“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.”
“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
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.
