Allison Brennan - Fatal Secrets

“I’ll explain in the lobby,” the nurse said.

Dean took hold of Sonia’s arm and led her back to the waiting room. She was grateful for the support. She didn’t know if she was going to lose her temper or collapse. Every nerve ending burned. Riley was not just her brother, he was her best friend. If he died … she didn’t realize she was shivering until Dean put his arm around her shoulders. She took a deep breath and asked, “The blood? And why does he have a bandage on his cheek? When-”

The nurse, Tina according to her name badge, interrupted. “He lost a lot of blood. He was fortunate that no major artery was severed, but the cut was four inches long, and deep enough to cause extensive blood loss. We got to him quickly. A couple days’ bed rest and he should be up and around.”

“And Ann?”

“Ann?”

“Ann Charles-the Jane Doe he was protecting-where is she?”

“Detective Black supervised her move to another wing. I can take you.”

“Please do.”

“Thank you,” Dean added.

Sonia glanced at him. He was a rock, which calmed her tremendously. “Thank you for coming with me,” she whispered.

“No thanks are necessary,” he said.

They passed at least a dozen cops and detectives between surgery and Ann’s new room. Whether they were there because of the attack on Ann or to check on Riley, Sonia didn’t know, but she appreciated the strong police presence.

Outside Ann’s room were four uniformed officers and the towering Detective Black. He approached when he saw her. “Let’s go in here,” he said, opening the door to an empty room. “I had them clear this wing. We’re going to have a rotation of six officers-two on the victim, two on the grounds, and two roaming.”

“I should have done that from the beginning,” Sonia said, critical of herself.

“You?” Black said, dark eyes showing some of the pain that Sonia felt inside. “This isn’t on you.”

“What happened isn’t on anyone,” Dean said. “Someone wants that girl dead, which makes me believe that she knows who tried to kill her. She can I.D. him.”

“Exactly,” Sonia said. “What happened, John?”

“Someone tried to get into the room dressed as an orderly. He acted suspicious, distracting Riley, then another man slipped through the door. Riley tried to Taser him, but he had a vest on. He stabbed Riley with a scalpel, then made a move toward the victim with a syringe-we now know it was liquid arsenic, which would have killed anyone with a fraction of the dose in the tube-Riley tackled him, I came in, and we subdued the perp with no further incident.”

“Who is this guy? Her rapist?”

“We don’t know, but we have his DNA and we’ll find out damn quick. He tried to kill a cop, he’s not getting off.”

“I want to talk to him.”

“He’s going through booking right now.”

“I don’t care, I need to talk to him. Ann has a unique tattoo on her shoulder, and-”

“I know what it means, Sonia. But right now no one’s talking to him. He’s said only four words. ‘I want my lawyer.’”

Sonia kicked the empty bed. “Shit!”

“He’s not getting bail,” John pointed out.

“That’s not the point. I need to know what he knows.”

“He’s a cold bastard. He had no identification on him. He refuses to tell us his name. He even refuses to tell us who his lawyer is. I suspect that when he doesn’t report in to whoever he’s working for, we’ll have a lawyer show up at the jailhouse claiming to represent him.”

Sonia’s fists clenched and she closed her eyes. “You printed him?”

“Of course. Sooner or later, we’ll find out who he is.”

“I need his picture.”

“Within the hour.”

Dean said, “If you have his DNA, prints, and photo sent to Quantico, I’ll pull some strings as well.”

“I don’t think he’s an American,” Black said.

“Does he speak English?” Sonia asked.

“Yes, with an accent.”

“Hispanic?”

“No. Blond, blue-eyed, Caucasian. Eastern European of some kind.”

“He could still be a citizen,” Sonia said. “There’s a large Russian population here. How old?”

“Thirties.”

Sonia rubbed her eyes. She didn’t have any evidence or information that Xavier Jones was working with any of the Russians. They liked to keep their smuggling in-house, so to speak. Jones worked with a variety of nationalities, and with Smitty Daniels out of the way, Jones had something of a monopoly. But that didn’t mean someone wasn’t freelancing. Or this had nothing to do with Jones, was simply one more tragedy in this business of human trafficking. It just wasn’t going to stop.

Dean asked, “How’s Ann?”

“The same. The doctor said that’s good, her body’s fighting back. They’re planning surgery for tomorrow. There’s damage to her kidney, and possible internal bleeding. Dr. Miller says as long as she doesn’t get worse, he’s putting her on the table at oh six hundred hours.”

“You’ll be here?” Sonia said.

“Along with half the Sacramento P.D. Nothing is going to happen to that girl, Sonia. I give you my word.”

When Sonia’s parents arrived at the hospital, Dean left and called Sam Callahan.

“Where’s Jones right now?”

“At his house.”

“What about his driver?”

“He dropped Jones off at five this evening and left. I don’t know where he went.”

“I need to talk to him. I thought he lived somewhere on Jones’s property.”

“What I got out of him last night was that he lived in a cabin on Jones’s property, not in the house itself.”

“Can you email me directions?”

“Sure.” Callahan sounded like he wanted more, but when Dean didn’t elaborate, Callahan said, “Do you need backup?”

“Not now.”

Dean followed the directions to Jones’s property, passed Jones’s driveway, then turned onto a narrow, gravel-lined road a mile farther up the main road. It was after eight in the evening, and the summer sun was just descending on the horizon though the temperature still hovered in the high eighties. Dean was ready to crash; it had been a long day, starting late the night before when he’d pleaded his case for a warrant to Judge Barnhardt. Had less than twenty-four hours passed? It seemed like days.

This was his last task, then he would return to his borrowed apartment and crash. Tomorrow promised to be another long day.

A sporty sedan was parked in the carport of the small cabin. Dean drove up and parked behind the car. Lights glowed dully behind drawn shades. All he knew about Charlie Cammarata was that he and Sonia used to work together, and Cammarata got himself fired, with Sonia’s help. Cops rarely turned in other cops unless the situation was so egregious that there was no avoiding it. Problems were usually dealt with internally.

The situation involving Sonia and Cammarata must have been huge. Dean wondered why he didn’t know about it-except, it was Immigration. People thought the FBI kept things close to the vest; they’d never worked with ICE before. They gave tight-lipped a whole new meaning.

The cabin was small, one room by all appearances. A small porch up three steps. Nothing homespun, in all appearances vacant except for the car and lights.

Dean had to assume that Jones had the cabin bugged, so he needed to make this look good.

He rapped on the door, searching his memory for the goon’s name, the one Jones used. He didn’t know-Jones had never used it in front of him. He glanced at the message from Sam Callahan. In the subject line:

CHUCK ANGELO

“Angelo! This is Agent Hooper with the FBI. I have some questions.”

“Get the fuck off my property.”

“I’d be happy to put you under arrest.”