Fatal Secrets (5 page)

Jones glanced at the armed goon standing at his side and Dean said in a preemptive move, in case Callahan
didn’t see the weapon strapped to the goon’s belt, “You do have a permit for that gun.”

The hulking man stepped forward. His tattoo bulging
ndetta mia
on his arm. Vendetta? Interesting.

Jones stopped his bodyguard with a glance. “He doesn’t need one. He lives here.”

“And did he bring the gun into Mexico?”

“You’re beginning to irritate me, Agent Hooper.”

I’m sure I am
.

“Just want to make sure your gorilla doesn’t make any sudden moves.”

The gorilla comment made the goon scowl.

“You may leave now, Agent Hooper.”

“I’d love to, it’s certainly past my bedtime, but the subpoena states that you are required to turn over all financial documents immediately to my office. Agent Callahan will go with you and provide a receipt for everything we confiscate. We’ll also require your hard drive and any other computers, flash drives, or disks you have.”

Anger and annoyance crossed Jones’s face. He didn’t like being told what to do. So Dean pushed, refraining from showing too much satisfaction. He loved his job.

“We can wait for your attorney if you like, but I’m not leaving until we have everything we came for.”

“You’re fishing, Agent Hooper. I’m not giving you anything. My attorney will be fighting this subpoena in court first thing tomorrow morning.”

Dean showed a concerned, understanding expression. “I understand your frustration, Mr. Jones, but you can’t refuse to comply with this subpoena. The judge agreed that to leave the documents in your possession could potentially cause said documents to disappear or be altered.
We have the authority to seize everything in this warrant now, and I only offered to wait for your attorney as a courtesy.”

A fire lit Jones’s eyes and Dean caught a glimpse of the criminal underneath the facade of a respected businessman. Cold, calculating, and criminally brilliant. Dean saw his own head on a platter held by Jones, and that pleased him. He was getting to this guy, which was the whole purpose of this exercise.

I will put you in prison, Xavier Jones. That’s a promise
.

Dean kept a level head and let Jones quietly fume. Patience was, fortunately, Dean’s strong suit. Jones quickly got himself under control, showing Dean that while he was a narcissistic racketeer and suspected human trafficker, self-preservation was at the top of his list. He wouldn’t slip up because he lost his temper. He was too sharp for that.

Yet Jones’s methodical approach to business might also be his downfall. Criminals like Jones need to keep all of their accounts balanced, all the dollars counted and recounted. Dean could use that. Already, after ten minutes in Jones’s presence, he had new ideas to pursue using Jones’s financial history as the foundation for his case. Watching his reaction had proven hugely beneficial, as Dean had suspected.

Finding ICE Agent Sonia Knight involved with this character could prove to be a real break. She might see something he didn’t because she knew far more about the money trail in human trafficking than he did.

Sonia Knight had testified in no less than five major human trafficking cases in the last two years. Dean had watched one hearing on closed-circuit television after
Knight’s squad had taken over an FBI case and arrested a husband-and-wife team who lured women from China to be domestic servants. Only “servant” meant “slave” to those who held the contracts. The women, here illegally, were stripped of all their papers and identity, and then subjected to forced sex, long hours of labor, and no pay—all “earnings” were used to repay the “fee” to bring them to America in the first place. They were kept in line with threats and their illegal status. Sonia’s team had uncovered the operation and took all the players out. It was a major coup for ICE. Sonia’s written report on how the investigation played out was now used as part of ICE and FBI undercover training.

Dean had long admired Sonia Knight, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control her. A case like Xavier Jones required delicacy.

Jones said to his gorilla, “Watch them closely. They take nothing that isn’t explicitly on this warrant. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Jones.”

“I’ll be in my bedroom.”

“I’ll join you,” Dean said. No way was he letting Jones out of his sight until Callahan had everything in their possession. “Call in the rest of the team, Sam. It’s going to be a long night.”

Dawn broke over the Sierra Nevadas, tracing the mountains in bright orange. Any other person would have paused to stare at the awesome vista, but Xavier Jones had no use for pretty scenery. He’d been quietly fuming at the way his possessions had been handled by the FBI. Pawing through his personal belongings, touching his clothing—everything would have to be laundered.

He wasn’t surprised when his phone rang before six A.M., not thirty minutes after the FBI left. Nor was he surprised that it was Marchand.

“I heard about your trouble.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“It had better not be.”

His anger at what the FBI had put him through simmered. They would find nothing in his records; did they think he was an idiot? They were fishing, nothing more, but the knowledge that they had a grand jury giving his finances a rectal exam infuriated him. He was quite good with his money and he knew no one had talked. Everyone had as much to lose as he did, but more than that, no one had all the information necessary to do him serious damage.

“You have no need to worry about your shipment,” he said.

“We’re not going to talk about this here.”

“I have protection.” No way was the FBI wiretapping his phone. He had state-of-the-art security to prevent it.

“We’ll meet. Tonight.”

Xavier didn’t like Noel Marchand, but he was one of his best customers, on both ends—importing and exporting. In this business, one didn’t have to like one’s business associates. As long as they paid and did their job with discretion, Xavier was happy to do business with them. Besides, he wasn’t in it to make friends. He’d buy whatever friends he needed through his philanthropic donations.

“Here?” Xavier asked, loath to bring the man into his sanctuary, but it was a gesture of goodwill, and right now Xavier needed to keep Marchand happy.

“Of course not. Midnight. Your restaurant.”

Xavier had purchased a riverfront restaurant last year and was renovating it. The place was convenient and private, off the west River Road. It was Xavier’s turf, so Marchand wasn’t overly upset.

“I’ll be there.”

He hung up and stood on the balcony of his bedroom. Marchand was a minor annoyance compared to what had just happened with the FBI. They had gone through his
things
. Pawed everything with greasy fingers. Pictures were crooked, drawers misaligned, dirty footprints on his polished wood floor.

He dialed his secretary on her cell phone. She worked out of his consulting office, but handled both personal and professional appointments. And while he had no desire to screw her, Denise provided him with a weekly blow job that was satisfying. He refused to stick his dick into any man or woman; what other men had been there before him? Disgusting.

“Call in the cleaning service,” he demanded. “I need them to come early—I want the house cleaned top to bottom, before noon.”

He next called Craig Gleason, the attorney and head lobbyist who ran the day-to-day management at XCJ Consulting. “I’ll be coming by late this morning for a briefing. Have you had any strange calls or visitors?”

“Define strange.”

“This isn’t a joke, Craig. There’s been some excitement here at the house. I want to make sure that reporters and other vultures aren’t circling.”

“It’s a Wednesday during the middle of a budget crisis in the California capitol—business as usual.”

“Good. Just put everything I need to know together and the status of the key bills we’re pushing. I’ll give you one hour; use it wisely.”

“Yes, sir.”

More often than not, for the last twenty-some years he had called himself Noel Marchand. He stood on the balcony of his penthouse suite at the Hyatt Hotel across from the California State Capitol. He rarely came to America, and when he did he took a great many precautions. Of course, he was registered under a false identity: Pierre Devereaux, a French Canadian from Montreal. It amused him to remember that he had, in fact, been born in Montreal and was part French Canadian. But his life as Franz Corbert had ended when he was nine, when his father killed his mother and fled to South America with Franz and his younger brother Tobias. He’d never returned to Canada even after his father died; he had no attachment to the country.

Nor did he care for the United States. He could not be king here, no matter what he did or who he controlled. He preferred places where he could wield power so great that when he killed, no one questioned his action. Where, when his car drove past, people cowered. Where, when he walked into a room, the women did what he said, and if he had to punish them, no one asked why.

Americans had money, and rich Americans liked their toys. He provided the toys; Xavier Jones provided the buyers.

His business certainly wasn’t limited to the States, but Americans usually overpaid for everything, and considering the risks of importing under the federal radar,
Noel felt justified in charging his North American buyers far more than he needed to cover his expenses.

He paced his hotel room, antsy, yet well aware that keeping to himself until the Saturday-night exchange would protect him. The less time he spent in the States, the less opportunity that a savvy cop might recognize him. He wasn’t worried about just any cop—there were only a handful who could identify him as Noel Marchand—but one of those called Sacramento home. He wouldn’t have come here this early at all, except for the situation with the Zamora kid.

Noel Marchand deplored incompetence, and until this last week, Xavier Jones had been the pinnacle of professionalism and discretion. And while Jones had made good on providing another boy, letting the first one escape was a disaster. Perhaps not for Jones, but to Noel the boy was a threat: the brat had seen him.

The Zamora kid needed to die or disappear—Noel didn’t much care which, as long as he didn’t talk to anyone. Though even if he did tell what he knew, putting all the damning information together would be virtually impossible. Only the fact that Noel was in the same city as the kid made the risk a sliver more than nonexistent. But what really irked Noel was that he had made two mistakes. First, he had underestimated the boy, never suspecting that Andres Zamora would run when he had the chance. Most of his captives were too scared to flee, knowing they would be hunted down and severely punished. Noel’s second error was in not leaving at least one family member alive as leverage over the two Zamora kids. Threats against family back home were the single best tool to keep the slaves in line.

Noel didn’t make mistakes like these. He’d been furious
that the mother had challenged him, that the brother had attacked him, that the girl had wanted to renege on her agreement. Allowing his anger to dictate decisions inevitably led to problems. Problems like a missing kid in California who could identify him.

Noel was successful because he was discreet. He employed enough people, and paid them well, to ensure that he could fill the high demand for males and females of all ages and types. While he specialized in teenage and young adult females for prostitution throughout the Western Hemisphere, he also provided a few bonded workers when the money was good enough. When he was putting together his next shipment of females, he’d received an order for two boys. One of the girls he’d spoken with had two brothers. She was eager to bring them along, with his promise that they, too, would have jobs in America.

He lied smoothly. But almost immediately there were problems with the older Zamora. And when the younger boy saw him dispose of the mother—who had become a major liability, he had had no choice but to kill her—Noel should have also shot the two boys and put the girl on the truck alone. But he was on a tight schedule and timing was critical. His trip to California was far more important than the troublesome Zamora family.

Noel was upset by the series of events that resulted in the younger boy ending up under Jones’s watch, of course, but he could let it go because, ultimately, the situation wasn’t completely Jones’s fault. What truly frustrated him was the FBI looking at Jones. He didn’t care one iota that the warrant was for financial records, Jones was a threat to Noel if he was arrested. Noel knew
exactly how the government worked. They did what he did—leveraged. You give me this, we’ll give you that. The only difference was that Noel’s punishment was far more permanent than prison if the person didn’t agree with the terms.

Jones was a potential threat. And while Noel didn’t want to kill one of the best people he’d ever worked with in this business, he wouldn’t lose sleep over it.

Noel was training someone to take over for Jones should it become necessary. They might have to make the change sooner than planned, since business demanded continuous adjustments in personnel.

And if he had to let Sacramento go altogether, so be it. He dealt with other brokers like Jones. While there were few with Jones’s breadth of clients—and the added service of providing squeaky-clean money was a major allure—Noel could withstand some losses in order to protect his larger empire. Obviously, the “squeaky-clean” money Jones guaranteed was being looked at by American law enforcement. It was no longer safe to do business with him.

Noel made his decision. He’d gather the rest of the information about Saturday’s exchange, ensure that the girls had arrived safely and were secured, and then kill Jones.

His assistant came in through one of the suite’s doors and cleared his throat.

Noel motioned for Mr. Ling to join him by the balcony window. Ling was Chinese, bald, and in his early forties. He could kill a man with little effort, and had a sharp intellect. He’d been with Noel for more than a decade.