Allison Brennan - Fatal Secrets

When Dean looked at the records, all deposited at the same time of the month, all cash, he launched the grand jury investigation. He didn’t know how Daniels was making his illegal money-he had wrongly assumed drugs, which accounted for an estimated ninety percent of laundered money in the United States. It didn’t take long to learn that Daniels was involved in sex crimes, specifically kidnapping minor female runaways for Internet pornography.

Xavier Jones’s name had come up in the course of investigating Daniels, but there was nothing substantial in Daniels’s records implicating Jones in criminal activity. The major impetus was an old photograph of Jones and Daniels with a group of known or suspected criminals. It was primarily Dean’s gut intuition after seeing that photo that had him looking closely at Jones for the last two years.

Dean suspected that Jones was involved with the illegal sex trade, but there was no evidence pointing directly at him, and until he learned that ICE was involved, he had assumed it was prostitution-Jones had contact with known prostitution rings. Dean knew less about the international scope of Jones’s activities than ICE agent Sonia Knight-human trafficking was primarily under the domain of Homeland Security. And while he should have known about the ICE investigation, even in this new era of sharing information, not all information trickled down-or up-to the right people.

He wanted Sonia to look at all his information immediately. He had a feeling she’d see things he didn’t because her experience tracking the buying and selling of people was legendary.

That Sonia Knight had been sold into slavery as a child, then escaped, was in itself an incredible story; that she’d become a decorated special agent in immigration was even more extraordinary. He hadn’t been blowing smoke up Sonia’s very attractive backside when he told her there was no one else he’d rather work with. She had a reputation for being not only a hothead, but intelligent, extremely knowledgeable, and compassionate. She took risks, probably too many, but in Dean’s experience it was only those agents willing to put their reputation and life on the line for justice who made the difference. He’d admired her from afar for years, but in all honesty he never thought he’d have a chance to work with her. DHS and the FBI were completely separate agencies; he hadn’t even known she worked from the Sacramento field office.

If she had records of shipments in and out of the area that Jones was suspected of orchestrating, maybe adding that information to his database would make existing information pop, and he could follow that thread to the proof he needed for the U.S. Attorney to indict.

Tracking money wasn’t the sexiest job in the FBI. Most agents wanted to work counterterrorism or violent crimes; those who were technology savvy, like Dean, usually found themselves in cybercrimes. But white-collar crimes pulled Dean in like nothing else. It came down to trust: if you couldn’t trust your government, your small businesses, your corporations, society fell apart. Criminals reigned, and law-abiding citizens suffered financially, emotionally, and physically. Anarchy was the end result of doing nothing.

And, frankly, crunching numbers and pattern recognition were his strengths. His father never understood. Clint Hooper had been a beat cop, working the streets of Chicago until the ravages of too many cigarettes and too much fat put him in an early grave. He’d been a good cop, had taught Dean and his younger brother, Will, right from wrong, but a cop was all he was. When Clint Hooper was home, he wanted to be out on the streets. When he went to their ball games, he was always with the other cop dads. As a result, Dean lived with cops, socialized with cops, didn’t know anything else but the life of a cop. He’d wanted something else.

So he joined the military through the ROTC program and planned to be a career Marine. It wasn’t his first choice-he’d always excelled in math and had considered teaching or being a CPA-but the pressures of a blue-collar father thinking accounting was for wimps had him looking to prove his manhood when he really should have had nothing to prove to anyone except himself.

He’d learned his lesson, but not before his dad died. He left the Marines, got his degree, and, because of an aptitude test, was recruited into the FBI. He ended up doing what he was good at coupled with the only thing he truly knew and understood: being a cop. Maybe it was in the blood. And that was okay with Dean. This was where he was supposed to be; there was nothing else he wanted to do.

Sooner than he had expected, he was done inputting the information from Jones’s day planner. Nothing jumped out right away, so he looked again, for notes and odd marks. There were none. The planner was as neat and efficient as Xavier Jones’s house and physical appearance. His perfect, crisp, all-caps printing was neither too small nor too big, with little deviation-Dean had to look closely to see any differences between the same letters. Virtually every “E” looked identical. Almost impossible to do by hand, but the writing was definitely ink. All black, fine felt-tip.

The handwriting analysts would have a field day with this, if they could get anything useful, other than what Dean had already figured out about his personality.

Dean looked at today: Wednesday, June 3.

11:00 A.M .

BRIEFING @ XCJ

12:00 P.M .

LUNCH @ CHOPS: CLIENTS

5:00 P.M .

DRINKS @ FRANK FATS: CLIENTS

Odd. He looked back at all the previous meetings. Jones never identified who he was meeting with, but he always had a location. Was the location a code? Or did he not want a physical record of the people at the meeting?

XCJ was Jones’s lobbying firm. Again, Dean flipped through the book. He had no business listed except weekly “briefings”-almost always on Mondays, except today.

Was that because he’d been out of town this past Monday?

There were no appointments scheduled for this week Monday or Tuesday, the days he had been gone. Dean looked at the book closely. Several things had been whited out. Again, meticulously. And because it was felt-tip, Dean couldn’t see the impression of the individual letters through the white-out, so he couldn’t recreate the meetings that had been canceled. He turned the page to see if he could read the bleed-through and decipher the backward text. The flip side had been whited out as well.

Maybe the evidence response team could come up with something, but Dean wasn’t holding his breath.

Another thing that stuck out to Dean was that for a multimillionaire philanthropist who owned several businesses and millions of dollars in property, there was surprisingly little written in the day planner. The e-teams unit had already informed Dean that Jones didn’t use the calendar on his computer. They were looking at possible online calendars by going through his browser history, but they had to re-create the history since Jones used sophisticated software to permanently erase his files and Internet travels.

Who else might keep a calendar for Jones? He couldn’t keep all his plans and meetings in his head, could he? Maybe his cell phone, but Dean didn’t have a warrant for phone records. And Jones wouldn’t put anything incriminating on it. With one of his employees-that was more likely. Separating himself from any record of illegal activities by having a third party involved.

Employees … how did he pay his employees? Cash? That wasn’t enough to prosecute, especially if there was a record of it. Dean noted large withdrawals from Jones’s bank account once a month. Payroll? Maybe. He had employees through two businesses: XCJ Consulting and XCJ Security. Dean had taken a look at the tax forms and nothing jumped out at him as odd about the businesses, other than that they were very profitable-and Jones was paying his required taxes on the profits.