Betray the Lie (A Sydney Rye Mystery, #11) Read online

  Laying it next to her glass of wine, I lean forward, so my shadow falls across her, and the space between us is suddenly narrow and intimate. She sucks in a breath, her eyes dilating. “I hope you call,” I say.

  She pulls that lower lip back under her teeth and nods just slightly. My fingers brush against hers in a brief goodbye, and I turn from the table. Her friends are all watching, and as my gaze lands on them they quickly turn away, pretending to be looking at the ground, or the sky…anywhere but me.

  I tip an imaginary hat at them as I pass, and they giggle in appreciation.

  Officer Consuela Sanchez does not strike me as a giggler. I’m guessing she is the kind of woman who laughs rarely and only in intimate settings. She’s got soft, sexy curves draped in a nice, though off the rack, navy suit. Her black hair, pulled tight to her scalp and twisted into a merciless bun, glimmers under the florescent bulbs.

  Take off the glasses, unwind the hair, remove the suit, and you’ve got a hot piece of ass. But here, under these lights, in this cramped office, with the scent of old coffee and carpet cleaner thick in the air, she’s a ball breaker. A woman in a man’s world who’s learned how to move, speak, and think in a way that keeps us at bay. And yet…when she smiles at me, her chocolate brown eyes soft behind those lenses, I want to help her. Take care of her.

  Instincts again.

  “Thanks for taking the time to see me.” She comes out from behind her desk, extending a well-manicured hand.

  Consuela Sanchez is petite, probably only about 5 feet 3 inches. A full foot taller and twice her width, I’m so much bigger and stronger it’s kind of amazing we are the same species. I take her hand, almost engulfing it in mine.

  Sanchez’s grip is firm, and she holds my gaze. “No problem, Ms. Sanchez,” I say as she lets go and steps back, gesturing to a wooden chair facing her desk. It creaks as I sit down.

  “I’m impressed by your work.” She takes her seat and looks to her computer screen. The blue glow turns her skin pale and sickly. I’d like to see her in the sun.

  “Thank you.”

  She sits back in her chair and it wheezes. “You want coffee, water, anything?”

  I shake my head and give her a professional smile. “I’m fine.” She nods, just watching me. “So,” I say, raising my brows. You called me here. “How can I help?” Her eyes narrow in thought—as if she’s assessing me. “I’m not sure what I can add—everything is in my reports.”

  “I’m old school,” she says. “My father worked a beat for thirty years, and he always taught me to go to the source, not the report. To talk to people.”

  “Sounds like he was a good cop.”

  “You were a cop in New York, right?”

  She knows the answer to that. I give her a half smile. “That’s true.”

  “Seems to me”—she gestures at her computer—“that you’re good at talking to people. Getting information. It’s amazing the details you got out of some of these guys. Why do you think they shared so much with you?”

  “They want to be me.” I keep my voice even, making sure it’s not a brag.

  Her brows shoot up. “Be you?”

  “Good looking, articulate, at ease. Not an outcast.”

  She smiles. “You get laid.”

  “That’s how they see me. And that’s very important to them.”

  “It’s important to most men.” She says it with an amused smile and doesn’t break eye contact.

  I laugh—she’s funny. And bold. “Yeah, I guess it is. Most women too, probably.”

  She shrugs. “Probably.” She gives a little laugh—it’s like a tinkling bell in a fog, and I want to dive into the mist to find it. Damn instincts.

  “There is one question I don’t feel got answered.” She leans forward, slipping off her jacket to reveal a short-sleeved silk blouse. It’s buttoned close to her neck, with a rounded collar. Her arms are toned but still soft, like she eats what she wants within reason and hits the gym, too. Disciplined but not neurotic. Draping the jacket on the back of her chair, she continues. “Where did the money come from?”

  “The money?”

  She twists back around, facing me again. “Yeah, where did Jack Robertson get the money to buy that nice a weapon? Then he catches a flight, last minute, that cost over $400.” She frowns, ticking off on her fingers. “The taxi to the hotel, the room at the hotel, his meals.” My shoulders tense with each item. “It adds up fast. That’s a lot of money for a guy working at a fast-food joint.”

  “The money was crowdsourced. That’s in my report.” There is a hint of annoyance in my tone, and I force a smile onto my face.

  “But who gave him the money?” She’s staring at me like it’s obvious.

  “Like I said, he crowdsourced it. All the donations were in cryptocurrency. The site he used doesn’t track its users. It’s been shut down.”

  “And popped up again,” Sanchez says, her frown deepening. “Nothing ever truly dies on the dark web.”

  “Maybe not, but we couldn’t trace any of the donations.”

  “So, then, the question remains. Where did it come from?”

  “My guess is other members of the community.” It seems pretty obvious to me.

  “We don’t even know how many people donated. Right?”

  “No.” I cross my legs, fidgeting in the hard wooden chair. How much longer is this going to take? “But the community is tight. They are active and”—I gesture at her computer and my report on it—“fired up. They don’t have anything to spend their money on but video games and rent. Half of them probably are living in their parents’ basements.”

  “What if it was just one source?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” I take a deep breath and release it slowly, calming myself.

  Sanchez leans back, her eyes going narrow again. “What if instead of the money coming from all these individual guys…what if there was just one source?”

  “Like what? One rich Incel?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “What if they’ve banded together with other criminal groups and are hiding it really well?”

  “Banded together? I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “What if the Incels and others are working together on criminal enterprises and raising funds to fuel terrorism?” She says it quietly, but I can tell this theory is her baby. Am I the first person she’s told?

  “I don’t think there is any evidence of that.” Sanchez purses her lips and leans forward, resting her forearms on the desk in front of the keyboard, eyes narrowing again in that way she has. Sanchez is trying to decide if she can trust me. Curiosity stirs in my gut. “What?” I ask. “You have evidence?”

  “You know Billy Ray Titus?”

  “He’s a very active Men’s Rights activist. Speaks around the world to Men’s Rights groups.” Titus is a weasel of a man in his early forties, with a hatred for women and a gift for gab that combine into one stirring speaker. He gives talks at conferences and gatherings—nothing big but always absurd.

  “Take a look at this.” Sanchez moves her mouse and clicks a few times before turning the monitor to me. On the screen is a surveillance photo: Billy Ray Titus, his ponytail fluttering in a breeze coming off the water behind him. He’s talking to a man I don’t recognize—tall guy, with blond hair and broad shoulders, wearing a leather jacket and looking like a thug. There are a few men on either side of them. I recognize a lanky redhead next to Billy Ray as an active Incel member: Nathan Jenkins, a known associate of Billy’s with adult acne and a permanent wrinkle to his face, as though he’s just smelled something bad. Easy to see why the guy can’t get laid.

  “That’s Ian McCain, do you know him?” Sanchez says, pointing to the thug talking to Billy Ray.

  I shake my head, keeping my eyes on the screen. “Should I?”

  “He’s an Irish national. Runs a sex-trafficking business with his two brothers. They’ve recently started dealing in Isis slaves.”

  My chest tightens
as I stare at the image, suddenly recognizing the railing at their elbows and body of water beyond it. They are in Istanbul, Turkey, standing on the promenade above the Bosporus. “You think Billy Ray is involved in some way?” I ask, turning to her.

  “Billy was in Istanbul for a conference when this photo was taken. Ian is often there—he has brothels all over the world.”

  “Who took the photo?” I ask. Sanchez shakes her head without making eye contact, reaching for her mouse again. She’s got sources. “So you think that Billy Ray is dealing in war slaves to fund his movement?”

  Sanchez nods. “Something like that.”

  I ease back into the chair, glancing at my watch. Jane should be calling soon. “I don’t know. That’s a big escalation.” I look back up at Sanchez, giving her a smile. “He strikes me as a man of big words but…dealing in female war slaves? That’s no joke.”

  “I don’t think Billy is dealing himself. I think he’s partnered with Ian and his brothers.”

  “What are the McCain brothers getting out of it, though?”

  “Customers.” She points to the screen, which displays a photo of Billy Ray entering a building, talking on the phone. “That’s an auction.”

  “I thought you said he wasn’t dealing.”

  “He made no purchases. But he sat next to Ian on his phone the whole time.”

  “So, he’s hooking up Incels with Isis sex slaves. That’s your theory.” She shrugs, sitting back in her chair, trying to look casual, but there is a muscle twitching in her jaw. “And he used the money from Ian’s organization to try to kill April Madden.” She doesn’t comment. Just narrows her eyes. “The shooter acted alone but with the support of his community.” Those were my findings. “There have been two other acts of terror attributed to Incel members.” I tick off a finger. “John Stanhope in Toronto killed two women and a man with his van.” I hold up a second finger. “And Mark Espie, in California, shot six people at a Victoria’s Secret. In both cases they left manifestos, but there was absolutely no evidence of a terrorist network. Just single white males with mental health issues.”

  Sanchez gives a brief nod. “I know. But what if Jack Robertson was hired, trained, and funded by Billy Ray Titus?”

  “Hey,” I say, throwing up my hands. “It’s your case now. You can do what you want with it. But I didn’t find any evidence of that.”

  She nods slowly, watching me. “Well, thanks for your time.”

  My phone vibrates, and I stand to leave, slipping it out of my pocket. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” I say, reaching out to offer my hand.

  Sanchez doesn’t stand. “Can I ask just one more thing?” I glance down at my phone and see it’s a local number. Probably Jane. “How long were you fucking Joy Humbolt before she killed the mayor of New York?”

  My eyes jump to Sanchez. Oh, fuck me. Her eyes are narrow and bright. She thinks she’s got me.

  I hold up my phone. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

  “Sit down.” Her voice is suddenly deep and commanding. I almost do it—instincts— but manage to stay upright.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sit down. We are not done here.” She leans forward, slowly rising. “I want to know everything you know about what happened in Syria last year.”

  I cock my head. “That’s all classified.”

  “Were you fucking Sydney Rye while there?”

  I give her a tight-lipped smile, looking down at her. I am bigger and stronger. “I don’t know where you get your information, but I’m not at liberty to talk about my assignment in Syria. Phelps told me to catch you up on the April Madden case. I’ve done that. So I’m gonna go.”

  “You don’t see a link? April Madden was in Syria. That’s where she was radicalized.”

  A sigh escapes as my phone goes silent. I missed Jane’s call. “What’s your clearance?” I ask.

  Sanchez turns to her computer again, bending over the keyboard. A tendril of hair escapes from her bun, curling around her face. She points to the screen. My report on Mission Impersota is there. She’s already read my findings.

  “Please,” she says. “Sit.”

  I sigh, returning to my seat. I’m not going to get to see Jane tonight. “You’ve read the report.”

  “A bold idea,” Sanchez says, settling into her own chair.

  “Not mine.”

  “I never met Director Leventhal. Did you enjoy working with her?”

  Mary Leventhal, my superior on Mission Impersota, came up with the idea of using Sydney Rye’s status as a hero to the Kurdish Peshmerga all-female fighting forces, to help us defeat Isis in the Iraqi-Syrian badlands. “She died honorably,” I say.

  Sanchez smiles, knowing that I’ve given her nothing. “You knew Sydney Rye aka Joy Humbolt in New York.” I nod, keeping my mouth shut. “No one thought the fact you’d dated the accused was a conflict of interest?” I don’t react, just sit there. Sanchez sits forward, picking up a pen and tumbling it over her fingers, looking off into the distance as if she’s deep in thought. “Did Director Leventhal know your history?” Her eyes land on me.

  “I’m sure that would be in her notes.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “No.” I don’t have clearance for that.

  “Did you know April Madden before this case? Did you meet her in Syria?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen the video of Sydney at the battle of Surama?”

  “Yes.” It went viral only weeks after the battle. Caught by Isis cameras and released by an unknown source, it shows Sydney Rye, Blue, and an entire pack of Kangal Mastiffs by her side, wreaking havoc and terrifying Isis soldiers.

  “Do you believe?”

  I raise my brows. “That she’s a miracle woman brought back from the dead by a prophet from God, sent to free women from the oppression of men?” Sanchez nods, and I can’t help the hiccup of a laugh that escapes. “Uh—no. Do you?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Do you think Sydney believes it?”

  “No.” I shift in my seat, crossing my legs again. “She’s not a believer.”

  “You know her intimately.”

  “I know if her mom believes it, she’s not going to.” I smirk. Mommy issues.

  Sanchez gives a quiet laugh. “Sounds like me and my mother.” She begins to play with the pen again. “What do you think of April Madden’s movement?”

  “Pretty harmless here, but a lot of violence sprung up in Syria and Iraq attributed to followers of the Her prophet.”

  “There was a suicide bombing in Saudi Arabia just last week that is being linked to the movement.”

  “Right, but April Madden is not preaching violence.”

  “Though the original prophet does.”

  “It’s not necessary here. We don’t live under Sharia law. This country protects women’s rights.”

  Sanchez lets out a huff of a laugh. “Right. It’s very different here.”

  “What? You don’t think so?”

  She shakes her head, sitting back in her chair. “No, it is. Very different. So, you don’t expect to see any violence from Her prophet followers on our shores?”

  “I’ve not been tasked with analyzing that risk.”

  “What does your gut say?”

  “We have a lot more to fear from the Incels.”

  “Yes,” Sanchez says. “But what if April Madden and her followers find out what they are up to? What if Joyful Justice finds out? What do you think will happen then?”

  My heart picks up its pace. “It could be a bloodbath.”

  She nods, her eyes bright. I’ve gotten her point. “What are your plans for your leave?” she asks, abruptly changing the subject.

  “Rest and relaxation,” I say.

  She leans forward, her chair creaking in protest. “Well, if you think of anything or”—she raises her brow—“make any connections, please let me know.”

  I give her a tight-lipped smile. “Sure.” I go to stand, and she foll
ows me to the door.

  “Have a safe trip home,” Sanchez says as I step into the hall. “Enjoy your time off.”

  “Good luck with the case.”

  She shrugs. “It’s not luck, Declan; it’s hard work and being at the right place at the right time.” She cocks her head. “Something you seem to be awfully good at.”

  She reaches out her hand again, and we shake. I keep a relaxed smile on my face until I’m at the elevator and then allow my lips to be pulled down into a deep frown—the heft of our conversation weighing on me.

  If the Incels are organized and allied with sex traffickers, and if followers of the Her prophet find out, we could have a literal war of the sexes on our hands instead of a figurative one.

  Chapter Seven

  Sydney

  I duck under Merl’s jab and shift left, going in for an uppercut, which he dodges, bringing his fist around for a body blow I spin away from, separating us by several feet. We bounce on the balls of our feet, smiling at each other.

  Merl’s shoulder-length dark curls are pulled back into a tight bun, and his brown eyes, with their ridiculously long and thick lashes, watch me closely as we circle each other. The toned muscles of his shoulders glisten with sweat and his red gloves shine in the fluorescent lights.

  We are training in Robert Maxim’s gym—a warehouse not far from his house that has everything an army would want for staying in shape.

  Our dogs wait for us outside the ring, sitting in a row—all six of them watching us intently. Merl has three Doberman Pinschers: his bitch, Lucy, a whip smart, quick, and dangerous beast; the largest dog, Michael; then Chula, the youngest—a son of his first Doberman, Thunder, who passed away a few years ago.

  My three mutts lounge next to the sleek black beasts, looking almost fluffy in comparison. Frank’s tongue is hanging out like the goofball he is, and I smirk as I catch a glimpse of him. He scoots forward and lets out a soft whine. Can I come play?

  Merl laughs, showing off his gap-toothed smile.