Dark Deeds Read online

  “It must have been horrible.” Becca resisted the urge to reach out and comfort with a touch of the hand. Her source still looked as if she might bolt at the slightest provocation.

  Selina’s lips pressed into a hard line, and a flash of warrior-like determination glinted in her eyes. “It was a fucking nightmare. But I got away. And then nobody believed me. Do you know what that’s like?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Becca said quietly. Inside, her heart rate spiked with memories. Years of repressing fear and anxiety, pleading with the authorities to listen to her story. Years of being dismissed. Just when she thought she’d moved past it, the horrible memories would pop up again. And now that the man who starred in her nightmares had been released on parole, those moments had occurred more frequently.

  Selina must have seen the truth in Becca’s face. She took a deep breath, then continued. “When they pulled the bag off my head, I was in a basement with no windows and barely any lighting. There was a row of cells...maybe four or five metal doors, side by side. They—” She broke off and put a hand to her opposite shoulder...the same one she’d been rubbing earlier. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “They branded me.”

  “Branded?”

  Selina traced a circle on the table. “With a hot iron. A symbol that I was theirs. Then they put me in a cell with nothing but a cot and a scratchy blanket. One guy tried to touch me, but the other guy stopped him. Said to save me for the clients. I’d bring in more money if I was pure.” Her laugh hitched in her throat. “The other guy said I was nowhere near pure. Assholes. Later, a third guy came to film me. I was so scared they were going to send it to my parents or something.”

  “What did they film?”

  “That’s just it...I wasn’t doing anything interesting. They encouraged me to plead with them, like they enjoyed seeing me begging for my life. It was bizarre.”

  An introduction to the merchandise, possibly? Something to show potential clients? No doubt, interest from buyers would have led to worse scenarios for Selina. Chills ran down Becca’s spine at the thought of what could have happened if the teen hadn’t escaped...and what had probably happened to many similar girls, maybe even Sam.

  “If Sam was a victim, do you think she could still be alive?” Becca asked. “Or maybe she escaped like you did?” And somehow didn’t find her way back home. If there was hope for Selina, perhaps there was hope for Sam, though she would be in her mid-thirties by now. She’d be an entirely different person than the daughter Damian remembered, but at least he’d have closure.

  “I don’t know. Part of me hopes she isn’t alive if she didn’t escape early on.” Selina’s eyes met Becca’s. “The things I’ve read online about human trafficking...these people have to be animals. Fucking monsters.” Selina glanced away to compose herself, but she couldn’t hide a shudder. “When they were taping me, the camera’s light was bright. It lit up the walls of my cell. There were names everywhere, like a warning or something. It didn’t matter what we did—or who we were before—now we were theirs.” Her hand moved to her arm again. They’d marked her as Circle property, but she’d reclaimed her life.

  Goosebumps erupted on Becca’s arms. Had Samantha’s name been on that wall? She’d been taken in Chicago. Would they have trafficked her through New York City, maybe to keep the authorities from locating her when Damian was putting the pressure on?

  “How did you get away?” Becca asked.

  For the first time, a small smile curved Selina’s lips. “I was lucky. I had a guardian angel who let me out. Told me to be quiet and follow him. The guard was passed out, snoring. I think my angel might have drugged him.” Selina’s gaze flitted away from Becca’s. “And don’t ask me any more about my angel because I don’t know. And I wouldn’t tell even if I did know. He took me to another man who helped me set up a new identity. He saved my life.”

  Someone in the Circle risked his life for this one young woman? It had to be an undercover agent. The Circle was known for a wide range of crimes in a number of big cities—New York, Chicago, Miami, Dallas, Las Vegas and Los Angeles were all infected with their influence. This man could be FBI, CIA, ICE or DEA. Or maybe he worked alone.

  “The police report says you couldn’t remember where you’d been held,” Becca said. “Or how you got out.”

  “That was for my own protection. I was stupid.”

  “How so?”

  “There never should have been a police report. The guy who helped me...my angel told me to forget everything I’d seen. To run like hell and start a new life. But I went home to get some things I thought I couldn’t live without...and to say goodbye to my parents. I told them what had happened, hoping they’d care.” She pressed her trembling lips together and looked away. “Stupid.”

  When Selina looked back, she’d wiped her expression of all emotion linked to the memory. “My parents called the police while I was up in my room. Just in case I wasn’t lying, I guess. Or maybe they wanted me admitted to the loony bin. I wasn’t home more than fifteen minutes before a cop was there, asking me questions. Almost like he’d been watching for me to pop up somewhere. That’s when I knew my angel was right. I should run.

  “I told the officer I couldn’t remember anything. As soon as I could, I snuck out my bedroom window and never looked back. Started a new life with my new identity.” She met Becca’s gaze. “Until you found me, I had become Selina. Now I’m back to dealing with the old me again.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “I thought I could keep in touch with a friend or two from high school, but I guess I should stop that, too.” Selina’s anger faded quickly. “If telling my story will save someone else from the Circle, I’m happy to help. But if you tracked me down via a police report and figured out how to get my email address, then the Circle can do it, too. Or the NYPD mole.”

  “Mole?” Becca was sure her eyes had gone as wide as the rims of their coffee cups. A mole working on the force was leaking vital information to a crime ring? It would explain why the police closed Selina’s case so quickly. And why the Circle had operated for decades, seemingly without interference from law enforcement. They were usually one step ahead of police raids. It made sense that they might have a reliable source of information within the NYPD. Besides, money could buy almost anything.

  But an undercover agent within the Circle and a police officer leaking information to the Circle? As this investigation proceeded, Becca would have her work cut out for her figuring out who was friend or foe.

  “My rescuer said that there was a cop who was dangerous and might kill me to keep me quiet. At the very least, I was afraid the Circle would come looking for me, especially if they thought I’d testify.”

  “Let me assure you, you’re difficult to find.”

  “And yet you found me.”

  “I’m very careful. I know my words might not be worth much, but I promise you can trust me. You call me and I’ll come running to help.” This time Becca did reach out to touch Selina’s wrist lightly. She was encouraged when Selina didn’t pull away.

  “But how can I help you?” Selina’s eyes brimmed with misery and regret. “I won’t put myself at risk again.”

  “Do you remember where you were held?”

  “I do.” Selina took a napkin from the dispenser. “Got a pen?”

  Becca promptly handed her one, and a moment later, Selina pushed the napkin toward her. She’d written down an address in Brooklyn. Below it was a name that froze the air in Becca’s lungs.

  “What’s this name at the bottom?” Becca asked, hoping her words sounded normal when she was nearly choking on them.

  “That’s the name of the mole. My angel warned me not to talk about it, but I figure you’d better know who you can or can’t trust.”

  “Diego Sandoval? You’re sure that’s the name your angel gave you? That’s the name of the guy working for the Circle, betraying the NYPD?” Becca’s stomach twisted.

  “No way I could forget it.”


  And there was no way Diego would sell out his brothers in blue. No freaking way.

  The Diego she’d known, the man she’d held in her arms, the proud NYPD detective who’d vowed to rebuild his career, would never accept bribes from a crime ring. Unless she’d never really known him at all.

  Friday, 3:12 p.m. Central Time

  Chicago

  Deathbed confessions were rarely light. Often, they were heavy, like “Jane is adopted.” Or “I stole that silver from Grandmother’s cabinet before my sister could get her grubby hands on it. It’s in the attic.” Where, over the past fifty years, the silver had probably served no purpose, denied the warmth of some relative’s fingers pulsing around it because of the dying person’s greed.

  Light wasn’t what he craved, anyway. Dark was more his speed. Dark was real.

  Which was why he had the woman in his basement.

  He tightened the noose around her neck, ignoring her whimpers and focusing on the thundering in his ears. Blood, adrenaline, endorphins—a cocktail that produced a natural high. And if it was natural, it was right.

  “What kind of name is Fanta, anyway?” he asked his victim. “Your mother had to have been a crack addict, too, to choose a god-awful name like that. Was she a whore like you?”

  The woman moaned a response. Probably because she couldn’t do anything else with duct tape across her mouth. Her mascara smeared as tears and snot ran down her face. He reached for a tissue and gently wiped the mess, then checked the bandage on her upper arm. The wound wouldn’t completely heal in time but the symbol he’d branded there was legible.

  “It’s not your fault. Destiny is predetermined by genetics, then shaped by environment. You were at a disadvantage in both areas.” He adjusted the chair she was strapped to, balancing it on two legs against the wall so that if she tried to shift, it would slide out from under her, the noose would engage, losing its bit of slack, and she’d be gone within minutes. No muss, no fuss.

  “You should be thankful.” He reached for his camera. “Nobody noticed you before, standing on that street corner. Not the real you. But now they will. Thanks to me. Your contribution to society will go down in history.”

  Her deathbed confession—that she was a drug addict and a prostitute, which he already knew, since he’d used both to lure her into his basement—was certainly no ray of sunshine. But her lifestyle ensured he could get what he wanted without repercussion.

  More important, it would prove his loyalty to Tony.

  He shifted the camera to the side so that he could look into eyes wide with surprise. “I’ve even written a glowing obituary for you. And once I talk to people at the church, you’ll be considered a victim of society, ignored and neglected. I’ll make sure you get a proper funeral.”

  Tears of gratitude streamed down her cheeks. Again, he dabbed at them around the duct tape.

  “It’ll be beautiful. The organist is a friend of mine. I’m sure she’ll donate her time. I bet I can even get a couple of choir people. Mother is a member of the ladies’ ministry. There’ll be casseroles and cakes. I’ll make sure people notice you. Understand you.” Nobody had given her a second look before...unless they’d been looking for a cheap quickie in the alley.

  He would make Fanta fabulous. He’d also satisfy his cravings and ensure Tony’s continued cooperation. Win-win-win.

  He snapped a few more pictures. “Now don’t you move, or this’ll be over too quick. Although, I do have to be kind of quick. I have places to be.”

  The airport, to be exact. He’d have to leave Mother alone for a day or two, but it would be worth it. He had a job to do.

  He grinned as anticipation fizzed in his blood, adding to the addictive natural mixture already pulsing through his body and making him lightheaded. It was the same kind of buzz he got pre-kill, though he was a man of caution and had restrained himself from killing as much as he would like. Nobody seemed to understand that burning need.

  Except for Damian Manchester and his agents. At the wedding this weekend, he would be among people who understood the necessity of death, the beauty of it. He strived to be like them, to channel his urges—his gift—to better society. This weekend, he’d be among the SSAM group, even if they didn’t know about him.

  Or what he did in his basement.

  In New York, he might even get a hint of what the SSAM agents’ consciences hid. Certainly not prostitution or drug addiction...but every conscience had burdens to bear.

  Chapter Two

  Friday, 7:08 p.m.

  Harlem, New York City

  Herrera got the drop on Diego just outside his Harlem apartment, stepping out of the stairwell to confront him as he slid his key into the first lock. This conversation had been building for months, so, without a word, Diego let the man follow him inside. Whatever Herrera had to say wasn’t something the neighbors needed to hear, anyway.

  “What’s the problem?” Diego read tension in every line of his fellow NYPD detective’s body.

  Herrera paced the small living room in short, jerky strides. Diego was seriously regretting his decision to wait until after the wedding rehearsal to change for the rehearsal party. If only he’d come in his tux, he could have driven in the rented luxury cars with the rest of the family and bridal parties. But he couldn’t stand wearing the monkey suit any longer than necessary, and he’d nearly been late because of work.

  Herrera was usually calm seas and smooth sailing. Now, he abruptly halted in his pattern and spun to face Diego, his large nostrils flaring with irritation. “What’s the problem? You’re giving guys like us—like me—a crap name.”

  Diego forced his jaw to unclench and his muscles to relax. “I doubt your ego is that soft.” He let his gaze drop to the man’s paunch and raised his eyebrows.

  And hated himself for it. He had to bite back the apology that sprung to his lips. This isn’t me, he wanted to explain. Of course, that wasn’t possible. It would endanger the mission.

  As was intended, Herrera backed away, disgusted and maybe a little hurt. “You’re walking a thin line, Diego. I get any hard proof of what I suspect you’re doing and I’ll have to go to the Lieutenant.”

  “I’d expect nothing less from such an upstanding detective.” His sarcasm only deepened Herrera’s scowl.

  Too bad. Even if Diego had been sloppy enough to leave behind hard evidence of working with the Circle, their lieutenant couldn’t do anything. Diego had assurance from higher up in the food chain that he’d be protected. Unfortunately, that didn’t keep Diego’s coworkers from wondering what the hell was wrong with him. Then again, that was the point.

  Didn’t make it hurt any less.

  “Good luck with finding that evidence.” Diego turned away, unable to make eye contact with Herrera any longer. Being a dirty cop twisted his insides into knots, but it was a necessary evil.

  “It’s only a matter of time. Your reports have been late, you’ve had a suck-ass attitude, nobody trusts you enough to ask for help with a case, and...well, we know what else.”

  “What else?”

  Herrera flicked a finger at Diego’s tux, where it hung from the back of his barstool. “You’ve been high-rollin’ it these days.” His mouth turned down at the edges. “Guess shiny and bright attracts guys like you. Got tired of slumming with the rest of us, huh?”

  Diego’s teeth ached with the effort of holding his tongue in check.

  Herrera blew out a breath. “Fuck, man. I know what you went through when your niece died. Losing her, especially that way, must have been hard. We all understood the fuck-up at the scene. You shouldn’t have been the one to discover her body in the first place.”

  Don’t go there. Attitude, he could use to his advantage. Accusations, he could withstand. But compassion? That made his knees buckle.

  Diego laughed shortly to cover the moment of weakness. “I came to terms with my mistakes. And I learned who I really am, and who I want to be. As for the rest, you have no proof.”

  Herrera
’s mouth twisted in disgust. “I thought I could talk to you, man to man. Detective to detective.”

  “A man has to choose whatever path is right for him, and live with the consequences.” Diego shrugged as if he’d made peace with that, when in reality he struggled with it daily.

  Herrera growled in frustration and turned on his heel. The apartment door shut with a snap behind him.

  Diego looked to the ceiling and prayed for patience. He’d done a lot of that these past few months. It went against his nature not to defend his honor. But Herrera lying in wait on a Friday night didn’t bode well. Or maybe it did. It fell in line with Diego’s cover. But didn’t work so great for his day job—or his daily life, for that matter. Lying to everyone had been hard as hell. The only saving grace was knowing what he did was for a higher purpose.

  At least Herrera had approached him before the party. Diego wanted to keep this filth away from his friend’s wedding. Noah was like a brother to him, and deserved happiness, as did his bride Vanessa.

  As did Becca.

  His heart sped as he thought about seeing her again, even as his brain told him it was a bad idea. His life was enough of a mess. He didn’t need to drag her into it again. She’d proven she didn’t want to be involved. And she definitely wouldn’t want a man who was working with the other side. He wanted to be a good guy. He wanted to be the best guy.

  But, for now, it meant working with the bad guys.

  He hurried to change into his tux for the fancy post-rehearsal party. On the counter, his phone vibrated with an incoming text message.

  Shipment. Saturday, 6 a.m.

  Tonight, he’d be friend, brother and best man. Tomorrow morning, he’d be the bad guy again.

  Friday, 8:42 p.m.

  Chelsea district, New York City

  A posh art gallery served as a backdrop for the post-rehearsal gathering. Diego’s large Puerto Rican family would have set up a buffet in someone’s home and had a loud, boisterous affair with plenty to eat. The Sandovals didn’t do subtle. The bride’s family, on the other hand, consisted of blue-blood, old-money New Yorkers. So, elegance, neck-choking ties and tiny appetizers were the norm. At least there was an open bar.