Fatal Secrets (36 page)

“I took my files and went home. I had a one o’clock lunch meeting at the Esquire, and after that walked back to the Capitol with the senator, we parted at the entrance, and I was going to return to my car, but I was worried about Craig. He hadn’t taken Mr. Jones’s murder well. I honestly didn’t think they were that close—that doesn’t sound good. I mean, everyone is upset about Mr. Jones, but no one really knew him. He came in once a week and that was it. He had his own clients, didn’t care anything about the rest. That was Craig’s domain. He managed ninety-five percent of the workload.”

“Can you give specific examples of why you think Mr. Gleason wasn’t handling the murder well?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know. He looked like he hadn’t slept last night. He had on one blue sock and one black sock. Craig is meticulous in his appearance. He wouldn’t make that mistake.”

Sonia concurred. “So you came back here. What time?”

“Just before three. Ten to three, five to three. I don’t know for sure, but when I walked past the bank on L Street the digital clock said two-fifty. I remember because I had two hours on the parking meter and that gave me ten minutes to get back to my car.”

“You don’t have a parking garage?”

“Sure, but the lot is on the opposite end of town from the Esquire, and I was running late. My wife—” he stopped and blushed. “Well, I’m not usually home during the day and the baby was napping.”

Sonia didn’t need to hear more. “So you noticed the time—”

“And considered not even going up. Parking tickets are like thirty bucks now, ridiculous, and I swear those traffic cops have a sensor that tells them when a meter is about to expire, because I always get nailed. But I thought about Craig, thinking maybe we’d go for drinks or something. Let him talk it out. Maybe he was worried about the clients, but except for Jones’s own clients, I don’t think anyone would have left. They all liked Craig.

“So I went up the stairs—the elevator is incredibly slow—and while I was in the stairwell I heard a gunshot. I ran up to the fourth floor and—”

“Excuse me for interrupting,” Black said, “but you ran toward a gunshot.”

“I thought Craig had … killed himself. I didn’t know why but he had all the signs of being depressed. I didn’t think murder until I walked in and saw the guy in the conference room.”

“How many minutes lapsed from the sound of the gunshot and when you saw the man?”

“One? No more than ninety seconds.”

“What was he doing in the conference room?”

“I have no idea. He saw me and pointed the gun at me and I ran out, came in here.”

“It was open?”

“Margie was here. She’s the secretary. She had called the police when she heard the gunshot and was still on the phone with them when I came in. I locked the door and put a chair up and told her to tell you guys to hurry. I thought he’d follow me, but he didn’t.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Chinese. Tall. Had a pockmarked face, like from teenage acne, though this guy was in his forties or older. Wore a dark gray suit. Looked expensive.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“Not recently, but last year he was here and had a meeting with Mr. Jones at Chops.”

“Just him and Jones?”

“No. Two of Jones’s clients were there as well, from Rio Diablo.”

“And you remembered him after a year?” Sonia asked.

“Sure. You don’t forget a face like that.”

Dean retrieved the photo he’d taken back from Charlie. “Do you recognize any men in this photograph?”

Mercer looked closely at the picture. “There’s Mr.
Jones, of course.” He started to shake his head. “No … oh, yeah, I know him.”

His finger tapped on the face of Sonia’s father. She tensed.

“You know this man? From where?”

“It’s been a long time.” He closed his eyes and didn’t say anything for a minute.

Sonia was getting antsy, wanted to push him, but Dean put a hand on her knee and held a finger to his lips.

“Devereaux!” Mercer exclaimed.

“Devereaux?” Sonia repeated.

“Four years ago he was here.”

“In XCJ offices?”

“No, it was at the Hyatt. Dawson’s, the restaurant downstairs. My top client wanted a dinner meeting with Mr. Jones. Jones didn’t want to, but finally agreed so we went to Dawson’s. On our way out, Mr. Devereaux was coming in. He didn’t seem very friendly when Mr. Jones said hello, but he congratulated him.”

“On what?”

“I have no idea.”

“How’d you know his name?”

“The hostess came up and said, ‘Mr. Devereaux, we located the Scotch you requested. Your table is ready’”

“He was alone?”

“I think so.”

“And you remember that? A brief meeting years ago?” Sonia asked in disbelief.

“I have a good memory for names and faces, it’s part of my job, especially with the turnover we have in that building now after term limits.” He jerked his thumb behind
him in the general direction of the Capitol building. “But I probably wouldn’t have remembered at all except that after Mr. Devereaux was seated in the far back of the restaurant, Mr. Jones asked the hostess what the Scotch was that he had ordered. Laphroaig. You just don’t forget Scotch whisky like Laphroaig. The man has good taste.”

The Hyatt Hotel was across the street from the Senator and John Black pulled together all the cops he could spare to cover every exit, then he, Dean, and Sonia went to the general manager and confirmed that a guest named Pierre Devereaux was currently registered and staying on the tenth floor.

“How many people are staying in the room?” Dean asked.

“Three.”

“Names?”

The manager looked on the screen. “Mr. Devereaux, his brother Tobias Devereaux, and Lee Chin. There’s a king bed in each of the adjoining bedrooms, plus a Murphy bed in the meeting room.”

“When did they check in?”

“Late check-in Tuesday night.”

“When are they scheduled to leave?”

“Sunday.”

“Please pull all security disks since Tuesday night,” Dean said, “and find out which housekeeping staff has cleaned the rooms. I want them all brought to a secure area, but I don’t want them talking to each other. And call each guest on that floor and tell them to stay inside their room until you call again. Understand?”

“Yes, Agent Hooper.”

Black spread the information around to his men. Dean pulled Sonia aside. “You can’t come upstairs. It could—” he didn’t finish.

“I know,” she said reluctantly. “We have to protect the integrity of the case. We’re close, Dean. Be careful.”

“I don’t want you down here alone,” Dean said. “If he somehow slips through and sees you.” He motioned for one of the uniforms.

“Officer—” he looked at his badge.

“Jerry,” Sonia said. “How are you?”

“Good. Glad to hear Riley’s better.”

“Me, too. Agent Hooper thinks I need a babysitter. Care for the job?”

He straightened. “Is this about the Devereaux guy?”

“Yes. It’s complicated.”

“Jerry?” Dean said. “No one gets near her. Find an office and stay there until I call.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean turned to Sonia. “Okay?”

“I understand. He wants me dead.” She steeled herself. “I’m good. But you be careful, too.”

They took the elevator to the ninth floor, then Dean and Black got off and took the stairs up one floor while three uniformed cops took the elevator up. Black had a master room key.

The Park Capitol Suite had three separate doors. With two cops on each door, they counted and entered simultaneously.

Black inserted the passkey and pushed down the handle while pushing the door in. He went in high while Dean went in low.

“Freeze, Police!” Black shouted while Dean did the same thing with, “FBI!”

The room was empty. The beds were made, but disheveled. They quickly searched the room and confirmed that no one was hiding.

Devereaux and his cohorts had left quickly. There were toiletries in the bathrooms. A personal robe behind one door. But no suitcases, no clothing or computers.

“The killer knew he’d been seen. They ran,” Dean said.

With gloves, they went through the drawers and closets more meticulously, looking for anything that would give them a hint as to where Devereaux and the other two men had gone. No airline tickets, no notes or receipts.

Dean opened the wet bar and carefully pulled out a half-full bottle of Laphroaig. He said, “Let’s get this printed and tested ASAP. Detective, if you don’t mind, I’ve taken the liberty of calling in my team. I need this place gone over with a fine-tooth comb.” He swore under his breath. “We were so close.”

Black said, “He’s on the run. I’ll talk to hotel security and get a better shot of him if they have one.”

“Great,” Dean said.

“We should release it to the media,” Black said.

“I don’t know.” Dean frowned. He remembered what Hans Vigo said during the conference call. The killer would make mistakes when pushed, but if trapped he could be more dangerous. He already knew where Sonia lived, where she worked, and even had an assassin track her to the baseball stadium.

But he knew what Sonia would say if she were here. There were too many lives at stake
not
to push him.

“If not the media, all law enforcement,” Black said. “Airports, train stations, ports.”

“Absolutely,” Dean said. “And I’ll talk to Bob Rich ardson and Sonia about releasing the image to the media. But only a current photo, so if the Hyatt doesn’t have anything recent—”

“Understood,” Black said. His cell phone rang. “Excuse me.” He stepped into the hall.

Dean stood in the center of the room and looked one last time at the expensive suite Sonia’s biological father had been living in for the past three days. Trying to get into his head, to think how he thought.

Why had he gone after Sonia at the stadium? Attempting to kill a federal police officer would make law enforcement more resolute in tracking him down.

He also didn’t need to kill the three Chinese girls in the warehouse. He’s left a message—
you are too late
—as a taunt. He knew Sonia was involved in the investigation because of Greg Vega. And he had to have known Sonia was his daughter he’d sold.

The assassination was personal on the one hand—he wanted Sonia dead. Not because she knew something important per se, but because she irritated him. She was pushing, and he probably couldn’t stand the fact that his own daughter—a woman—could get so close to taking him down.

But it was also functional. The attempt would divide their resources just as the murders of the Chinese girls did. As Hans said, the killer didn’t care if they knew who was responsible because he believed he was untouchable.

And if Sergio Martin, aka Pierre Devereaux, left the country, he very well could get away with everything.

Dean would not let that happen.

Black came back inside. “I know what the killer was looking for in the conference room.”

“What?”

“A listening device. The room was bugged.”

Victoria Christopoulis had been gracious when she allowed Sam and Trace to come into her home, but she gave them no answers. She played ignorant. Yet Sam suspected the woman was shrewd. He saw it in her eyes.

So he drove away, circled the neighborhood, and came back, parking far down the street. Just barely able to see her driveway. If she left, he’d know.

Thirty minutes later, the Mercedes skidded out of the garage.

“Good instincts,” Trace said as Sam pursued the car. He picked up his phone and called Dean.

As soon as Dean stepped into the office where Sonia paced while Officer Jerry Strong stood at the door, she knew her father had slipped away.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said.

“Dammit,” she said. “It’s not anyone’s fault. He’s like two steps ahead of us! We need a break.”

“We have one. The conference room was bugged. That’s how the killer knew where to find you.”

“How long were they listening?”

“I don’t know—”

“Yesterday? When we asked Gleason all those questions about Jones’s clients? That’s why they killed those women.”

“Don’t—you have no idea why they killed the women. We’ve done everything by the book, we’we responded
immediately when we learned information, and we have been proactive. Excuse me.” He picked up his BlackBerry.

Sonia tried to figure out her father’s next move. He killed—or had ordered killed—three of the women. Why? To torment her. To send them on a wild chase. To keep them away from finding the truth. He wanted to jerk them around so they didn’t know which lead to pursue—so he could sell the remaining women and leave the country before they could find him, or the victims.

It made sense. Throw a half-dozen murders out there and all of them were running around trying to make the connection. But it wasn’t the murders that were important—at least, not right now. The only thing they should focus on was where the girls were taken when moved from the Weber warehouse.

San Joaquin County sheriffs were looking for Joel Weber and his son, Jordan, but hadn’t found them yet. They could even be dead—Sonia wouldn’t put it past her father. The Webers might be the only living people who could put a face on the man who now called himself Pierre Devereaux. Or maybe they felt the heat of the investigation and ran.

She and Dean had found the warehouse by tracking the property records of Jones’s clients; would Devereaux use an existing location? Would he be able to find anything else? Based on the evidence at the warehouse, there had to be at least thirty women who’d been smuggled in. They wouldn’t be easy to hide for long.

Dean said, “That was Sam. He’s tracking Victoria Christopoulis.”

“Oh shit, the woman in the picture—”

“Is Victoria,” Dean finished.

“How’d you know?”

“Sam said she looked familiar and he went through the photos I’d sent him related to the case.”

“Charlie told me but it slipped my mind, I’m sorry.”

“After being shot at?”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose with her knuckle. “Maybe I am too close to this.”

“We’ll find him, Sonia.” Dean’s voice was full of anger and confidence. “He’s not getting away this time.” Dean glanced at his phone again. “It’s headquarters.” He answered, listened, then hung up and said, “Sonia, they broke part of the code in Jones’s journal. They have a couple ideas where the women are being held. We have to get to FBI headquarters immediately.” He paused, glanced at his dirty clothes, and back at Sonia. “I think there’s time to change.”