The Trap (Agent Dallas 3) (9 page)

“Oh shit. I’m so sorry.” Dallas handed him the bottle of tequila. “I suppose you have guilt about that.”

“Of course.” He took a long drink, wiped his mouth, and handed the bottle back. “I lost Robert too, an ex-con and dear friend who believed in me and gave me a new start.”

“How old was he?”

“Fifty-seven. Lung cancer, the leading cause of death for black men over fifty-five.”

“I’m sorry about him too.” Dallas took a sip of tequila, feeling guilty about probing him for intel when he was clearly grieving. But it was her job. “Do you ever think about the judge who sentenced you?”

“Not really. I used to when I was still inside, and I checked up on him when I first got out, but not now.”

Because he’d killed him and it was over?
“Did you ever fantasize about getting revenge? I would have.”

“Sometimes.” Luke downed half his beer and stared out into the dark yard. “My biggest loss is my son. I’ve never even met him. But I hope to when he’s older and he can choose to see me.”

Unless she put Luke in prison for life.
An unexpected stab of guilt. “How old is your boy?”

“Twelve. My girlfriend was pregnant when I got arrested, only I didn’t know until much later.”

She rubbed his shoulder. “Boy, you are in a funk tonight. What can we do about that?”

“A little more tequila and I’ll just go in and pass out.” He took another sip.

Dallas leaned her head against his shoulder. “Stay out here with me for a while. It’s a lovely evening.”

He kissed her forehead. “It’s definitely getting better.”

They sat quietly for a moment, and Dallas scrambled to find a segue into a financial discussion. “This is such a great place. How did you find it?”

“I know the owner. She’s the mother of a man I shared a cell with. We have a connection now.”

“You make those easily, don’t you?” She touched his hair.

“Sometimes.” Luke’s voice was quiet. “Charlie was mentally ill, and I tried to protect him from the guards’ abuse. That’s why I ended up doing all ten years, long stretches in solitude, and no time off for good behavior.”

“That’s admirable.” Dallas meant it. She respected people with the courage to stand up for the less fortunate. She sipped her beer. “What happened to Charlie?”

Luke put his face in his hands. “I can’t talk about it.”

“I’m glad his mother lets us all live here.”
Was she the orchestrator of the inner circle?
“Does Charlie’s mother know about the missions?”

“Not really. Hana knows our goals, but not how we achieve them.”

Dallas lightly stroked his arm. “But she pays for everything?”

“Oh no. We have an anonymous donor who makes it possible for us to focus full-time on the mission.”

“Oooh, a mystery donor. That’s intriguing.” She smiled at Luke.

“More like a mystery miracle.” Luke suddenly pressed his mouth into hers, a deep probing kiss that made her want to climb on his lap. Dallas resisted the urge.

The front door banged open, and they pulled apart.

Abby yelled, “I thought you wanted to end the drama, put everyone on equal footing.” She stomped over and locked eyes on Luke. “This is bullshit.”

Dallas stood to go in, not wanting to cause Abby any more pain. “Good night.”

She walked away, but Abby came after her. As Dallas stopped to open the door, Abby whispered from behind. “Stay away from Luke or you may end up like Treck.”

Sunday, Oct. 5, 5:45 p.m.

Jocelyn pulled into the small rundown complex and cursed at the lack of parking. Someone had taken the space in front of unit three, which had been listed on the victim’s driver’s license. She backed out onto the street and found a space a block away. Clouds had rolled in and cooled the air, so she buttoned her hip-length work jacket as she approached the apartment. Music and voices came through the door of unit three, and a couple argued in an apartment upstairs. The builder hadn’t invested any money in sound cushioning. Who was in the victim’s apartment? Family? A boyfriend? Or Sherry’s pimp? The weight of the Glock at her side comforted her. Jocelyn knocked loudly.

A shuffling noise inside, as if things were being moved. Finally, the door opened halfway, and a big man in his late twenties looked her over. “Who are you?”

“Detective Larson, MPD. Who are you?”

“Darrell. Why?”

She’d come to expect evasiveness and just worked around it. “How do you know Sherry Jones?”

“I don’t know who you’ talking about.”

Jocelyn reached in her pocket for the victim’s license and showed it to him. “Does she live here?”

“No.”

“Her license says she does.”

“Must have been a while back.”

“Do you know this woman?”

“No.” His face gave nothing away.

Teeth clenched, she demanded, “Let me see your rental agreement.”

“Why?”

“Because Sherry Jones is dead, and this is the only address I have for her. If you can prove she doesn’t live here, I won’t have to come back with a search warrant.”

A younger woman pulled the door open wide and mouthed off. “We’ve been here six months, and there ain’t no Sherry. Leave us alone!” The renter slammed the door.

Jocelyn ground her teeth, not caring about the damage. She resisted the urge to barge in, cuff the mouthy little twit, and arrest her for obstruction of justice—because she didn’t have time for it. The reality was that the victim had moved, and she still had to find Jones’ home and her people. Otherwise, this case would be a dead end. No cell phone, no neighbors to question, no boyfriend to suspect. How the hell was she supposed to investigate?

It started to sprinkle on the walk back to her car. Jocelyn cursed and picked up her pace, refusing to run, which made her boobs hurt. In the car, she reached for her vapor device and inhaled some caramel-flavored nicotine. Someday, she would give it up too, but for now, it beat the hell out of cigarettes. She stuffed the vape back in the glove box, checked the time, and pulled out into the street. So far, she couldn’t reach the victim’s contacts, the crime scene techs hadn’t sent any new information, and trying to access phone or financial information on a Sunday night was pointless. So she would have a quick dinner at her favorite Chinese restaurant, then attend her Sunday night class as planned. After pulling a weekend shift, she felt entitled.

In a low-lit room that had once been a textile factory, Jocelyn turned her rod slowly with one hand, a propane torch in the other. The damn pendant she was making was lopsided, and the blue and orange colors were running together into an ugly brown. But she wasn’t ready to label the glass-blowing workshop as another failed hobby. She could do this—she just had to give it time. First, she had signed up for bowling, but she’d been too inconsistent for her teammates. After that, she’d joined a choir because she loved to sing. But the leader’s bitchiness had quickly sent her on her way. Jocelyn had no patience for short-tempered divas. But she loved working with the heat of the blowtorch and the pliability of the glass. Even better, she didn’t have to impress anyone or get along with her peers. Which rather defeated the purpose. The point of the extracurricular activities was to get out of her now-empty house and spend time with other people besides cops and criminals. She thought about the guy sitting next to her. Toby. Too young, but he had talked to her earlier, and at this point in her life, that was exciting.

Her cell rang on the worktable, where she’d laid it so she wouldn’t miss a call. A 703 area code, Northern, Virginia. The number the victim had listed as her emergency contact the last time she’d been booked into jail. Jocelyn shut off the torch, set down the rod, and walked toward the door. “Detective Larson, MPD.” She pushed outside the metal building, wishing she had a cigarette. Her vapor device was in the car.

“Why’d you call me? Is this about Sherry?” The caller’s voice was southern and anxious.

“Is this Shonelle Jones?”

“Yes, why?”

“Sherry used your name and number as her emergency contact. Are you her mother?”

“Yes.”

Jocelyn hated this part, but at least it wasn’t up close and personal this time. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

Silence.

“Sherry was murdered several days ago. Do you know who might want her dead?” Jocelyn’s strategy was to jump right into asking questions, so the woman wouldn’t have time to break down until after the call.

“Oh sweet Jesus.” Mrs. Jones let out a long moan. “I told her to quit whoring around, that she’d end up kilt.”

“Did Sherry have a pimp?”

“How would I know? We haven’t talked since Easter, and we sure didn’t discuss the particulars of her job.” Her voice quivered, but she held on.

“Do you know any of Sherry’s friends? I need someone to identify her.”

“Her cousin lives in DC too. Sherry’s been stayin’ with her.”

“Give me her name, phone number, and address, please. And where she works.”

“Kaylin Parshelle. Just a sec while I find the rest.”

Mrs. Jones fumbled with her phone and rattled some paper before finally relaying the information. Jocelyn offered her condolences and hung up. A lead, finally. Too bad it was eight o’clock on Sunday night. At least she’d notified the next of kin. The rest could wait for the morning.

When the alarm woke her, she reached over to shake her husband, who never heard the buzzing until the third or fourth ring. But his side of the bed was empty—because she’d asked him to move out. What a strange, sad day that had been.

Jocelyn headed straight for the shower, starting with tepid water to shock her into full consciousness. Technically, it was her day off, after working the weekend. But with a tough murder case, waiting another twenty-four hours would only make it more challenging. And as far as she knew, her partner was still sick and not likely to be much help.

She dressed in dark comfortable slacks and a light-colored blouse, like always, then had oatmeal for breakfast, another lifetime habit. What made her morning routine different from most other women her age was the weapon strapped to her side. What made her different from most other officers was that she looked forward to the day she didn’t have to wear it.

She stopped at the District One building on M Street to check in with Sergeant Murphy, check her voicemails, and see if her partner had made it to work. He hadn’t. She tried not to envy his case of the flu. This investigation wasn’t that bad. No one from the forensics department had called either. Jocelyn headed back out, hoping to catch Kaylin Parshelle at her workplace that morning.

The coffee shop was near the American University, a tedious drive north, and by the time she arrived, the early-morning rush was over. At the counter, a thirty-something woman picked up empty plates. She had light-brown skin and reddish-blond hair, an unusual combination.

“I need to talk to Kaylin Parshelle.”

The waitress’ eyes tightened with distrust. “That’s me. What do you want? I’m working.”

Jocelyn showed her badge. “Do you know Sherry Jones?”

The woman’s tightened with worry. “She’s my cousin, but I haven’t seen her in a few days. Is she in trouble?”

A man at the counter got up to leave, and Parshelle thanked him.

“Can we go somewhere private?” Jocelyn asked.

“This is gonna be bad.” The cousin let out a long sigh. “Just tell me.”

“Sherry was murdered. Can you help me identify her?”

Parshelle blinked and pressed her lips together, fighting for control. “If I have to. Let me tell my boss.”

“I’ll drive you to the morgue, and we can talk on the way.”

What little she’d learned gave her no help in pinpointing who’d killed Sherry. The victim’s life had gone astray at twenty when she’d moved into the city and got involved with a thug, who’d pushed her into prostitution. According to her cousin, Sherry had cycled in and out of the lifestyle and jail, but no longer had a pimp.

They drove to the new Consolidated Forensic Laboratory, where the medical examiners had moved recently to share space with the evidence-processing technicians. Typically, family members made identifications through headshot photos only, but because the victim had been shot in the face, Jocelyn requested to view pictures of her body as well. The assistant at the ID desk clicked her keyboard, waited for the files to load, then turned the monitor toward them.

Four images lined up on the screen, the first one a close-up of the victim’s face. “You can click on any photo to enlarge it,” the assistant said, nonchalant.

Parshelle sucked in her breath.

Jocelyn had a pang of sympathy for the cousin. The headshots were gruesome, and no one wanted to look at a dead relative’s naked body.

“I don’t—” Parshelle stopped, grabbed the mouse, and enlarged a photo of the victim’s torso. “That’s not my cousin. This girl is too pale, and her boobs are different sizes. Sherry was flawless.”

Monday, Oct. 6, 8:30 a.m.

Dallas pulled her hair into a ponytail-knot and slipped on her athletic shoes. She couldn’t wait to get out of the house. They were only going out to do some local rock climbing, but she was eager. Forty-eight hours at the remote farmhouse had made her stir-crazy. No opportunities for spying had emerged, and she’d learned no new details about their plans. Luke was keeping quiet about the next mission. She’d spent time writing and posting a political blog and editing a Word manuscript the bureau had provided as part of her ghostwriter cover. But it wasn’t her thing.

She had also failed to contact Drager on the drive back Saturday. Luke hadn’t wanted to stop, claiming that every time the van was spotted in the area it increased their risk. She didn’t know how long they would monitor her communications, so she couldn’t risk texting or emailing either. Dallas had never been so isolated from a contact agent on any undercover assignment. Even at the survivalist community she’d infiltrated, she’d been able to send email. She hoped for an opportunity today. Once they were out in the wilderness area, she might be able to wander away from the group for a minute and send a quick text. Or better yet, find a spot to make a call. Contacting Drager from her personal phone wasn’t protocol, but without her burner phone, she had no choice. He would worry if she didn’t check in and might raid the farmhouse too early, blowing their chance for a major takedown. If she had to, she could always reset the phone later to clear the data.