Fatal Secrets

“I don’t want you down here alone,” Dean said. “If he somehow slips through and sees you.” He motioned for one of the uniforms.

“Officer-” he looked at his badge.

“Jerry,” Sonia said. “How are you?”

“Good. Glad to hear Riley’s better.”

“Me, too. Agent Hooper thinks I need a babysitter. Care for the job?”

He straightened. “Is this about the Devereaux guy?”

“Yes. It’s complicated.”

“Jerry?” Dean said. “No one gets near her. Find an office and stay there until I call.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean turned to Sonia. “Okay?”

“I understand. He wants me dead.” She steeled herself. “I’m good. But you be careful, too.”

They took the elevator to the ninth floor, then Dean and Black got off and took the stairs up one floor while three uniformed cops took the elevator up. Black had a master room key.

The Park Capitol Suite had three separate doors. With two cops on each door, they counted and entered simultaneously.

Three. Two. One.

Black inserted the passkey and pushed down the handle while pushing the door in. He went in high while Dean went in low.

“Freeze, Police!” Black shouted while Dean did the same thing with, “FBI!”

The room was empty. The beds were made, but disheveled. They quickly searched the room and confirmed that no one was hiding.

Devereaux and his cohorts had left quickly. There were toiletries in the bathrooms. A personal robe behind one door. But no suitcases, no clothing or computers.

“The killer knew he’d been seen. They ran,” Dean said.

With gloves, they went through the drawers and closets more meticulously, looking for anything that would give them a hint as to where Devereaux and the other two men had gone. No airline tickets, no notes or receipts.

Dean opened the wet bar and carefully pulled out a half-full bottle of Laphroaig. He said, “Let’s get this printed and tested ASAP. Detective, if you don’t mind, I’ve taken the liberty of calling in my team. I need this place gone over with a fine-tooth comb.” He swore under his breath. “We were so close.”

Black said, “He’s on the run. I’ll talk to hotel security and get a better shot of him if they have one.”

“Great,” Dean said.

“We should release it to the media,” Black said.

“I don’t know.” Dean frowned. He remembered what Hans Vigo said during the conference call. The killer would make mistakes when pushed, but if trapped he could be more dangerous. He already knew where Sonia lived, where she worked, and even had an assassin track her to the baseball stadium.

But he knew what Sonia would say if she were here. There were too many lives at stake not to push him.

“If not the media, all law enforcement,” Black said. “Airports, train stations, ports.”

“Absolutely,” Dean said. “And I’ll talk to Bob Rich ardson and Sonia about releasing the image to the media. But only a current photo, so if the Hyatt doesn’t have anything recent-”

“Understood,” Black said. His cell phone rang. “Excuse me.” He stepped into the hall.

Dean stood in the center of the room and looked one last time at the expensive suite Sonia’s biological father had been living in for the past three days. Trying to get into his head, to think how he thought.

Why had he gone after Sonia at the stadium? Attempting to kill a federal police officer would make law enforcement more resolute in tracking him down.

He also didn’t need to kill the three Chinese girls in the warehouse. He’s left a message-you are too late-as a taunt. He knew Sonia was involved in the investigation because of Greg Vega. And he had to have known Sonia was his daughter he’d sold.

The assassination was personal on the one hand-he wanted Sonia dead. Not because she knew something important per se, but because she irritated him. She was pushing, and he probably couldn’t stand the fact that his own daughter-a woman-could get so close to taking him down.

But it was also functional. The attempt would divide their resources just as the murders of the Chinese girls did. As Hans said, the killer didn’t care if they knew who was responsible because he believed he was untouchable.

And if Sergio Martin, aka Pierre Devereaux, left the country, he very well could get away with everything.

Dean would not let that happen.

Black came back inside. “I know what the killer was looking for in the conference room.”

“What?”

“A listening device. The room was bugged.”

Victoria Christopoulis had been gracious when she allowed Sam and Trace to come into her home, but she gave them no answers. She played ignorant. Yet Sam suspected the woman was shrewd. He saw it in her eyes.

So he drove away, circled the neighborhood, and came back, parking far down the street. Just barely able to see her driveway. If she left, he’d know.

Thirty minutes later, the Mercedes skidded out of the garage.

“Good instincts,” Trace said as Sam pursued the car. He picked up his phone and called Dean.

As soon as Dean stepped into the office where Sonia paced while Officer Jerry Strong stood at the door, she knew her father had slipped away.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said.

“Dammit,” she said. “It’s not anyone’s fault. He’s like two steps ahead of us! We need a break.”

“We have one. The conference room was bugged. That’s how the killer knew where to find you.”

“How long were they listening?”

“I don’t know-”

“Yesterday? When we asked Gleason all those questions about Jones’s clients? That’s why they killed those women.”

“Don’t-you have no idea why they killed the women. We’ve done everything by the book, we’we responded immediately when we learned information, and we have been proactive. Excuse me.” He picked up his BlackBerry.

Sonia tried to figure out her father’s next move. He killed-or had ordered killed-three of the women. Why? To torment her. To send them on a wild chase. To keep them away from finding the truth. He wanted to jerk them around so they didn’t know which lead to pursue-so he could sell the remaining women and leave the country before they could find him, or the victims.

It made sense. Throw a half-dozen murders out there and all of them were running around trying to make the connection. But it wasn’t the murders that were important-at least, not right now. The only thing they should focus on was where the girls were taken when moved from the Weber warehouse.

San Joaquin County sheriffs were looking for Joel Weber and his son, Jordan, but hadn’t found them yet. They could even be dead-Sonia wouldn’t put it past her father. The Webers might be the only living people who could put a face on the man who now called himself Pierre Devereaux. Or maybe they felt the heat of the investigation and ran.

She and Dean had found the warehouse by tracking the property records of Jones’s clients; would Devereaux use an existing location? Would he be able to find anything else? Based on the evidence at the warehouse, there had to be at least thirty women who’d been smuggled in. They wouldn’t be easy to hide for long.

Dean said, “That was Sam. He’s tracking Victoria Christopoulis.”

“Oh shit, the woman in the picture-”