Fatal Secrets (34 page)

Dean showed his badge and told the security guard they wouldn’t be long. “When do ticket holders usually start to arrive?” Dean asked.

“We don’t open up the gates to the public until ninety minutes before game time. But there’s a high school singing the national anthem, and they’re already here getting ready. The players start arriving two hours before. Is something wrong? Should I notify management?”

“Just routine.” Dean was getting concerned. He didn’t
like this arrangement, but being in the open stadium minimized the risk of being surprised. Still, there were civilians around, and that always increased the chances that something could go wrong.

They walked to the wide mezzanine level that curved around the back of the stadium, offering shade from the heat and a view of the field, plus access to all seating levels, restrooms, and food. A groundskeeper was walking the field and someone else was working near the scoreboard. But aside from employees in the corridor, the interior of the stadium was empty. Dean couldn’t see if there was anyone in the shadows of the home team dugout. He hated sending Sonia in there alone.

“He’ll know you brought someone,” Dean said. “You’re not so reckless as to walk into this alone. I’ll stand back, let you do the talking.”

“You would be a threat to him,” Sonia said. “He won’t come. I need him to look at this picture.”

“Do you think he knows that’s your father?”

“It’s not something I like to discuss, even though everyone and their brother in this business seems to know.”

That bothered her, Dean realized. The lack of privacy. Most people could dismiss a bad childhood, or simply not discuss it with their peers, but colleagues usually knew only what you told them. For Sonia, her childhood case had been high profile and well known among law enforcement. She didn’t shy away from her past, but she didn’t wear it on her sleeve, either.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Dean said.

Sonia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them they were troubled. “Charlie might
know what name he’s using, but if he knows this man I doubt he knows its my father. Since no one could find him twenty years ago, it makes sense that he would be using a different identity. But Xavier Jones knew him, and Thomas Daniels—both men who worked out of northern California. I’m going to do this right. One step at a time. First, the case in hand. Then my father.”

Dean lightly rubbed Sonia’s arm. He greatly admired her inner strength. “I’ll help you any way I can.”

She gave him a half-smile. “That means a lot to me, Dean.”

He reiterated, “Whatever happens here, whatever you learn, wherever you find your investigation headed, I’ll be with you every step.”

Her eyes glistened, then she blinked the emotions away. She opened her mouth to say something, then looked away, unsure.

He put his fingers on her cheek and turned her to face him. “You have my word.” He kissed her softly, but felt surprising power between them in the light touch. It was a jolt of knowledge, something far more than he expected. “Be careful.”

She whispered, “I know you have my back.”

Dean felt the sincerity and weight of the trust she’d just placed in him. He skimmed his hand over her cheek, realizing this hadn’t been easy for her.

“I’ll watch you go down, then I’ll find a place to keep an eye on the dugout. Text me if you get in trouble.”

She cocked her head. “If I’m in trouble, I’m not going to take time to text you.”

He pulled her phone out of her belt and typed his phone number into a blank message, then locked the
phone. “Just press unlock and send. You can probably do it in your sleep.”

“Thanks.” She put the phone back in its pouch, then jogged down the stairs and leaped over the small fence that led to the field.

Dean wished he hadn’t reacted so poorly when Sonia raised her hackles earlier. She’d simply reacted from her gut. She tried to backtrack, but Dean’s ego had been bruised. He’d thought after last night she would know he was not only on her side, but capable of assisting her on all levels of this investigation. He should have cut her some slack from the beginning, knowing trust didn’t come easy to her. But when she had compared him to that bastard Charlie Cammarata, Dean saw red. He didn’t lose his temper often, but for a moment he was blinded when he should have understood it wasn’t personal and, in fact, she’d been sharing something important with him. That she’d been betrayed and disappointed and was looking to him to prove that she could believe in him, trust him, love him.

She wanted to believe, but life had taught her differently. She wanted to trust, but people had proven they couldn’t be trusted.

Dean would die before he disappointed her again. He never wanted to see the doubt in her eyes, the disbelief.

Their relationship may be just beginning, but they shared something valuable. Dean felt it deep down where he rarely allowed himself to look because it had always been empty. With Sonia around, he no longer felt the emptiness.

When Sonia slipped into the dugout, Dean maneuvered around the stadium and reached the stairs that led
to a private observation deck on the first-base line. While it afforded a good view of the dugout, it was a little farther than he would have liked.

Movement to his right had him leaning against the back wall of the stadium. A group of teens dressed in identical attire descended noisily from the observation deck toward the field. He pulled the teacher aside and identified himself. “Can I ask that you hold off a moment?”

“Is there something wrong?” the young woman, who didn’t look much older than her students, said.

“No, but my partner is checking into something. That young man over there”—he gestured toward one of the larger students—“can I borrow his T-shirt?” The shirt had the name of their school in white on blue.

“Um, would it help if I just gave you one of the extras?”

“It would help a lot. Thank you.”

“When can we go down?”

“I’ll let you know. Not more than thirty minutes.”

He took the shirt from the teacher and stretched it out. It was an extra large, but still clung tightly across his shoulders. Fortunately, it was square cut and concealed his sidearm nicely.

“If you’re going to use a disguise, I don’t know if that will help much.” She handed him her clipboard, then the River Cats cap from her head. “You can borrow these.”

“Thanks, ma’am.”

As soon as Sonia reached the dugout, she heard noise at the top of the bleachers where there was a semi-enclosed booth high up from the first-base line. A large group of
teenagers dressed in blue-and-white T-shirts congregated, but they stayed in the bleachers. Good, she didn’t want to have any more civilians to worry about.

She looked over the dugout—fairly secure. No doors or access point except through the front. The area was quite large—she’d never been in a dugout before. There was a ramp and stairs that led to it, and it was set back a bit from the field. Private. Surprisingly quiet. The dugout was in the shade, the sun behind the stadium. Even now, in the heat of a Sacramento June, the temperature was comfortable.

There was no reason for Charlie to hurt her, but she liked knowing her escape options. She could run out anywhere along the dugout as long as she leaped over the railing, or slid under it. Good. And it would be fairly easy to get to the bleachers or across the field. Not that she needed to escape. As she walked the dugout, her senses sharpened and she twitched. A million needles pricked her skin and she began to sweat. She took a deep breath, not letting her anxiety—she refused to call her fear of dark, enclosed places a phobia—take control. The needles went away, but her eyesight and hearing still felt heightened and she was jittery, as if she’d had too much caffeine.

She blamed her father for this fear. After he had sold her she’d been stuck in the back of a dark truck for nearly two weeks, allowed out only under cover of night and then watched by heavily armed guards. And in the basement, where Izzy was murdered. She hated being underground. The dark, the bugs, the foul, moldy smell—she felt as if she were thirteen again. Trapped. The dugout had been dug into the ground and the fresh earth reminded
her of a new grave. That was what was getting to her. Damn Charlie. But she couldn’t blame him completely; he didn’t know. She didn’t talk about it, she had never talked about it, hoping that by ignoring her reaction it would go away.

Another deep breath, and she grew calmer. She willed herself calm. She paced, unable to stay still, constantly checking each possible approach.

Twenty-two minutes had passed since Charlie called her. Where was he?

Movement on the field caught her sight, and she watched as a man in a blue shirt and cap crossed the field writing on a clipboard. It took her a couple seconds, but then she realized the man was Dean. She squinted and saw there were words in white printed on the back of the shirt. Resourceful. She had to admit to herself it relaxed her to have Dean in close proximity.

She sensed movement and turned, facing the far side of the long, narrow space. Charlie leaned against the wall, on the outside of the dugout, partly hidden in the shadows. When she saw him, he stepped inside and walked toward her.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

Complex emotions battled. She did not like Charlie, but she couldn’t forget that her training under him had been stellar. He was a lying, gloryhound bastard, but he also knew what he was doing and had freely shared his skills with her. It was ironic that the self-defense moves he’d taught her had saved her life when he put it in danger.

“You should have given me that journal two days ago. Three of those women are dead.”

His expression hardened. Whether out of guilt or her refusal to pretend they were still friends and colleagues, she didn’t know. “You wanted me to look at a picture.”

She handed him the photo without comment.

He looked at it and she knew he saw something. “Where did you get this?”

“Through my investigation. It’s seven to ten years old. You recognize Xavier Jones, of course. And Thomas Daniels—he was killed four years ago during a police investigation.”

“The FBI. I remember hearing about it. It wasn’t related to trafficking.”

“Not directly, but he was a competitor of Jones,” she said. “As I’m sure you knew.”

“This looks like Mexico or Central America.”

“Analysts believe it was taken outside of Acapulco.”

He said, “Ashley was last seen near Acapulco.”

“And you said there was a link between her and Jones. I need to know who the other men are. We don’t have I.D.s on these three.” She pointed to her father, the man next to him, and a man in the back on the far right. “Or the woman.”

“I want this picture.”

“No.”

He stared at her.

“Why?” she prompted.

He didn’t answer.

“Damn you, Charlie!”

“I can I.D. two of those men for you. If you want their names, and additional information, then you’ll give me that picture.”

Though it wasn’t Dean’s original photo, only a copy,
Sonia didn’t want to give it to Charlie. She didn’t want to help him in any of his vendettas. But he was stubborn. He wouldn’t talk without getting something in return.

She handed it to him. “Name them.”

“I don’t know the man on the far right. But these two in the middle—Jaime Huerrera on the left. He’s a drug dealer. Trafficking is a sideline, only when it furthers his goals. More money in drugs. But he provides routes. He was nobody ten years ago, a mid-level hack whose only claim to fame was he kept under the radar of law enforcement. He’s also a great master of disguise. You probably have photos of him and don’t know it. He’s from Colombia and never crosses into the United States. I suspect that your friend from the FBI, the one watching us while pretending to be a choir boy, might be able to prove Jones was laundering drug money for Huerrera, once you decipher the journal.”

“And the other man?” Sonia’s heart raced and she was dizzy, whether from the confines of the dugout or what she expected to hear.

“I don’t know his name. But I have seen him.”

“Where? With who?”

“He’s the man who killed Xavier Jones.”

Charlie pocketed the photo. “I hope you catch him.”

“Do you know who the woman is?” Sonia asked, her voice surprisingly calm. “She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her.”

“You know who she is,” Charlie said.

“No, I don’t—” Dammit, she did. She’d only met Victoria Christopoulis once, over a year ago. And she looked much different now—older, with darker red hair. “Christopoulis.”

“Bingo.”

“I thought it was her son, not her—”

“He’s involved, but she’s in charge.” Charlie took a step toward her. “Sonia, this is too big, too deadly. That’s why you need people like me. I can go in and take care of—”

She put up her hand. Her voice was firm, though her insides burned. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to know what you’ve been up to, I don’t want to know who you’ve killed. I’m not a vigilante, Charlie. I’m a cop. And I can’t condone what you’ve done. This was your freebie. Now go. Before I arrest you.”

Dean walked along the base of the bleachers in the red clay gravel that separated the stands from the playing field. He’d seen Cammarata slip into the dugout, so Dean moved in closer. He heard voices but couldn’t make out the exact words. Then he heard Sonia distinctly say, “Go.”

He tensed, every instinct on alert. His phone didn’t vibrate, she wasn’t in trouble. Still … he didn’t like her tone. Practically hugging the wall, he ran to the edge of the dugout, then stood flush against the low wall.

Cammarata stepped from the dugout.

“Sonia—”

A flash of light in his periphery sent Dean back twenty years to his days in the Marines.

“Before I arrest you,” Sonia said.

Dean didn’t think; he acted solely on adrenaline and instinct.

“Down!” He rushed Cammarata who was in the line of fire and tackled him, pushing him down the short flight of stairs into the dugout.

Sonia hit the ground before they did, reacting on Dean’s command to get down while he was still moving.