“The wife was too busy to care about the husband. Balancing a demanding career and a baby took everything I had.”
“You’re breaking my heart.”
“You don’t have one. If you did, you’d be more worried about Lane than any other part of this mess.”
The smile he gave her was as cold as his eyes. He turned and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “You promised that—”
“I need some space,” he cut in. “A whole fucking universe of it.”
The door shut softly behind him.
She wished he’d slammed it.
Her shoulders slumped against the wall.
I’m sorry, Lane.
No matter what I do, it’s wrong.
When her fingers went slack, the sheet slid to the floor, leaving her naked again.
But Lane shouldn’t have to be the one to pay for it.
Grimly Grace kicked aside the sheet and went to the shower. She didn’t have much time to pull herself together before she met Hector Rivas Osuna, the Butcher of Tijuana.
Faroe might have walked out on her, but he’d given her some good advice.
Lie, Your Honor. Hector believes you’re his ticket to your husband.
MANHATTAN
MONDAY, 12:06 A.M.
33
DWAYNE SHOOK HIS HEAD. “Not answering.”
“Hang up and call again. Do it until he answers.”
Three calls later, Faroe picked it up. “What.”
The word was a snarl rather than an invitation to talk.
Steele answered before Dwayne could. “Where are you?”
“Outside a dog track, feeling sorry for the muzzled greyhounds chasing fake rabbits for the amusement of drunks and drug lords.”
“Feeling like you’re a greyhound?” Steele asked.
“How long have you known?”
“That you’re tired of running in circles?”
At the other end of the line, Faroe watched dogs run in circles and said nothing.
“When Judge Silva insisted on you and only you,” Steele said evenly, “I suspected Lane was yours. You’re very good, Joseph, but so are many of my operatives. St. Kilda Consulting has high standards.”
“But you didn’t say anything to me.”
“You had more facts at your disposal than I did. When you didn’t say anything, I respected your privacy.”
“More like my stupidity.”
“So you really didn’t suspect, even after you spent time with the boy?”
Faroe watched dogs race in circles, chasing something they’d never catch.
Stupid sons of bitches.
“I saw Grace in Lane,” Faroe said. “The shape of the eyes, the quickness, the fierce intelligence underneath the drugs they’d poured into him.”
“Look at a picture of Ted Franklin, then look in a mirror,” Steele suggested. “Lane’s nose is yours, as is the width of his jaw and the ears tight against the skull. If you don’t believe me, I’ll bring photos.”
“I don’t spend a lot of time looking in mirrors.”
Steele sighed and watched the line of light marching across his global clock, time sliding away into the unreachable past.
“What really pisses me off,” Faroe said, “is that if Lane hadn’t been in danger, Grace never would have told me.”
“She would have told you on Lane’s eighteenth birthday, the same day she told him.”
“Says who?”
“Grace. I just talked to her.”
“Suddenly she’s just running off at the mouth,” Faroe said sardonically.
“Her voice was very strained. This isn’t easy for her.”
“Call someone who cares. She kept her mouth shut this long, she should have kept it shut for two more days.”
“Did you give her a choice?”
Silence was Faroe’s only answer.
It was enough.
Steele looked up as Dwayne handed him a shot of scotch, neat. He sipped, sighed, sipped again. When he spoke, his voice took on some of the liquor’s smoky flavor. “I suspect Grace was crying, or had been.”
“She was always able to turn on the tears when she needed to. They teach it in Defense Attorney 101.”
“She must have skipped that class. Everyone but you regards her as passionless, nothing but a legal and intellectual machine.”
Faroe closed his eyes. Passionless was the last word he’d use to describe Grace Silva.
“As much as I’d like to indulge your hissy fit,” Steele continued, “the clock is running very quickly on this matter.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Faroe asked roughly.
Steele ignored the interruption. “The more people who suspect or confirm Lane’s biological parentage, the sooner it will leak to Hector. He won’t be pleased when he finds out that he’s holding the wrong hostage.”
Faroe had already thought about that.
A lot.
“One, it’s not likely to leak before the deadline runs out,” Faroe said. “Two, even if it did, Hector won’t care. As long as he has Lane, he has Grace, and Grace has the kind of connections that could find Ted. I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to know that she would run to St. Kilda.”
“The bastard being Ted?”
“Hector, but don’t let that stop you. There’s more than enough bastards to go around. Come to Tijuana and take your pick.”
“Thank you, I will. What is the U.S. airport nearest Tijuana?”
“Brown Field, about two miles north of Tijuana International. But watch out for mojados crossing the runway.”
“What are mojados?”
“Wetbacks. These get that way by swimming the sewage of Río Tía Juana. Anybody willing to do that doesn’t deserve to get run over by a jet.”
“I’ll tell the pilot to take unusual care. We should be there by dawn.”
Steele listened to the silence and wished he could see Faroe’s face.
“You’re not kidding, are you?” Faroe said. “You’re actually coming out here.”
“Right now, you need somebody you can trust. However our personal styles might clash, trust has never been a problem.”
“You’re coming. Here.”
Steele laughed. “You make it sound as likely as the Second Coming of Christ.”
“Close enough. I can’t remember the last time you left your Manhattan aerie.”
In his Manhattan aerie, Steele smiled and sipped fine scotch. It was rather amusing to know that Joe Faroe had been bowled over twice in one night. If he suspected why Steele was really coming out, it would be three in one night. A tidy hat trick.
“Then you’ll go back on the job?” Steele asked.
“I never left it.”
“Grace thought you did.”
“Grace was wrong. Again.”
“What are you doing now?” Steele asked.
“I’m watching a caravan of Chevrolet Suburbans and Cadillac Escalades punch through traffic and turn into the seamiest little sports venue I’ve seen since they shut down the jai alai fronton in Mexicali.”
“Do we know anyone in the parade?”
“Oh yeah,” Faroe said. “Hector Rivas and his merry band of federales, state cops, and rurales. The man must be worried about something. His honor guard looks to be at least company strength.”
“That would explain why the phone number you fed to research earlier today traces back to a member of the Ensenada municipal police force. So do the license plates you noted, though the information comes with the usual caveat that second-world record-keeping isn’t always accurate.”
“Close enough for horseshoes and claymores,” Faroe said. “I wouldn’t want to be an Ensenada cop when Hector hears the news.”
“You’re going to the meeting?”
“Hell yes. So call the judge and set her devious mind at rest. I’m on my way to Hector right now.”
“You call her, or at least coordinate your moves with her.”
“You do it, and there aren’t any moves to coordinate. She’s at the hotel. I’m at the track.”
“Then you should see her rather quickly. She headed for the track as soon as she hung up on me.”
“Right now I don’t want to be in the same room with her, much less in the same charade.”
“Did anyone ask what you wanted? She’s going to the meeting. Might already be there, in fact.”
“Shit.”
The phone in Steele’s hand went dead. He passed the unit off to Dwayne. “Brown Field, two miles north of Tijuana.”
“I’ll tell the pilot. Your car is waiting. The San Diego team is assembling.”
Steele smiled like the shark he was. “Excellent.”
TIJUANA
SUNDAY, 9:14 P.M.
34
FAROE WATCHED GRACE WALK down the steps beside the lobby entrance to the hotel and strike out for the traffic light that would allow her to cross the chaotic surge of vehicles. She was dressed in a tight sheath skirt, a slinky blouse, and four-inch stiletto heels.
All red.
Where did she get that outfit—Hookers “R” Us?
Faroe waited just down from the point where she would cross the street. When she walked by him, he counted to ten and stepped out to follow.
Jesus. Do her hips always move like that?
She must have heard him moving up behind her. Warily she glanced over her shoulder. When she recognized him in the half darkness, she turned away and kept striding along the uneven sidewalk.
“Slow down,” he said, putting a hand on her arm. “You’ll break an ankle.”
“I’m late.”
“Blame the shoes.”
Grace shook off his hand, hiked up her skirt, and tried to balance on one foot while she removed a shoe.
“You don’t want to walk around in Tijuana barefoot,” Faroe said. “Your antibodies aren’t up to it. Just what in hell do you think you’re doing?”
Grace shook out a small pebble she’d picked up, slipped the shoe back on, and started walking. “I’m going to meet Hector.”
“Alone?” Faroe asked, striding alongside. “Dressed like that?”
“You weren’t answering your phone. My clothes are left over from Plan A, when you were supposed to be the new cock on my walk and I was a judicial tart gone slumming. Your tart, to be precise. That was your plan, right?”
“It’d be tough for you to make that plan fly without a man to snuggle up to.”
“There will be a roomful of men with Hector. I’ll ask for volunteers.”
“Are you crazy?”
“No. I’m determined. Get with the program or get out of my face.”
Faroe looked her over the way every man in that room would. “Tijuana lap-dancer makeup, red leather skirt, red-on-red flowered silk blouse, red shoes—all screaming sex. How’d you find that getup in a strange department store in under fifteen minutes?”
“A salesgirl and a fifty-dollar tip. I told her I wanted to look like a narcotraficante’s girlfriend.”
“Better undo the top buttons on the blouse. Hector’s muy macho, the kind that likes a lot of cheap cleavage.”
She gave him the response he deserved. “Screw you.”
“You already did a world-class job of that, in every meaning of the word.”
“As you so kindly pointed out in a similar case, I wasn’t alone in that bed.”
They walked a few more steps.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Faroe asked.
“Unlike a man, I’m capable of asking directions.”
“But you sure don’t take them worth a damn.”
“Since when does it require a penis to be pigheaded?”
Faroe fought against a smile and gestured toward a parking lot. “This way, my little piglet.”
She made a sound that could have been choked laughter or a curse. He was too smart to ask which.
Silently he led the way along the fenced parking lot that spread out from the lighted entrance gate of the track. Several hundred cars were parked in ranks behind the fence. In the distance came the rumble of the crowd cheering and cursing the dogs.
“I just got off the phone with Steele,” Faroe said. “He’s flying out. I think he wants to make sure we don’t kill each other before we get Lane back.”
“That would be lovely.”
“Get real, Grace,” he shot back. “Did you think I was going to be happy?”
“I didn’t think you were going to be so full of righteous rage. For a moment there, I thought you were going to hit me.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“You should have seen your face,” Grace said.
“What is it that everyone suddenly wants me to look in the mirror?”
Silence.
“Relax,” he said after a minute. “For now we’re on the same side. After Lane’s free, all bets are off.”
She stopped sharply and spun toward him. In the half-light from the dingy parking lot, her face was shadowed and unreadable.
“That sounds like a threat,” she said quietly.
“It’s a fact. You had Lane for fifteen years. It’s my turn. I have at least as much claim on him as you do, particularly if you end up in a federal prison for whatever part you’ve had in your crooked husband’s schemes.”
“Listen to me, Joe, and listen well.”
“I’m listening.”
And he was. There was a deadly edge to Grace’s voice that he’d never heard before.
“I have no more secrets, nothing more to hide,” she said. “I don’t know anything about my husband’s business. I never did. Don’t ever threaten to take my son away from me again.”
Faroe looked at her eyes, as cold and clear as her voice. He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension that had grown in him every second since she’d told him Lane was his son.
“This whole situation sucks donkeys,” he said. “I wish to hell you’d kept it shut for a few more days.”
“Who backed me up against the wall and kept pushing? You just had to know, didn’t you? The great Joe Faroe just couldn’t wait another bloody second to—”
“We have to stop fighting.” Despite the hard beat of his pulse in his neck, his voice was calm. “For Lane.”
Grace drew a deep breath and blew it out. “Then stop taking cheap shots at me.”
“I still find it hard to accept that you and Ted were on different planets. You’re too smart. You couldn’t live with a guy and not know what he’s up to.”
“We haven’t lived together in the way that you mean since he gave me gonorrhea nine years ago. I told him he could have the sluts or he could have me. He chose the sluts.”
“Why didn’t you divorce him?” Faroe asked.
“Lane called him Daddy. I could put up with being cheated on if it meant that Lane had two parents.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t cut off Ted’s balls.”
“Why? They weren’t any use to me.”
Faroe whistled softly. “Did you ever love him?”
“He was safe. At the time, that was enough.”
“And now?”
“What are you asking?”
“I don’t know,” Faroe admitted. “Question withdrawn.”
They walked along the parking lot fence in silence.
“Did Ted have any enemies?” Faroe asked finally.
“Like grains of sand on the beach. He screwed over a lot of people in business and in politics.”
“I always thought politicians were glad-handers.”
“Ted isn’t a glad-hander. He’s a kingmaker. There’s a difference. That difference is money.”
“I’d like a list of the top twenty,” Faroe said.
“No one will talk to you. Ted’s a monster when it comes to business, and for him, politics is business. Most of his associates and employees are scared to death of him.”
“But you weren’t.”
“If you’re asking if Ted knocked me around,�
� she said, “the answer is no. If you’re asking if he hit Lane, the answer is I’d have put Ted in jail and he knew it.”
“Sounds like you wouldn’t mind feeding Ted to Hector now. What changed your mind?”
“Watching you play touchy-feely with a bomb.”
In silence they walked on toward a side gate that was guarded by a small shack.
Fifty yards from the shack Grace asked softly, “Did you like Lane?”
“He’s a good kid, tough, smart. He held it together better than most men in his position would. I like that.”
“Yes, that would be the most important thing to you,” she muttered.
“What do you want me to say? I spent half an hour with him.”
They didn’t speak again until they were almost to the guard shack. At the last moment, Faroe said very quietly, “Lane loves his mom a lot. She loves him the same way. Seeing it made me…hungry. Until that moment, I didn’t really know why I quit St. Kilda.”
Before Grace could say anything, two men in black windbreakers stepped out of the shadows of the guard shack. Both men carried pistols. The barrels were pointed slightly toward the ground, but not nearly enough for comfort.
Faroe stepped to the side, away from Grace.
The gun muzzles tracked him.
TIJUANA
SUNDAY, 9:27 P.M.
35
“YOU WORK FOR HECTOR Rivas Osuna?” Faroe asked calmly.
One of the men snapped on a flashlight. “Sí, señor. Manos up, por favor.”
Faroe held his hands up and his arms out.
The guard frisked him with quick, neutral efficiency.
“Very polite, these two,” Faroe said to Grace. “Show them your arms.”
Grace stood in a hip-shot pose while the Mexican ran his flashlight over her costume.
“Satisfied?” she asked sweetly.
The guard’s mustache twitched in what could have been a smile or a sneer.
A pair of black utility vehicles roared up the street. With his flashlight the guard gestured toward the lead vehicle, a Cadillac Escalade.
“¿Qué pasa?” Faroe said sharply. “Hector is meeting us at the track.”
“Hector, he change his min’ mucho,” the guard said in the Spanglish of the border. “Get in.”
The Wrong Hostage Page 19
