Secrets (15 page)

“But I am sure that there’s not another man
on the planet that I’d allow to touch me the way you have, or who
can make me feel something more than shame and guilt. For the first
time I can remember, I feel free, possibly normal. I’m not sure.
The look I see in your eyes when you’re looking at me says I’m more
than I thought I was, that I matter. While it should be a given, in
my darker moments that’s simply not the case.” She inhaled, trying
to explain the overwhelming feeling rising inside her chest. Words
were inadequate to describe the liberation of a trapped mind and
desecrated body. Misty-eyed, she spoke from that barricaded,
pulsing mass beneath her breast. “I seriously like you, too.”

Chapter
12

Senator Winters sat in his office
overlooking the busy street as cars packed the road heading out of
town. For a moment, he wished there was somewhere he could travel
and be free of this travesty involving his son. How could the boy
have turned out so warped? This whole situation was a public
relations disaster. Justin’s wife didn’t want him around their
daughters, and if they were younger, he’d agree. However, it seemed
his son had a penchant for little girls under the age of eight. The
thought left a foul taste in his mouth, his stomach clenched and
burned.
What a sick fuck, I should let him swing
. For a
moment, he savored the idea. But in the end, the image of his
wife’s eyes so full of love as she looked at their son, overruled
his jaded thought. Criminal or not, the fool was still his flesh
and blood. He had to try to help. Picking up the phone, he placed a
call to an investigator who had a reputation for results and
discretion.

“I need you to check into some things for
me.”Twirling the pen between his fingers, his mind raced,
cataloging and dismissing details.

“I saw the news.”

“Me too,” he snapped, unamused. “I need
background information on all those young girls, the places where
the acts took place, and any and all parties involved. Those
pictures were old. Justin was in his twenties, that’s a long time
to hold onto information like that.”

“Good point. You got anything to point me in
the right direction. It has to be someone willing to wait a long
time to settle a score. I wonder why’d they wait? He could’ve been
stopped a long time ago. Why now?”

Nodding, he realized those were good
questions. “That’s what you need to find out. Hire as many men as
you need, just get me some answers.”

“You think it has anything to do with his
re-election?”

Thinking hard for a moment about the
challenger and the older photos, he made a decision. “I don’t think
this is politically motivated; otherwise, it would’ve come out
during his first campaign. I thought it might be aimed at me, but
that doesn’t make sense either. My son has lost everything; and
while this touches me some, it's not a real threat to my career.
No, I think this is rooted in his past by someone smart, with a lot
of patience. Perhaps he messed with the wrong person’s family or
didn’t pay off someone. I’m not sure. But, this is the type of
revenge that was celebrated every time Justin rose professionally a
notch. They knew he’d fall so hard he’d break with no chance to
recover. I want to know who they are and what else they have.
Contact Mike Griffin. Tell him I sent you. His cousin married my
son. If anyone knows anything about this mess, he does.”

****

Special Agent Morales glanced at the clock
in their small cubicle. “You don’t have to do this. I can go solo
or bring in Smathers for the arrest.” She met his look; they’d been
partners for ten years.

“No,” she snapped. “If I can’t handle these
cases then I need to turn in my badge.”

“Okay, just let me handle the pictures.
Shake him up a bit before we close in the connection with the
Congressman.” Special Agent Green nodded, numb inside. He left the
room and headed for the interrogation room where Mike Griffin and
his attorneys waited. After the Congressman’s arrest and the leak
of the damning photo to the press, it’d been decided to bring in
everyone else for questioning.

Massaging the tension from her forehead, she
sighed and sucked it up. Any of those sordid pictures could’ve been
her younger sister, Becca. She’d been five-years-old when someone
stole her from their neighborhood park over fifteen years ago. Two
years later, a kid playing with his dog in a different park in New
Jersey came upon her sister’s broken body. The coroner’s report
said she’d been raped repeatedly and badly beaten.

After passing her probationary period, she’d
transferred to the human trafficking division in the Bureau. This
is where she made a difference, returning stolen children, freeing
slaves and locking predators behind bars. Stiffening her back, she
prepared to tackle the man who they believed was a major player in
the human trafficking and child prostitution underground, Mike
Griffin. Their anonymous tipster had sent numerous photos, copies
of deeds, dossiers on employees, and bank deposits covering a span
of over ten years. She’d been a part of the team verifying the
documents and building the case against Griffin. The case was
solid, but they’d kept it low profile to prevent him from running.
He was in the interrogation room, no doubt with his attorneys,
waiting for them.

Morales waited for her next to the door. His
eyes lit in anticipation of taking this hood down. If she gazed
closely, she’d see the shark in her partner surge to the surface,
smelling the scent of blood. Griffin would be sliced and diced by
the end of this meeting. Pleased, she followed Morales inside.

Tall and dark with a nice build and handsome
face, sort of a Tom Cruise clone, Mike Griffin stood behind the
table quietly talking to a small Asian woman, probably his
attorney. He flashed a toothy smile his dentist must love. Too bad
she wasn’t his dentist. Most people wouldn’t believe this
All-American-looking man could be guilty of the numerous charges
they had against him. That is until you gazed into his soulless,
vacant eyes.

And that’s when everything about him
solidified in her mind. Mike Griffin cared for no one. Not even
himself. This ultimate gamester had overplayed his hand, walking
into their office with his attorneys, confident of his ability to
get off whatever they threw at him. Clueless, he wore a cool,
tough, polished veneer. But they'd crack through it soon
enough.

He watched them walk in, summing up her and
Morales. She’d bet her new Sig that his attorneys were gathering as
much information on her and her partner as possible. Not that it’d
do them much good. Whoever had accumulated this information on
these men had dotted their I’s and crossed their T’s. Even if
Griffin had recently turned over a new leaf, which she doubted,
he’d done enough in the past five years for them to take him down
for a long time. Inwardly, she grinned at the prospect of this
piece of filth going to prison. She wished he could be sold as a
slave in a foreign country to suffer sexual abuse as well as being
forced to work hard labor.

“Well, I’m here as promised. Can we get
started?” His deep-modulated voice grated her nerves. He glanced at
her and then Morales. Standing straight, she faced him and sat at
the table in front of the other two attorneys. Her hand remained on
top of her thick file. Her job was the dessert. Morales would
handle the main course. As soon as everyone was seated, he bypassed
the appetizers and hit hard with the main course.

“We appreciate you taking the time to see
us, Mr. Griffin. We have a few questions we’d like to ask about
some of your associates.” Morales rifled through the folder,
pulling out a photograph which he then passed to Griffin. “Do you
know this man? Ten years ago, he went by the name, John Stiles. But
he has numerous aliases. Fred Gripp, J.P. Grimes, and Big John to
name a few.”

Surprise flew across Griffin’s face as he
looked at the picture of the farmer he’d killed ten years ago in a
hostile takeover of a rival child prostitution ring. Quickly, he
wiped all emotion from his visage. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know
this gentleman.” He leaned back and watched Morales warily; there
was a definite crack in his polished veneer. Obviously, he’d
expected questions about the Congressman, and seemed rattled by
their alternate path. His attorneys glanced at the photo.

Special Agent Green’s partner nodded and
pulled out another picture. “What about her? Her name is Lucy
Briag. She worked at one of the properties you owned on the
outskirts of Houston, Texas.”

“I don’t own any property in Texas.”

“You’re correct. You sold the property three
years ago. But at the time Ms. Briag worked at the ranch, you did
own that property. Do you recognize her?” Morales pushed the photo
of the plus-sized woman Griffin had hired to keep the children in
his prostitution ring fed and clean.

“No. I don’t recognize her, either.” He
handed it to his attorney, who returned it to Morales.

“This is Hector Friench,” Morales said,
pulling out another photo. “Your former accountant and manager of
one of the properties you owned in New Jersey. When was the last
time you saw him?” He placed the picture on the table in front of
Griffin and his attorneys, tightening the noose around their
quarry’s neck.

“It’s been a while. I can’t remember.” His
jaw clenched as he looked at the picture.

“Last year?”

“No. Maybe. I said I don’t remember.” He
fidgeted in his chair and glanced in her direction. Her lips curled
at the corners. He frowned as Morales slid another picture across
the table.

“This is Sarah Brine. Do you recognize
her?”

Griffin visibly tensed at the smiling
picture of the beautiful, busty, blonde-haired woman. “I may have
seen her around.” He hedged, staring at the picture before looking
at Morales. The two stared at each other for a moment before he
glanced at her.

Got you, you bastard.

Morales pulled out another picture. “This is
a picture of the two of you leaving a club in New Jersey. This is a
close up of the dress she was wearing that night. The last night
anyone ever saw her alive.” Morales placed another picture on top
of that one. “Notice this picture of her, two days later when her
body was discovered in a wooded picnic area, covered by leaves. See
anything familiar?” He paused, tapping the picture. “Same dress she
wore while with you two nights previous.”

“Hey, what is this? You trying to set me up
for a murder rap?” He shook his head and looked at his
attorney.

The petite woman stood. Her associates
followed suit. “Mr. Griffin came to answer questions regarding the
Congressman, not to be interrogated himself. We’re advising him not
to answer any more questions.”

Morales shrugged, and stood. “Mike Griffin,
I’m arresting you for the murder of Sarah Brine and her unborn
child, engaging in the affairs of an enterprise through a pattern
of racketeering activities, conspiracy to conduct the affairs of an
enterprise through a pattern of racketeering activities, conspiracy
to launder monetary instruments, conspiracy to possess heroin,
cocaine and marijuana with the intent to sell. As we complete our
research I am confident a host of other charges will be
added.”

Green stood and recited his rights.
Griffin’s face turned red as he glared at her. All three of the
attorneys watched, stupefied at the turn of events. Once she was
finished, the attorneys screeched and talked over each other
against the charges, flimsy evidence, and whatever else their
two-hundred-dollar per hour vocabulary decided might sound
professional. In the end their complaints were scattered to the
wind. Everyone in that room knew Griffin wouldn’t be granted bail;
the man was a serious flight risk. He sat amongst his squawking
attorneys, glancing at the pictures and at the files she and
Morales had. Obviously, he’d been blindsided by the older murders,
his game face had slipped when he’d seen the farmer’s picture.
Pretty soon he’d discover there’d be no deals. Last night was
indeed his last night of freedom. His last night sleeping on high
thread count sheets and having a room alone. Justice might be
blind, but
she
saw the devastation on his face as reality
kicked his ass and smiled. The world seemed brighter as she watched
him try to figure out how they’d come by their information.

After she read him his rights, the door
opened and Special Agent Simmons walked in, face grim as he handed
her a piece of paper. Her stomach dropped. She handed Morales the
note and looked at Griffin. The agent placed a CD player on the
desk and pushed the play button. Everyone froze as Griffin’s voice
filled the room.

“
I saw her on TV last week. I thought you
couldn’t find her.” He paused. “Well, you can find her now. She was
leaving court, something to do with a will. This time finish the
job, no excuses. Don’t talk about it, be about it
.”

“Care to tell us who the victim for this hit
is?” Morales asked staring at Griffin’s blanched face.

“I hope you had proper authorization for the
taping of this conversation,” the small attorney snapped. Green and
Morales glanced at her before returning to Griffin.

“Last Friday, at one thirty-six in the
afternoon, you commissioned a hit on an unidentified person. Who is
the contract for?”

Tiredly, Griffin sat back in his chair. His
lips tilted up on the corner; hands clasped at his waist, he gazed
at them. “Are you offering me a deal?”

****

Later that week, Senator Winters sat in
early morning committee hearings. Fortunately, his staff had
prepared his questions and done the necessary research, otherwise
he might look like a bigger fool than he suspected folks thought he
was. The pitying looks, the slaps of camaraderie on his shoulder,
the sudden silences when he entered a room, and low poll numbers
all pointed to the end of his tenure in the Senate. A few more
pictures of his son had surfaced. One showed the bastard beating a
small girl, and enjoying it.