Fatal Secrets (18 page)

“Absolutely.”

“They’re not anywhere at his house,” Dean said. “We searched extensively, had Jones open his safe. But most criminal enterprises keep two sets of books—their public books and the real books.”

“Have you been to his offices? The consulting firm and the security business?”

“Someone from our office has, but only to retrieve financial data per the warrant. Not to search the establishments for journals or anything else.”

“If you can’t get another warrant, I will. We need to push hard, whether Jones is dead or not. We don’t have a lot of time. Two and a half days.”

“If the books aren’t at his businesses, then maybe one of his employees is working with him. Maintaining the second set of books.”

Dean shook his head. “His businesses are what kept him legit. When laundering money, the more people who know how it works the more risk. But I can’t figure out how Jones was doing it. His office expenses are a little high, but in line with the income he generates from his clients, which is substantial.”

“Do you have a list of his clients?”

“Of course. We didn’t have time to get to it yesterday.”

“Maybe after we’re done here and we talk to my informant, we should go back to your office and look again at his clients.” The sheriff’s boat started toward the pier. “Jones is getting money from buying and selling people, and I doubt he’s hiding it under his mattress,” Sonia said.

Dean and Sonia approached the vessel when it docked. The deputy coroner was on the boat bagging the victim. Floaters were put in clear plastic to preserve evidence and fluids, as the body decomposed much differently than it would on dry land. Then the victim was put into a body bag for transport.

Dean had a sudden realization. “I’m going at Jones all wrong,” he admitted. “I was focusing on the money trail. Ninety-five percent of the time, going backward in financial records gets you exactly what you need. But with Jones, that hadn’t been working. All his records check out. I need to spend more time looking at his clients.”

“But you said not ten minutes ago that you looked into his clients.”

“I did. They’re all legitimate businesses with no red flags on their tax filings or bank accounts. But I need to dig deeper on them like I was doing with Jones.”

Sonia frowned. “That sounds like it’s going to take hundreds of hours of manpower. We don’t have the time.”

“That’s why I need your help. You know this area. With you and Sam going through the names and addresses, I think we can narrow it down to a handful of possibilities.”

“It still sounds like a long shot.”

“Perhaps, but unless we find a safe with gold, cash, or black-market diamonds on Jones’s property, a client is the only way he can clean his money.”

Trace Anderson jumped off the rescue boat and approached them. He said, “It’s not Jones.”

“Charlie said there were two victims,” Sonia said.

“Yeah, but who the hell is the second victim?”

Sonia watched as the deputy coroner and his team carried the body from the boat to the dock. A white sheet had been draped over the gurney. Charlie’s story about the man Jones met with killing one of his own people was now far more terrifying with a body. There was a predator in town even more ruthless than Xavier Jones.

The head diver said to Trace, “We’re headed back out to see about the second possible. You coming?”

Trace looked at Sonia, and she nodded her approval. “I’m coming,” he called to the diver, then said to Sonia and Dean, “I’ll let you know as soon as we find the other body.”

“Thanks, Trace.”

The boat left, and Sonia approached the deputy coroner and introduced herself and Dean. “I need to see the victim.”

The wiry Asian man nodded and said, “I have him bagged already, but the outer bag isn’t sealed yet.” In a homicide, they locked the external body bag until the medical examiner’s office was ready to perform the autopsy; then the lock was broken and all biological and trace evidence logged.

He removed the sheet and Sonia stared at the victim through the clear plastic.

He was middle-aged with a receding hairline, skinny but with a slightly pudgy middle. Tall—six foot two at least—with muscles still defined even though the water had saturated the skin, turning it a white and pasty color in the middle, with the limbs beginning to turn green from the buildup of gas and bacteria in the body. The bicolor stage of decomp helped establish time of death: generally, if a body was discovered within thirty-six hours, plus or minus, the M.E. could closely estimate time of death. Beyond that, the TOD became an educated guess.

The bullet holes in the chest were clean from the fresh water, the edges black suggesting that the killer was only feet away from the victim.

“He’s pretty fresh,” Sonia said. “Do you have an estimated TOD?”

“I have to factor in time, weather condition, water temperature—”

“I’m thinking four to eight hours,” Sonia said. “I’ve seen enough dead bodies to know this one is new.”

“You’re probably right. Certainly less than eight hours, otherwise he’d be a lot darker. It’s always darkest before the dawn.” The coroner laughed at his morbid humor over the stages of water decomp, the two sheriff’s deputies joining in. Sonia smiled, but she wasn’t in a humorous mood. There was something bothering her about this victim, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“What are you thinking?” Dean asked quietly.

“Look at his clothes.”

The victim wore a white T-shirt under a dark blue, unzipped windbreaker, jeans, and bright-red running shoes.

“I haven’t seen a floater,” Dean admitted. “Is there something unusual? Should the current have stripped his shoes or something?”

“No, not necessarily. Maybe it’s the red shoes. They look … different.”

Dean said to the coroner, “When you get the body back, can I send an agent over to observe the autopsy and possibly help with evidence? My office has committed all resources necessary to assist the county in this investigation.”

“Sure, whatever floats your boat. I’ll let the supervising pathologist know to expect one of your people.”

Dean said to Sonia as the coroner finished bagging the body, “I’ll mention the shoes. Maybe they’re rare, only available in a specific store.”

“Yeah, but in the age of online shopping that doesn’t matter much anymore,” Sonia said, frowning. She asked the coroner, “Do you think you’ll be able to get prints off the body?”

“Good chance. He wasn’t in long enough to destroy them completely. We get his hands dried out, we can print him. You’ll have to give us a couple hours.”

“That’s fine. Thanks for your help.”

She and Dean walked back around to the front of the restaurant and into the parking lot where the crime-scene van was now parked, the techs combing the area for evidence. She motioned to the blood on the pavement near the restaurant entrance, then observed the riverbank to the southwest. “Charlie said he was hiding on the edge of the riverbank among the trees and had a clear line of sight on Jones. But the pier isn’t visible from here.”

“Depends on where he was hiding,” Dean said.

“It couldn’t have been too far, otherwise he wouldn’t have seen the second victim shot, yet at an angle where he could observe the first shooting.”

“And?”

“I think he knows damn well who killed Jones.”

“I could have told you that. That guy is dangerous.” Dean lowered his voice, brushed his hand again along her injured cheek. She resisted the urge to lean into his light caress. She wanted five minutes to just release the pent-up frustration and deep sadness that warred within her at what her mentor had become. She’d known—dammit, she had seen firsthand—Charlie’s warped sense of justice, but she had hoped he’d realize he couldn’t sacrifice honor and the law. Otherwise, he was just like the people they fought. A vigilante? Vigilantes didn’t hurt innocent people. Vigilantes didn’t let a truckload of Chinese women die because of a missing girl. He could save both if he would just be honest with her. She didn’t understand what he was doing.

“We’re getting close,” he said, brushing loose strands of her hair aside. Dean’s eyes were full of quiet compassion and potent focus. He didn’t look much different than he did the other night at the raid, except that he wore only one gun under his jacket. That he was an accountant amazed Sonia. She never imagined being attracted to a numbers cruncher, but she’d never met one who looked so … hot. That he was also smart—she’d always been attracted to the smart, athletic guys—was an added benefit; that he was so commanding in his quiet intensity had her swallowing involuntarily and averting her eyes.

She wondered what would happen if all his attention was focused solely on her.

Sonia dismissed that thought, at least for now. Maybe after this case was over, she and Dean could indulge in wild, mindless sex before he went back to Washington. She was attracted to him, and the way he was looking at her right now she knew he felt the same. She didn’t have a life designed for serious relationships, and suspected Dean didn’t either.

His fingers brushed over her lips, whether on purpose or accident Sonia didn’t know, but a hot shiver went down her spine. Suddenly she realized they were still in public. Two deputies were watching from afar. Sonia stepped back.

“I need to go,” she said.

“Do you want to see Vega now?” Dean asked.

“Yes, but let’s take a detour to the hospital. Ann is in surgery and I want to get that GPS chip and see if we can trace it. Detective Black is working on moving her to another hospital, but it’s going to be delayed until she’s stable. Even with the additional security, her attackers were ballsy enough to walk right by a uniformed officer and try to kill her. I’ll send two agents to Vega’s house to tell him we’re putting him and his wife into protective custody. We can meet up with them later this morning.”

They walked up to the road where they’d parked separately. “How’s your brother?”

“My mom called from the hospital this morning. Riley had a good night and will be released tomorrow. He’ll be off duty for two weeks, and on desk duty for at least two more. I’m sure he’s not happy about that, but I thank God he’s alive.” Her voice hitched and she mentally berated herself. “Sorry,” she mumbled as she squeezed back the tears. “Riley’s fine, I don’t know why I’m getting so emotional.”

“Because you were scared for him and didn’t have any time to think about it until now.”

She stopped at her car. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Dean wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to his chest. It was a warm hug, like Riley, yet very
unlike
her brother. She was acutely aware of Dean’s clean scent, his subtle cologne, his crisp, lightly starched shirt, his hard biceps pressing firmly against her body. Sonia wrapped her arms around Dean’s waist and hugged him back, her cheek on his shoulder, savoring the moment, in awe of how perfectly they fit together, of how comfortable she felt.

She hadn’t been held like this in far too long. Her relationships were brief and largely uncommitted. She didn’t have time for small romances. The hugs, the dinners, the movies. Her administrative assistant Grace joked bitingly about Sonia’s “boyfriend of the month,” and Sonia let the friendly criticism roll off her back, but in some ways she was saddened by the reality of her life. She didn’t have the time or desire to get close to anyone. She had her family and her job and barely enough time to manage both well. Where did a boyfriend fit in? A husband? Besides, most of the good men wanted kids of their own, something Sonia couldn’t provide.

A car passed them and Sonia jumped back, startled. Where had her mind wandered? Why was she even thinking about “FBI agent Dean Hooper” and “boyfriend” in the same thought?

“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” she mumbled and slid into her car before he could respond, before he could touch her again. That was it, he’d touched her. He was exactly her type: tall, lean, muscular, smart, with a
GQ
face and strong square jaw. One touch and she was getting sloppy.

She drove off, mumbling, “Just wait, Sonia. Go to bed with him, get him out of your system, and he’ll be gone. He’s safe. He lives three thousand miles away. No long-term commitment.”

It seemed unwise to be waxing at length over the long-term potential of a one-night stand. The realization that Dean would be leaving as soon as this case was over left Sonia feeling even emptier than when she’d pulled back from his embrace.

When his people reported that federal agents had been to Jones’s house early that morning, Noel snapped the ballpoint pen he was holding in half.

“How do they already know Jones is dead?” he asked no one in particular. Ling and Ignacio were with him in his suite. “Mr. Ling, what do you think happened?”

“The dr—”

“The driver,” Noel said before Ling finished. “Who the
fuck
is this
bastard
Chuck Angelo? Where did he come from? Where is he now? What does he drive and why don’t I know him? Why is it that every
fucking
person I’ll spoken with in the last three hours has
never heard of Chuck Angelo!”

He didn’t like surprises, and because he took incredible precautions, he rarely had them. The few that had arisen over the years had been the direct result of a certain ICE agent messing up his plans. What particularly irked him was that Sonia Knight screwed up his life without intending to. She had no idea who she had pissed off.

She would find out.

“I think,” he continued, “that no one knows this Chuck Angelo because he’s a cop. An agent working with Sonia Knight. What I want to know is how this
female
agent
managed to infiltrate Jones’s operation with both an undercover cop
and
an informant? Jones was clearly an idiot. I’d love to kill him again.”

“I have the report on Knight,” Mr. Ling said quietly.

“And?”

“She’s single. Her adopted parents live in Sacramento.”

“I hope you have more than that.”

“Her adopted brother was the cop Johan stabbed yesterday.”