Stolen Prey Read Online Free PDF Page B

place smelled like feminine underarm deodorant and carpet cleaner. A dozen employees were sitting in a low-walled cube farm, each with his or her own computer, but nobody was working. Instead, they’d pulled their chairs into groups of three and four, and were talking about the killings.
    A BCA agent named Jones was keeping an eye on them. He spotted Lucas at the door, and as the employees turned to watch, came over and said, “We’re talking to them one at a time. Not seeing much yet.”
    Lucas said, “Shaffer says they do Spanish-language software.”
    “Yeah. We already talked to the office manager. She said some of the sales are down in the Southwest, but most of them are south of the border—Mexico and Central America. They do some down in South America, Colombia and Venezuela.”
    “All drug countries,” Lucas said. “You think they’re running a money laundry?”
    “Can’t tell yet,” Jones said. “If it is, it’s not that big. They only did about two million in sales last year. Brooks took out about two hundred thousand, himself. They got a million-dollar payroll on top of that, they’re paying some stiff rent, they contract for the software, there’re taxes…. There’s not really much left over.”
    “Is there any way to verify the sales?” Lucas asked.
    “Not really, not if somebody wanted to tinker with the books. It’s all delivered online, there aren’t any physical deliveries.” Jones nodded at the office, and added, “We’ve got all of these people sitting here, they all say they get paid, we know they pay rent on the office space … It’d be a hell of a conspiracy.”
    “We’ve got a killing that looks like it’s dope-related, we’ve got people peddling untraceable software in Mexico. It’s gotta be here somewhere,” Lucas said.
    Jones shrugged. “You’re welcome to look. I’ll tell you one thing. If it’s a laundry, and they were stealing money, it wasn’t worth it.” Jones had been to the murder house and had seen the damage.
    “No, it wasn’t,” Lucas agreed.
    “So … Dick and Andi are in the back, doing the interviews,” Jones said. “You want to sit in?”
    “Maybe … but you’re done with the office manager?”
    “For the time being.”
    “Let me talk to her,” Lucas said.
    B ARBARA P HILLIPS was a heavyset blonde in her late forties or early fifties, with an elaborate hairdo, low-cut silky tan blouse,and seven-inch cleavage. She’d been crying, and had mascara running down her face, with wipe lines trailing off toward her ears. She’d been sitting in her office with two other employees when Jones stuck his head in: “We have another agent who’d like to chat with you,” he said to Phillips.
    She nodded and said, “You guys be careful,” to the other employees, and they all shook their heads and trooped out of the room. When Lucas stepped in, Phillips asked, “You think the killers are looking for us?”
    Lucas took a chair and said, “I doubt it … unless there’s some reason you think they might be.”
    “Mr. Chang, Agent Chang, said they thought maybe a Mexican drug gang did it. What does that have to do with us?”
    Lucas shrugged. “I don’t know. Can you think of anything at all?”
    Tears started running down her face, and she sniffed and wiped the tears away, and said, “Our business is with Mexicans. We
like
Mexicans. Half the people working here are Mexicans, or Panamanians.”
    “Liking Mexicans doesn’t mean much to these people, if they’re actually a drug gang,” Lucas said. “Most of the people they murder are Mexicans.”
    “Well, I don’t know,” she said, her voice rising almost to a wail.
    Lucas sat and watched her for a moment, and she gathered herself together and said, “Those poor kids. God, those poor kids. I just hope they didn’t suffer.”
    L UCAS DIDN’T know how to respond to that, given the truth of the matter, so he said, “Tell me one thing that would let thisbusiness…” He paused, then