Chapter 28

The slam of car doors echoed like cannon shot. Conley and a half dozen staties assembled outside Diaz’s oceanfront mansion. Twin Mercedes sat in the driveway, chrome and glass gleaming in the twilight. The crisp clang of a bell buoy in the harbor tolled relentlessly.

When they were ready, Conley knocked on the front door and announced himself. No answer, a bad sign. Had he been warned? The red tape involved with arresting a sitting congressman had taken forever, and a man like Diaz had ears everywhere. And after Richard Drewicz confessed that Diaz had trafficked young girls from across the world for his pleasure, there was no telling how desperate the man would be.

Conley signaled two cops and they lugged a battering ram to the entrance. After three punches, the black cylinder shattered the eight-panel door and part of the frame. The study and living room were empty, as was the kitchen. Two empty wine glasses sat in the sink, and two soiled dishes. The rich smell of garlic and marinara hung in the air.

Music played upstairs—Vivaldi, a cacophony of violins and harps. Conley climbed the wide steps. Awards and citations lined the staircase walls—pictures of Diaz with dignitaries and fancy declarations of his service.

Tokens of goodness—smokescreens. Beware of praising the pious.

A crucifix and a painting of the Blessed Heart hung near the top. Sacrilege.

The images of Diaz and the children he’d seen hours before, of the monster’s lustful face, were memories he could not erase. He thought of the nature of human evil, and the exponential pain it spawned, and unholstered his gun.

He thought about Lisa and her campaign manager, Bill McNulty—Diaz’s opponents. Would they celebrate his arrest?

Sadness gripped him. The world was overrun with liars, perverts, and fiends. For every Channary and Sheila Thompson, for every Sage and William O’Neil, for every decent human being there seemed to be a dozen Diazes, Drewiczes, and McNultys.

And how many Paladins? Conley tightened his finger on the trigger and thought about Victor Rodriguez—an unlikely hero. Drewicz denied killing him, but admitted the fight at the sex club was about Victor’s guilty conscience over the abused girls—and his vow to stop Diaz’s operation.

“Congressman Diaz,” Conley called when he reached the top of the stairs, surprised at the calmness of his voice. The music built to a crescendo. He pushed the bedroom door and it swung open easily. Diaz and his wife lay sprawled on the bed, eyes open and bloodshot, mouths foaming—the telltale signs of poisoning.

The easy way out. Too kind of a mercy. He holstered his gun.

Justice denied.