Hard Evidence (12 page)

For her grandfather, Tessa felt nothing. He'd been a drunk, and an angry drunk. She'd spent her childhood doing all she could to avoid him, only feeling safe when he'd lain passed out next to an empty bottle. The world was a better place without him.

But her mother…

Tessa had cherished her when she was little. Then Tessa had grown up, and she'd learned to feel shame.

Tessa's mama is her sister
—
and her mama. That's what my mama says
.

Tessa didn't have time for a family reunion. Her world was already in chaos. She'd witnessed a murder. She was in the middle of an investigation. Some crazy man had followed her into her home and groped her. And she might be well on her way to becoming infatuated with a man who was interested in her only for sex. The last thing she needed was her mother—or any part of Rosebud, Texas—back in her hard-won life.

She saved the message, tucked the piece of paper with her mother's phone number into her desk drawer, and picked up her files. She had an interview in half an hour, and she needed to prepare.

Alexi looked at the photograph of the young woman reclining in her bath. She was quite pretty. Her long, curly blond hair trailed in the water, clung to her skin. Her breasts were full, her nipples ripe and rosy. She looked like she was sleeping—or newly dead.

"So this is the reporter." Alexi lifted his gaze to the man he'd ordered to watch her. "Did you kill her, too?"

The man—Alexi thought his name was Johnny—shook his head fiercely, sweat beading on his upper lip. "No! You told me to watch her, so that's what I'm doing. I'm doing exactly what you said."

"This I am glad to hear. It saves me the trouble of shooting you as I did your friend." Alexi looked again at the photo. The girl would look better tied to his bed. "You must have gotten very close to take this picture, yes? Did she see you?"

Johnny—if that was his name—shook his head and grinned, a smile that revealed crooked teeth. "I'm more careful than that. She was sound asleep."

There was a gleam in the boy's eyes Alexi recognized. "You want her, I think."

Johnny licked his lower lip. "I was thinking there might be other ways of getting her out of the way besides killing her."

Alexi laughed, feeling a new respect for the man who not long ago had been on his knees in a pool of his own piss. "If I tell you to kill her, you can do whatever you want with her before you pull the trigger. But I do not yet know what to do."

So far the girl hadn't proved to be a problem. She'd written the eyewitness account, true, but since then she'd been pursuing gangs. This was not a bad thing. The more the police and media focused on gangs, the easier it was for Alexi to conduct business unseen.

Besides, Alexi had bigger problems. Zoryo was missing. The man who'd been his friend since they were boys selling drugs on the frigid streets of Gzel had vanished from the face of the earth. No one had seen him for a week.

It was possible he'd been arrested, but Alexi would have heard something by now. He had moles in the police department arid a puppet to keep him informed of the goings-on at the FBI. He knew, for example, that the idiot he'd shot last week had been found and identified and that his fingerprints had been linked by the tireless Julian Darcangelo to the basement apartment and, thus, the shooting. He knew the old man's death had been ruled a heart attack as planned. He knew that one of his operations in Longmont had been shut down— small potatoes, as Americans liked to say, but unfortunate.

But none of his sources had heard a thing about Zoryo. And that frightened Alexi all the more. Was it possible Zoryo had double-crossed him? If so, Alexi would take care of him, old friend or not.

He tucked the photo into his pocket. "Go keep an eye on your princess, but do not become so infatuated with her that you find it hard to pull the trigger if that time comes. If you need pussy, you know where to find it."

Chapter 12

Julian leaned lazily against the wall of the interrogation room and let his prey sweat. The man stared down at photographs of himself approaching and leaving the basement apartment, his face pale, perspiration beading along his receding hairline.

Harold Norfolk was a prominent obstetrician who delivered lots of babies, served as a deacon in his church, donated generously to charity—and had a taste for teenage girls. He had a lot to lose. And a lot to answer for.

Norfolk sat back in his chair, his gaze not quite meeting Julian's, his lips drawn back in an arrogant grin. "You showed me these before. They prove nothing. I probably had a patient in the neighborhood, went to the wrong address."

"Just paying a house call?" Julian allowed himself a slow, predatory smile. "You are a veritable saint, Dr. Norfolk. I didn't think doctors paid house calls these days. Did your visit by any chance include fucking any one of four underage girls held captive in the house?"

The good doctor's nostrils flared, and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. An adrenaline surge. "I-I demand to speak with my attorney. I won't say another word—"

Before Norfolk could finish, Julian lifted him out of his seat by his expensive silk necktie and leaned down until their noses almost touched.

"If you think calling some high-priced lawyer is going to get you out of this, doc, you're sadly fucking mistaken." Julian let the loathing he felt drip from his voice like venom. "Some of the fingerprints taken from a case of birth control pills found in the apartment match those you so generously left on these photos last time you were here. That means your next house call could be to a cell in Supermax."

Norfolk was shaking now, his voice high pitched, his eyes wide. "Th-this is harassment and assault! I asked for an attorney! You can't continue this interrogation! You can't touch me! I know my rights!"

Julian tightened his grip, drew him closer still, lowered his voice, using every bit of menace he could summon to its fullest advantage. "I've got a murdered teenage girl and three others who are trapped in a living hell out there somewhere! Either you cooperate fully with this investigation, or you'll find out just how little I care about your rights!"

He released Norfolk, stepped back from the table, watched fear work its icy claws into the bastard's chest. He knew he was pushing it, stretching the law to the breaking point. But this wasn't about getting a confession that would be admissible in court. It was about extracting information that might save lives—including Tessa's. If he didn't get the information before Norfolk spoke with his attorney, he would probably never get it.

Norfolk buried his face in his hands. "My wife… my career… This will ruin my life!"

"Pardon me if I don't give a shit. What about the lives of those girls?"

"What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry?" He jerked his head up, and he seemed to vacillate between defensiveness and hysteria. "Okay, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have given in to lust and sought out the services of prostitutes, but I'm not the only man to fall into sin."

"Save the repentance for Jesus, doc. It might fool him, but it doesn't work on me. They weren't prostitutes, and you knew it. They were teenage girls forced to work as prostitutes. Girls forced to have sex with dozens of men each day. Girls you put on the pill so they wouldn't inconveniently get pregnant. That's not just sin, doc, that's
industrial-scale rape
!" Julian articulated every syllable, lingered on the words.

"How was I supposed to know how old they were? Some girls look like—"

"I doubt a jury will believe a trained ob-gyn can't tell a sixteen-year-old girl forced to have sex from a willing adult woman." Julian leaned across the table, resting his weight on his palms. "Either you tell me everything I want to know and help me save the other girls' lives in exchange for leniency, or today starts your one-way trip to hell."

Norfolk swallowed convulsively.

Over the next hour, Julian hammered him with questions. What were the names of the men who'd controlled the operation? How had he learned about the crib? Where were Denver's other illicit cribs? When had he begun supplying syringes and birth control pills? Was he currently providing medical supplies to any similar operations?

He'd just asked Norfolk how he communicated with the various pimps running these cribs when someone knocked on the door.

Keeping one eye on Norfolk, Julian opened it, saw Irving. He stepped into the hallway and shut the door to the interrogation room behind him, leaving Norfolk to stew.

Irving handed him a file folder. "Got word on the fingerprints taken from Ms. Novak's bathroom."

Julian opened the folder and scanned quickly through the pages.

"They're an exact match for one of two sets of prints that dominate the basement apartment. There's no doubt the attack on Ms. Novak is tied to the shooting and to Burien."

"
Goddamn
?" A sick, slick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Julian looked down at the face of the man who'd stalked and assaulted Tessa. Shaggy brown hair. Wide face. Eyes far apart and proportionately small. Long nose. Thin lips.

The punk's name was John Richard Wyatt, age twenty-two, and he had a list of priors that went on for three pages— vandalism, cruelty to animals, felony theft, burglary, assault, possession with intent to sell. Add to that kidnapping, human trafficking, false imprisonment, and a host of sex crimes, and Wyatt was headed for eternity in prison.

Julian recognized him. He'd seen him enter and leave the basement apartment a few times during his hours of surveillance. He hadn't known for certain whether he was a horny repeat John or one of Burien's thugs. Now there was no doubt.

The bastard had already gotten close enough to Tessa to kill her. What had stopped him? Why had Wyatt grabbed -her breast when he could have taken everything—including her life?

The question burned in Julian's mind, leaving him angry and on edge.

"We'll get a warrant, put out an APB." Irving ran a hand . over his bristly hair.-

"Don't." Julian handed the folder back, resisting the irrational urge to rip it into pieces. "We handle him the way we handled Zoryo. The moment Burien knows we've identified him, he'll pop John-Boy here and toss him out with the rest of the garbage."

And that wouldn't do—not when Julian wanted a crack at him first.

'Then we'd better bring him in fast. I want your plan within the hour." Irving glanced at his watch. "In the meantime, I've got to prep for a goddamned press conference. The city is in a gang hysteria. The damned TV stations took Ms. Novak's story and ran away with it. The mayor has called twice."

"Have you notified her?" Julian knew the news would shake her up. The thought of fear returning to those big blue eyes made him want to hit something.

"About the prints? No." Irving gave Julian a look through narrowed eyes. "I thought I'd leave that to you. In the meantime, I'm doing my best to hack through red tape and see if I can't offer her witness protection. The city bean counters know the feds are calling the shots on this investigation and think you boys should pay for it."

Julian shook his head. If Burien had eyes inside the FBI, federal protection would be like no protection at all. "I don't trust—"

"I know." Irving pointed toward the interrogation room door with a jerk of his head. "How's it going with Dr. Family Values?"

"He's given me some solid leads—a couple places to check out, some names. He mentioned Pasha's, as well. We'll need a warrant for his home computer."

"He's given you all that without requesting counsel?"

"He's asked for his lawyer a couple of times. I only manhandled him once."

Irving poked Julian in the chest. "The
next
time he asks to call his attorney, make sure you comply. The DPD goes by the book."

Despite his rage, Julian couldn't help but grin. "Yes, sir.
Next
time."

It just so happened the next time came the moment Julian opened the door.

Dr. Norfolk, apparently having rediscovered his bravado while Julian was out of the room, greeted him with shouts. "I want to call my attorney! I demand to see my attorney!"

Julian raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you just say so?"

Tessa listened through her telephone headset, heart aching, as the girl told her story.

Nicki had run away from an abusive home at the age of fourteen only to end up selling crack on the streets with gang members, who'd taken her in. Actually, they'd "beaten" her in, giving her the honor of walking a gauntlet of other female gang members who'd assaulted her as a rite of initiation.

"I had a broken rib and was pretty bloodied up, but I was used to that. Besides, they were trying to be my friends. I was proud that I'd been beaten in instead of sleepin' with someone."

Tessa realized her teenage self, if given that choice, would have done the same thing. "Did the gang members give you a place to stay?"

"I sold crack, hooked up with one of the boys, stayed mostly in his mama's place in the projects. I carried his pistol sometimes when the cops came round. They'd usually stop and search him if they saw him, but they left me alone."

By the time Tessa got off the phone, a sad picture had formed in her mind, a picture of poverty, hopelessness, violence, and an urban jungle in which unlucky teens were left to survive as best they could with little help from anyone.

It was
Lord of the Flies
on the streets of Denver.

Nicki had eventually been rescued from the streets by a sympathetic pastor. The rest of her gang mates hadn't been so lucky. The kid who'd been her boyfriend had been shot and killed when a drug deal he was working went bad. The rest of them were still on the streets, selling drugs, watching one another's backs, scrambling to stay alive.

Tessa had almost finished writing her article when her cell phone rang. For a moment she didn't answer, thinking it might be her mother. She wasn't ready to deal with that, not yet, not with everything else that was going on in her life. Then she remembered her mother didn't have the number to her cell phone.

She picked up the phone on the fourth ring, answered. 'Tessa Novak."

"Are you at the paper?" It was Julian.

"Yes."

"Good. Stay there. Don't even go out for a cup of coffee. We got the results on the fingerprints. They're a perfect match for one of the sets we found in the basement apartment. The man who attacked you was one of the girl's killers."

He was saying something about Chief Irving working on witness protection for her, something about a police escort, but she could scarcely hear him over the buzzing in her ears.

The man who'd come into her apartment, the man who'd followed her, the man who'd crept up on her and squeezed her breast
had been one of the girl's killers
.

'Tessa, can you hear me? Are you all right?"

"Y-yes." It was a blatant lie. "Why didn't he kill me?"

Pull it together, girl!

"We'll talk about that later," he said. "Just don't leave the building alone. My guess is he's waiting out there for you. An officer will come for you at five and escort you to the shooting range. See you there."

She hung up, forced her trembling fingers back to her keyboard, and returned to writing her article, determined to do Nicki's story justice no matter what was going on in her own life. And as she'd worked, she found herself taking strength from Nicki's survival spirit. Still a child, Nicki had seen and endured things most adults could scarcely fathom. She had prevailed.

So would Tessa.

After all, the worst thing that had happened to Tessa was that some killer had snuck into her apartment and chosen to grab her breast over shooting her. It wasn't nice, but it could have been a whole lot worse. She'd been lucky.

This wasn't about her anyway. It was about a girl who had been running for her life and had been ruthlessly murdered. The killers were only interested in Tessa because she stood as a witness to that original violent act. But they were picking on the wrong person.

Tessa was done being afraid. She was an investigative journalist, damn it! It was her job to find the bastards and nail them to the wall. And that's what she was going to do.

The sun was setting over the Rockies when Tessa took the exit and turned into the shooting range parking lot, the black-and-white police cruiser behind her. She waited in her car until Officer Petersen met her at her door, then walked beside him into the shooting range, her heart rate picking up, a few irritatingly persistent butterflies flapping in her stomach.

She'd promised herself she wouldn't freak out again, and she knew she wouldn't. But now that she was here she couldn't stop herself from feeling nervous. Nor could she stop the sense of anticipation she felt at the thought of seeing Julian again.

It hadn't been easy keeping her mind off him. Okay, it had been next to impossible. It wasn't just the sight of him without a shirt that she kept remembering—though that fine image kept popping into her head at the most inopportune moments— but other things, as well. He'd broken glass to get to her, smashing through the front door of her apartment building as if he couldn't reach her fast enough.