Allison Brennan - Fatal Secrets

“Bullshit, you fucking federal prick. You have nothing to arrest me for.”

“Aiding and abetting.”

On the other side of the door Cammarata laughed. “I know the law better than you think.”

“I’m sure you do. Five minutes.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll call my partner to get the arrest warrant-”

The door opened. Cammarata had a gun in his hand. He was shorter than Dean by an inch, broad-shouldered with a barrel chest. Solid muscle, this guy worked out regularly. He was in his late forties but had the physical body of a man ten years younger. The lines around his eyes betrayed his age: they had seen the world.

On the table behind Cammarata was a virtual arsenal of weapons, one of which was disassembled. Cleaning supplies were visible, and the pungent scent of solvent hung in the stifling heat.

“You should open your windows,” Dean said, “unless you’re getting high off the fumes. Which is a crime.”

Cammarata glared at him.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

Dean shrugged casually. “We didn’t get a chance to talk this morning. But I wanted to make sure you understood that we’re investigating Mr. Jones on money laundering and racketeering. Very serious charges. You’ll be charged as an accessory when I prove my case. And I will prove my case. I’m giving you the chance to help. I’m sure-”

Cammarata rolled his eyes and started to close the door. Dean stuck his foot between the door and jamb. Cammarata glanced down and said, “You want that foot shot off, don’t you?”

“You are treading in dangerous waters, Mr. Angelo.”

“So are you. I have nothing to say.”

“Are you certain-”

“Back off.”

“I tried.” He extended his hand. Cammarata made no move to shake it. Dean pushed the small piece of paper between his fingers so it couldn’t be missed.

Cammarata glared at it.

“Just drop the good-cop act, you’re all a bunch of fascist pricks.”

Dean dropped his hand, letting the note fall to the floor. Cammarata made an aggressive move toward him, his foot falling squarely on the paper. “Get off my property or I’ll file charges for harassment.”

“You’d better watch that temper of yours, Chuck, or I’ll be hauling you in just because I don’t like you.”

Cammarata dragged his foot-and the paper-inside and slammed the door shut.

Dean got back into his car and hoped Sonia got what she needed, but after meeting the man, Dean doubted Charlie Cammarata cared about anything but his personal cause, whatever that was.

Noel Marchand did not react well to bad news.

Mr. Ling drove. They were headed to the river, to his meeting with Jones. Noel glanced at Tobias in the rear seat watching the lights pass by as if he were a child. Noel harbored no guilt for what he planned.

That Johan had failed to terminate the whore made this miserable day worse. What was so complicated about walking into a hospital room and injecting arsenic into the veins of an unconscious girl?

Mr. Ling said, “Perhaps we should abandon this project and go home.”

Ling meant home to Mexico, not the hotel. If any other employee suggested such a thing, Noel would have killed him. But he valued and respected Ling, whose advice and loyalty were exemplary.

“Perhaps,” he said without seriously considering the option. “There is a lot riding on this exchange. A new venue, a new client, new opportunities. I like their innovative ideas. Interactive online sex. Brilliant. We provide the girls, and we get residuals for years. Like royalties on movies. One girl will pay off long after she’s used up. And they want a minimum of two hundred annually? No more dealing with middlemen like Jones.”

True, Xavier Jones had originated this deal and expected a cut from every sale, but a dead man couldn’t get paid, could he?

“We can approach them later. When things settle.”

“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Ling, but it won’t be much longer. If we abandon this deal now, they’ll go to someone else-like the damn Russians. I’ll be cautious. On our other matter of the girl, find an attorney and educate him. As long as Johan doesn’t talk before Monday, the attorney will be paid handsomely.”

“Very well, Mr. Marchand.”

Noel wasn’t personally worried about Johan. He was a hired assassin and didn’t know anything about Noel or Tobias. His contact was Mr. Ling.

Mr. Ling continued. “I’ve narrowed the possibilities of Jones’s betrayer.”

“Who are the lucky dead men?”

“Craig Gleason, his chief of staff.”

“Gleason?”

“Thinking as Machiavelli would, he may figure that with Mr. Jones out of the picture, he would rise quicker in the hierarchy.”

Noel considered the arrogant lobbyist. “He doesn’t have the balls to risk it.”

“You may be right.”

“Anyone else?”

“Gregory Vega.”

“Far more likely-he certainly has the spine for it. He’s straightforward and has been with Jones for many years.” Noel had intended to put Vega in charge once Jones was out of the way. If he was a traitor … “Why him?”

“His wife has been getting her affairs in order.”

“Elaborate.”

“She allowed her magazine subscriptions to lapse. She’s searched the Internet for houses and school districts in other states.”

“School districts?”

“She’s pregnant.”

“And Jones didn’t insist on terminating the pregnancy?”

“It’s not his child.”

“Does not matter. Kids are nothing but problems. They force Americans to make stupid business decisions. But that’s no reason to think Vega is talking to the feds.”

Mr. Ling pushed a button on the dashboard of the car. He said, “After our conversation this morning, I took the liberty of planting a bug in the Vega residence. He sweeps the place regularly, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try one. He doesn’t sweep daily, after all.”

Another reason Noel appreciated Mr. Ling: his foresight.

“This conversation took place shortly before we left the hotel.”

Through the car speakers, an indistinct verbal banter could be heard over the clattering of dishes. A chair scraped the floor. The pouring of liquid, ring of utensils.

“It’s great, Kendra,” a male voice said. Greg Vega.

“Thanks.”

“You shouldn’t be on your feet. I don’t mind eating takeout.”

“I like to cook. The baby likes it. If it’s a girl, what do you think about the name Emily? I know, it’s trendy, but ‘Emily Vega’ has a nice sound. Or Elizabeth.”

“You like the ‘E’ names? For a boy you wanted Ethan.”

“You nixed that idea.”

Noel snapped, “This is ridiculous.”

“It gets better.”

If Noel was willingly going to have a kid, he would choose the name. He didn’t give a damn what the whore wanted. She’d be dead as soon as she delivered. There would be no emotional maternal influence over any child of his.

“-in Pennsylvania.”

“Shh,” Vega said.

“Do you think they’ll send us there? It’s beautiful. Very green. Maybe you can ask-”

A loud crash of dishes followed by the bellow, “Shut up!”

A moment later Noel heard the sound of a sobbing woman, and Vega mumble, “Fuck.”

The tape stopped.

Noel was furious. He was an outstanding judge of character, but he’d been wrong about Greg Vega. He loathed being wrong.

“I will take care of them,” Noel said through clenched teeth. “Personally.”

Sonia sat in a chair next to Riley’s hospital bed while he slept. It was late, near the end of visiting hours, and she’d just kissed her parents good-bye. She was exhausted and wanted to go home and sleep for a week, but she couldn’t leave without absolutely knowing her brother was going to be okay.