The Trap (Agent Dallas 3) (14 page)

Murphy noted the suspect’s height on the board.

“The techs found traces of soil on the cement near the body,” another investigator added. “And from behind a support post, where the assailant probably waited.”

“What about phone and financial records?” Murphy asked.

The other two detectives gave updates but offered no actionable information. Drager was ready to leave.

“Larson, what’s happening with your case?” Murphy looked at Drager’s ex.

Jocelyn straightened, bristling at being called Larson. He knew she hated that. Her throaty voice was always calm though, a smooth surface over a fiery passion. “The victim had someone else’s ID, a prostitute’s. I didn’t know until I took the wrong relative to the morgue. Now I’m trying to figure out who she really is.”

“Did you try facial recognition software?” Drager asked.

“Of course. But the victim was shot in the face, so it’s not easy. As best I can determine, she isn’t in our criminal database, but I’ll search public and government files next.”

Drager nodded at her. Jocelyn was tenacious about cases, even when she didn’t want to be. She would ID the dead woman and find her killer. She always did. But why wasn’t she working the judge’s case? Now that he knew she was on Murphy’s team, he’d skip the drive across town and just call her instead.

“When did she die?” he asked, not sure why he even cared. Was it just an excuse to talk to Jocelyn? They’d parted amicably but hadn’t spoken since Kyle left for college. With a sudden longing, he realized he missed her. Even her bossy ways.

Surprised, Jocelyn blinked, then said, “The autopsy is tomorrow morning, but a tech at the scene thought she was probably killed last Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“Send me her photo, and I’ll check our databases,” he offered.

“Thanks.”

The sergeant’s phone rang next to him on the table, and he glanced at it. “I have to take this.” Murphy stepped out of the room.

Drager again thought to leave, but Jocelyn asked, “What’s the bureau’s interest in the judge’s murder?”

“It may overlap with a case we’re working. The activist group I mentioned.”

“I thought JRN was targeting politicians.”

She was always well informed. “They are, but we’re covering all the bases.”

Murphy stepped back in. “Someone from the U.S. Attorney’s office will be joining our task force.” He made a noise in his throat. “They had been investigating Judge Bidwell and had planned to charge him with racketeering, among other things. For the last ten years that he was on the bench in Virginia, he took bribes from Corrections for a Safer America in exchange for lengthy sentences.”

“Holy shit!” Jocelyn was the first to respond.

“That’s a private prison system, right?” Detective Harris asked.

Murphy nodded. “They’re investigating the company too.”

“How does this affect our case?” Harris wanted to know.

Murphy grimaced. “It means there are hundreds more people with a motive to kill Bidwell.”

A long moment with only the hum of traffic outside.

Finally, Jocelyn asked, “Who knew about the investigation and the bribes?”

“We don’t know yet.”

Drager’s thoughts came back to his target. Luke Maddox made a point of being informed about the judicial system and probably knew about the charges. But Drager couldn’t mention him again. Sergeant Murphy might get overeager and try to bring Maddox in for questioning, which could produce nothing for their murder investigation, but might send Maddox farther underground. And possibly endanger their UC agent. Drager rubbed his throbbing eyes. They might never nail Maddox for the murder, so he needed Dallas to come through with a major crime setup.

Tuesday, Oct. 7, 2:15 p.m.

Jocelyn searched the MPD’s missing persons database, paging through screen after screen and trying not to grind her teeth. They were all young women, and many were blond. Analyzing their faces didn’t help much. Her victim had been left nearly unrecognizable. The day before, after realizing she had the wrong ID, Jocelyn had gone into the cold room at the morgue and spent a few minutes staring at the dead woman’s face for points of recognition. She’d focused on three: narrow chin, high hairline, and a tiny mole near the left ear. Now she was trying to find those features in a sea of faces. And trying not to think about the missing women as she scrolled through, because that could be devastating.

So far, none of the faces matched her three points. Jocelyn downed the last of her now-warm Mountain Dew, heaved a sigh, and opened the federal missing persons website. This could take hours, and she was on her own. Her partner was still out sick with the flu, and the rest of her team was working Judge Bidwell’s murder, tracking down hundreds of ex-cons with a grudge.

Her phone rang, and she hesitated to pick up. The homicide department had to respond to every death in the DC area, regardless of the circumstances. Totally inefficient. She couldn’t afford to waste time on an accidental death that didn’t need investigating. She’d let another team member take it… if they were in the building. After a minute, the message light came on, so she listened to the voicemail. Ross, her ex: “Hey, Jocelyn. Give me a call, so we can talk shop.” How odd to suddenly have him in her life again, even on a work-only basis. She didn’t have time to chat with him, but she remembered his offer to help her identify the shooting victim, so she returned his call.

He picked immediately. “Drager here.”

“It’s Jocelyn. How are you?” Why had she asked that? This wasn’t a personal call.

“Lonely. I miss you.”

His voice, those words. He might as well have reached out and squeezed her heart. She finally found her own voice. “It’s been a long, strange two months. So it was a nice surprise to see you earlier.”

“For me too.”

An awkward silence.

Unsure of her feelings or what any of this meant, she got back to business. “Did you have a question for me? Or have any luck with your facial recognition software?”

“Not yet. Will you update me if your team gets any leads on Bidwell’s murder?”

“Sure enough.” Jocelyn recalled what he’d said about overlapping cases and wanted to know more. “Can you tell me what your real interest is in Luke Maddox? I won’t share it with the team.”

“He’s an activist we have our eyes on. That’s all I can say.”

“I understand. I’ve gotta go. Bye.” She hung up before he could respond. After being frustrated with their marriage for years and finally breaking away, why was she suddenly feeling pulled back in? Lonely, that was all. She needed to start dating. The thought almost made her laugh. Where did a middle-aged woman of color, who was also a cop, meet someone appropriate?

She turned back to her monitor, keyed
Maryland
into the search field, and started scanning. There were fewer blonds and more minorities in the national database, but no one matching her victim. She tried
Virginia
next. The fourth image caught her attention. High hairline and narrow chin. She couldn’t see the mole, but it was on the side of the victim’s face, so that didn’t mean anything. Callie Sayers, thirty-one, of Fredericksburg, Virginia. If this was the dead woman, what was she doing in DC? A dozen reasons came to mind—shopping, theater, and political meetings, to name a few. Jocelyn scanned the brief report. Callie Sayers worked in Richmond and had been reported missing Thursday by her mother, Viola Sayers.

Protocol would be to inform the local police department first and see what they knew or thought about the disappearance, but she might get the runaround and didn’t have time for jurisdictional bullshit. Jocelyn braced herself and called the mother’s number.

After the second ring, an anxious voice asked, “Who’s calling?”

“Detective Jocelyn Larson, Metro Police Department in DC. Is this Viola Sayers?”

A panicked breath. “Yes. Is this about Callie?”

“Possibly. Can you tell me what your daughter was wearing when she disappeared?” That had been too blunt, but she was already a week behind on this case.

“Why? Is she dead?” The woman choked back fear.

“I know this is difficult, but I’m trying to identify a murder victim.”

“She was murdered? Oh no. My poor baby.”

Lord, she hated this part.
“We don’t know if it’s Callie yet. Tell me what she was wearing Tuesday.”

“She doesn’t live with me, so I didn’t see her before she left to go into the capital. I don’t know what she was wearing, but she always dressed nice.” A pause while she collected herself. “I gave her picture to the local police.”

“I know. I’m looking at it online. But the victim was shot in the face, so I can’t say for sure.” An image of the woman’s body in the morgue displayed in Jocelyn’s brain. “The victim had a tiny mole near her left ear, a pockmark in the V of her chest, and breasts of different sizes.”

A pause, then wracking sobs.

She’d identified her victim. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Do you need a minute?”

“For what?” the woman cried. “If she’s dead, nothing’s ever gonna be the same.”

“I want to find her killer, and I need your help. Can I ask a few questions?”

“Not right now.” Mrs. Sayers hung up.

Jocelyn didn’t blame her. What was her next move? The victim lived in Fredericksburg and worked in Richmond. The first was an hour’s drive south, and the Virginia capital was an hour beyond that. It was too late to head out now, especially after a week of night shift and no days off. She would visit both places tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.

Tuesday, Oct. 7, 1:27 p.m.

Dallas twisted to free herself from the guard’s grip, but he slammed her against the metal door. Pain enraged her, and she brought up a knee to plant in his balls. But she was off balance and not fast enough. He stepped back and drew his gun, aiming it at her head.

“Get on your knees!”

Oh shit!
She had no choice. This wasn’t her cause, and she wasn’t going to die for it. Dallas dropped down. Maybe she could talk her way out of this. Or maybe she’d end up in jail. But the inner circle would probably bail her out. They had a plan and money in the bank for such situations. If they didn’t, the bureau would. She breathed deeply and tried to calm herself.

“Hands on your head.”

Again, she complied, as the guard radioed for help. She remembered the damn meth in her pocket and cursed herself for not ditching it earlier. The bail for drug possession would be considerably higher than for trespassing or B&E. Would the bureau fire her or demote her for it? No, of course not. UCs who infiltrated gangs often did drugs with their targets. That was how they built trust. She would get through this. Besides, the ID she had wasn’t her real name.

“What are you doing here?” the guard asked.

“Nothing. I came to protest the governor’s speech like everyone else out there. Then I got bored and wandered inside.”

“This area is locked. How did you get in?”

“I just walked in.”

He shook his head. “Why did you run from me?”

“I got scared. I thought you were going to arrest me.” She gave a timid smile. “I’m just a college student with ideals, and I’ve never been in trouble before. Please let me go.”

His face twitched with indecision, and the gun dropped a few inches. “Show me what’s in your pockets.”

Oh hell.
Drugs and lock-picks. She couldn’t empty them. “Come on. I’m no threat to anyone. Just let me go.”

“Shut up. I’m putting you under citizen’s arrest.” Despite his raised volume, he sounded uncertain. With one hand, he reached to his belt and unsnapped a pair of handcuffs. “Stand up and turn around.”

“Will you cuff me in front, please? It’s less painful.” She knew from training exercises when she’d played the unsub.

“It’s not protocol.”

Damn.
Dallas turned around and put her hands back. This guy was nervous, and nervous people with guns were unpredictable. He cuffed her and led her to the security office in a back corner of the building. Once they were in private, he searched her pockets and pulled out the lock-picks and bag of meth.

“A thief and a druggie.” The guard grinned and shook his head.

She couldn’t tell if he was pleased or disgusted. He pushed her toward a chair, then walked out, taking her things with him.

Dallas sat on the hard wooden chair and waited. This would be a long day, or couple of days. Had Abby and Aaron completed their mission? Or had everyone fled when the alarm went off?

Forty minutes later, a DC police officer showed up, put a new pair of cuffs on her, and led her to his patrol car, parked in a handicapped space in front of the building. The protestors had cleared out, and the street scene was calm and normal. Everyone but her had gone home.

Over the next three hours, she was strip-searched, fingerprinted, and booked into custody. She was also shouted at, ink-stamped with a number on her am, and handled like a possession rather than a person. Every step of the process was degrading, but particularly the strip search. Having a stranger shove a finger in her ass to check for drugs was the worst. How did criminals and addicts cope with it? Some people cycled in and out of jail on a regular basis and were subjected to the ordeal with every lockup. Did they start to feel less human?

The female officer gave her clothes back, minus the pocket contents, and Dallas pulled them on, relieved not to be naked any longer in this hostile place. “Can I make a phone call now?” The fact that she hadn’t been given a pair of jail scrubs meant she might be released after an arraignment soon.

“Not until the charges are filed, and you missed the afternoon court session.” The officer, who outweighed her by fifty pounds, didn’t make eye contact.

“Oh come on. It’s your decision. I need to let people know where I am.”

“It’s the rules. Step this way.”

The jail officer walked her past smaller holding cells filled to capacity to a big area with dirty gray, peeling paint. Benches lined the walls and filled the center. About fifteen women occupied the room, most in their early twenties. Some were obviously prostitutes, and others had the telltale signs of drug use: skin lesions, brittle hair, and no body fat. Two women, both in their late thirties, wore layers of clothing, as if they were homeless. Everyone else was probably dealing with a money issue—theft, fraud, or failure to pay the court.