Allison Brennan - Fatal Secrets

The SWAT team rolled into the warehouse, Dean and Sonia on their heels. Calls of clear! rang out as they inspected the interior.

The filthy windows let in only a minimum of sunlight, and the only noise was their own movement, their own voices. It was clear that the huge storage room was empty.

A door on the far side was open, leading to a darker room.

“Sonia,” Dean said in a low voice. “Do you smell it?”

He wasn’t talking about the urine. Only blood smelled so sweetly metallic.

She nodded. Her training and extensive experience kept her calm and alert. Adrendaline sharpened her instincts.

They had their guns poised over their flashlights as they cautiously entered the dark room.

“Lights?” Sonia whispered.

“None here either,” Stone said.

She felt along the wall. “I found them,” Sonia said. “Be ready on three-they could be bright. Three. Two. One.” She flipped them on, narrowing her eyes.

Old-style fluorescent lights flickered on. This room was empty of cargo, but they found the source of the blood.

Three partially clothed Chinese women lay in a heap against the wall, their throats slit. Arterial spray on the wall closest to Sonia said they’d been killed right there, one after the other. Their hands were bound but not their feet.

“Dear Lord,” one of the deputies muttered.

From the pile of feces in one corner of the room it was apparent that at one point far more than three women had been held captive in this room.

Sonia slipped on gloves and touched the bodies. “Full rigor. Twelve to twenty-four hours, my guess, but we should get the coroner in here ASAP.”

“They moved them at night,” Dean said.

“Yes. Last night.” Sonia looked at the women. Girls. They were sixteen or seventeen. Long black hair and too-thin bodies. These were the girls she had wanted to save.

Where had they taken the others? Had they been killed too?

She wanted to cover the bodies, but knew better than to disturb them.

“Hooper!” Stone called from the far side of the room.

Sonia turned at the same time Dean did. At first she didn’t see anything.

“Shit,” Dean said, taking a step toward Sonia.

Then she saw. In block letters, written in blood on the gray cinder-block interior wall, was a message.

YOU ARE TOO LATE.

Sam Callahan had been emboldened by Assistant Director Dean Hooper’s confidence in handling the Jones investigation, starting from the minute he came to town, through the execution of the warrant on Jones, and the subsequent confrontation in the restaurant downtown. He’d convinced Hooper to give him this shot at Omega-they might get lucky and find someone who knew something, and was willing to talk.

Trace Anderson had clued him in on more details of Omega’s suspected involvement in trafficking. He finished by saying, “We have no hard evidence. It’s one thing to know in your gut that someone is guilty, it’s quite another to prove it.”

“You’re telling me.”

Omega Shipping, on the books, was a huge enterprise; their headquarters on Washington Street were small. One car was parked in the front of the industrial building. Activity on the opposite end was heavier, but they weren’t Omega facilities.

“Is this it?” Sam asked Trace.

“Yep. Sonia and I came out here last year, not to talk to them, just to check it out. It was the same.”

“Looks like a front.”

“Looks like.”

“Let’s go.”

The interior was bigger than the outside suggested. The warehouse had been converted into large offices, all of which were dark. The reception area was cheerful with bright, fake flowers and a tidy reception desk. The young woman who sat behind it was typing triplicate forms on an electric typewriter. When they stepped through the door, a bell rang overhead and she turned to them, smiling brightly. She was blond and petite, and seemed thrilled to have potential customers.

“Can I help you?”

Sam smiled back, showed her his badge. “I’m Sam Callahan. And you are?”

She was a bit flustered, but responded. “Daisy Sajeck.”

“We’re following up on a murder investigation-”

“Someone was killed?”

He nodded solemnly. “Xavier Jones. Did you know him?”

“Mr. Jones! That’s awful?”

Sam wanted to ask if she watched the news, but refrained. “I know he did business with Mr. Christopoulis, and I hoped I could have a word with him. We’re trying to find out who might have had a grievance with Mr. Jones.”

“George and Mr. Jones were very good friends. He’s going to be shocked when he hears.”

“He’s not here?”

She shook her head. “He’s on the Crius II . They’re taking medical supplies to Argentina.”

Argentina. Again. Sam mentally filed the information and asked, “Is Mrs. Christopoulis available?”

“Ms.” Daisy corrected. “She’s divorced.”

“And they still work together?” Trace asked.

She blinked. “Well, George was upset about the divorce-I think he likes his dad a lot more than his mother-but they get along okay.”

Sam glanced at Trace. They’d assumed that Victoria Christopoulis was George’s wife.

Trace said, “The senior Christopoulises are still Greek citizens, correct?”

“Oh, yes. Ms. Christopoulis would never want to live here.”

“Is she in Greece now?”

“No, she’s in town. She stays with George, which is why I think he took this extra assignment.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I wouldn’t want to live under the same roof with her. And I thought my mom was bad.” She rolled her eyes like a teenager. Sam realized she wasn’t much older than one.

“How long have you worked here?” he asked.

“Ten months. Longest job I’ve held. My daddy says if I can keep the same job for one year, he’ll buy me a convertible. I’m almost there.”

“Good for you. We were hoping Mr. Christopoulis could help with our investigation. Was he in town Wednesday night?”

“Wednesday? I don’t think so. He docked late Tuesday, after I was gone for the day. I had a manifest and billing on my desk Wednesday morning. He came in late in the afternoon to work, then told me about the Cruis II shipments.”

“It wasn’t scheduled?”

“It was an emergency. Another shipper canceled at the last minute, and Mr. Christopoulis took the job. He works so hard.” She sounded like she was infatuated.

“Does Ms. Christopoulis come in to work here?”

“She hates coming down here. She works from the house. But I can call her for you, you can set up an appointment-”

“No, that’s okay. It’s not important right now.” It was hugely important, but Sam didn’t want Daisy talking to Victoria Christopoulis about him before he could track her down. “When is George coming back to town?”

“Two weeks,” she said.

“Great. We’ll call then.”

“I can tell him you came by-he calls every night.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. It sounded like something might be going on between George and Daisy. By the light flush in her cheeks, he suspected he was right.

“That’s okay, Daisy. Two weeks is fine.”

Sam and Trace left Omega. “That was interesting,” Trace said. “Want to go chat with Mommy Christo poulis?”

“Absolutely. Christopoulis’s house is only a couple miles from here, on Country Club Drive. Let’s see what she has to say.”

Noel stood on the pathetic excuse for a balcony on the tenth floor of the Hyatt Hotel and spoke to his buyer.

“Everything is running smoothly,” he assured the man on the other end of the phone. He went by the name Richter. Noel knew that wasn’t his name; Noel knew far more about “Richter” than the buyer, and the organization he represented, suspected, but information was crucial at this stage of the process. He’d reveal his intelligence only when and if it became necessary.