Resident Evil 6: together #Piersherry

Chapter 19

"So, Irena," Piers leaned closer and lowered his voice to a husky drawl, "is there someplace we can be alone?"

"That is not allowed." For a moment she met his gaze, and he saw himself through her eyes-just another old man who wanted to get between her legs.

He was used to that look. He'd seen it too many times in too many places from too many girls just like her. But he didn't really want her at all. He wanted the man who had betrayed her, the man who was using her, the man who held her leash.

On Monday morning, Sherry hit the newsroom feeling rested and refocused. She'd put the shooting into perspective, gotten Piers Nivans out of her mind, and put together a clear plan of action. She checked her messages, made an appointment for tomorrow morning with Chief Irving and the leader of the gang taskforce, then headed to the I-Team meeting.

"I had a productive afternoon on Friday," she said, omitting the fact that she'd spent a good part of it in jail. She hadn't yet figured out how she was going to tell Tom. "I found evidence of gang activity in the neighborhood-both witnesses and graffiti. I also found neighbors who claimed to have seen the car and the victim at one point or another. I've asked for a year's worth of gang-related police reports, as well as all correspondence between Denver's gang taskforce and the Los Angeles police. I'd like to have a news feature by Wednesday."

Tom nodded, then picked up a piece of paper and slid it across the conference table. "Care to explain this? A source in sheriff's records faxed it to me this morning."

Her arrest mug shot.

Sherry's pulse tripped. She met Tom's gaze, smiled. "I found what one witness thought was the victim's home and was arrested for going under the yellow tape. Chief Irving personally tossed the charges and apologized."

"He damned well better have." Tom leaned back, watched her coolly. "Any reason you didn't tell me?"

"If they hadn't let me out, you'd have been the first person I called."

Joaquin picked up the piece of paper, a grin tugging at his lips. "Nice shot."

Tom moved on. "James, what's the latest on Rocky Flats?"

But Sherry knew she hadn't heard the last of it.

"Her name was Maria Conchita Ruiz, age sixteen." Dyson sounded tired. He was in his late sixties now, beyond retirement age and deserving of some rest. Still, he kept going. Piers admired the hell out of him. "We got a positive ID from the Mexican consulate ten minutes ago. Mexican authorities say she disappeared on her wayhome from her maquiladora job in Ciudad Judrez."

Piers read through the report Dyson had just faxed over.

'That fits his pattern. His coyotes bring them across near El Paso, then divvy them up along the way, using truck stops, cheap hotels, and rest stops as transit points."

Human contraband was the easiest to conceal. Once controlled through threats, drugs, and violence, it could be hidden in plain sight.

"I sent Margaux up to Longmont to check out reports of underage girls working in a massage parlor there. The town has a large Hispanic population with a lot of undocumented agricultural labor. Could be Burien's taking advantage of that. She doesn't think so, and she knows him better than anyone except you. But the U.S. attorney's office has gotten several tips, so it seemed worth a look-see. Anything to report on your end?"

"I'm up to forty-seven suspected Johns. We start questioning them today."

Piers didn't mention Lonnie Zoryo or his extracurricular activities at Pasha's. He hated keeping Dyson in the dark, but he'd-suspected for some time that Burien had a mole at HQ. It was the only way to explain how the bastard had managed to remain one step ahead of him for so many years. He couldn't imagine it was Dyson--the very idea was unthinkable-but rather someone who worked in the same office. Until he knew who it was, he would keep some of his cards hidden.

"Heard you had a bit of trouble with a journalist."

Margaux's big mouth.

"One of the witnesses happened to be a journalist. I handled it."

Yeah, you handled it, all right, Nivans. You handled her, and now you can't get her off your mind.

"Good. I want this guy, Piers. I want his balls stuffed and hanging on my wall by Christmas. Let's get him and go home."

"I'm with you."

Piers hung up, read through the report again. He'd gotten the results of toxicology yesterday. Forensics had done all they could, giving Piers as complete a picture as he'd ever have of the victim's last hours. Combined with the evidence they'd taken from the basement apartment, it would lead him to the men who had imprisoned her-and hopefully to Burien.

Cause of death had been nine fatal shots to the torso-that much had been obvious. What hadn't been obvious was the heroin in her system and the track marks on her arms. Or the array of bruises on her body. Or the semen inside her that had come from seven distinct sources of DNA. Or the restraint marks around her wrists where she'd recently been bound.

Maria Conchita Ruiz had been born free and had died a slave.

You could havesaved her.

It was the truth. Piers might have raided the place, put an end to what he knew was going on there, freed Maria and the other three girls. But he'd done his job)-and waited. And while he'd been waiting for one of Burien's higher-ups to visit the girls and lead him back to his boss, Maria had found the strength to run.

Piers had made the opposite choice last time, busting down the door and charging in, guns blazing, to save a carload of kidnapped teenage girls from a similar hell. They had survived and gone home to their families, but Burien had escaped, his thugs wounding Margaux and killing two agents in the process.

Piers still struggled to live with that choice. Now he would have to live with this one.

He set the report down on his desk, then walked toward the shower, still sweating from his workout-aikido and weights. He'd slept late, having stayed at Pasha's until two a.m., talking with Irena and making headway with the bartender, an idiot named Chet who liked to brag about the number of strippers who'd danced on his dick. Piers had pretended to envy him while tossing back shots. Then he'd staggered out the door in a feigned drunk and headed off down the street to his truck, making certain he wasn't being followed.

He hadn't cracked the place, but he was making progress.

Tomorrow, he'd take his first look at what the surveillance cameras had picked up. But today he was going to pay a few upstanding members of the community a visit-and confront them about the way they spent their free time and their extra cash. Then he would check on Sherry and make certain she was keeping out of trouble.

Keep her alive, Nivans.

How the hell had she become his problem?

He stripped off his sweatpants, turned on the water, and stepped under the spray.

Sherry sat on the median in the middle of Speer Boulevard and watched a homeless beggar who said his name was Arthur work the line of cars stuck at the red light. Most of the drivers, on their way to lucrative jobs downtown, ignored him. Others rolled down their windows, passed dollar bills to him, and were rewarded with one of his nearly toothless grins and the words "God bless!"

• Arrest Records

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She'd been interviewing him for about half an hour, the rhythm of their conversation dictated by the color of the traffic light. He smelled strongly of alcohol and had the restless edge of someone who'd lived most of his life on the street. Dressed in a dirty green army coat and tattered jeans, he held a cardboard sign that read, "Vietnam vet. Anything helps."