They stepped out of the restaurant into the dry Sacramento heat. “Not if you’re dead,” said Sam.
Sonia was halfway to FBI headquarters when her cell phone rang. She grabbed it, hoping it was Kane Rogan. But it was Grace Young, her administrative assistant.
“Hey Grace, I’m on my way to FBI headquarters. Are they already calling? I’m only a few minutes late.”
“The FBI hasn’t called, but Simone Charles from the Sacramento Police Department is on the phone and says it’s urgent.”
Sonia frowned as she maneuvered her car through lunch-hour traffic. “I don’t know her. What’s it about?”
“She didn’t say, but asked for you specifically. I tried to put her off, but she’s stubborn, said she was at the hospital. I didn’t know if it was about your brother, the cop-”
Sonia’s stomach flipped, but she’d just left Riley at her parent’s house and he was fine. “No, I just saw him. I’ll talk to her. Patch her through.”
When Sonia heard the
“Agent Knight, I’m Simone Charles, supervisor with the forensic investigation division of SPD. I have a rape victim here at Sutter who I think you’re going to want to see.”
“How’d you get my name and number?”
“A memo you issued a couple years ago on criminal tattoos.”
Sonia remembered the memo. She’d sent it out three years ago, when she was first promoted to SSA of the Sacramento field office after raiding a brothel near the Oregon border. It had been full of illegal Russian women who’d been branded with an ownership tattoo. She compiled a list of all known tattoos and sent an extensive memo to local and federal law enforcement about what to look for on both victims and suspects. She’d received only a few calls over the years, but this was the first in her jurisdiction. And the first about a victim.
“You said a rape victim?”
“Yes. I heard you work exclusively on human trafficking cases, but the tattoo is a close match to one of the descriptions on the memo. My Jane Doe is Caucasian, blond, blue eyes. I don’t know where she’s from. I’d think she was a runaway or something, except for the tats.”
“Russian?”
“Doesn’t have the bone structure, but maybe she’s part Russian or European. Frankly, she looks like the girl- next-door type. At least, that’s how I’d imagine she’d look if not for the blood and bruises and broken nose and cracked ribs.”
“Where’d you find her?”
“On the bank of the Sacramento River near Discovery Park. A fisherman found her early this morning, naked and half submerged. He thought she was dead, didn’t approach, and called nine-one-one. When the emergency crew arrived, they discovered she was breathing and rushed her to Sutter Hospital. I just finished taking the rape kit and collecting trace evidence. She’s in bad shape, and the doctor isn’t optimistic about her chances.”
“Is she conscious?”
“No, hasn’t been since she was found.”
“What does her tat look like?”
“Four stars on her upper left bicep, then a number: D1045. Does that mean anything?”
“I haven’t seen those numbers before, but the stars? Yeah. They mean something.” Sonia unconsciously flinched, as if she’d been poked with a sharp needle. “I’ll be right there.”
Noel Marchand concluded a particularly lucrative deal in Brazil over his secure cell phone, and rewarded himself with an after-lunch shot of fifteen-year-old Scotch whisky he’d brought with him. Laphroaig. He’d imported it from Glasgow, one of the finest, richest-flavored Scotches he’d tasted.
He brought the glass to his lips, sipped, reveling in the warmth that brought his taste buds to life. At home, he’d enjoy having one of his in-house women take his cock in her mouth while he listened to classical music from the early Baroque era, especially Monteverdi and Buxtehude. But he’d have to make do with a sip or two-and no blow job-because there was much work to be done.
His phone rang and he answered without identifying himself. “What?”
“We have a problem.”
It was one of his local men. “I don’t like problems.”
“We went to retrieve the used merchandise. It’s not there.”
“Did you check the morgue?” A problem, but not fatal.
“She’s at the hospital.”
Noel slammed down the phone. He crossed his suite and threw open the door to Tobias’s bedroom. Mr. Ling sat at the desk with his laptop computer. There was no one else who could control Noel’s brother, and Ling was an expensive babysitter. “She’s not dead,” Noel said through clenched teeth.
He unsheathed his knife, staring at his brother. Tobias smiled sweetly at Noel, then turned back to the ridiculous cartoons he watched most of the day. He didn’t notice Noel’s rage or the knife, or how close Noel was to slitting his throat right then. Since the day he was born, Tobias had been Noel’s fucking albatross. Noel had finally broken out on his own when he was twenty, only to be once again shackled to the lunatic after their father died.
“Mr. Marchand,” Ling said quietly. “There’s a better way.”
Ling was right. “We still have a major problem,” Noel said.
“I’ll get our best people on it.”
“I want the bitch dead before she opens her fucking mouth.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sonia arrived at Sutter Hospital on F Street and found the criminalist packing up her equipment. “Simone Charles?”
The young woman turned, looked Sonia up and down. “Agent Knight.”
“Sonia.”
Simone said, “I’m done. There’s nothing more I can do for her except run the rapist’s DNA through the system.”
“He left sperm?”
“Plenty. Normally I don’t assume we have anything from the rapist, but I’m pretty confident that our perp left enough evidence in and on her body.”
“Didn’t you say she was found in the river? Wouldn’t that contaminate DNA?”
“Yeah, but she wasn’t completely submerged nor was she in the water for long. I recovered enough uncontaminated sperm, as well as skin and hair under her nails, that I think I’m going to get a solid report. It’s like the guy is either stupid or wants to be caught.”
“Or both,” Sonia said, frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
“If this is a typical rape, I don’t see how the tattoos play in. My perps are usually better about disposing of their victims. They also don’t kill them until they become too much trouble. They make their money with living, breathing women.”
“Maybe the tats have nothing to do with trafficking. I called because the memo stuck with me over the years, and when I saw the stars, I just knew.”
“I appreciate it,” Sonia said. “Is she conscious?”
“After I spoke with you on the phone, she came to briefly. She panicked, which isn’t surprising, then had a seizure. The doctors got her stabilized and gave her something to calm her down, but she’s unconcious again.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No. She can’t talk. The doctor says she has a crushed larynx, she’ll be lucky to ever speak again. They’re
