Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

"Hypothetically, a certain segment of cops and agents leaned on Leroy and Tommy very, very hard. They wouldn't talk. We threatened to put them into the prison general population and to leak who and what they were to the other cons. No go. I thought Tommy O'Dell would crack, I really did. He was a worm. He didn't. Leroy never came close. He told Haliburton at one point, 'I talk to you, it'll take weeks for me to die. Then they'll kill my sister, my mom--hell, they'll even kill my houseplants. I'll take my chances inside.' "

"It sounds like he was convinced that he was dealing with some very scary people," Callie says.

"Scarier than us, that's for sure. We tried longer than we should have and got nowhere. That left us with the kids. It took some time and coaxing, but we got a couple of them to talk about what they'd gone through." AD Jones grimaces. "Bad, bad stuff. Conditioning--

the caning of the feet--combined with verbal degradation and rape. A lot of the time they were hooded or blindfolded, and they were kept very isolated, from one another as well as from the traffickers. Even so, one of the kids had seen Vargas, and had heard his name. He was able to describe him. We gathered Vargas up." The look in his eyes is chilling. "We were committed to doing just about anything to get him to talk, and this time--hypothetically--I was ready to lend a fist."

He pauses then. It's a long, thoughtful pause, layered through with regret.

"The boy's name was Juan. He was nine. Cute kid, smart kid, talked a lot once he got going, even though he had a slight stutter. He was from Argentina. I admired him, we all did. He'd been through hell but was still fighting to keep his head above water, and trying to do it with dignity." AD Jones gives me a look that's about a million years old. "Dignity. And he was nine."

"What happened?" I ask.

"We had the kids stashed at a safe house. The night before Juan was going to officially lay things out on tape for us, someone hit it. They killed a cop, an agent, and took all three kids."

"Took them?"

"Yes. Back to hell, would be my guess."

I can't speak for a moment, I'm so appalled by this thought. Those children had been rescued from the monsters. They should have been safe.

"Didn't that point to--"

"An inside job?" He nods. "Of course. Things got turned upside down, here and at the LAPD. Everyone on the task force was put under a microscope and got a metaphorical rectal exam. Nothing was ever found. The best part? We had no physical evidence to tie Vargas to the children. All we had was the word of a long-gone witness. Vargas walked, O'Dell and Perkins went away. Perkins survived. O'Dell got shanked. No more kids with scarred feet showed up. We never found Juan or the other two girls, but we heard from an informant that some children matching their description had crossed back into Mexico and then been shot." He shrugs, frustrated even now.

"Every other lead dead-ended, from Immigration to Vice to Organized Crime. We cast our nets wider. Let other cities know what to watch out for. Nothing. The task force was disbanded."

"It sounds like whoever was behind this then is still around now,"

I say. "Vargas made that video for blackmail purposes."

"Doesn't that seem odd to you?" Callie asks.

"What's that?"

"The bad guys were scary in 1979. Vargas didn't strike me as a particularly heroic individual."

"Get the case files, Smoky. If you need questions answered by someone who was there, let me know." His smile is humorless. "That was the one for me. Up to that point, I figured we'd always get the bad guy. Justice would prevail and all that. That's the case where I realized there were going to be plenty of times the bad guys got away. It's also where I realized that there were"--he hesitates--"men who eat children." A pause. "Metaphorically speaking, I mean."

Except it's not really a metaphor is it, sir? That's why you paused. They do eat them, raw and weeping and warm. They swallow them whole. A

I'm back at Death Central. Callie is getting the administrative wheels in motion that will deliver the files on the human-trafficking case to us. My cell rings.

"Something I wanted to let you know about right away," Alan says.

"What?"

"In the process of digging into the Kingsleys, I decided to check in with Cathy Jones. The cop from the diary?"

"Good thinking." It's a good idea. She was a trained observer who was there, and she also knew Sarah in the years following. "What did you find?"

"What I found was bad and weird. A lot bad. Well, a lot weird too. Jones made detective two years ago. A month after that, she was off the force for good."

"Why?"

"She was attacked in her home. She was beaten into a three-day coma. And it gets worse."

"Worse how?"

"He beat her head with a pipe. Various injuries resulted, but the most severe was permanent damage to her optic nerves. She's legally blind, Smoky."

I'm silent, taking this in. Failing to some degree.

"But that's not all."

"What else?"

"The attacker whipped her. On the bottoms of her feet. Bad enough to leave scars."

"What?!" I almost shout, I'm so surprised.

"No kidding. I had the same reaction. So that's bad, but--"

"I already know what's weird--that he let her live."

"Exactly. He's killed everyone else we know about so far, except for Sarah. Why not Jones?"

"Have you talked to her?"

"That's why I'm calling. I got an address on her, but I'm in the middle here . . ."

"Give it to me. Callie and I will go see--" I stumble over the word see for a moment. "We'll go talk to her."

33

CATHY JONES LIVES IN A CONDO IN TARZANA, HER NEIGHBOR-hood yet another example of a suburb tucked away amidst the urban sprawl of greater Los Angeles. It's a nice enough building, kept up, but perhaps a little worn around the edges.

The rain has stopped for now, but the sky is gray and the clouds still look angry. Callie and I spent almost an hour navigating our way here. LA hates the rain and it shows; we'd passed two accidents on the freeway.

We'd called ahead, but had gotten only her voice mail.

"Ready?" I ask Callie, as we stand in front of the door.

"No. But knock anyway."

I do.

A moment passes. I hear the sound of footsteps on a hardwood floor, and then a voice, clear but uncertain.

"Who's there?"

"Cathy Jones?" I ask.

A pause. Then a dry reply:

"No, I'm Cathy Jones."

Callie looks at me with an eyebrow raised.

"Ms. Jones, this is Special Agent Smoky Barrett, of the FBI. I'm here with another agent, Callie Thorne. We'd like to speak with you."

The silence is heavy.

"About what?"

I could reply, "Your attack." I decide to take a different approach.

"Sarah Langstrom."

"What's happened?"

I hear raw alarm in the question, mixed with perhaps a hint of res ignation.

"Can we come in, Ms. Jones?"

Another pause, followed by a sigh.

"I guess you'll have to. I don't go outside anymore."

I hear the sound of a dead bolt being turned, and the door opens. Cathy is wearing a pair of sunglasses. I see small scars at her hairline and temples. She's a short woman, slender but compact. Athletic. She's wearing slacks and a sleeveless blouse; I can see the wiry muscle in her arms.

"Come in," she says.

We enter. The condo is dark.

"Feel free to turn on some lights. I don't need them. Obviously. So make sure you turn them off before you leave."

She leads us into the living room, sure-footed. The interior of the condo is newer than the outside facade. The carpet is a muted beige, the walls an off-white. The furniture is clean and tasteful.

"You have a very nice home," I offer.

She sits down in an easy chair, indicating the couch to us with a sweep of her hand.