The Chaos Kind (John Rain #11)(4)

Before being trafficked to America at thirteen with her little sister, Nason, and then being serially abused by Fred Lone, the wealthy Llewellyn town father who had “rescued” her, Livia had grown up in the forests of Thailand’s Chiang Rai province. She was ethnic Lahu, not Thai, but the difference wasn’t relevant to Diaz’s point. Beyond which, Livia didn’t talk about her childhood.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“No, really. And you’d be a good-looking couple, too, if he weren’t married. Pretty and petite . . . I heard that’s Jorge’s speed.”

“I’m serious.”

Diaz dropped her head. “I’m working on it, okay?”

Livia looked at her. At a glance, Diaz would have been easy to underestimate. She was on the shorter side, with jet-black hair and a beautiful face, and though she was thirty-two, in casual clothes or a gi she could have passed for a college student. But when she put on a suit and heels for court, she radiated competence, focus, and smarts. She was known for her dedication to her work. But Livia knew it went deeper than that. Alcoholics needed to attend meetings. People like Diaz needed to put predators behind bars. Just as Livia sometimes needed to put them in the ground.

Livia had taken all the psych classes in college and understood that being a cop, and punishing rapists, whether through the law or on her own, was all just sublimation, a primitive part of her mind trying to propitiate her guilt over having failed to protect Nason. Over having inadvertently doomed her. Trauma never went away. You could try to block it, or bury it, or bludgeon it into submission. But something with that much power couldn’t really be contained. The best you could hope for was a way to channel it.

So Livia could guess at what was behind Diaz’s choice of career, and her bravery in bringing cases against rapists no matter what, and her attraction to jiu-jitsu and simultaneous discomfort rolling with men. But Livia respected Diaz’s secrets, as she insisted on keeping her own.

Livia smacked her on the leg and Diaz looked up. “Hey. I wouldn’t push if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

“I know. I’m just not very . . . confident on the mat.”

“Were you confident the first time you argued in front of a judge?”

Diaz laughed. “I almost puked.”

“But now?”

“Well, I still almost puke. But only before. Never during.”

Livia laughed, then glanced around, even though she knew it was just the two of them. She leaned closer. “Any more fallout about Schrader?”

“No, it seems under control. I told you, my boss was pissed. But you were right about making sure the arrest got a lot of press. After Epstein, no one wants to be seen doing favors for another rich child rapist. Especially one as connected as Schrader.”





chapter

three





HOBBS


Andrew Schrader,” Hobbs said, leaning closer. “You know the name?”

Devereaux sipped his coffee. “Sure, the investor. He was arrested recently.”

They were seated in a discreet corner table of the White House Mess, a wood-paneled basement restaurant next to the Situation Room and run by the Navy. The space had a low acoustic ceiling, thick wall-to-wall carpet, and tables covered in patterned linen, all of which served to dampen noise even when the restaurant was full. But it was late now for breakfast, and lunch was still an hour away, so the usual crowd of commissioned officers and Cabinet secretaries and their guests and hangers-on was currently sparse.

“Do you know anything else about him?”

Devereaux shrugged. “Got his start with a software company he sold for a ton of money. Politically connected. Owns a bunch of trophy properties and likes to throw parties. A weakness for beautiful women.”

Was Devereaux being just a touch too nonchalant? Hobbs couldn’t be sure, but he thought so. Good.

“Well,” Hobbs said, “he does like to appear at parties with models half his age or younger. But that’s a smokescreen. His real interest is in girls. As in, underage girls.”

Other than a judicious sip of coffee, Devereaux didn’t react. Hobbs admired his discipline. You had to be careful with these intel types. Devereaux had been career CIA before his ascension to the top job, and he understood the power of silence to loosen tongues.

Or to conceal his own fear.

“In fact,” Hobbs went on, “six years ago, he was indicted in South Carolina. A joint FBI-local law-enforcement investigation. He was having teenaged girls brought to his Kiawah Island mansion at an almost industrial scale. The indictment wasn’t just for sex with underage girls. It was for trafficking.”

Devereaux peered at him over his glasses. “Wasn’t that when you were the US Attorney in that district?”

Hobbs was glad for the riposte. It felt fearful, like a veiled Maybe I’m implicated, but then so are you.

“Level with me,” Hobbs said. “Have you ever heard of Schrader’s indictment?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s good. Because we buried it. We let him plead out—one charge of solicitation of a minor. A non-prosecution agreement. No prison time. No publicity.”

Devereaux set down his coffee and cocked his head, as though unsure why Hobbs would offer up something so incriminating. “Like what they did with Epstein in Florida.”