Fear No Evil (6 page)

Dillon kept his voice low, but his tone radiated his own anger and helplessness. “From what you’ve told us so far, we have less than forty-five hours to find my sister before she’s dead. This isn’t pornography or sex slaves. This is
murder.
”

Peterson curtly nodded.

“What do we need to do? Between all of us we can pull together a million dollars, maybe.” Dillon glanced at his siblings.

“He isn’t holding her for ransom,” Peterson said.

“But we need resources to find him, don’t we? You’re basically saying that you don’t have the time, money, or manpower to track him down before Lucy’s time is up.”

Peterson opened his mouth, then closed it, then said, “To be perfectly honest, by the time we found out about the women after our agent was murdered, the countdown was too tight. We tried and failed to isolate the feed. And by the time the girls were dead, he had closed shop. He sends out false leads that we follow, wasting time. But we can’t
not
follow up. We found one of the victims the day after, but by that time he’d cleared out completely and the rape and murder were already available for download. We have more time now—more time than we’ve ever had. That’s in our favor. This is the number one priority of our e-crimes unit.”

“What about tracking the money?” Patrick spoke up. “The credit cards, the bank accounts? No one can funnel millions of dollars around the world without drawing the attention of the IRS and FBI.”

“True. Remember how Capone went down. Money. We’re working that angle with the Treasury Department. But this guy is good. Off-shore accounts, lots of cash, lots of movement. Every time we think we’re close—and we have seized several of his accounts—he changes tactics.”

“Like a chameleon,” Dillon said. “Constantly changing to blend in with the environment.”

“For all we know, he could be the CEO of a major corporation, or a self-employed accountant.”

“He would have to be financially savvy,” Dillon agreed. “Someone with expert knowledge of banking, investments, money exchange, tax laws. He knows too much about the system to be an amateur.”

“Absolutely,” Peterson said.

“Which would suggest he went to school, has a degree, possibly worked in, still works in, the finance arena.”

Peterson nodded. “Our top profiler indicated the same thing.”

Dillon opened the file in front of him as Carina asked, “You said you found out about the feeds of the other victims too late to stop him. But we have time with Lucy. How did you find it so quickly?”

Peterson said nothing and Dillon looked up at him, read his expression. “An informant?” he asked.

Peterson dipped his head. “Of sorts.”

“Can this person help us isolate the feed? Someone willing to help?”

“She’s more than willing to help, but not us.”

“Why not?” Carina demanded. “Doesn’t she know a life is at stake?”

“More than anyone,” Peterson said, “but I don’t know where she is. She feeds me information and I forward it to the appropriate people.”

“She can’t be hard to find,” Patrick said.

“She doesn’t want to be found,” Peterson said. “I tried to bring her back with this case, but she’s not buying it. If she learns anything, she’ll let me know.”

“That’s not good enough!” Connor exclaimed.

Dillon listened to what Quinn Peterson said—and what he didn’t say. “Who is she?”

“A former FBI agent.”

“And?”

Joseph Garcia spoke up. “Kate Donovan is notorious in the department. You either love her or you hate her. Agent Paige Henshaw was Donovan’s partner. They set up the sting after Trask was suspected of killing a teenage girl online. But—and no one is exactly sure what happened because Donovan disappeared—apparently she and Henshaw set up a sting without any authority. They walked into a trap. Henshaw was kidnapped, raped, and stabbed to death. Donovan missed saving her by minutes.”

“Or getting herself killed as well,” Peterson mumbled.

“Why is she a
former
agent?” Dillon asked. “Did she quit?”

Garcia raised his eyebrows, glanced at Peterson. “That was before my time. I only know the rumors.”

Peterson sighed. “When Agent Henshaw went missing, Kate was told to step back. The Office of Professional Responsibility wanted to talk to her about why they set up the sting without backup and in direct violation of their orders. Instead, Kate went underground to find her partner. She resurfaced only to ask for backup, but when teams were sent to two false locations and she claimed she’d finally isolated the feed, it was the case of crying wolf. No one believed her, and after the death of one agent and Henshaw still missing, the powers that be refused to act on unsubstantiated data. After Paige Henshaw died, Kate disappeared. She was right that last time, but the FBI had acted too late.”

Dillon stared at the documents in front of him, pages of reports about the activities of “Trask.” The films, rapes, murders. Suspected and proven. His extensive pornography network.

“Trask thinks of himself as playing a role like an actor. But he considers himself superior to Hollywood types,” Dillon said slowly. “He’s smart, probably a genius-level IQ, but for him I think this is more a game, a sense of grandstanding, showing off his intelligence. But why not fraud? Theft? Hacking into banks? Something about this manner of gamesmanship, this online show, fuels his fantasy. There’s something very personal in his choice of murder.”

“Yeah, he gets his thrills from killing women,” Connor spat out. “Talking about this bastard isn’t getting us any closer to finding Lucy.”

Dillon stared at Connor, wishing he could release his own rage and frustration, but he would leave that to his more volatile brother. “If we don’t understand him, we’ll never find him.”

“Fuck that! We’re sitting around doing nothing while Lucy is…is—” Connor couldn’t finish. He stared at the computer screen, drawing all their eyes to a half-naked Lucy. Scared and vulnerable. Tears coated Connor’s eyes and he ran a hand over his face. Carina squeezed his arm.

“I’m sorry, Dil.” Connor’s voice was thick with emotion.

Dillon caught his brother’s eye, nodded. “I want to talk to Kate Donovan,” Dillon said to Peterson. “Do you have any way to reach her?”

Peterson looked uncomfortable. Garcia spoke. “I need to take a leak. Can I get anyone coffee?”

“Thanks, Joe.” Peterson watched him leave. “He knows I’ve been talking to Kate. He wants plausible deniability, and I don’t blame him. Her former boss wants her head on a platter.”

“Why does she trust you?” Dillon asked.

“We were in the same class at the Academy. And I wasn’t working the case five years ago when Paige Henshaw died. She considers me neutral.”

“And are you?”

“Hell, no. I’m on Kate’s side. Always have been. But I can’t give her the one thing she needs.”

“Which is?” asked Dillon.

“Immunity.”

The complexity and sensitivity of the situation was becoming clear to Dillon. But Lucy’s life was at stake, and if Kate Donovan could help save her, Dillon would find a way to convince her to help.

“Kate Donovan’s been tracking this killer for over five years,” Dillon said. “She has the answers. I just need to ask the right questions.”

“You should know that some of the information she’s turned up was false. No doubt a setup by Trask, but the Bureau doesn’t like wasting resources setting up rescues or stings when there’s no one to rescue. Two years ago we almost lost a team of agents in a trap. Kate warned us it might be, but, well, it was just the case of crying wolf all over again. We had her analysis and methodology, but didn’t have time to run the scenarios ourselves. The FBI won’t do that again, but being methodical takes time.”

“Time that Lucy doesn’t have,” Dillon said quietly.

Peterson stood, walked over to where Patrick was sitting at the computer station in the corner. Five screens had been set up, two for the FBI, Lucy’s computer, and Patrick’s laptop. The fifth screen showed Lucy via the webcam.

There’d been little movement for the last twenty minutes. Every few moments Lucy tried in vain to break free from her chains. Her jaw was clenched, her neck taut, as she stoically held up against the terror that glistened in her dark eyes. Her mouth moved, but sound had been turned off at the source.

If Lucy died, Dillon didn’t know if he could hold everyone together. His family was already fractured, yet even under tragedy they’d managed to stay together. Lucy’s death would break them. Dillon couldn’t let her die, especially like this.

Peterson brought up an instant messaging system on the FBI computer and typed in a code, then wrote:

I need to talk to you.

A moment later.

User not online.

“Dammit!” Connor exclaimed. “I can’t sit around here and do nothing.”

“What do you suggest we do, Mr. Kincaid?” Peterson said. “Where would you look? The world is a big place. We’ve narrowed his network down to the North American continent, but from Canada to the Panama Canal? A lot of territory to cover. Kate shares her technology with me, and I give it to the powers that be. They’re tracking him just like Kate is. Thing is, she’s on it twenty-four/seven. She eats, sleeps, and breathes this bastard. If anyone is going to find him, it’s her.”

“Even with all her mistakes?” Connor questioned. “The traps and the dead ends? Sounds like she
should
be ignored.”

“It sounds bad, but you have to understand the environment we’re in. Kate provides information with reservation. She doesn’t
know
if it’s legitimate, but she can’t in good conscience withhold it. In the past, some people have jumped the gun and then blamed her when the operation went south.”

“She’ll go after him on her own if she believes she knows where he is,” Dillon said quietly.

Peterson impatiently tapped his fingers on the table as he stared at the screen. “You have her pegged.”

“May I?” Dillon motioned to the computer.

“Be my guest.”

Peterson walked to where Nick and Carina stood in the corner. They spoke quietly as Dillon put himself in the mind-set of a vigilante FBI agent ridden with guilt and anger. And pain. Lots of pain.

He began typing.

Kate, my name is Dillon Kincaid and I’m Lucy’s brother.

User not online.

I think you are online. I think you’re waiting for word from Quinn Peterson. Listen to me. We need your help.

User not online.

Lucy is eighteen years old. She graduated from high school yesterday. She’s smart and beautiful and the youngest of seven kids. I’m her oldest brother.

User not online.

Lucy’s going to Georgetown in the fall. She wants to be a diplomat. She’s well versed in languages, speaks four fluently. She loves Irish folk music and Cuban rock.

User not online.

Eleven years ago my nephew was murdered. Justin and Lucy were best friends, seven years old, and Justin was kidnapped from his bed and killed. My older sister Nelia never recovered from Justin’s murder. My family was changed forever. My sister Carina and two of my brothers became cops, wanting to stop predators like the one who killed Justin. I became a forensic psychiatrist. I get into the heads of killers. I think I can find Trask. I can find this predator who kills women for pleasure and profit. But I need your help.

Nothing.

Dillon’s heart pounded. Had he hit a nerve?

Belatedly,

User not online.

“You’re online, Kate,” Dillon mumbled, “and you’re going to talk.” He turned to Patrick. “Start a trace.”

FIVE

N
O ONE WAS
in the room. It was just her, half-naked, and the damn blinking red eye of a camera. Filming her.

Lucy didn’t know exactly what was happening, but she feared her life was on the line. After all, she’d seen their faces. Isn’t that what she’d always heard? If you can identify them, they won’t let you go.

They’re going to kill me.

Her face burned remembering how Trevor had told someone that she was a virgin. He’d been standing in the corner, talking into a phone, as if he were a game-show announcer, talking about paying to watch her.

She might be a virgin, but she wasn’t so naive that she didn’t know exactly what he meant. He was going to rape her.

She swallowed, a sob escaping before she could stop the betraying sound of fear. She didn’t want to show him anything. No emotion. She’d lie there and let him do whatever he was going to do. She remembered Carina teaching her how to fight back, giving Lucy a top-notch self-defense class every couple of months. Kick, scratch, scream, run. Get away.

None of it helped when you were already tied up.

But she’d also learned that rapists got off on the fight, on subduing their victims. He’d called her “feisty,” as if that were a good thing, a
fun
thing. She wouldn’t do it. She’d bite her tongue before she screamed or begged for mercy.

The blinking eye bothered her, though. The camera. They were recording her. Why? To watch the rape over and over again? So he could show it to his sick friends?

Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it uneasily, the vomit burning. She swallowed again.

Hold it together, Lucy. Think.

Someone would find her. They had to. By now her family knew she was missing. It was dark, late at night or early morning, she didn’t know.

They would be looking for her. Connor and Carina and Patrick and Dillon—and they had friends in high places. She had to hold on to that hope. And anything that might happen; well, put that aside. Put that away. Surviving was the most important thing. Everything else, she could deal with in time, right?