Mortal Sin (28 page)

Noah put down his files and pulled the summary he’d typed out at home. “August sixth, Ralston asks Morton if he’s interested in a new game plan, that Ralston wants to retire to Florida but doesn’t have any money. Morton responds that he’s broke, too, and he hates being a mechanic.
Ralston says he’ll see what he hears, but he’s not a techie.”

“Morton bought his computer a few weeks later.”

“I think that was incidental—he needed to earn the money to buy it, and after seven weeks working he had the funds. He immediately started going to all the online porn sites. Possibly doing research on how the technology and offerings changed.”

“Or maybe he was just a horny bastard after spending six years in prison.”

Noah shrugged. “Then Morton contacts Ralston in late September and says he has a new game plan—same phrase Ralston used—and would be ready in a few months. That’s about the time he started collecting porn and archiving it on his computer. A lot of the tapes and disks were older. I don’t know what his plan was—nothing in the messages give any details. But he had a lot of webcam films and our techs say it’s obvious one or both participants didn’t know they were being filmed.”

“Blackmail, maybe?”

“Possibly. And he would need money for equipment, setup, planning, and then of course the blackmail angle, if that’s what he was doing. Or, he could simply have been creating a voyeur site. I don’t know if we’ll ever learn the truth, considering both Ralston and Morton are dead.”

“Until whoever killed them launches the venture.”

Noah nodded. “We don’t have Ralston’s emails, but he must have been doing some work for Morton, because he gets back to Morton in late November and says he found a ‘game-player.’ ”

“Why didn’t Morton come out here then?”

“I don’t know. I can’t find any other messages from
Ralston until late December. I’m wondering if they might have talked on the phone, and Guardino in Denver is going through Morton’s records. There were no 202 or 703 calls, but in this day and age disposable phones could have any number of area codes, Morton could even have had one we didn’t find. Our analysts are going through Ralston’s phone records. Something is going to match up but it’s going to take time.”

“So in December Ralston says what?”

“Pick a time and place. But get this—Morton didn’t tell Ralston when and where. There are no more communications from them.”

“Then you’ll love what I have here.” Abigail grinned like the Cheshire Cat and spread a greater D.C. map on his desk. “I mapped out everywhere Morton went in the rental car from the moment he drove out of the Dulles Airport parking lot. And two of his stops? Ralston’s apartment.”

Noah followed Abigail’s finger as she traced her pencil mark. “He was busy those two days.”

“Yes, he was.”

Noah scanned it. In addition to Ralston’s apartment, it included the Washington Marina where he was killed. He arrived there at 11:23 p.m. He died at approximately midnight. His body hadn’t been moved. At 11:59 p.m. the car left. “He went to the meeting—possibly to hook up with the money people for his new ‘game plan’—and they killed him. Took his car and went back to his motel—why?”

“If we’re going with the blackmail angle, maybe that was how he was going to fund his new project—and he blackmailed the wrong person.”

Noah considered. “He doesn’t bring the incriminating
evidence, so the killer goes to his motel to look for it. Then drives the car to within blocks of Dulles Airport.”

“No—the car went one other place.” She put her finger down.

Noah’s mouth almost dropped open. “Back to Ralston’s apartment?”

“You know what I think? I think the killer was looking for something.”

“That would support the blackmail theory.”

“Morton didn’t have it on him. It wasn’t in his car, it wasn’t in his motel—”

“So they went to Ralston.”

Abigail nodded. “And killed him.
Then
they left the car in the warehouse near Dulles at four-thirty in the morning.”

Blackmail. It could pay enough to fund Morton’s “game plan.”

“How did the killer get to the marina if he drove away in Morton’s car?” Noah pondered.

“He came with Morton?”

“Unlikely. Unless they were meeting someone else.”

“So the killer has a partner. Or took public transportation.”

Noah considered. “Or, Ralston went with Morton.”

Abigail frowned. “But if Ralston and Morton were working together as closely as they appeared, why go back to Morton’s motel after he was killed? The manager’s description, though vague, doesn’t come close to fitting Ralston. If the killer wanted both of them dead, why take Ralston back to his apartment?”

“Maybe Ralston was scared, trying to buy time.”

“It’s possible.”

But something was missing. It seemed too convoluted
a plan, but until they knew who Morton was meeting and what Morton was supposed to exchange for the money he expected to get, they wouldn’t know.

“Did you check taxi and limo companies?”

“No licensed driver took anyone out to the marina that night.”

Noah tapped his finger on a mark in Somerset, Maryland. “What’s this? It looks residential.”

“I haven’t checked it out yet; I just got this an hour ago.”

“He drove there Thursday night.”

His computer beeped, telling him he had a new email. He glanced at it, then did a double-take. “Here’s something new,” Noah said.

As he opened up the message, Abigail looked over his shoulder. It was from one of their analysts.

“Ralston went to Seattle? What for?” Abigail asked.

Noah didn’t respond. Morton paid for the ticket, but
Ralston did the travel. One day, overnight, why? What was Morton’s connection to Seattle?

He replied to Sandy:

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Abigail said.

Noah agreed. “Let’s go check out the location in Somerset.” He started walking, then stopped so abruptly that Abigail nearly ran into him.

“I see a flash of brilliance,” she said.

“Seattle. It was in the files Stockton gave me. It’s where Adam Scott and Morton took Lucy Kincaid after they kidnapped her.”

“You think it’s connected?”

“I doubt it’s a coincidence.”

Noah turned around and went back to his computer. He quickly sent a message to Assistant Director Rick Stockton and Hans Vigo, who would be able to get answers faster.

Sean pulled up as close to the employee entrance of the D.C. Medical Examiner’s Office as he could get, double-parking because there was no street parking available. He wasn’t about to let Lucy walk far, not until they knew what Cody was up to. And whether Fran Buckley or the people she worked with were dangerous. Lucy hadn’t agreed or disagreed with Dillon and Sean’s belief that Fran was behind the vigilante group, and Sean didn’t push. She’d had a lot dumped on her in the last few days, and he wanted to give her the room to come to her own conclusions. She’d get there.

Lucy said, “I could get used to having a car service. Sweet car, hot guy, door-to-door service.”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘hot car, sweet guy’?” Sean teased. He kissed her grin. “Be careful, Luce. Remember, if Cody comes by, call your brother or Kate. And avoid Fran until we figure out if she’s involved in this.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“I’m just worried.” He touched her face. She looked tired, and he said, “You know, when this is all over you deserve a vacation. A three-day weekend anywhere my plane can take us.”

She smiled mischievously. “Anywhere? I don’t think you should give me such freedom.”

“I said anywhere, I mean it. What time do you get off?”

“Three.”

“I’ll be here.”

Sean watched Lucy until she entered the building, then made sure that no one followed her before the security door closed.

He drove back to Lucy’s house. Kate had emailed him earlier and asked that he come by at ten.

When Kate opened the door she looked at her watch. “You’re an hour early,” she said.

“It didn’t take long to pick up Lucy, take her to work, and get back here.”

She closed the door behind him. “Coffee’s in the kitchen.”

Sean followed Kate down the hall. Like Lucy, she looked exhausted. Her hair was still damp from her shower, and thick sections fell in her face. She impatiently tucked them behind her ears.

Dillon was sitting at the kitchen table reading a thick file. A man of about fifty with glasses, a slight paunch, and graying hair sat across from Dillon.

Dillon glanced up. “Sean,” he said, gesturing to the stranger, “this is a good friend of ours, Dr. Hans Vigo. He’s FBI.”

“Vigo.” Sean knew that name. “You’re the profiler?”

“Good memory.” Hans shook Sean’s hand. “We haven’t met.”

“No, but my brother Duke—everyone at RCK—speaks highly of you.”

“How is Duke?” Hans asked.

“Same as always.” Sean had been inching closer to see what Dillon was reading.

Kate stood next to Sean and said, “It’s Fran Buckley’s personnel file from the Bureau, Mr. Nosy.”

“Is that why you asked me here?”

“No, Noah Armstrong wants to talk to you.”

Sean abruptly turned to her. “You’re setting me up to talk to a Fed?”

It was Hans who answered. “You were seen on a surveillance tape entering a restaurant owned by Sergey Yuran. Considering his name has come up in the course of this investigation, we need to know what he said.”

Sean frowned. “If I learned something that would have helped, I would have shared the information with Agent Armstrong on Saturday.”

Sean didn’t feel comfortable talking to the FBI about something that could get him in hot water—he stood by his decision. He considered calling Duke for advice on whether to pull in a lawyer, but quickly dismissed the thought. He wasn’t going to lean on his brother every time he came head to head with law enforcement. He was a big boy, he would make his own decisions, and he knew he hadn’t been out of line in talking to Sergey Yuran. There was no way Yuran would have spoken to a cop, and if it was true he was under surveillance, Armstrong wouldn’t even be able to get in there. Shaking the trafficker down for the murder of a scumbag like Morton was way down on the priority list from trafficking in guns and human beings—which told Sean that Noah wanted this meeting off the record, hence here at Kate’s house. Maybe the Fed wasn’t the “by-the-book” hard-ass Sean had thought when he met him on Saturday.

Yet, every time Sean had spoken to cops in the past it had come back to bite him in the ass.

Before he’d been kicked out of Stanford, Sean discovered
one of his professors liked child porn. Sean exposed his repulsive obsession so everyone would know what kind of pervert he really was. The Feds promised nothing would happen to Sean if he told the truth about how he’d hacked into the professor’s system and what initially tipped him off. Sean told the truth. Next thing he knew, Stanford expelled him for hacking into the school database. Duke had said the FBI did what they could, and Sean was damn lucky he wasn’t in prison. They’d agreed to expunge the record; however, Sean was certain his FBI file was an inch thick. The incident with the sick Stanford professor wasn’t the only time he’d been in hot water when trying to right wrongs.

Kate said, “Sean, you’d better watch yourself around Armstrong. He’s good, and he doesn’t like interference.”

“I didn’t interfere with anything.”

“Showing up at Ralston’s apartment wasn’t interfering?”

“I’m not going to rehash this. You know why I was there. I didn’t screw with his investigation.”

Hans said, “No one is looking to get you in trouble, Sean.”

Sean didn’t know whether to believe him, but Duke thought Hans Vigo walked on water, and that couldn’t be said of a lot of people, so Sean gave the profiler the benefit of the doubt.

“All right, but if Armstrong arrests me, you’d better be the one to post bail.”

Hans smiled. “I give you my word.”

Sean relaxed marginally and went to pour himself coffee.

Hans said to Dillon, “Switching gears, is there anything
in Buckley’s file that puts her on or off the suspect list?”

Sean glanced at Hans. Hans said, “Dillon called me last night and told me about Prenter’s murder and Lucy’s concerns about a setup with parolees.”

Sean frowned. “Is this going to be a problem for Lucy? She’s in the middle of the FBI application process.”

“I’m well aware—I gave her a recommendation. And nothing she’s done is going to affect my recommendation. I can’t honestly say how this will play out with the Bureau, however.”

“But we can’t keep it secret,” Kate said. “This kept me up all night—Morton was on federal probation. But he was shot in the back of the head, just like Prenter and several of the other parolees Lucy discovered last night.”

Kate’s theory stunned Sean. He hadn’t considered that the Morton homicide was connected to WCF.

He said, “You think the same people killed Morton as killed Prenter and the other parolees?”

Hans said, “I’m quietly pulling all the files—we’re dealing with multiple jurisdictions here—to see if there’s something that connects the killer to the victims. Different manners of death, and so far no ballistics matches. I’m looking for other patterns, such as that they all were killed after dark. They all were in public. None of the crimes were solved.

“No one brought him out using WCF’s system,” Hans continued. “It would have been extremely easy to put him back in prison for the rest of his life if someone found him violating his parole by traveling to D.C.”