Fatal Secrets (21 page)

“Thank you,” Dean said.

They walked through the common area to the glass-walled conference room on the far side. There were two small offices with closed doors and a larger office in the opposite corner with open double doors. Jones’s spread, no doubt. Odd, considering his schedule showed he was rarely in the office. Three other desks, including the secretary’s, filled the common area.

“Coffee? Water?”

“No thanks,” Sonia said impatiently.

When the secretary left, Dean leaned over and whispered in Sonia’s ear, “Not many employees. A company with the revenue he has?”

“Is that suspicious?” she asked. “Some small businesses do very well with only a couple people on staff.”

“Some.” Dean didn’t believe Jones’s was one of those, especially since he was not an active principal in the business by all appearances.

Craig Gleason stepped into the conference room. He was in his mid to late thirties with sleek black hair and blue eyes. Dean figured women might find Gleason attractive—he was well dressed, polished, in shape—but Dean saw him as too slick, too perfect. Smart, and he knew it. Criminals who thought they were smarter than the cops were often the easiest to catch.

“We weren’t properly introduced yesterday, Mr. Gleason,” Dean said, shaking his proffered hand. Gleason was the late arrival to Jones’s lunch.

Gleason’s smile didn’t waffle. “Mr. Jones mentioned the unfortunate situation.”

Dean kept his face impassive, didn’t say a word.

Gleason waved his hand in the air as if to dismiss the whole conversation he’d had with Jones. “Just that you were barking up the wrong tree, something like that. He’s a very private person.”

Gleason turned his white smile on Sonia. His eyes quickly scanned her entire body, as any warm-blooded man would do, but without the discretion most men employed. Dean didn’t like it, but he was interested in how Sonia would react. She didn’t seem the type to succumb to a pretty face and affected flirtation.

“Craig,” he said, extending his hand to Sonia. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Sonia shook his hand, squeezing harder than necessary. Gleason rubbed his hand after she let it go. Dean
swallowed a laugh as he cleared his throat and coughed into his fist.

“Sonia Knight, supervisory special agent with Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”

By her tone, she was playing the bad cop. Dean adjusted gears to be more conciliatory. They should have discussed it before they came up—Sam Callahan was the perennial “good cop” and Dean had naturally assumed the stern role. But he had a different partner now, one who obviously didn’t like to mince words or play games. He liked it.

Gleason’s smile faltered for a moment and Dean saw a flash of worry in his eyes. He expected Gleason’s next words would be asking for a lawyer; Dean was surprised he was wrong.

Gleason said, “How can I help you?”

“We have some questions about your employer,” Sonia said.

“Is it about the FBI raid yesterday morning? I really don’t know anything about that. Perhaps you could enlighten me.” He chuckled as the three of them sat around the large black lacquered executive table.

Dean let Sonia run with the questioning. He was more interested in observing Gleason’s manner: his body language, the way he twirled slowly in the chair—left to right, right to left. How even when the questions were serious, half the time he glanced at Sonia’s breasts before answering. Subtle, but Dean was looking for physical cues as to whether Gleason was being honest with them, or lying.

For starters, Gleason didn’t seem surprised that they’d shown up, though he might have been expecting it after yesterday’s raid. It was more his tacit agreement that he’d willingly answer their questions, no attorney present.
Someone as sharp as Gleason—a major lobbyist in a major state—shouldn’t be this easy for federal law enforcement to talk to. Even those with nothing to hide liked to have an attorney to cut off the conversation when it went off the narrow path of the investigation. Guilty or innocent, having an attorney present was a good idea to protect the rights of the witness or suspect. It also helped the prosecution because the presence of a defense attorney ultimately made the system run more smoothly. The biggest legal hurdles Dean went through in court were getting confessions admitted as evidence when defense counsel hadn’t been present.

“When was the last time you saw Xavier Jones?” Sonia asked.

“Yesterday afternoon. We came here after lunch to talk about the office and our clients, bills that we are tracking. It’s that time of year, June in Sacramento.” His smile said
what can you do
.

“What time did he leave?”

“Three, three-thirty.”

“Was he alone or was someone with him?”

“Alone. Though he had his driver pick him up.”

Cammarata was his driver. Dean played dumb and asked, “His driver? Through a service?”

“His personal driver.”

“Do you know his personal driver?”

“I’ve met him.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Angelo.”

“First or last?”

“I don’t know.”

Gleason didn’t seem to be evading or showing any concern about Jones or his driver.

“Have you talked to Mr. Jones today?” Sonia asked.

“No, but he’s supposed to be in later this afternoon for a meeting with clients.”

“What time?”

“Five.”

“And you know this how?”

“I set up the appointment yesterday. Why is this important?”

Sonia ignored the question and asked, “Do you know Mr. Jones’s employee Gregory Vega?”

“Vega? I met him a couple times, but he works for Mr. Jones’s security company in Stockton.”

“He’s dead.”

Dean watched Gleason’s face, and while his voice sounded surprised, his eyes were too calculating. Had he known Vega was dead? Suspected? That surprised Dean; he didn’t think Gleason was a killer or accomplice to murder. Money laundering, racketeering, sure. But Gleason seemed the sort of man who didn’t like to get his hands dirty.

“Greg Vega? Are you sure? What happened?”

“He and his wife were tortured and murdered early this morning in their home,” Sonia said bluntly. She leaned forward. “We have evidence that your boss may have met a similar fate.”

Gleason paled—a hard reaction to fake, Dean acknowledged.

“Wh-who would do that?” he sputtered.

Dean said, “We were hoping you might be able to help us figure that out.”

“Me?”

“You’re close to Xavier Jones, right? You’ve worked for him for six years.” Dean looked at his notes, though
he had the information memorized. “You graduated from USC with a degree in public administration and business economics. Worked for the governor for a year as an intern, then took a legislative consultant position with one of the Senate leaders. Two years later you went to work for the new governor—a different political party, showing you work well with everyone, right?” Dean gave him an impressed smile. “Four years later you became chief of staff to the Senate Pro Tem, and then after two years joined XCJ.”

“Why is my background important? That’s all on the XCJ Web page under my bio. What’s that got to do with anything?” He seemed irritated. Agitated. Guilty or worried?

“I’m simply trying to understand your relationship with your boss. He needs you—you have the contacts in the legislature and the governor’s office—Jones is a businessman who had a small lobbying firm with a handful of clients. Until you.”

Something clicked and Dean went through his mental checklist on this case. It suddenly became crystal clear. Dean knew exactly how Jones was laundering his money. If he was right, it was brilliant—Dean could almost admire the man for his criminal intelligence. Proving his theory would be difficult. Unless someone talked—and Dean knew how to work the system and cut deals better than most.

He said to Gleason, “Is there anything you want to tell us?”

Gleason was now visibly rattled. “Xavier was a much sought-after lobbyist. He brought me on because he couldn’t manage all the clients who wanted to hire him.”

More likely Jones brought in Gleason to hide the volume of cash moving through his then-small company.

Dean wanted to wrap up the conversation and get back to FBI headquarters, but there was still more information he needed about Jones’s clients. He didn’t want to rush it, because if Gleason
did
know about the money laundering and was involved in any way in human trafficking, he was in a perfect position to continue Jones’s operation, business as usual.

“But you do all the work,” Dean continued. He forced himself to sound impressed. “You’re the lobbyist of record for the overwhelming majority of clients. You have more clients than the two junior lobbyists—Eric Daniel-son and Rich Mercer—and Jones combined. You’re the top gun.”

“Mr. Jones is in charge,” Gleason reiterated.

“You wouldn’t know it looking at the lobbying reports,” Dean said. “Your name is on virtually everything.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

Sonia spoke up. “Has Mr. Jones received any threats that you know about? Has he seemed preoccupied lately?”

“Threats? Of course not. He’s always preoccupied. He’s busy. I know the raid yesterday upset him greatly.” Gleason fidgeted. “Maybe he killed himself. He was really upset about the situation. He was afraid word would get out and his associates would be concerned. Any hint of impropriety in our business is severely damaging to our reputation.”

Sonia turned her BlackBerry around so Gleason could read the screen, then handed it to Dean. “Really hard to kill yourself with five bullets.”

Dean read the message from Trace Anderson that had come in ten minutes ago, after they’d sat down at the table. He hadn’t even seen Sonia checking her messages.

Divers found Jones on the bottom of the river. The current pushed him farther downstream than the unknown victim. Five entry wounds. Call me
.

“Wait,” Gleason said after Sonia showed him the text. “Wait a minute. Mr. Jones was murdered? Who’s this other victim?”

“We don’t know.” Sonia pushed over a photo of the first bloated corpse pulled from the river. “Have you seen him before?”

Gleason was obviously disturbed by the photograph, and Sonia made no move to take it away. “No,” he whispered.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“I don’t know him.”

“Do you know who would want to kill Mr. Jones? Maybe a client who didn’t get his bill through?”

Gleason was shaking his head before Sonia even finished her sentence. “This is America. People don’t kill over legislation.”

Dean said, “Did you know that XCJ Consulting has twice the revenue of any other lobbying firm in California, and more than any in Washington? That tipped my office off that there might be something else going on here.”

“That something else,” Sonia said, “is human trafficking.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Gleason said the right things, but his mannerisms told Dean that this wasn’t news to him. Why was he talking?
Why hadn’t he called an attorney? The guy couldn’t be that arrogant, or that stupid.

Gleason continued. “What proof do you have?”

Dean pulled out the client list of XCJ Consulting. Driving over they’d decided to go through the list alphabetically. There were two or three they were specifically interested in, but they didn’t want to tip their hand.

“Astor Manufacturing. Owner, Dale Trevek. Has Mr. Trevek spoken with Mr. Jones in the last two weeks? How satisfied is he with the work you’ve done for him?”

Dean and Sonia alternated between names, running through them as quickly as possible to get to the key companies Sonia felt were most likely involved with human trafficking, or were already on her radar like Omega Shipping.

Sonia asked, “Omega Shipping. One of Mr. Jones’s personal clients. How long have they been a client?”

“Omega? Since before I started,” Gleason replied. He was agitated and tired, and no longer stole looks at Sonia’s chest. “Hasn’t this gone on long enough? You still haven’t told me why you want to know all this.” He ended with a whine.

“As we said at the beginning,” Sonia answered, “Jones was suspected of being involved in several illegal activities. We are completing the investigation, because the likelihood is that whoever killed him benefits from his death. So, please, let’s talk about Omega. They’ve been a longtime client of Mr. Jones. Owned by George and Victoria Christopoulis. According to shipping records, they transport cattle, poultry, and other perishable goods from the United States—mostly California—to China, Japan, Russia, Brazil—all across the globe.”

“And?”

“The single most common method of transportation in international human trafficking is by ship. Omega is in all the right places to bring illegal immigrants into this country.”

Gleason laughed, wholly out of place considering the conversation, and said, “You don’t need to bring them in by boat. There’re tens of thousands willingly crossing the border every day.”

Sonia slammed her fist on the table and Dean saw that the anger was not an act. “Do not make light of this situation, Mr. Gleason.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on. You’re the people who raided Jones’s house. You didn’t come up with anything, or you wouldn’t be asking such stupid questions.”

Dean pushed on through the list. There were two other entities that had been with Jones since the beginning of XCJ. “What about Rio Diablo Rancherita? According to Fair Political Practice reports, the tribe spent over $100 million on a statewide referendum related to a gaming agreement. A huge chunk of that money came here.”

“It was a political campaign. They’re expensive. Why are you interested in Rio Diablo?”

Not
that
expensive. “We’ve asked you about all of XCJ’s clients,” Dean said innocently.

“There’s only two more on the list,” Sonia said. “Weber and Sons Trucking and Zing Productions. Why would a local moving company need a lobbyist?”

“Joel Weber is a friend of Xavier’s. It wasn’t a major account. His son Jordan runs the day-to-day business.”

“They paid over $100,000 to XCJ last year,” Dean said.