Best Laid Plans (9 page)

“Can I avoid it?”

He showed no emotion. “You’re not a bad agent, Kincaid. But if you keep going at the pace you’ve been going since you got here, you’ll burn out fast. You don’t think I’m ignorant of what people say about me on the squad, do you? Particularly the people you hang with. Nate, who has PTSD and probably doesn’t sleep more than two or three hours a night. Ryan, who’s going through a nasty divorce and needs to work or he’ll fall apart. Even Kenzie, who’s admittedly my favorite, can’t take a day off—that’s why she still puts in time with the National Guard, it gives her the excuse to continually work out and do something on the weekends.

“I work eight to five, five days a week, and take my on-call weekend once a month,” Barry continued. “That’s what I’m paid to do. I’ll work longer if necessary, like today when we were called in at five in the morning on a Saturday, but I always give one hundred percent when I’m on duty. Then I turn it off when I go home. Go out with friends. A girl, if I have one. Watch a ball game. I coach my nephew’s Little League team in the spring—we just finished our season last week and I already miss it. But I’ve been an FBI agent for nineteen years, and I plan to put in my time, retire at fifty-seven, and not have high blood pressure, a head full of violence, or a drinking problem. So my advice is, find a way to turn it off before it turns you inside out.”

Barry hadn’t spoken that many words to her all day. In fact, he hadn’t said that many words to her in all the months they’d worked in the same office. At first she didn’t know what to say. Barry turned back to his BlackBerry.

“You’re right,” she said momentarily, when he wasn’t looking at her. “But it’s not easy to turn it off.”

“You have a boyfriend. Go do something fun tonight. Take tomorrow and go on a picnic before the heat gets unbearable.”

“We’re not working tomorrow?”

“It’s Sunday. We’re not going to get much done. We’re not going to get lab results, we’re not going to be able to interview anyone potentially involved, and since we don’t have a cause of death or a photo of the girl who was with Worthington, what do you suggest we do? We need to give HWI time to put together their files and forensics time to do their job.”

He was right. But the problem was, she couldn’t just stop. She needed to work, because when she didn’t work, she made work. She could research HWI, run a background on Harper Worthington and his wife, learn more about the business, the campaign, how they met—anything that might help her understand why Harper Worthington sought out a young prostitute. If not for sex, why? And who was this girl? Why was she there? Was she working for someone and if so, who? Why did someone want him dead? Why would he fly in just for a meeting? Did he know he was meeting a prostitute or was he expecting someone else? She would be dreaming about the case whether she wanted to or not.

Lucy recognized that she wasn’t normal. She hadn’t been normal since she was eighteen. Maybe not since she was seven when her nephew was murdered and her family grieved so deeply it changed all of their lives. She’d had a rather idyllic childhood—they weren’t rich, but they were close, for the most part. Until her oldest sister moved away after Justin’s murder, and Jack enlisted in the army and didn’t come home for years because of a major fight with their father. And one by one, her brothers and sisters left home. And then when she was eighteen her own life changed irrevocably. She couldn’t go back to the girl she’d been, just like she had never been able to reclaim her innocence. In the back of her mind she felt compelled to save others. To stop those who would prey on the innocent, stop those who recruit young women into the sex trade, stop those who hurt children, who abuse people who can’t defend themselves. She didn’t know who this young prostitute was, but Lucy wanted to help her.

Maybe Lucy couldn’t relax on weekends because she somehow felt she didn’t deserve to have fun.

Sean had changed that—he gave her a deep joy she hadn’t thought she’d ever experience. But it was like she was waiting for something bad to happen to destroy the one thing that made her happy.

What did that say about her? That she was going to waste her time with Sean for the fear that she wouldn’t have him forever?

She pulled out her phone and sent Sean a text message.

I love you.

Sean was the romantic one in their relationship, and she wished she could be more like him. It didn’t come easy for her. But thinking about him now reminded her of how thoughtful and wonderful he was, all the time. He’d learned to cook for her, he’d moved to San Antonio for her, and while he’d left his position at RCK for other reasons, her career had certainly played a part in that decision. She never wanted to forget the sacrifices he made. She had to learn to turn off the job, if not for her, then for Sean.

Jackson finally came back into his office after nearly fifteen minutes. “I’m sorry that took so long, but you need to come in and view the security tapes. I had my team pull additional time stamps and we’re making you a copy.” He led them through the security office, down a hall, then through a door he accessed with his card key. They crammed into a room filled with equipment, manned by an operator who was working on a computer with the largest monitor Lucy had seen outside of Quantico.

“First, housekeeping found the phone in room six oh six,” Jackson said. “The guest checked out early this morning via computer. The room was cleaned at noon today and staff left the phone in the main housekeeping office—Saturdays are busy and the supervisor hasn’t had the opportunity to contact the guest. No other personal effects were left behind. I sent one of my security people to retrieve it. But after I spoke to the floor manager, I was curious, so I pulled the sixth-floor security footage as well.” Jackson said to the tech, “Run both segments.”

The first segment wasn’t the main entrance, but a side entrance. “This is our northeast entrance,” the operator said. “It’s used by guests after hours—most of the popular restaurants are east of us, as well as River Walk access.”

A girl roughly fitting the description given to them by the taxi driver used a key card to access the door. There was no clear shot from that angle. She carried a large, oversized bag and wore heels with her very short shorts.

“She would have been stopped by security immediately in the lobby,” Jackson said. “Asked if she were a guest and in what room. We take a hard line against prostitution. We recognize that some of the more high-priced call girls would get by simply by how they present themselves or because they come in with a registered guest, but we discourage solicitation. The giveaway is not just the clothing—many young girls wear immodest shorts and tops—it’s her bag and overall appearance. When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you know.”

“Have you seen her before?” Lucy asked.

“Never,” Jackson said.

“This shot isn’t clear,” Barry said.

“The elevator footage is on a different feed and black and white. I’m working on getting that copied, but I have a better shot of her on the sixth floor.”

The operator pressed a couple buttons and the image changed to a wide-angle lens showing a generic hallway. “This is the sixth floor,” he said.

The girl who’d come in through the side entrance walked down the hall slowly, looking at each door number. The quality and lighting was better on these cameras. She turned abruptly and looked one way, as if something startled her, and when she did they were able to get a very clear shot of her face. Then she turned the other way and continued to look at the numbers. She stopped at one door, fumbled with the key, then slid it into the lock. It opened.

“That’s her,” Barry said. “She matches the description of our person of interest.”

“I made you copies. We only have digital files, so the copy is as high quality as the original. I’ll put it on a disk, but I can also email it to you.”

“That would be terrific. I appreciate your help, Mr. Jackson. I need the name of the guest registered in that room.”

“I thought you might. I’m going to need a warrant for that. It’s hotel policy. I can share anything that’s public—copies of security feeds, for example—but the names and addresses of our guests must remain confidential unless there is an official warrant. I’m sorry.”

He actually sounded like he
was
sorry.

Barry nodded. “I understand. I’ll have one first thing Monday morning.”

“I’ll have what you need ready.”

Lucy said, “Can you show us the security feeds from this morning? Around the time the guest checked out.”

Jackson hesitated, then said, “I don’t see why not. Like I said, hotel policy is to cooperate with law enforcement as much as possible, and there are signs posted about the hotel’s video surveillance.”

Jackson motioned for the operator to fast-forward the tape. It scrolled by quickly. There was little movement, then a lone person, then a couple with suitcases, then—

“Stop,” Lucy said.

The tech did.

“Back up a couple minutes. I want to see the girl as she’s leaving.”

The tech complied. At 4:47
A.M.
per the time stamp, the blonde left room 606. She wore the same clothes but was walking like she was in pain. She kept her head down for the most part, and weaved a bit as if drunk. As she neared the elevator she turned her head. She had a cut on her face and bruises on her neck. Then she disappeared into the elevator.

“Bastard,” Lucy muttered. He’d had her in that room for four hours. Lucy didn’t care if she was a hooker, she didn’t deserve to be brutalized. It was clear she was well under eighteen. Certainly no older than sixteen, and Lucy would not have been surprised if she were younger. That’s why this john wanted her, not only because she was young but because she looked young.

“Do you need to take a break?” Barry asked Lucy.

She was surprised by the question. “No,” she said. “I’m fine.” She wanted to skewer whoever hurt the girl.

“Keep going,” Barry said, clearing his throat. The tech sped up the recording.

It was nearly three hours later that the guest left the room, dressed business casual. He carried a small overnight bag. He was well over forty.

“I’ll get the warrant to make it official,” Barry said. “But I know who that is.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Driving back to FBI headquarters from downtown San Antonio took twice as long as usual because of traffic, but Barry used the time productively. He first told Lucy that the man in room 606 was James Everett, a multimillionaire who’d made his money in real estate. “I don’t see what the connection is between Everett and Worthington, if there
is
a connection,” Barry said. “They could have known each other because they were both wealthy, established families in the city. Probably moved in the same circles, but they weren’t business partners. And Worthington is dead and Everett isn’t—otherwise I’d think maybe we did have a potential serial killer targeting dirty old men.”

He glanced at her. “You’re quiet. I expected you to have a theory.”

“There is a connection—that girl. She went from Worthington’s room to Everett’s room. She left Worthington’s phone in Everett’s hotel.”

“You don’t know that.”

“If she gave the phone to Everett, why would he leave it there? It connects Worthington—a suspicious death—to him.”

“Good point.”

“The girl must be working for someone who is getting her these jobs,” Lucy said. “She had the card key to the hotel room. She went straight up to the room, but the numbers aren’t on the cards.”

“You got intense back there. Are you okay with this case?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m just mad.” And upset, but she had closed down her emotions as soon as Barry had seen her reaction in the security office.

Nothing about human nature surprised Lucy. She was only twenty-six, but had faced evil too many times, in her personal life and on the job. She’d interviewed hookers and johns, pimps and madams. She understood the business of sex better than almost anyone, and that didn’t make her happy. She wondered if that was why Juan had wanted her on this case, because she understood this world. An underage prostitute rarely worked for herself. Almost exclusively, they had managers. They were often exploited, especially at the beginning of their careers, but over time they became as hardened as those who recruited them.

There were many paths that led young girls into the life of selling themselves. Childhood abuse. Manipulation by a boyfriend or even a fellow girlfriend. Kidnapping. Runaways. Some went in knowing full well what they were doing; others had no clue. Many became addicted to alcohol and drugs; most died far too young, broken.

The men who used them were more predictable. For most, it was about power and control. To pay a submissive to do what they wanted when they wanted. For some, it was a fantasy; they pretended they weren’t paying the girls, that the girl was with them because she wanted to be. But wealthy, influential men like Harper Worthington and James Everett probably convinced themselves that because she was paid, it wasn’t child rape. Because she was willing, it wasn’t sexual exploitation. They wanted, they took.

Men like Worthington and Everett made her physically ill. She didn’t harbor a lot of sympathy for the fact that Worthington was dead and Everett was going to be on the hot seat. She felt true empathy for the girl who’d been used and manipulated. If she did have a hand in Worthington’s death, she needed to get help more than punishment. Someone must have set her up to do this. And Lucy needed to convince her to overcome her fear—of law enforcement and her pimp—and talk to the authorities.