Fatal Secrets (29 page)

She looked at Dean for the first time since she envisioned herself back in that awful room. He had moved closer to her, his hands entwined tightly with hers. He brought them to his lips and held them there, his eyes red with suppressed emotion.

“As soon as I was out of surgery and conscious, they arrested me for murder. Forget the phone calls, I’d apparently killed someone of importance. I found out later he was a popular local politician and the father of nineteen kids.”

“What did they say when you told them you were a U.S. Immigration cop?”

“At first, they didn’t believe me. This town had their own law. Conditions in their jail weren’t—stellar.” She’d killed Sheldon Rasmussen, a man with a wife and kids. She paid the price. “They didn’t believe that I’d been kidnapped. One of the cops convinced others that I was an assassin. Rasmussen was a criminal, but he provided for the town. His own mini kingdom. Then, I think they did finally believe me, but were scared of possible repercussions. It would have been easier to make me disappear than to face the U.S.’s wrath. The fact that no one
came around asking about me made my ‘story’ less believable.”

“I can’t believe he left you.” Dean’s voice was rough with anger. He kissed her hands again, holding them so tightly her fingers almost went numb.

“Do you know who saved me from being hanged?”

“Don’t tell me Charlie.”

“Indirectly.”

“Do I want to hear this?”

“You asked about Kane Rogan. This is where he comes in. I was in prison, I wasn’t getting a trial, and I thought I was going to die. I didn’t get a phone call, I didn’t get to talk to anyone. Charlie hadn’t followed me from the farm. He didn’t know where I’d been taken. He was tracking the other girls. He called Kane—they’d been in the Marines together—and told him what happened. Some of what happened. Kane specializes in hostage rescues. He tracked me down, broke me out of prison, and brought me back to El Paso. I asked him where Charlie was and he thought I already knew. He said, ‘Charlie said you’d gotten yourself in trouble. Tell me what happened.’ I told him everything.”

Dean massaged her palms. He didn’t say anything, but she felt his support through his touch.

“I thought Kane was going to kill him. Really. He ended up testifying on my behalf during the OPR hearings.”

“On your behalf?”

When Sonia had first heard Charlie’s lies, she’d been devastated. Now it just made her angry. “Charlie had fabricated a story. A lot of stories. Suffice it to say, he was a hero. He saved all those girls who’d been branded with me, and he found the dozen girls kidnapped from
the orphanage. No one wanted to believe that he set me up as bait so he could gather intelligence. But Kane believed me, and his word went a long way with OPR. If you ever meet him, you’ll understand why.”

“Sonia,” Dean said, “I’m glad you told me.”

She breathed easier, gave him a half-smile. “Me, too.”

He leaned over and kissed her softly, holding her face with his hands. “You are amazing, sweetheart.”

Dean’s respect and affection empowered Sonia, as if sharing the entire sordid story had purged the last of her anger and resentment and self-pity. She’d been holding back for so long, keeping the details of that unspeakable time locked deep inside, not realizing how it still haunted her. Now, her heart felt lighter, she was stronger. Because Dean drew the truth out like no one else had been able to.

She said, “I kinda like you.”

“I kinda like you, too.” He kissed her again. No urgency, just a deep affection like nothing Sonia had known before.

He reluctantly pulled back. “It’s getting late. I brought over the files on Rio Diablo and some of the older documentation I have on Jones, if you want to take a look while I take a quick shower.”

“I’ll do that.”

Dean pulled her from the chair and brought her lips to his. Lightly, a breath of a touch, but Sonia’s body tingled in response. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly, her head nestled between his neck and shoulder. Just held her without moving for a long, peaceful moment.

“Okay. I’m going to get in the shower.” He made no move to leave her. He kissed her head, her cheek, her
neck, back to her lips. “Now,” he said, his voice husky. Then he cleared his throat and stepped back. “The files are on the coffee table.”

“Thanks.”

She watched him walk down the hall. She was tempted to follow, but there was a time to play and a time to work.

She crossed to the living room. Mouse, the cat, followed her and jumped into her lap the minute she sat on the couch in front of the file box. She absently rubbed his fur as she took the lid off.

Most of the files were numbers. Rows and rows of numbers—they looked like printouts from tax returns or corporate filings. This wasn’t her forte. She flipped through those quickly, looking at only the names.

She put those files aside and pulled another one. And another. The shower went off and she didn’t see herself making any inroads.

She put the files back, moved the box, and looked at the files that were beneath it. They were marked THOMAS DANIELS. Smitty. The guy who had unwittingly clued Dean in to Jones’s shady dealings.

She opened the thin file and stared at a black-and-white photograph of nine men and a woman who looked familiar, but Sonia couldn’t put a name to her face. She recognized Xavier Jones and Smitty in the picture. She also noted Pieter Huffmann, a German who was wanted by Interpol and ICE for trafficking.

And she recognized one other man.

Sonia’s mouth went dry, and her hands began to shake. She flipped the photograph over; there was nothing written on the back. No date or time stamp. Nothing to tell her when or where it was taken.

She turned it again and stared at the familiar face again, bile rising from her stomach. The picture had been taken outside. Most of the men held big-game fish of all sizes; a huge blue marlin dominated the picture, half-obscuring the bastard in the center. Her hands and face became clammy, and she bent over to stem the nausea that continued to rise. Mouse jumped off her lap with an annoyed
meow
and reminded her that she was safe, safe in this apartment with Dean in the next room.

Only in her mind, only in her memories and nightmares could he hurt her.

“What’s wrong, Sonia? Are you feeling okay?” She hadn’t heard Dean return over the ringing in her ears.

He put a hand on her back. “You’re shaking. Sonia, talk to me.”

“This picture.” She still clutched it in her hands.

“Yes, I told you about it. It’s what—”

She interrupted. “Do you know who this is?” She straightened and tapped the man in the middle, the man with the blue marlin.

“No, we don’t have an I.D. on three of those men, him included.”

“When was this picture taken?”

“Sonia, what’s going on?”

“When!”

“We believe seven to ten years ago.”

“I know who this is. This is my father. My real father—Sergio Martin—who sold me twenty years ago.”

Dean was halfway to FBI headquarters when Sonia got the call from Detective John Black that “Ann” was awake and coherent. Her prognosis had been upgraded from critical to serious and the doctors were optimistic.

He turned off the freeway, then looped around and headed back downtown to the hospital. Sonia was optimistic that Ann could help them. The man who tried to kill her had used the same type of knife that had been used to kill Greg Vega; there was a connection but they needed more information. Information that Sonia was certain Ann could give them. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on her part. But right now Sonia needed every last detail she could get to find the Chinese girls before they disappeared.

If it wasn’t too late already.

Ann had been moved into the psychiatric ward, which had the best security in the hospital, for her protection. Used only for assessments, Ann was the only patient in this wing.

“I need to warn you,” John Black said when he greeted them, “she can’t talk, and Dr. Miller doesn’t think she’ll regain her voice. But there doesn’t seem to be any brain damage. The problem is she doesn’t read or understand English or Spanish.”

“She doesn’t need to read anything,” Sonia said. “I’ll ask yes-and-no questions.”

“But if she doesn’t understand—”

“She knows
a
language. We just have to figure out which one.”

“How many languages do you know?”

“Enough to get by. I’ll figure it out. Unless it’s Russian. If that’s the case we’ll find a translator.”

A Sac P.D. cop was stationed at both the nurse’s station and Ann’s door. Dean and Sonia showed their identification, and entered Ann’s room. Black followed.

The patient’s bed was tilted up and she was watching cartoons on television. The white bandages on her face stood out against the dark bruising on her cheek and nose. Her neck was grotesque, a dark, swollen purple. Her white-blond hair had been washed and brushed. She looked younger now, though based on her teeth and bone growth Dr. Miller had said Ann was over fifteen but not yet eighteen.

The nurse in the room rechecked their identification, which pleased Sonia. The staff was taking this matter seriously. The nurse said, “Dr. Miller doesn’t want her to try to talk. There’s a dry erase board on the table next to her bed. I don’t know if she understands anything we say. She does enjoy cartoons, though.”

“How is she emotionally?” Sonia asked. “Nightmares?”

“She woke up last night in a panic. I wasn’t on duty, but the night shift told me she pulled out the IV and jumped out of bed, then collapsed. They sedated her, monitored her, and played classical music. When she showed signs of waking again they spoke softly, assuring her she was safe. She was better this morning. She
kept pointing to the television until I turned it on, and she’s been hooked for two hours.”

Ann had been watching them from the moment they came in. Sonia smiled at her. Ann didn’t smile back, but continued to watch with distrustful blue eyes.

Sonia sat down on the edge of the bed. She started in English. “I’m Sonia Knight, and my partner is Dean Hooper. We’re here to find the man who hurt you.”

No recognition.

Sonia pointed to herself and said, “Sonia.” She pointed to Dean and said, “Dean.”

She handed Ann the whiteboard. Pointed to her chest and then put her hands out and motioned to the board.

She got it on the first try. She wrote in sloppy letters with her right hand.

KIRSTEN

“Kirsten,” Sonia said.

The girl nodded and pointed to herself.

Kirsten was a common name in Scandinavian countries. If she didn’t speak English, she might speak French. Sonia said in French, “Do you understand French?”

The girl perked up a bit, nodded tentatively. She understood well enough to know what Sonia had asked.

“Where were you born?” she asked in French.

“suriname,” Kristen wrote.

“Suriname? Wouldn’t they speak Spanish?” Dean asked.

“They have several dialects, but Dutch is the official language.”

“Dutch?”

“Suriname was colonized by the Dutch. It’s had an interesting history, but there are few Boers left. They were the descendants of the Dutch settlers. They teach English
in the schools, as well as Dutch. There are many languages spoken. Most of the population is trilingual.”

Black asked, “Does that mean she didn’t go to school? Because she doesn’t understand English?”

“Maybe she’s been gone for a long time,” Sonia said, her voice tinged with sadness.

“Kirsten, how old are you?”

Kirsten wrote on the board: seize.

“Sixteen.” Sonia smiled at Kirsten. “Good.”

Sonia then asked a harder question. “Do you know when you left Suriname?”

Kirsten wrote, “Six or seven years. Don’t remember.” She frowned and averted her eyes.

Her heart went out to this poor girl. “Kirsten, you’re safe now. If you want, we can find your family.” She waited for the response—if her family had put her in this situation, Kirsten wouldn’t want to go back.

But her eyes looked into Sonia’s with hope. Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

The nurse said, “Tell her not to try to talk.”

Sonia did what the nurse asked and Kirsten nodded, her expression pained. She erased her last message and wrote in another language—Dutch, Sonia suspected. She said, “I don’t read Dutch, Kirsten. I’m sorry.”

Kirsten erased it and wrote in French, with enough misspellings that Sonia had to guess what it meant.

“Sonia?” Dean prompted.

“I think she’s telling us how to find her family.” She nodded to Kirsten. “I’ll find them,” she said.

Now for the hard part. Sonia would give her right hand to spare the girl the pain of this conversation, but it couldn’t be avoided. She touched her wrist, covering
the tattoos with her hand. “When did you get these marks?”

Kirsten started shaking. Sonia tilted her head and made Kirsten look at her. “It’s okay. Kirsten, I know you’re hurting. I know how you feel. I want to find him. I want to put him in jail. But I need your help. I need to know who did this. I want you to look at some photographs for me, okay? You tell me if you recognize any of them. They can
not
hurt you. I promise you are safe here. Understand me? You are
safe
.”

Kirsten nodded almost imperceptibly, but she understood.

Dean handed Sonia the stack of photographs and sketches they’d compiled of everyone involved in the Xavier Jones investigation.

Sonia first showed the picture of Xavier Jones. Kirsten didn’t respond.

The nurse said, “She has a hard time moving her neck, and the doctor wants her to minimize movement while she heals. He tried a neck brace, but it terrified her when she woke up.”

Sonia wasn’t surprised after Kirsten had nearly been choked to death.

She said, “Sonia, if you recognize the man, touch the picture. Okay?”

She gave a weak nod.

Sonia asked about Jones again. No response. Then she put a picture of Craig Gleason up. Nothing. She had the picture of Charlie Cammarata that she’d showed Andres. Nothing. Greg Vega. No. Kendra Vega. No. She ran through the other photos of Jones’s key people and no one popped. She finally showed the picture of the nine men.