Mortal Sin (4 page)

“You should know that one of Morton’s victims was Kate Donovan’s sister-in-law, Lucy Kincaid. She lives with Donovan and Donovan’s husband, Dr. Dillon Kincaid. Lucy wasn’t told of the plea agreement and as far as I know, she didn’t know Morton was out of prison.”

“Kincaid?” Noah stared pointedly at the assistant director. “The same Kincaid with the private security company Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid?”

“That would be Jack and Patrick, brothers of the victim.
Kate is married to Dillon, a forensic psychiatrist and civilian consultant for the FBI.”

Hans leaned forward and eyed Noah. “You have a relationship with the Kincaids?”

Not the Kincaids
. Face impassive, he said, “No, but I’ve followed the interesting career of the firm.” RCK was known to skirt the law and had access to information Noah suspected was in the darker gray shades of what a private security company should be able to access, which made him wonder just how many people inside federal law enforcement fed them intelligence.

While his initial assignment of the Morton investigation was sticky, RCK’s potential involvement made this muck as thick and foul-smelling as molasses. Specifically the
Rogan
part of RCK.

“Do you have any questions?” Hans asked.

“I need the investigator’s files, forensics, everything you have on Morton. Where he served his sentence, terms of his plea agreement and probation.” Noah paused. “And Kate Donovan’s personal contact information. I think it would be better if I went to her house. For the sake of discretion.” He glanced at Hans. “And it would be best if you avoid speaking with anyone involved until I have a chance to interview them.”

Hans agreed. “But don’t delay. While we took over the case, the Kincaids and RCK have a lot of friends in a lot of places. I’m sure no one knows yet—I would have gotten a call—but I’m waiting for the phone to ring.”

Lucy sat on the Metro train pretending to read a book. It wasn’t the writer’s fault that she wasn’t engaged in the story. Any other ride and Lucy would have been absolutely riveted by the action-packed plot, but tonight
all she could think about was a rapist going back to prison. When the subway train slowed as it approached her stop at Foggy Bottom, she shoved her unread paperback in her satchel and snapped the buckle without thought—a habit from self-defense training.

Muggers go for the easy mark. Don’t be an easy mark
.

She stood and maneuvered toward the doors, eager to meet her brother. Patrick was leaving tomorrow morning for two weeks at Stanford University, where he was working on a security system for their new laboratory. He’d been living in D.C. only a month, she was just getting used to his comforting presence in her life, and already he was going away again.

As soon as the doors slid open, Lucy exited amid the throng of commuters. Starting up the stairs, the back of her neck crawled with the all-too-familiar sensation of being watched. She unconsciously stiffened and stumbled, bumping into the businesswoman in front of her. “Excuse me,” she said automatically, but the woman never looked back. Painful tension started at the base of her skull, spreading rapidly, her heart racing as if she were running a marathon. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she was fighting a full-fledged panic attack.

You’re in the damn Metro station! Of course people will see you
.

But it was more than a casual perusal of her looks; someone’s eyes were focused on her. Dammit, hadn’t she just gone through this thirty minutes ago? When was it going to stop?

Hand shaking, she reached for her pepper spray while simultaneously thinking she was being ridiculous. Her vision was fading and she willed herself to breathe
deeply.
In and out. Keep moving forward, no one’s watching, you’re fine, just fine
. She focused on the exit and calmly strode toward the stairs. Away from the eyes she couldn’t see.

“Lucy—”

She spun to face the voice and backed up at the same time, stumbling over a briefcase resting next to a businessman talking on his cell phone.

Cody Lorenzo reached out and grabbed her before she fell on her ass. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his face all cop, his eyes glancing left and right.

She pushed him back. “Were you following me?”

“I saw you get off the train. I was waiting for you because—”

“It was you.” She breathed deeply and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples until the tension retreated into a tight ball in the back of her head. At least now she could think. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Watch me!”

“I didn’t mean to.”

She shook her head. It wasn’t fair to Cody, but she couldn’t shake the fear. She’d never be normal!

“I thought someone was following me. My fault,” she muttered.

He rubbed her arm. “I should have called. I just got off duty and saw your message, thought I’d take you to dinner to celebrate.”

She discreetly moved out of his reach and said, “I’m sorry, I’m meeting Patrick for dinner. Rain check?”

“Of course. Can I walk with you?”

“Isn’t it out of your way?”

“Not far.”

She relented, though didn’t feel wholly comfortable. She’d met Cody through WCF and they dated for nearly two years before she broke it off. Working with her ex-boyfriend on WCF projects was one thing; socializing with him was completely different.

He took her elbow to steer her through the Metro station and into the chill January mist. She pulled her raincoat tighter around her and tilted the collar up to shield her ears, shivering. Born and raised in San Diego, Lucy still wasn’t used to East Coast winters.

“It’ll snow tonight,” Cody said.

“And you know this because the weatherman is always right?”

“Because I was born and raised in Maryland. The first snowflake will fall before midnight.”

“You sound happy about this.”

He grinned as they crossed the street and turned left on Pennsylvania Avenue toward Georgetown. Cody looked and acted like a cop: broad-shouldered and physically fit, he moved with a swagger and arrogance that came as much from fear as from confidence. He had the Cuban good looks and manners that had Lucy’s mother singing his praises, with just enough wildness on the side that had Lucy enjoying his company. She had thought she’d loved him at one time, but she hadn’t known what love was. She only knew what love wasn’t.

It wasn’t Cody Lorenzo.

When she’d broken up with him, her family took it harder than Cody. They’d parted amicably, as friends, but Lucy knew Cody wanted to get back together. Lucy didn’t.

“Good work getting Prenter,” Cody said as they walked.

“We haven’t put him back in prison yet,” she said. “Do you think the judge will do it? They seem to be big on second, third, tenth chances these days.”

Cody grinned humorlessly. “Fifty-fifty. Though lately we’ve been having more success.”

Her stomach sank. Fifty-fifty. “If he has GHB or another drug on him, that increases our chances.”

“I’m hoping he will. If he’s truly going back to his old ways, he’ll keep doing what worked for him in the past. Possession of a date-rape drug would be hard even for some loony, feel-good judge to overlook. At the very least, Prenter will be spending one night in jail.”

“Small consolation.”

Cody stopped walking, and Lucy turned to look at him. He seemed angry. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure he finishes the full five years, Lucy. I promise.”

“I know—” She frowned, worried about her friend. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Frustrated. I had a domestic violence case earlier that really got to me.” He looked over her shoulder, off in his world, more pain than frustration in his eyes.

“Cody?”

He shook his head, not wanting to talk about it.

She said, “Remember what you told me when I couldn’t stop that teenager from meeting with her online boyfriend?” Lucy had befriended a thirteen-year-old in cyberspace, though WCF strongly discouraged it. Lucy did everything she could to stop the girl from making the same mistakes Lucy had made six years ago. She had failed.

Cody turned to her, gazing deep into her eyes as she spoke.

“You said, ‘We can’t save everyone, so we have to do what we can when we can.’ That changed my life, gave me something to have faith in again. We’re doing what we can. At WCF and on the job.”

His intense stare began to make Lucy feel uncomfortable. Maybe she should have let Cody be angry and frustrated, not tried to talk to him about it. She didn’t want to lead him on, give him any ideas that she wanted to restart their relationship. She smiled, squeezed his hand, then dropped it and started walking. “I’m going to be late meeting Patrick,” she said.

“I’m going to cut through Rock Creek Park to get home.”

She stopped walking and looked back at him. “You sure?”

“It’s only a couple more blocks to Clyde’s. I wanted to make sure you were okay with this Prenter thing, and of course you are. You’re an amazing woman, Lucy.” He stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “See you Saturday at the WCF fund-raiser.”

Cody turned down the pathway through Rock Creek Park and raised his hand in farewell before disappearing from view. She walked briskly toward Clyde’s, already late.

Lucy still had that creepy feeling someone was staring at her. She glanced over her shoulder, but no one even remotely suspicious was there. She stopped, looking in every direction, the street lamps providing ample illumination. The only people not walking stood on the corner waiting for the light to change. No one seemed to be watching
her
specifically.

She breathed in deeply, the icy air clearing her lungs and her mind. She willed the feeling away, as she’d
learned to do six years ago when the sense of being watched by unseen eyes never left her, day or night, in public or locked in her bedroom.

It worked. She smiled to herself and continued toward the restaurant, where her brother was most likely irritated that she’d made him wait.

Noah Armstrong had been assigned Roger Morton’s homicide less than twenty-four hours ago, and every answer he received led to twice as many questions.

True to his word, Hans Vigo had provided Noah with all of Morton’s files. Morton pled on two counts of felony rape and one count attempted murder of a federal agent, but mandatory sentencing guidelines had been tossed out the window. Scott had been killed while evading authorities, and all they’d had was Morton’s word that he’d turned over everything. And while Noah understood the necessity of plea arrangements, this one seemed grossly circumspect. Six years? Hardly enough time for what he’d copped to doing—and there were dozens of other charges that had been dismissed. Lives had been on the line, but it seemed that the investigators had been desperate. And desperation breeds mistakes.

Morton had been released from federal custody and put on probation, the federal system’s concept of parole. The terms of his probation were rigid: he could not leave the state of Colorado, where he had secured a job with a cousin who owned an auto body shop outside Denver. He could not possess a firearm, enter any adult businesses such as strip clubs or sex shops, engage in any of his previous activities in legal or illegal pornography,
and could not communicate with any of his former associates or attempt to contact any of his victims. Any violation would have sent him straight back to prison.

Noah’s new partner on the case was Special Agent Abigail Resnick, a ten-year veteran of the Bureau who’d started in Washington but transferred to Atlanta five years ago. Abigail was in her mid-thirties, efficient, and moved into the cubicle next to Noah’s with authority. She seemed pleased to be back in D.C. She had a slight accent, but Noah didn’t think it was Southern—it had more of a hint of Boston.

Abigail hung up the phone at her temporary desk, where she’d already spread out, and spun around in her chair before leaning back with a wide grin. “So Morton flew from Denver International on the last flight out on January fifth, arriving at Dulles at five-forty a.m. the next day. According to his probation officer, Morton was required to meet every first and third Wednesday of the month and submit to inspections. The last time probation saw him was on the fifth at four-thirty in the afternoon.” She glanced up from her notes, her eyes sparkling. “My guess is he left the meeting and headed straight to the airport. He bought the ticket online same day using his cousin’s ID and credit card. The cousin swears he didn’t give Morton permission to do it.”

Noah shook his head. “Hard to prove he did, but we should send a pair of agents to shake the cousin and see what else falls out of his pockets.”

Abigail made a note. “Monica Guardino heads the white-collar crimes squad in Denver. She’s familiar with Morton’s probation and is headed now to his apartment.”

“Did Morton have a return flight?”

“
Nada
. One-way ticket, Denver to Dulles. No other reservations under his name or his cousin’s name. He could have picked up a fake ID here or in Denver.”

Had Morton planned on returning to Denver? Or was he planning to go underground? Why was he in D.C. in the first place? A temporary stop before leaving the country? Though he’d ostensibly turned over all his offshore accounts to the government, they’d have no surefire way of knowing. But why now and not when he was first released? Why wait six months?

“Hello?” Abigail said, knocking on her desktop. “You there, Armstrong?”

“Sorry, thinking.”

“Think out loud, buddy. We’re partners, right?” Her eyes widened as if in warning.

He was used to working alone, but Abigail had a point. “I was just wondering what he had planned in D.C., and whether this stop was permanent or a layover before fleeing the country.”

“He’d need a fake passport. His cousin doesn’t have a passport issued to him.”

“Not impossible,” Noah said. “Check the State Department and see if there is a pending application under the cousin’s name and social.”

“Got it.” Abigail made a note. “I read over the autopsy report again. Morton’s body was found at seven a.m. The coroner puts his time of death at eleven p.m. Friday night.”