skirting of the truth was much more believable than what had actually happened.

“So he thinks you’re dead,” said Cotton. “You’re safe. Why come back to the city, back to his territory?”

“Because if I know anything about him that would help you build a case against him, help put him in prison, then it would be wrong for me to play it safe while he goes on bringing drugs into the country every week. Rafael’s smart,” she said. “You might never be able to get enough evidence against him, unless you somehow catch a break. I might be that break. I don’t know that I am, but I’m willing to give it a shot.”

“Do you know who his accountant is? The real one, not the one who does the books for the public stuff?”

She shook her head. Knowing the accountant, and his, or her, location, would have been the linchpin to Rafael’s entire operation. “I never heard a name mentioned. He was careless about a few things”—like his bank password—“but not about that. I don’t think any of his men know, either. They talked in front of me, but they never mentioned anything about books, or an accountant.”

“Did he ever disappear, and not take any of his men with him?” That was
Jackson chiming in.

“Not that I know of, though he could have left with his usual guard and ditched them somewhere afterward. But like I said, I never heard them talking about anything like that. Rafael’s paranoid about going out by himself. He thinks the streets are knee-deep in rivals waiting to knock him off. He wants to be surrounded by other bodies, at all times.”

They both peppered her with questions, about any detail they could think of. They talked for hours, with Andie pitching in any detail she could think of, but she began to despair because nothing seemed to be enough to hang on him. She’d been afraid of that, afraid she might have to resort to more desperate measures.

“There’s one option I have to mention,” she finally said, when even the two agents seemed discouraged because their golden opportunity to nail
Salinas was turning out to be a dud. “It isn’t a federal charge, but the idea is to get Rafael out of business and off the streets, right? If he sees me, he’ll go nuts. I’m supposed to be dead. When I left, I…took something that was very important to him.” Yeah, she could honestly say that two million dollars was important to him, but equally important to someone like Rafael was the affront she had landed to his ego. Come to that, his ego might be more important. He’d convinced himself that he loved her, and she’d thrown that love in his face. “If he can, he’ll kill me where I stand. So how can we use that against him?”

“IT WON’T WORK,”
Jackson said softly, after Drea Rousseau left—a vastly changed Drea, but it was definitely her. “Even if we could use a civilian as bait, which the A.D. would never allow anyway, an attempted murder charge doesn’t carry a severe-enough sentence to keep him off the streets for much more than a year or so—and that’s if he even did any jail time.”

“I know,” said Cotton. His voice was tired. “I know. We still can’t nail the bastard, even with her help. And God forbid if we set her up as bait and he actually did shoot her down in the street. I couldn’t forgive myself if that happened.”

ANDIE STOPPED AT a diner for lunch, so discouraged she could barely swallow the soup she ordered. She had been so certain she could come back to
New York
and, in short order, somehow have Rafael either in federal custody or dead. She had honestly been thinking “dead,” as if there would be some big dramatic shoot-out, which would certainly juice up a slow news day, and Rafael would be killed. Looked at logically, now that she was here, she couldn’t say how she had arrived at that scenario. This wasn’t like the sudden impressions she had concerning other people; she’d never had one relating to herself.

Her plan, if it could be called a plan, had been big in scope but very sketchy on details. Now that she was here, she felt pretty foolish. She hadn’t thought anything out, which was so unlike her she could only shake her head. She wasn’t brave, she wasn’t intrepid, she wasn’t any kind of heroine, but she had conceived of this grand scheme without having any way of carrying it out. What the hell was wrong with her?