Hard Evidence (7 page)

Something twisted in his chest. He ignored it.

Crying was better than dead.

A door opened behind him.

"What did you say to her, Chief? She looks upset."

"I don't know whose ass to kick—yours or hers. But right now I feel like kicking yours."

Julian watched as Tessa walked into a dressing room and shut the door, blocking out the camera. Then he turned to face Irving, crossed his arms over his chest. "Fair enough."

Irving sat his girth in a rolling office chair. "She reminds me of my oldest daughter—tough on the outside, not so tough on the inside. I hate having to be hard on her."

"Don't tell me you've fallen for her fragile Southern belle act, too, Chief." Julian gave a snort of disgust, even as he acknowledged to himself that what Irving said about her was true. "She's got the entire DPD wrapped around her pretty pinky finger."

"Don't pretend you're not attracted to her, Darcangelo. I've worked with men my entire life. I can smell it when a cop gets a hard-on for a woman involved in one of his cases."

Julian hid his surprise. "Okay, I won't deny she's attractive."
An understatement
. "But / didn't just let her walk out of here without so much as a citation. She's interfering with my investigation, and I can't let her do that. There's too much at stake—including her life!"

"All true." Irving nodded. "But we poor city cops can't throw our weight around and bend the rules like you federal boys do, and I can't have you compromising my department's relationship with the media."

Feeling pissed off now, Julian stood. "What would you have had me do? Sit there while she scared off potential suspects?"

"I'm not sure what I would have done, but it's pretty clear that her stumbling over the crime scene was an accident. She was looking for information on gangs and got lucky."

"Yeah, lucky. How lucky would she have been had they come home?"

'They're not coming back, and we both know it. But I get your point, and so does she."

"What did you tell her?"

"Only that she'd be floating in the Platte River tonight if the occupant of the apartment had found her instead of you."

"That's why she was upset?"

Irving nodded. "And the fact that she's still traumatized by the shooting—can't sleep, has nightmares, keeps remembering the girl's last words. Survivor guilt."

Julian knew all about survivor guilt.

"I told her I'd make this up to her by having one of my men offer her some practice using that twenty-two of hers after work on Tuesday. That's you, Darcangelo."

Julian sat, gave a snort. "No way! Sorry, Chief, but I've got more important things to do than teach—"

"You'll do it, because I'm asking you to do it. I've done more than a few favors for you these past months—letting you call the shots, keeping my own men in the dark, concealing certain activities from your real boss. How much longer do you think I can sit on the murdered girl's autopsy report or deflect attention off Zoryo's arrest and suicide?"

Irving had him by the balls.

"Okay, I'll do it—once. But Tessa Novak is not my responsibility. I have a job to do, and it doesn't include babysitting a reporter."

"Keep her alive, Darcangelo. How you work out the conflict is up to you. In the meantime, just remember what the good book says."

Julian had never read the Bible. "What's that?"

Irving stepped into the hallway, looked back at him. "Never pick a fight with someone who buys ink by the barrel."

Tessa accepted a ride back to her car from Chief Irving, then drove home. She'd have some explaining to do on Monday, but she didn't feel like dealing with Tom tonight. Right now, all she wanted was to devour a pint of chocolate chip ice cream and watch mindless television.

She pulled into her assigned parking space, let herself in through the front entrance, and checked her mail. Nothing but junk.

She took the elevator to the seventh floor, let herself into her apartment, flicked on the lights, and locked the door tight behind her. All was as she'd left it. She dropped her briefcase by the door, let out a sigh of relief.

What had she been expecting? Fifteen armed gang members?

She went about her after-work routine, trying to shake the sense of foreboding she'd felt ever since Chief Irving had told her—off the record, of course—that it was the killer who'd lived in the basement apartment, not the girl's family.

"You'd be dead by now—or you'd wish you were," he'd said. "We'd eventually find you floating down the Platte."

She'd seen in his eyes that he was trying to scare her, but she'd also seen he was telling her the truth. And she'd done the most unprofessional thing she'd ever done—she'd confided in a source. She'd told Chief Irving how much trouble she'd had sleeping. She'd told him how every little noise made her jump. She'd told him about her nightmares.

She'd been certain he'd think she was a big wimp, and she'd said as much, only to have him lay a fatherly hand on her shoulder.

"Witnessing cold-blooded murder is no small thing, Ms. Novak. I've seen grown men who were bigger wimps than you—men with badges. Take some time off. Go visit your folks. Get out of town for a while. You'll feel better for it."

Then he'd offered to have one of his men guide her through a bit of practice shooting at the police shooting range.

She'd been reluctant at first, not wanting to make this any more real than it was. Besides, how hard could it be to point a gun at someone and pull the trigger? But then she'd remembered how quickly Julian had disarmed her, and she'd accepted. It wouldn't hurt to become more comfortable with the gun, to take a few practice shots. She'd studied the owner's manual, but she'd never once pulled the—

Down the hallway a door slammed, made Tessa jump.

And abruptly she knew what she wanted to do. She hurried to her phone and dialed Kara's cell phone, hoping it wasn't too late. Kara answered on the third ring.

"Oh, thank God I caught you! Can I please, please, please take you up on that invitation and come up to the cabin with you? I need to get out of town for a while."

There were so many ways to savor women, so many ways to control them, to own them. Alexi had mastered them all— and become a very wealthy and powerful man because of it. He'd lifted himself from the frigid, gray streets of Moscow to a life of luxury in America. Few men could comprehend the control he had over the lives of others—or the great burden he felt when something went wrong.

He'd come close to losing everything three years ago. Julian Darcangelo had infiltrated his organization like a virus. But Alexi had turned the tables, manipulating Darcangelo to rid himself of two tiresome partners, using him to ferret out the weaknesses of his organization. It was a risky but symbiotic relationship—Darcangelo kept Alexi on his toes, and Alexi gave Darcangelo a life purpose. Alexi knew.more about Darcangelo than the bastard knew about himself, and Alexi used it to his advantage. One day Darcangelo would have to die, but for now Alexi found him a useful, if formidable, opponent.

Still, he could not afford for any of his employees to make stupid mistakes.

He lowered the .44, watched the idiot he'd just shot slump to the floor. Then he shifted his gaze to the others, enjoying the scent of fear that permeated the warehouse. "One of my girls is dead, and I think this is good. She should be dead. But I wonder—how did she get away? She runs three blocks to a gas station, and no one stops her until witnesses are thick like flies on shit. Do you have an explanation for this?"

He lifted the pistol again, smiled when his target sank in a puddle of piss to his knees, hands raised in supplication.

"I-I don't know how she got out! Oh, God! Jesus! I was asleep, I fucking swear it! It was Toby's turn to watch the door!"

Alexi considered shooting this one, too. His business was only as strong as its weakest link, and this fool had crumpled so easily. What would he do if the police got hold of him—or, worse, Darcangelo. "You are nothing! Look at you—groveling in your own urine. Can you not even look death in the face?"

The imbecile slowly lifted his pale, sweaty face, his entire body trembling, his breath coming in sobs.

"Ah, see?" Alexi smiled. "You are not a complete coward. . What will you do for me if I let you live?"

"Anything you ask! Anything you want! Oh, Christ!"

Alexi lowered the weapon. "There are two witnesses to this sloppy shooting, yes?"

A frantic nod.

"One of them is a journalist. See, she has written about the shooting for her paper." He held up a copy of the
Denver Independent
. "Very nice article."

"I-I'll pop her for you. I'll pop them both!"

"That is a kind offer—but very stupid. One does not simply shoot a reporter. It makes the other reporters ask questions."

"Wh-what should I do?"

"The old man—he has a bad heart, one leg already in the grave. You won't even need a gun. But the journalist…" Alexi considered the situation, weighed the pros and cons. "I want you to watch her. I want to know everything about her— where she goes, who she sees, what she eats for dinner.
Then we shall see."

Chapter 7

There was nothing as therapeutic as a good snowball fight, and Tessa got into several on Saturday. She and Connor vanquished Reece twice, making up for their bad aim with sheer quantity of snow. Then she and Kara lost in a valiant struggle against the men. They were forced to award top snowball honors to Connor, who, at the age of six, was fearless.

When she wasn't outside playing like a kid in the snow— who'd have known making snow angels could be so fun?—she was inside the warm cabin, lending a hand in the kitchen, entertaining fourteen-month-old Caitlyn, or sitting in front of the fire and talking with her friends. Kara and Reece didn't push, and for a time Tessa said nothing about her investigation, wanting more than anything to put the shooting out of her mind.

But cradled by snowcapped 14,000-foot peaks, sheltered by groves of fragrant ponderosa pine and bare, white aspen and surrounded by the warmth of friendship, she felt the tension she'd been carrying all week melt away. And for the first time in days, she slept deeply.

Of course, it didn't hurt to know that Reece was armed. Tessa had caught sight of the holster that was clipped to his belt when he'd taken off his snow-soaked sweater. It wasn't just for her sake, she knew. He'd been carrying a concealed weapon ever since the TexaMent ordeal that had almost gotten both him and Kara killed.

By Sunday afternoon, Tessa found she wanted to get their thoughts on the investigation. Over glasses of hot apple cider, she told Reece and Kara what had happened since she'd last seen them, leaving out anything that might compromise national security—Julian's name, her background, and the fact that she seemed to turn to warm Jell-O every time Julian touched her. When she finished she found herself looking at two sets of somber eyes.

Kara broke the silence. "This is serious, Tessa. During the TexaMent nightmare, Chief Irving told me he hoped I didn't end up getting killed. He never said the kinds of things he's saying to you. Floating in the Platte? Good lord!"

"Kara's right." Reece stood and added more wood to the fire. "I trust Irving completely. If he thinks these guys are
that
dangerous, you need to do everything you can to protect yourself— starting with staying away from that undercover cop."

"It's not like I've been trying to run into him, you know." Tessa took a sip of her cider. "How would you handle this, Kara?"

"I'd do what you've done—follow the gang angle and see where it led."

"What if it led to the Platte?" Reece stoked the blaze, his face toward the fire. Then he shut the glass door and went for his coat. "I'm going to grab more wood."

He seemed angry.

"He's just worried about you, Tess."

Tessa nodded, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. She wasn't used to having people care this much about her. "I know."

Then Kara glanced toward the door, as if to make certain Reece couldn't hear them, her lips curving into a smile. "I want to hear more about this undercover cop. You don't have to tell me his name. Just tell me what it was like when he kissed you!"

Tessa felt herself blush to the roots of her hair. "You're as bad as Holly!"

* * *

Julian sat at the bar, pretending to be mesmerized by the topless blonde as she wrapped herself around a steel pole to the sterile rhythm of techno. She squatted down, offered a glimpse of her barely concealed crotch, then rose and reversed the view. A fake blonde with equally fake breasts, she had a smile painted on her young face. If she was eighteen, he was eighty.

He'd had the place under surveillance hours after Zoryo mentioned it. Three video cameras in the window of a fifth-floor hotel room down the street recorded everyone who came and went, catching every vehicle that entered the big parking lot. But there was only one way to find out what went on inside the club, and that was to be there.

Sunday night clearly wasn't the big moneymaker at Pasha's. The place was nearly empty. Last night it had been packed, with horny college boys mixing with bikers, CEOs, and geeks to indulge in their one common interest—tits and ass. None of them cared how the girls came to work there or what kind of conditions they endured. They came to satisfy a craving, some content merely to stare, others trying to cop a feel, a few hoping to arrange for more.

Julian had spent last night in the shadows, taking advantage of the crowd to look around. He'd located the cameras and the exits and watched who came and went through the guarded door to the right of the stage. Unless he was very much mistaken, there was more than accounting going on back there.

Tonight he was pretending to drink heavily and tipping big, hoping to catch someone's attention. Money was the only thing men like Burien lusted after more than women. Flashing lots of jack might be enough to get him behind that guarded door. It might also get him rolled.

The girl finished her dance routine with her breasts thrust out and her hands on her narrow hips in a sad attempt at seductiveness. The handful of hard-core patrons applauded, and one or two tossed cash. Julian pulled a fifty from the wad in his pocket and held it out to her, hoping to draw her nearer. It worked like a magnet.

She took the money, gave him the first genuine smile he'd seen all night. "Thank you."

She spoke with an accent—Russia, maybe Ukraine.

"My name's Tony—Tony Corelli." He leaned closer but didn't touch her. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Irena." A garden-variety Russian name and probably no more real than her breasts. She smiled but didn't make eye contact. "Would you buy me a drink?"

He knew damn good and well she wasn't old enough, but he pulled out another fifty. "Anything you want, baby."

They made small talk while she sipped her watered-down drink. Julian learned she was from Ukraine and had come to America after a talent scout had promised her a modeling job with a top New York agency. It went without saying that she should have known better. She was too short, her face too plain for the pages of
Vogue
, but when combined, poverty, ambition, and naivete made powerful blinders. She wouldn't say why she was working as a stripper, but he already knew. Like millions of other girls, she'd arrived to find the promises false and the job quite different from the one she'd been offered.

"So, Irena," Julian leaned closer and lowered his voice to a husky drawl, "is there someplace we can be alone?"

"That is not allowed." For a moment she met his gaze, and he saw himself through her eyes—just another old man who wanted to get between her legs.

He was used to that look. He'd seen it too many times in too many places from too many girls just like her. But he didn't really want her at all. He wanted the man who had betrayed her, the man who was using her, the man who held her leash.

On Monday morning, Tessa hit the newsroom feeling rested and refocused. She'd put the shooting into perspective, gotten Julian Darcangelo out of her mind, and put together a clear plan of action. She checked her messages, made an appointment for tomorrow morning with Chief Irving and the leader of the gang taskforce, then headed to the I-Team meeting.

"I had a productive afternoon on Friday," she said, omitting the fact that she'd spent a good part of it in jail. She hadn't yet figured out how she was going to tell Tom. "I found evidence of gang activity in the neighborhood—both witnesses and graffiti. I also found neighbors who claimed to have seen the car and the victim at one point or another. I've asked for a year's worth of gang-related police reports, as well as all correspondence between Denver's gang taskforce and the Los Angeles police. I'd like to have a news feature by Wednesday."

Tom nodded, then picked up a piece of paper and slid it across the conference table. "Care to explain this? A source in sheriff's records faxed it to me this morning."

Her arrest mug shot.

Tessa's pulse tripped. She met Tom's gaze, smiled. "I found what one witness thought was the victim's home and was arrested for going under the yellow tape. Chief Irving personally tossed the charges and apologized."

"He damned well better have." Tom leaned back, watched her coolly. "Any reason you didn't tell me?"

"If they hadn't let me out, you'd have been the first person I called."

Joaquin picked up the piece of paper, a grin tugging at his lips. "Nice shot."

Tom moved on. "James, what's the latest on Rocky Flats?"

But Tessa knew she hadn't heard the last of it.

"Her name was Maria Conchita Ruiz, age sixteen." Dyson sounded tired. He was in his late sixties now, beyond retirement age and deserving of some rest. Still, he kept going. Julian admired the hell out of him. "We got a positive ID from the Mexican consulate ten minutes ago. Mexican authorities say she disappeared on her way home from her
maquiladora
job in Ciudad Judrez."

Julian read through the report Dyson had just faxed over.

'That fits his pattern. His coyotes bring them across near El Paso, then divvy them up along the way, using truck stops, cheap hotels, and rest stops as transit points."

Human contraband was the easiest to conceal. Once controlled through threats, drugs, and violence, it could be hidden in plain sight.

"I sent Margaux up to Longmont to check out reports of underage girls working in a massage parlor there. The town has a large Hispanic population with a lot of undocumented agricultural labor. Could be Burien's taking advantage of that. She doesn't think so, and she knows him better than anyone except you. But the U.S. attorney's office has gotten several tips, so it seemed worth a look-see. Anything to report on your end?"

"I'm up to forty-seven suspected Johns. We start questioning them today."

Julian didn't mention Lonnie Zoryo or his extracurricular activities at Pasha's. He hated keeping Dyson in the dark, but he'd-suspected for some time that Burien had a mole at HQ. It was the only way to explain how the bastard had managed to remain one step ahead of him for so many years. He couldn't imagine it was Dyson-—the very idea was unthinkable—but rather someone who worked in the same office. Until he knew who it was, he would keep some of his cards hidden.

"Heard you had a bit of trouble with a journalist."

Margaux's big mouth.

"One of the witnesses happened to be a journalist. I handled it."

Yeah, you handled it, all right, Darcangelo. You handled her, and now you can't get her off your mind.

"Good. I want this guy, Julian. I want his balls stuffed and hanging on my wall by Christmas. Let's get him and go home."

"I'm with you."

Julian hung up, read through the report again. He'd gotten the results of toxicology yesterday. Forensics had done all they could, giving Julian as complete a picture as he'd ever have of the victim's last hours. Combined with the evidence they'd taken from the basement apartment, it would lead him to the men who had imprisoned her—and hopefully to Burien.

Cause of death had been nine fatal shots to the torso—that much had been obvious. What hadn't been obvious was the heroin in her system and the track marks on her arms. Or the array of bruises on her body. Or the semen inside her that had come from seven distinct sources of DNA. Or the restraint marks around her wrists where she'd recently been bound.

Maria Conchita Ruiz had been born free and had died a slave.

You could have saved her.

It was the truth. Julian might have raided the place, put an end to what he knew was going on there, freed Maria and the other three girls. But he'd done his job)—and waited. And while he'd been waiting for one of Burien's higher-ups to visit the girls and lead him back to his boss, Maria had found the strength to run.

Julian had made the opposite choice last time, busting down the door and charging in, guns blazing, to save a carload of kidnapped teenage girls from a similar hell. They had survived and gone home to their families, but Burien had escaped, his thugs wounding Margaux and killing two agents in the process.

Julian still struggled to live with that choice. Now he would have to live with this one.

He set the report down on his desk, then walked toward the shower, still sweating from his workout—aikido and weights. He'd slept late, having stayed at Pasha's until two a.m., talking with Irena and making headway with the bartender, an idiot named Chet who liked to brag about the number of strippers who'd danced on his dick. Julian had pretended to envy him while tossing back shots. Then he'd staggered out the door in a feigned drunk and headed off down the street to his truck, making certain he wasn't being followed.

He hadn't cracked the place, but he was making progress.

Tomorrow, he'd take his first look at what the surveillance cameras had picked up. But today he was going to pay a few upstanding members of the community a visit—and confront them about the way they spent their free time and their extra cash. Then he would check on Tessa and make certain she was keeping out of trouble.

Keep her alive, Darcangelo.

How the hell had she become his problem?

He stripped off his sweatpants, turned on the water, and stepped under the spray.

Tessa sat on the median in the middle of Speer Boulevard and watched a homeless beggar who said his name was Arthur work the line of cars stuck at the red light. Most of the drivers, on their way to lucrative jobs downtown, ignored him. Others rolled down their windows, passed dollar bills to him, and were rewarded with one of his nearly toothless grins and the words "God bless!"