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Sean drove to the east side, the most depressed part of D.C., with his notes on known Morton and Scott associates who lived in the greater D.C. area. Their criminal enterprise had lasted nearly two decades, and while several of their associates were dead or in prison—and a few appeared to have cleaned up their act—most were still criminals ranging from petty to Mafia.
He had time to hit at least one today. Because she was the easiest to track down, he chose the lone female on the list.
Former prostitute Melinda Winslow had been released from prison six months ago after serving three years for possession of heroin with the intent to sell. It was her fourth conviction in eleven years. According to the information Jayne sent to Sean, she’d been a regular “star” at Trask Enterprises. When Trask closed up after Scott and Morton went underground following the murder of federal agent Paige Henshaw—Kate Donovan’s partner—Winslow lost control of her addiction and had spiraled farther downward.
When she answered the door of her hovel, Sean nearly left, certain he had the wrong person. Melinda Winslow was thirty-six; this woman looked fifty on a good day.
It was not a good day. If drugs didn’t kill you outright, they certainly sucked the life out of you.
“Well, fuck me, you pricks can waltz in here whenever you fucking please? Pig.”
“Hello, Ms. Winslow,” Sean said, mildly amused. “I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Like I can? Last time one of you tossed me back in jail because I wouldn’t give you a blow job, and fuck that.”
She thought he was a cop, and Sean did nothing to dissuade her. He didn’t always see eye-to-eye with law enforcement. Some cops were just fine; others were too black-and-white for his taste. And some were, as Ms. Winslow so ungraciously stated, simply pricks.
“I don’t want to see you back in jail.”
She snorted, then rubbed her wet nose with the back of her hand. Sean wouldn’t be touching her or anything in her filthy apartment.
“I have only a couple questions, like I said. May I?”
“Like you need to ask.” She flung the door open, knocking a teetering stack of yellowed tabloid newspapers off a sagging bookshelf. She didn’t seem to notice, stepping over the fallen rags.
Sean stepped in, keeping his hands to himself. “You had a business relationship eleven years ago with two men—Adam Scott, also known as ‘Trask,’ and Roger Morton.”
At the mention of the names, her pasty face paled even more, then she thrust her chin out. “I haven’t seen them. Trask is dead, I heard. Roger in prison. I wouldn’t talk to him if he were the last john on the planet.”
“You were an employee of Trask Enterprises, correct?”
She cackled. “Employee. You know what I was. They paid me for sex tapes. It was legal, all legal—at least on my end it was.”
Sean highly doubted she reported her income to the Internal Revenue Service, but he didn’t say anything.
“I didn’t know what they were doing on the side. I fucking swear to God.”
“You associated with them for how long?”
“A few months. And then—a few times here and there when I needed the money. They paid more for hard-core action. But—shit, Trask nearly killed me once while getting off. Roger gave me two g’s to keep silent. Told me I was lucky I wasn’t dead, and not to come back or call. I didn’t. That was years ago. I went to jail after that, in Minnesota, for drugs. Cleaned myself up.” She nodded in pride. Sean noted the plethora of empty wine jugs around the apartment, and the stale smell of human body odor and spilled alcohol. Maybe she didn’t shoot heroin anymore, but she was still slowly killing herself.
“Did Roger contact you within the last six months?” he asked.
“No. And if he tried, I’d tell him to go to Hell.” She glared at Sean. “I thought he was in prison.”
“Yes, ma’am, he was. He was released on probation in July.”
She laughed, a hearty laugh, and Sean saw for a brief moment that she had once been a beautiful woman. “Probation? After the shit he did? I got three fucking years for drug possession, and he got what? Five? Ten? For prostitution, murder, drugs, and fuck knows what else.”
She pulled down the collar of her T-shirt, revealing her neck. “See this scar?”
Sean saw a two-inch scar at the base of her throat. His jaw tightened as his protective instincts surged.
“Roger did that to you?”
She shook her head and let go of her collar. “Trask. I thought I was dead. But Roger watched and then later he paid me. I heard they made a fortune on that tape of Trask fucking me. Roger did everything for that bastard. We all knew Trask was a psycho, and Roger covered for him. So why’d he get out?”
“Because the justice system is fucked.”
