Dead End (17 page)

Still smiling, Evan headed toward his car.

“Hey, Detective, aren’t you going to wait for the lab people?” Benson called after him.

“Nope. I don’t need to be standing around watching them swab the stains and dust for prints. It’s going to take them hours—maybe days—to process this place. You give me a call if anything comes up, but for now, I need to be down in Oakmont. The sheriff is waiting on a warrant, and I want to be there when it arrives. I intend to be the first person to speak with the lady of the house . . .”

“Dorothea Rush.” Evan looked from the woman to her driver’s license and back again. “That your real name?”

She nodded sullenly.

“I want my lawyer.”

“There’s the phone.” He pointed to it. “But you haven’t been arrested yet; you’re aware of that, right?”

She nodded again, this time warily.

“Then why did they bring me down here to the police station?” she asked.

“We just need to ask you a few questions. Look, Dotty . . . is that what people call you, Dotty?”

“My friends do.” She stared at him straight on.

“Well, maybe by the time this is over, you’ll consider me a friend.”

She scowled, and he amended his statement to, “Okay, maybe not a friend, but I may be in a position to help you.”

“Help me how?” That got her attention.

“Look, we know you don’t own that house, we know you don’t bring the girls in, we know your only role is in running the day-to-day. Keep the riffraff out, keep the girls clean, that sort of thing, am I right?”

“Sure.” She nodded without meeting his eyes. “That’s pretty much it.”

“So you have to know that you’re not the person we want. We want the person who owns the house.”

“I don’t even know who that is.”

“You live in a house, but don’t know who owns it?”

She shook her head. “I never met him.”

“What did you do with the”—Evan searched for the word—“proceeds?”

“Someone comes by on Mondays and Thursdays. I hand over what we took in since the last pickup. On Mondays, he pays me. On Thursdays, he pays the house.”

“Pays the house . . . ?”

“Expenses for the girls. Doctor’s visits, prescriptions, that sort of thing.”

“How often do the girls see a doctor?”

“Only if they’re sick.”

“When was the last time someone was sick enough to call a doctor?”

She shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“Who does the food shopping?”

“I do. Online. I order through a website once a week, the stuff is delivered to the house.”

“You pay with cash?”

“Credit card.”

“Credit card?” Evan frowned. “Yours?”

“No, Orlando’s.”

“Who’s Orlando?”

“He’s the one who picks up the money.”

“His name is on the card?”

Dotty nodded.

“Where’s the card now?”

She opened her handbag, took out her wallet, and handed over the card.

“Orlando Ortiz. This his real name?” Evan studied the card.

“How would I know?”

“Good point.” Evan tapped the card against the palm of his hand. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared into the hall, where he met Dan Conroy, one of the county assistant D.A.s. He handed over the card without a word, and Conroy, grinning from ear to ear, took it happily.

“Let’s see where this little gem leads us. You’ll be the first to know,” Conroy promised Evan.

“Okay, so, does Orlando Ortiz own this house, you think?” Evan asked Dotty when he returned to the room.

“I don’t know. Honest to God, I don’t know where he lives or who he works for, if that’s his real name or not. For all I know, his real name is John Smith.”

“Who hired you?”

“Orlando.”

“How did that happen? You saw an ad in the classifieds for a madam and thought you’d apply?”

“He came to me. I used to work someplace else. He offered me a job, said someone was starting up a new house, they wanted someone with experience to run it. Said I’d be paid well if I ran a tight ship and I asked no questions. I figured what the hell.”

“When did they move you out of the house in Carleton?”

“Sunday.” Her eyes flickered nervously.

“How’d that come about? You lose your lease?”

“He—Orlando—came by early in the morning and told me that everyone was moving out in the afternoon. They were sending trucks and they’d be taking us to another house.”

“You didn’t think that was odd?”

“I thought maybe the house was sold. I was paid to not ask questions. I didn’t ask.”

“Did you ask questions when those three young girls disappeared about a month ago?”

“They didn’t disappear. They were moved.”

“Moved? Moved where?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged again, a flip of her shoulders, but the movement appeared overly casual.

“Because you don’t ask questions.”

“Right.”

“Even when you see their pictures on the front page of your morning newspaper, after they turned up dead?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her face flushed crimson, and she averted her eyes.

Evan turned to leave, then stopped near the door and turned back. “Who watches out for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who’s your security?”

She studied her nails for a long time, and Evan knew she was trying to decide which side in the drama that was about to play out would most benefit her. Finally, she said, “There were a couple of cops who came by at night. I don’t know their names, and I don’t know what police department they were from, so don’t ask me. I don’t know. But it was just the two of them, every time.”

“They were in uniform?”

“No.”

“How do you know they were cops?”

“Orlando told me.”

“What else did he tell you about them?”

“Only that the boss bought them to keep the peace and to protect his interests.”

“Would you recognize them? These cops?”

“Maybe. Maybe not . . .” She met his gaze head-on.

Evan knew the look:
Depends. What’s in it for me?

Disgusted, he left the room, determined to find the rogue cops, with or without Dotty’s help.

22

“. . . so we put together an album with photos of every cop in the county, and she just looks at them all and goes, ‘I don’t know, I don’t think so . . .’ ”

Annie could hear the exasperation in Evan’s voice.

“Honest to God, Annie, to get this close and to have to play this kind of game . . .”

“She’s not going to give you a thing she doesn’t have to give up. Not now, anyway. She’s going to hold on to every card she can get her hands on, save them ’til she needs them.”

“Maybe we should turn the heat up on her, give her a reason to start talking.”

“It couldn’t hurt. She can only give you more at this time, right? She can’t give you less.”

“True. She gave us some information, but nothing that would implicate anyone other than this guy she calls Orlando.”

“And that may or may not be his real name.”

“Exactly.” He exhaled loudly.

“Well, here’s something that should cheer you up. It looks like I have a lead on the kiddie trade coming out of Santa Estela.”

“What?”

“I got a call from Connor—voice mail, actually. He said the Bureau was involved in some op down there to shut it all down, about two years ago. There’s apparently a report in the office. Unfortunately, I have to wait for John to get back from his vacation tomorrow to get my hands on the report, but I’m hoping it will give us something you can use.”

“God, that’s phenomenal! I can hardly believe it. But why do you have to wait for John?”

“It must have been highly classified. I don’t have clearance to pull the case, but John will, I’m sure. That’s why I called you, to tell you that you might have another thread to pull soon.”

“That would be terrific. This case has been like a black hole from day one. Honestly, this job is such a pain in the ass sometimes.”

“Hey, you know what John said. Anytime you’re ready to make a career move, come see him.”

“That would simplify things, wouldn’t it?” His voice softened.

“Not if it’s not what you want to do. That would only create other problems.”

“But we could spend a lot more time together. This catch-as-catch-can is wearing me down, Annie. I want to be with you.”

“I know exactly what you mean, my love. I get worn down, too, you know. And I want to be with you, too.”

“So what’s the solution? You’re there, with a job you love; I’m here with a job I love. In spite of what I say sometimes, I love what I do.”

“We could both move to Baltimore and commute to our respective offices.”

“Hey, swell idea. Why didn’t I think of that?” He tried to make light of the situation, but his retort came out flat, and he made no more attempts at humor. Instead, he said, “I’m just better when I’m with you. None of it—none of this shit—is as bad if I can come home to you.”

“I know. Me, too. We’ll work it out, Evan. We’ll think of something.”

“Damn it. Hold on, Annie, I have another call coming in . . .”

Annie walked to the front window and looked out over the small grassy section in front of her building. The sun had yet to set, but the day was already beginning to fade. She stepped out onto her small balcony and leaned on the railing to watch the sky turn colors. The geranium she’d bought early in the summer sat dried in its pot, the soil petrified, the plant almost mummified. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d watered it, or what she’d been thinking when she bought it. As much as she loved flowers, she always let them die. Too much work, too much time spent away from here.

“That was the lab,” Evan said as he came back on the line. “Preliminary reports show that the blood in the shed matches my girls’ blood types. Of course we’ll need to match the DNA, but I know that’s where they were killed. I knew it the second I stepped inside. It was as though—” He stopped, knowing he’d been about to say something that would sound irrational, then decided he didn’t care. “It was as if they had led me there, as if they opened that door and went inside with me. As if they wanted me to see what had happened to them there, like they were standing behind me, pointing around the room. They showed me where and how they died.” He hesitated, then asked, “Does that sound crazy?”

“Not to me,” she assured him. “Now all you need is for them to tell you who.”

“Sooner or later, they will. I told you before that I really believe the answer is already there, in the evidence. It’s like a big puzzle. I just haven’t found the right way to fit the pieces together. But when I do . . .”

“When you do, you’ll have the key to the whole thing, from here to Santa Estela. I’m hoping I can help you with that. I was so excited this morning, after I got Connor’s message. I couldn’t wait to get into the office. Then of course I got there and realized that I had to wait for John. But this is going to come together soon. I can feel it.”

“God, I hope you’re right. If we can find this guy, this Orlando, maybe he’ll lead us to the next rung on the ladder.”

“How about the girls who were in the house? Were they able to tell you anything?”

“They’re all with social services right now. I won’t be able to talk to them until the morning, but I don’t expect them to know who’s running the operation. At least they should be able to tell us who they are and how they got here. We can take them back to their homes, get a lead on the kidnappers in their part of the world. The Bureau report should help us with that. It might take a while, but we can close down this little cottage industry. Maybe not permanently, and maybe only this little piece of it, but it’s something.”

“And then maybe you can find out who the murdered girls were.”

“I’m hoping so. Right now, we don’t know if these girls were from the same villages or even from the same country. But you’re right. Maybe soon we’ll be able to start tracing backward to find their homes.”

“That should make you feel a lot better.”

“I’ll feel better when I’ve got their killer—killers—in prison, awaiting trial.”

She started to say something, then heard the click on her phone.

“That’s your call waiting, Annie. Go ahead and take it. I’m going to try to get a little sleep tonight, get an early start in the morning.”

“Are you sure? I can let the call go into voice mail . . .”

“Go on and take it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” She paused, then clicked off his call to pick up the incoming. “Anne Marie McCall.”

“Annie? It’s Brendan.”

“Hey, Brendan, what’s up?”

“You still looking for a copy of those reports, the ones that have been missing from Dylan’s file?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but I might have found them.”

“Are you serious?” Her heart leaped in her chest. “Where? When?”

“Well, like I said, I’m not positive these are what you’re looking for, but they might be. I found them this afternoon, stuck in a file. A shooting out in Oakland the same day that Dylan was shot. I guess at some point the reports might have fallen out, and maybe someone just looked at the date and filed them in the first file that popped up with that incident date on it. Anyway, I meant to bring them home, but I left them in my briefcase, and wouldn’t you know, I left that locked in my office. I thought maybe I’d drop copies off tonight, but I have a tire going flat . . .”

“I’ll come for you. I can be there in fifteen minutes.” Annie didn’t wait for a response. She hung up the phone and grabbed her bag, marveling at her good luck that day.
I should have bought lottery tickets today.
First, I get a call from Connor with a tip that could lead to something on Evan’s case, and now this. If my luck holds, maybe I’ll get into the office and find that John is back and I can get my hands on that Santa Estela case.

She all but whistled all the way to Brendan’s house, a neat little bungalow set back on a narrow lot on a pretty street halfway between her apartment and the office. She parked in the drive and turned off the ignition, then followed the brick walk to the front door.

She rang the bell and waited for him to answer. When he did not, she rang it again, then a third time.

“Strange,” she muttered aloud. “He knew I was on my way . . .”

Annie pushed against the half-open door and called Brendan’s name. She stepped inside and called again. He stepped out of the kitchen, his cell phone to his ear. He waved to Annie to give him a minute, then walked toward the back of the house. At one point, he raised his voice, but quickly lowered it. When he came back into the living room, his phone had already disappeared into the pocket of his jacket. He smiled at Annie and apologized for not having let her in.

“Sorry. I was on the phone.”

“Hey, it happens. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, just one second.”

Brendan left the room for a minute, then came back in, tucking something into his belt.

“Don’t trust my driving, eh?” she asked playfully.

“What?” He frowned.

“The Glock.” As her duties were primarily those of a profiler, Annie rarely carried a weapon, but she knew that many of the other agents could not step outside their homes without one. She rarely thought anything of it.

“Oh. I just . . .” He stood in the middle of the room, and for the first time since she arrived, she took a good look around. There were piles of newspapers, magazines, and mail on the floor around the sofa. An empty pizza box and several empty beer bottles stood on the coffee table.

“Brendan, is everything all right?” She turned to him.

“Sure. Fine. Why do you ask?”

“Whenever Dylan had something on his mind, he forgot to pick up after himself. I was just wondering if it was a family trait.” She tried to make a joke out of it, but she knew it fell flat and had sounded more like criticism than observation. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like your mother.”

“Oh, that.” He waved off the mess. “I started cleaning up earlier, didn’t get to finish. I’ve just been so busy lately, running from one job to the next, it seems—”

“Hey, I understand. We all have weeks like that.” She jingled her car keys. “Shall we go?”

He stared at her for a moment, then said, “Yeah, let’s do it.”

Brendan followed her out the front door and down the steps. They had just started down the walk when a man in a dark suit stepped out from behind a car parked in front of the house and called out.

“Brendan! Let her go!”

“Wha . . . ?” Brendan grabbed Annie by the arm and held her protectively.

“Put the gun down, Brendan, and let her walk to me.”

Brendan stood stock-still.

“It’s no good, Brendan. Let her go!” The man was shouting as he came slowly up the walk, his gun drawn.

“Brendan . . .” Annie tried to twist away from him, but his grip on her right arm tightened. When she turned, she saw the gun in his hand. “Brendan, for God’s sake . . .”

“Luther, you bastard.” Brendan raised the gun, but before he could get a shot off, the man on the sidewalk fired twice, striking him in the chest.

Brendan crumbled to the ground, the gun still in his hand, and Annie screamed.

“Dr. McCall, are you all right?” the man asked anxiously.

He removed his glasses, and Annie recognized her savior.

“Luther,” she gasped. “What the hell . . . ?”

“Just tell me you’re all right, that he didn’t hurt you.”

“No, no. But I don’t understand . . .”

Luther Blue knelt down next to Brendan’s body and sought a pulse. “He’s dead.”

“Oh my God . . . Brendan . . .” Annie’s knees began to shake.

“Come on, here, sit.” Luther led her gently to the steps and helped her to sit, even as he was calling for backup on his cell phone.

Annie began to sob. “I don’t understand . . .”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but he had his gun up to your back, and I was afraid he was going to kill you . . .”

“No, no, he and I were going in to the office, he found reports I’ve been looking for, about Dylan’s death, he left them locked in his desk—”

“Dr. McCall, Brendan didn’t have these reports. I do. Believe me when I tell you, he wasn’t going to turn them over to you or to anyone else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I believe the report implicates Brendan in Dylan’s death.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s the truth.” He took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her as the first of the unmarked cars pulled up in front of the house. “Brendan Shields shot and killed his cousin and fellow agent Dylan Shields. The proof is in that envelope. And if I hadn’t arrived when I did, I’m afraid he would have killed you as well . . .”

“Isn’t John here yet?” A shaken Annie met Will Fletcher in the office lobby. She’d called him because, with John out of town, Will was the acting supervisory agent in charge.

“Yeah, I called him the minute I heard. He should be back anytime now.” Will put his arm around her. “What do you want to do? Do you want to go upstairs and wait in the office, do you want to get something to eat while we wait for John? What do you want, Annie?”

“Maybe we can just get something cold to drink.”

“When did you last eat?”

“Lunch, I think.”

“It’s almost midnight. Let’s walk across the street and grab a sandwich or some soup or something. You look real shaky.”

“I
am
real shaky.”

“Did you give a statement to anyone yet?”

“Not a formal one. They’re waiting for John.”

They stepped outside into a muggy D.C. night. Will took her arm to steady her and they walked across the street to the all-night deli on the corner.

“Did you call Evan?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “He wanted to drive down tonight, but I told him to wait. He’s right on the brink of cracking a case he’s been working on for weeks, and I don’t want him to distract himself from that. I’m okay, I wasn’t hurt.”

Will held the door for her and walked into the deli behind her. It was cool and quiet inside, and they went up to the counter to place their orders, then took a booth.

“So, you want to tell me what happened tonight?” Will asked.

“I’m still not sure I understand.” Annie rested her elbows on the cool porcelain tabletop.