The two properties in question are owned by different entities, but run by the same property management company out of San Antonio as I forwarded yesterday. Direct Property Holdings—DPH—has no identifiable employees, but I’ve sent a request to access tax records. DPH is owned by Direct Business Management registered in Reno, Nevada; I’ve requested the corporate filings from Nevada but based on what I’ve learned so far, I suspect that there will not be any individuals listed on those records.
I have, however, backtraced seven additional properties managed by DPH that are within a hundred-mile radius of the Freer property. There may be more, and I will continue to work this angle. The list is attached. I will trace these companies as far as I can, but I’ve seen this before and it’s far out of my skill set. I would like to bring this to the attention of our White Collar Crimes Division who may have additional insight into how this is set up and how the operational tree is organized. However, because this is a highly sensitive issue I wanted your approval first, and if there was a specific person I should discuss this with.
I’ve begun the search of all individuals in the photographs you forwarded. It’ll take some time. The brothel pays under the table, so I have no employment records. I’ll forward positive identifications as I receive them. The first is attached: Leo Musgrove. He has a record and was easy to find.
Lucy looked at the list of addresses. Two were in the Laredo area. One was in Del Rio. It was familiar. She started flipping through her notes.
“It’s the same place,” Noah said.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re looking at the list of addresses. I already confirmed that the Del Rio address is the brothel that Barrow investigated. There are three in the San Antonio area, and Nate and Kenzie are going to check them out today if they get a break in their current caseload; otherwise we’ll check on them tomorrow. In the meantime I’ve asked Rick to smooth over some ruffled feathers.”
Lucy couldn’t imagine what she’d done that upset anyone.
Noah laughed. “It’s not you. Jeez, Luce, do you always think you’re the one making waves?”
“Lately,” she said.
“This time, it’s me, and I’m not going to apologize. I don’t have to—I’m not going to be in San Antonio forever. You know Dean Hooper, right?”
“Heard of him, never met him.”
“He’s pretty tight with the Rogans and with Rick,” he said. “He’s also the former assistant director of White Collar Crimes at national headquarters. He took a demotion, of sorts, into an ASAC position in Sacramento after he got married, but still consults with DC because he’s the foremost expert we have in financial crimes. He’s sharp, and we need sharp on this.” He hesitated. “You know how I feel about bringing in civilian consultants.”
“I wouldn’t ask. And Sean respects ASAC Hooper tremendously, from what he’s told me.”
“I already asked Rick if I could bring in Sean if needed. I’ll talk to Sean tonight, because Dean already asked if he could use him locally. Our San Antonio office just isn’t as advanced in white-collar issues as we are in the other divisions.”
“Sean is out of town for the next two to three days.”
“Business?”
“A friend asked him to find her husband and son, who disappeared while on a working vacation in Acapulco.” She hesitated, then added, “Kane went with him.”
“You sound worried.”
“Sean wouldn’t have left if it wasn’t serious.” He’d been worried about her last night; she’d sensed it the minute she walked in. She must have looked like death warmed over. She did her best to show him that she was all right. And she was … she’d miss him, but she was a big girl. She needed to learn to decompress on her own. Lucy internalized her cases, and it sometimes got to her, resulting in little sleep and long nights. She found it both beneficial and terrifying that she often understood killers, that she could get inside their heads and emotionally dissect them. Sometimes, that was the only way to stop them.
But it took its toll. Insomnia, poor eating habits, lack of emotion—Lucy could psychoanalyze herself until the cows came home, she understood her defenses, but that didn’t help when she found herself alone and thinking too much about her cases.
Her last partner, Barry Crawford, had told her she didn’t know how to turn off the job. This was true. Sean could do it for her. He would take her hand, smile, and know exactly what to say or do to shut it down. Whether it was a quiet night at home, a dinner out at their favorite restaurant, or inviting friends over for a game of poker, Sean had this uncanny way of knowing exactly what she needed and when.
She was spoiled. She was going to miss him the next few days.
A phone rang in the backseat. Siobhan answered it. “No, that’s not necessary. I’m serious—I’m with Lucy and another agent … Don’t. I’m fine … I promise. One problem, I’ll call … I said I promise … And you know what? Next time Kane wants to know how I’m doing, have him call me direct.”
Siobhan pocketed her phone. “Impossible,” she muttered.