CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Like Jones’s house, the decor of XCJ Consulting was minimalist and functional. Sterile, Dean thought as he and Sonia entered Jones’s suite of offices in the Senator Hotel Office Building.
There was no receptionist in the small waiting area, but a secretary leaned through the doorway and asked, “May I help you?”
Dean showed his badge. “Craig Gleason, please.”
If the secretary was flustered, she didn’t show it. “Would you like to wait for him in the conference room? He’s on a call.”
“Thank you,” Dean said.
They walked through the common area to the glass-walled conference room on the far side. There were two small offices with closed doors and a larger office in the opposite corner with open double doors. Jones’s spread, no doubt. Odd, considering his schedule showed he was rarely in the office. Three other desks, including the secretary’s, filled the common area.
“Coffee? Water?”
“No thanks,” Sonia said impatiently.
When the secretary left, Dean leaned over and whispered in Sonia’s ear, “Not many employees. A company with the revenue he has?”
“Is that suspicious?” she asked. “Some small businesses do very well with only a couple people on staff.”
“Some.” Dean didn’t believe Jones’s was one of those, especially since he was not an active principal in the business by all appearances.
Craig Gleason stepped into the conference room. He was in his mid to late thirties with sleek black hair and blue eyes. Dean figured women might find Gleason attractive-he was well dressed, polished, in shape-but Dean saw him as too slick, too perfect. Smart, and he knew it. Criminals who thought they were smarter than the cops were often the easiest to catch.
“We weren’t properly introduced yesterday, Mr. Gleason,” Dean said, shaking his proffered hand. Gleason was the late arrival to Jones’s lunch.
Gleason’s smile didn’t waffle. “Mr. Jones mentioned the unfortunate situation.”
Dean kept his face impassive, didn’t say a word.
Gleason waved his hand in the air as if to dismiss the whole conversation he’d had with Jones. “Just that you were barking up the wrong tree, something like that. He’s a very private person.”
Gleason turned his white smile on Sonia. His eyes quickly scanned her entire body, as any warm-blooded man would do, but without the discretion most men employed. Dean didn’t like it, but he was interested in how Sonia would react. She didn’t seem the type to succumb to a pretty face and affected flirtation.
“Craig,” he said, extending his hand to Sonia. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Sonia shook his hand, squeezing harder than necessary. Gleason rubbed his hand after she let it go. Dean swallowed a laugh as he cleared his throat and coughed into his fist.
“Sonia Knight, supervisory special agent with Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”
By her tone, she was playing the bad cop. Dean adjusted gears to be more conciliatory. They should have discussed it before they came up-Sam Callahan was the perennial “good cop” and Dean had naturally assumed the stern role. But he had a different partner now, one who obviously didn’t like to mince words or play games. He liked it.
Gleason’s smile faltered for a moment and Dean saw a flash of worry in his eyes. He expected Gleason’s next words would be asking for a lawyer; Dean was surprised he was wrong.
Gleason said, “How can I help you?”
“We have some questions about your employer,” Sonia said.
“Is it about the FBI raid yesterday morning? I really don’t know anything about that. Perhaps you could enlighten me.” He chuckled as the three of them sat around the large black lacquered executive table.
Dean let Sonia run with the questioning. He was more interested in observing Gleason’s manner: his body language, the way he twirled slowly in the chair-left to right, right to left. How even when the questions were serious, half the time he glanced at Sonia’s breasts before answering. Subtle, but Dean was looking for physical cues as to whether Gleason was being honest with them, or lying.
For starters, Gleason didn’t seem surprised that they’d shown up, though he might have been expecting it after yesterday’s raid. It was more his tacit agreement that he’d willingly answer their questions, no attorney present. Someone as sharp as Gleason-a major lobbyist in a major state-shouldn’t be this easy for federal law enforcement to talk to. Even those with nothing to hide liked to have an attorney to cut off the conversation when it went off the narrow path of the investigation. Guilty or innocent, having an attorney present was a good idea to protect the rights of the witness or suspect. It also helped the prosecution because the presence of a defense attorney ultimately made the system run more smoothly. The biggest legal hurdles Dean went through in court were getting confessions admitted as evidence when defense counsel hadn’t been present.
“When was the last time you saw Xavier Jones?” Sonia asked.
“Yesterday afternoon. We came here after lunch to talk about the office and our clients, bills that we are tracking. It’s that time of year, June in Sacramento.” His smile said
“What time did he leave?”
“Three, three-thirty.”
“Was he alone or was someone with him?”
“Alone. Though he had his driver pick him up.”
Cammarata was his driver. Dean played dumb and asked, “His driver? Through a service?”
“His personal driver.”
“Do you know his personal driver?”
“I’ve met him.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Angelo.”
“First or last?”
“I don’t know.”
Gleason didn’t seem to be evading or showing any concern about Jones or his driver.
“Have you talked to Mr. Jones today?” Sonia asked.
“No, but he’s supposed to be in later this afternoon for a meeting with clients.”
“What time?”
“Five.”
“And you know this how?”
“I set up the appointment yesterday. Why is this important?”
Sonia ignored the question and asked, “Do you know Mr. Jones’s employee Gregory Vega?”
“Vega? I met him a couple times, but he works for Mr. Jones’s security company in Stockton.”
“He’s dead.”
Dean watched Gleason’s face, and while his voice sounded surprised, his eyes were too calculating. Had he known Vega was dead? Suspected? That surprised Dean; he didn’t think Gleason was a killer or accomplice to murder. Money laundering, racketeering, sure. But Gleason seemed the sort of man who didn’t like to get his hands dirty.
“Greg Vega? Are you sure? What happened?”
“He and his wife were tortured and murdered early this morning in their home,” Sonia said bluntly. She leaned forward. “We have evidence that your boss may have met a similar fate.”
Gleason paled-a hard reaction to fake, Dean acknowledged.
“Wh-who would do that?” he sputtered.
Dean said, “We were hoping you might be able to help us figure that out.”
