Fatal Secrets (35 page)

The sniper’s bullet hit the wall where Sonia had been standing. It had been aimed at her chest, a perfect military sniper aim from more than three hundred yards. Which meant that the sniper was on the fence surrounding the stadium—the only buildings tall enough were across the river or not at the right angle to see into the dugout.

Dean crawled over to Sonia. “Are you hit?”

“No.”

“Stay down, in this corner. He can’t see you here. Flush against the wall. Do not move.”

“What the fuck?” Cammarata exclaimed.

Dean crawled over to him and grabbed him by the collar as they lay on the hard-packed dirt floor. “Did you set Sonia up?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“No one knew we were meeting you here. Someone followed you or you led them here.”

“No one followed me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Charlie pulled away from Dean and Dean barely resisted the urge to hit him. What that bastard had done to Sonia, he didn’t deserve to be walking free. But the movement would get them shot.

“Stay down!”
Dean shouted, pushing himself up against the short wall and hoping the sniper wasn’t at a high enough angle to see fully into the dugout.

The ground in front of them suddenly jumped as bullets hit on the edge of the ground.

They were sitting ducks.

“I called nine-one-one,” Sonia said, “and emailed Richardson and Trace.”

“Quick thinking.”

The bullets stopped and they heard shouts and screams from the bleachers. The choir.

Charlie started to sit up.

“Down!” Dean pulled him down, though he deserved to get his head blown off.

“Don’t touch me!” Charlie scooted away. “I wasn’t being stupid.”

“There’s a first.” Dean glared.

“What’s your fucking problem, Fibbie?”

“You.”

There were sirens in the distance.

“Are we clear?” Sonia asked, her voice quivering.

“No,” Dean said. The sniper had aimed right at Sonia. Sonia was the primary target. Not Cammarata, not him, Sonia. What did she know that was dangerous to the traffickers? Who wanted her dead? Dean was ninety-nine percent certain no one had followed them, and had they, there’d been at least a dozen easier shots to take—getting in and out of the car, for example—than a sniper’s rifle from more than three hundred yards.

Charlie Cammarata had to have led the shooter here.

Dean pulled himself over to Sonia. She was shaking and her hands were ice cold. “Are you hit?” he asked again.

“N-no.”

“Stay low.”

Suddenly, rapid fire hit the wall behind them. Sonia’s fingers dug into his biceps.

Then it stopped. The sirens were closer. Dean waited. Waited. Minutes passed. Sonia was still shaking.

Someone called into the dugout. “Police! Is anyone there?”

Dean crawled to the dugout stairs and peered over. Police were all over the field, a large number by the fence halfway between center and right outfield.

“Special Agent Dean Hooper, FBI,” he shouted.

“You’re clear.”

Dean rose and offered his hand to Charlie Cammarata, who ignored it and stood on his own. Two West Sacramento police officers came over to them. Dean showed his I.D. and badge.

“Take this man into custody, please,” Dean said.

Cammarata fumed. “Fucking prick, that wasn’t the arrangement—” he pulled his arm back to hit Dean. Before the cops could run interference, Dean decked Cammarata square in the face with the palm of his hand. Blood spurted from his nose, and the two cops took him into custody. They read him his rights.

A third cop, this one a black man with rank, approached. “Chief of Police Rob Morrison.”

“Dean Hooper, FBI. Did you get him?”

“No. Had a driver waiting for him. We’re searching, but word is when they hit Cap City Freeway heading east, they lost the vehicle. We have a partial plate and description of the SUV, plus a possible witness. We’re on it.”

“Sounds like it. Though you have the lead, please work with my office on this. It’s part of an active investigation.”

Morrison jerked his head toward Cammarata. “Is this guy a suspect?”

“In the shooting?” Dean glared at Cammarata. “I don’t know.”

“Fuck you, Hooper.”

“What charges?”

“We’ll start with obstruction of justice.” Dean’s blood was still pumping.

“Sonia!” Cammarata shouted. “Dammit, Sonia! Tell him to let me go.” He fought against the cuffs and one of the cops tightened them.

Sonia
.

Dean ran back into the dugout.

Sonia was sitting up, her back against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees. She was shaking, ghostly pale, and he heard her mumbling something to herself.

She was whispering, “Get up, Sonia. Don’t be a wimp. On your feet.”

“Sonia?” He squatted in front of her, touched her face.

She looked at him and he saw she was scared, as if suddenly the reality of the attack had hit her. “It’s over. He’s gone.”

She shook her head. “I—I.” She swallowed. “Dammit.” She took a deep breath. “I’m claustrophobic. Just give me. A minute. One minute.” Sonia sounded angry with herself, over and above the fear.

He picked her up and carried her from the dugout. As soon as the sun hit her face, he felt her sigh deeply.

Cammarata called out, “Sonia, are you hurt?”

Dean glared at him and said, “Take him to jail. I don’t want to look at him. I’ll be in contact with you later.”

“Bastard,” Cammarata said.

He didn’t respond, but walked Sonia to the middle of the field and sat her on the pitcher’s mound. The color returned to her face and she let out a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No apologies.”

“Time hasn’t changed anything. Twenty-one years hasn’t fixed me.”

“You’re so wrong.” He turned her face to his, made her look into his eyes, and said, “You didn’t panic when you had to act. You did what had to be done first and foremost. That’s what’s important.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his for a moment, then said, “I’m okay now.”

“We can sit here as long as you want.”

“It’s my father.”

“Excuse me? The photo—You knew that.”

She looked so sad and lost, but she was getting her fire back. He saw it with each breath she took. Dean was relieved; he didn’t like seeing her weak. It reminded him that she wasn’t invincible, that people wanted her dead. He couldn’t let it happen. He
wouldn’t
let it happen. They’d have to kill him first, and Dean was hard to hit. His former Marine buddies nicknamed him Syl vester because he had nine lives. He’d seen a lot of combat, but had never gotten so much as a scratch.

“Charlie didn’t know his name, but positively identified my father as the man who killed Xavier Jones.”

“You think he was telling the truth?”

“Yes. He didn’t know it was my father, and I didn’t tell him. The man standing next to him, one of the others you didn’t have an I.D. for, is Jaime Huerrera, a drug smuggler from Colombia and Charlie thinks Jones might have been laundering money for him, and proof will be in the journal.”

“I’ll pass the name and photo on to the DEA.”

“I gave Charlie the picture. That was his requirement.”

“Why?”

“Probably for his own vendetta. I don’t know, but I needed the information. I’m sorry. You can get it back now. Did you really arrest him?”

“Yes.”

“I promised—”

“That was before he led a sniper to you.”

“There’s no reason—”

“Maybe not on purpose, but there’s no other explanation. No one knew we were coming here, except my boss and your boss. And I didn’t tell Bob we were going to be in the dugout. I told him the stadium.”

“I didn’t tell Toni anything other than I was meeting him.”

“I don’t think I’m the best person to interrogate him. I can’t be impartial.” Dean ran his hand up and down Sonia’s arm. “Not after what he did to you. But I thought Callahan and your partner, Trace Anderson, could take it on. Cammarata has information about tomorrow night, I feel it in my gut.”

“I agree.”

Dean was relieved they were on the same page.

“There is one other possible explanation.”

“What’s that?”

“Craig Gleason. I got the call from Charlie when we were in his office. What if he eavesdropped on us?”

“Gleason was never in the military. He has no fire arms training in his background and, frankly, I don’t see him having the balls to kill.”

“He could have called someone.”

Dean agreed. “I can see him giving out information. The time line is so close, though. To put all this together in less than thirty minutes—from the time you got the call to execution? They had to know exactly where you
would be. Cammarata called you, he decided on the venue, right down to the dugout. It has to be him.”

“There’s no reason he would want me dead.”

“Maybe he planned on saving your life and getting into your good graces again.”

She didn’t say anything for a long moment. “That’s stretching it.”

“But it’s in his personality. To play the hero, the great savior.” He couldn’t see Charlie Cammarata caring about anyone but himself.

“It’s not Charlie,” Sonia said, but in her tone Dean heard doubt. “I’m putting my money on Gleason.”

“Then let’s get over there and push hard,” Dean said. He stood and held out his hand to Sonia.

She took it.

“You’re filthy,” he said.

“So are you,” she said as he pulled her to her feet. “Nothing that sun and the clear blue sky can’t fix.”

When Dean and Sonia arrived downtown to visit Gleason at XCJ Consulting in the Senator Hotel, less than two miles from Raley Field, they couldn’t get anywhere near the entrance.

Sonia glanced at Dean. He looked disheveled, his normally neat hair hanging loose across his forehead, and they were both covered in dirt and grass stains. Her elbows were scraped from where she’d cowered in the corner against the cement in the dugout. The panic was so far behind her now that she almost didn’t believe it had happened, except for residual embarrassment.

Dean walked to the tape and flashed his badge, then went under. He was stopped.

“Sir, can I see that identification again?” the female cop asked.

“We don’t look like federal cops,” Sonia told Dean. She recognized the cop from Sac P.D. “Sheila, right? I’m Sonia Knight, Riley’s sister. With ICE.”

“Sonia. Right. You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

“We both have,” Sonia said. “This is Agent Hooper with the FBI. What happened?”

“Guy killed on the fourth floor.”

“When?”

“About an hour ago. Call came in at two fifty-three P.M.”

She looked at Dean. “That’s right after we left,” she said. “Not ten minutes.”

“Excuse me?” Sheila said.

“Who’s the victim?”

“I don’t have a name, I’m just holding the masses back.”

“We need to get in. We were interviewing a potential suspect in a multijurisdictional murder investigation on the fourth floor this afternoon.”

“Go right ahead. But tell the detective in charge you’re here.”

“Who is it?”

“Detective John Black. And I heard Riley is out of the hospital. That’s great news.”

“It is,” Sonia agreed, and she and Dean went to the fourth floor.

Black was standing in the hall talking to two uniformed officers. When he saw them, he said, “I thought I’d be seeing one or both of you as soon as I found out the murder was at XCJ Consulting.”

“Gleason?” Dean asked.

“Bingo.”

“Murder?”

“Right again. Want to go for a grand slam?”

Dean frowned.

“Never mind. It’s been a long week. Come in and see for yourself. They haven’t moved the body. The crime scene techs are still working the scene.”

“Simone?”

“No, but they’re still good.”

Gleason had been shot in his office at his desk. His
brains and half his scalp were plastered on the window behind him.

“The bullet went out the window?” Dean asked.

“Almost,” Black said, “but it’s actually in the window. It looks like a forty-five slug.”

“One shot?”

“It did the job.”

Sonia looked at the angle of the body and the blood spatter on the wall and window. “He was standing when he was shot. The impact pushed him back into his chair.”

“Good call. That’s what I was thinking, too. I think the killer was looking for something.”

“After shooting Gleason? How do you know?”

“Our shooter was interrupted by one of the other lobbyists coming into the office. I was about to interview him, he had an interesting story to tell the responding officer.”

“Where was the killer searching?”

“The conference room.”

“Did he find anything?” Dean asked.

“We don’t know. The lobbyist doesn’t think so. I have a team going over it carefully, but we don’t know what we’re looking for. There’s really nothing in the conference room.”

“Let’s talk to the lobbyist,” Sonia said.

Black led them out of XCJ offices and down the hall. “I have him settled into another office. I didn’t want to let him go; he might be the only one who can identify the killer.”

Rich Mercer was a tall, slender thirty-something with a hairline just beginning to recede and silver wirerimmed
glasses. He sat on the leather couch of the office—a political consulting office, according to the door plaque—and jumped when they walked in.

“Mr. Mercer,” Black said, “Dean Hooper with the FBI and Sonia Knight with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. We’d like to follow up with your statement to the responding officer, while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

“Absolutely, Detective,” Mercer said in a voice stronger than his appearance. “Anything to help.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning? Mr. Gleason let the staff go early?”

“Yes. We came in this morning and he told us to go home, that he was closing the office due to Mr. Jones’s murder. Is this connected?” he asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Black responded. “Go on.”

“He was insistent, even when I told him I had meetings lined up and dozens of phone calls to return. He told me to work from home.