“Oh, shit,” the marshal in the coverall muttered.
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Faroe said. “I just wanted to get inside without being whacked by an eager shooter.”
“Who are you?” the man in the doorway demanded. “This is a federal crime scene. What are you doing here?” His windbreaker carried the name “Harkin” in yellow letters above a federal marshal’s logo.
“Marshal Harkin, I’m representing the interests of an officer of the federal court,” Faroe said clearly. “Her name is Judge Grace Silva. Do you have a warrant to be on her property?”
“You’re under arrest for interfering with a federal officer, and that’s just for starters.”
Grace appeared in the hallway behind the marshal. She’d not only changed her clothes, she’d wiped off the streetwalker makeup.
“He’s not interfering with anything,” she said to the marshal in her best bench tone. “He’s doing his job.”
“Sneaking around in the dark?”
Her smile could have frozen fire. “When Ted demanded a meeting, at midnight, in a deserted house, I decided to bring somebody. Looks like Ted decided the same thing.” Her dark glance raked the marshals. “Next time you ask for a command performance, tell me why in advance.”
Faroe kept a poker face, but he was really glad Grace wasn’t aiming all that power and scorn at him.
“Come in,” she said to Faroe. “These are bona fide federal marshals. Apparently Ted is a federally protected witness, though no one will tell me what case he’s a witness in.”
Faroe walked into the house before the marshal could stop him. “Protected witness, huh? We used to call them snitches. They waste a lot of time before you get anything good.”
Grace understood the message and sent one of her own. “I’m used to cutting through the bullshit.”
Faroe nodded and gave her the lead. He might be hell on wheels in the shadows, but this was her world.
And she was good at it.
He followed her down the hallway and into a comfortably furnished living room that would have been called a salon if ranch houses had salons. Another marshal in a windbreaker stood in the middle of a large, magnificent Oriental carpet. His jacket bore the name “Tallman.”
Ted Franklin stood behind Tallman, using him as a shield.
Faroe moved to one side. He wanted to see the man who had raised Lane and then given him to the Butcher of Tijuana.
Franklin was big, bulky, with the look of a man who liked alcohol too much and exercise not at all. He was wearing an expensive pinstripe suit and shiny loafers. His face was puffy, either from booze or lack of sleep. Both, probably. His eyes were bloodshot slits.
“Who’s this guy?” Franklin demanded.
“You brought your friends to the party,” Grace said. “I brought mine.”
“Who is he?” Franklin demanded again. He turned to Tallman. “Make him show you some ID.”
Tallman frowned. “You’re not my boss, Mr. Franklin. Technically, you’re not even a protected witness. We only agreed to go along on this visit as a courtesy. So until you and your attorney have concluded your plea negotiations, don’t give me attitude.”
Franklin looked like he’d been slapped. He straightened his shoulders and turned toward the fourth man, the one with the polished briefcase. He was coming down the stairs from the second floor.
“Tell them, Stu,” Franklin said.
“Yes, Stu,” Grace said coolly, “do tell everyone what this farce is all about.”
Sturgis glanced around, saw a stranger, and kept his mouth shut.
Faroe looked at the man who must be Stuart Sturgis, lawyer to the criminally rich. He was in his late forties, clean-shaven, and sporting a two-hundred-dollar razor cut on his collar-length steel gray hair. He wore a two-thousand-dollar black silk suit with a black silk shirt and a white tie.
Mobster chic must be back in fashion.
“Did you find it?” Franklin demanded.
“No. Who’s this?” he asked, looking at Faroe.
“Where is it?” Franklin snarled at Grace.
“Where’s what?” she asked carelessly.
“The computer!”
“Computer? You mean Lane’s computer, the one he used before he went to All Saints?”
“It’s my computer,” Franklin said in a rising voice. “I paid for it. Damn you, bitch, where is it!”
Faroe started for Franklin.
Tallman stepped between Franklin and Grace. “Judge Silva, we came here to help your husband retrieve some of his personal effects. If you could just help us, we’ll be on our way.”
“Legally,” Grace said in her calm, cutting bench voice, “the computer doesn’t belong to Ted. He gave it as a birthday present to our son. So even if you find the computer, you have no right to it. If that’s all, gentlemen, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”
Franklin shouldered his way around Tallman and towered over Grace. “Where’s the fucking computer? So help me God, I’ll break your neck if you don’t—”
“Mr. Sturgis,” Grace interrupted coldly, “would you define simple assault for your client? Or shall I?”
The marshal took Franklin firmly by the arm and turned him around. “Where is this computer supposed to be? I’ll go look myself. If I find it, we’ll let the lawyers sort out who it belongs to.”
“In the bedroom at the end of the hallway on the right,” Franklin said. “It’s got to be there.”
Tallman looked at Grace uncomfortably.
Faroe understood how Tallman felt. In the marshal’s world, federal judges were gods. He really didn’t want to piss one off.
“We have a warrant to seize the computer, Your Honor,” Tallman said, producing a paper. “It’s evidence in an ongoing investigation.”
Grace read the paper with speed and care. She’d seen a lot like it. She gave the warrant back to Tallman. “Take any computer you find upstairs. But be quick about it. If I wanted to spend time near Ted, we’d still be married.”
Tallman went up the steps two at a time. His footfalls sounded down the hallway.
Sturgis tossed his briefcase on a damask couch and sat down. He looked like he’d had a long day, too.
Grace went to a large cherry sideboard and opened a pair of glass doors. She pulled down a crystal decanter and began removing matching glasses from the shelf.
Faroe watched her. He seemed to be the only one in the room who could sense the rage and contempt beneath her outward calm.
“Drink, anyone?” she said.
“Please,” Sturgis said. “Scotch.”
Grace poured two fingers of golden liquid into a crystal glass and handed it to him.
Franklin’s eyes followed the glass hungrily.
Grace lifted an eyebrow at him.
He looked away.
She poured another glass and stood in front of him. Franklin looked at her with hatred in his eyes. Then he snatched the glass from her hand and knocked it back in an eye-watering swallow.
Grace’s smile lifted the hair on Faroe’s neck. He reminded himself never to get between this woman and the welfare of her son.
“Poor teddy bear,” she said with no sympathy at all. “What did you do that requires the services of the most expensive criminal litigator in California?”
LOMAS SANTA FE
SUNDAY, 12:25 A.M.
47
“I’D RATHER BE CALLED the best, Your Honor,” Sturgis said with a well-practiced courtroom smile.
“Your point is noted, Counselor, but I don’t withdraw the characterization,” Grace said without looking away from her ex-husband. “What are you charged with?”
Faroe watched, fascinated. This Grace was a far cry from the determined-to-be-bad public defender he’d met sixteen years ago.
Franklin started to speak.
Sturgis didn’t let him. “We agreed that I would handle this, remember?”
Ted sucked down the last few drops of the scotch. Ig
noring Grace’s disdainful look, he walked stiffly to the sideboard and poured another double.
“Technically, Your Honor, there aren’t any charges yet,” Sturgis said. “It is our position that there won’t be any charges. That’s part of what we’re discussing with the authorities. Ted is a brilliant man, a genius. He may be in a position to offer certain unnamed federal authorities a great deal of help in understanding some of the, ah, complexities of international finance.”
“So you’re trying to negotiate a plea,” Grace said. “Interesting. I thought you made it a point to fight to the bitter end of your client’s resources. ‘All or nothing,’ isn’t that your motto?”
“Sometimes the ‘all’ is pretty daunting.” Sturgis notched up his courtroom smile. “That’s what we’re in the process of discussing, right, Marshal Harkin?”
Harkin made a gesture that could have meant anything. “Talk to the task force. Talk to the U.S. Attorney’s office. Me, I’m just the babysitter.”
Dressed in black, Grace prowled the hand-knotted carpet like a panther in an exotic cage. She stopped near the sideboard.
Near Ted.
If Ted had been in better shape, Faroe would have moved closer. As it was, he just enjoyed the show. When Grace wanted Faroe’s input, she’d be the first to tell him.
“Task forces,” she said. “U.S. Attorney’s office. That sounds bad. How did a financial genius like you ever get roped into something so serious? Oh, wait, let me guess. Does it have something to do with your Mexican deals?”
Franklin turned his back on her.
“Tsk, tsk,” she said. “I told you to be careful. It’s a different system down there.”
Plata o plomo.
“Was that it?” Grace said, turning to Sturgis. “Did Ted finally step out of all the gray areas into the black of dirty money? So much of it begging to be cleaned. So very profitable.”
Franklin turned. “Listen, you—”
“Ted,” Sturgis cut in. “Anything you say will jeopardize our negotiations with the government. These marshals aren’t your lawyers. They could easily become your jailers. Shut up.”
Franklin looked from his lawyer to his ex-wife and then back again. “Get rid of them,” he said, gesturing toward the marshals. “I need to talk to her.”
Harkin came down the stairs empty-handed. “There’s no computer anywhere upstairs that I can see under the constraints of the existing warrant. We could get a different warrant and search more thoroughly.”
“This farce has gone on long enough,” Grace said to Harkin. “I’d fight another warrant.”
“Yes, ma’am, I figured you would.”
Franklin slammed his glass down on the sideboard. Pieces of glass flew.
“Where is it?” he asked Grace shrilly, stalking toward her. “Where is the damned computer!”
“How would I know? You’re the one who lost it, not me.”
Faroe eased between Franklin and all the lovely sharp pieces of crystal.
Franklin jerked his hand toward the marshals. “Get rid of them, Stu. Right now!”
Sturgis drew Harkin into a corner and talked quietly with him for a moment. The marshal shook his head several times. Sturgis reframed his argument. Finally the marshal agreed.
“Give them some space,” he said to his men. “But everybody stays in the center of the room where we can see them. Agreed?”
Sturgis nodded.
As soon as the marshals couldn’t hear them, the lawyer took a position on the rug, like a referee in a boxing ring. “Your Honor,” he said, “Ted.”
Faroe moved in beside Grace.
Sturgis frowned, then shrugged.
“Where’s the goddamn computer?” Franklin demanded.
“If you want my help,” she said, “tell me what’s going on.”
Sturgis acted like he was in a courtroom. “Judge Silva, the computer contains information that has great evidentiary value. You surely don’t want to appear to be interfering with an important investigation, do you?”
“Shove it, Counselor,” Grace said without looking away from her ex-husband. “I don’t need lectures on how to manipulate the legal process. Talk to me, Ted. Does this have to do with Carlos Calderón and his colleagues in Tijuana?”
Franklin stared past her without answering.
“Actually,” Sturgis said, “our position is that Calderón and his friends approached Ted, that he immediately sensed the impropriety of their intentions and began gathering evidence that would be used against them.”
Faroe made a scornful sound.
Grace gave him a sideways look.
He put his poker face back on.
“So you were really kind of an undercover good citizen, is that it?” she asked her ex. “Was that before or after the task force investigators started hanging around Edge City Investments?”
“My client has not yet been charged with a crime, so his cooperation still has to be classified as ‘willing,’ Your Honor. We’re reasonably certain our interpretation will stand.”
“That’s right,” Franklin said roughly to Grace. “This is all going to blow over, trust me. I’m talking to people right now. Important people. One of two things is going to happen—either the case goes away completely or I become a hero. If you help me out, I can even guarantee your career won’t be negatively impacted.”
Grace gave her ex a look that had made more than one lawyer squirm. “I don’t know whether I despise you more when you’re being a politician or a crook. FYI, I don’t give a damn about judgeships or who’s who in the Fortune roundup of rich men. All I care about is Lane. What about our son?”
Franklin looked away. “What about him?”
Faroe gently grabbed Grace’s fist, the one she was going to clock Franklin with.
“We take the position,” Sturgis said, “that your son’s situation has nothing to do with the negotiations that are ongoing between my client and the government. Lane is just a rather troubled young man who is studying out of the country in a Catholic boarding school that is very stern about morals.”
Grace looked at the lawyer like he was a bad smell stuck to her shoe. “Hasn’t Ted told you about his little agreement with Carlos Calderón and Hector Rivas? Hasn’t he told—”
Faroe squeezed her hand and interrupted. “I want to hear this. Where does Lane fit in this picture, Counselor?”
Sturgis shook his head. “We haven’t mentioned Lane to the government. We think it might be wise if you refrained, too.”
“You don’t think the U.S. authorities want to know that an innocent boy is being held hostage in a foreign country in order to control his father’s actions?” Grace asked in disbelief.
Franklin and Sturgis traded glances.
The lawyer turned his back, plainly stating that he wasn’t any part of what happened next.
Franklin looked longingly at the glass he’d shattered on the sideboard. Then he sighed and faced his ex-wife.
“Why would Lane be involved?” Franklin said tonelessly. “We both know that he isn’t my son.”
Grace stared at him, too angry to speak.
“Nice work, asshole,” Faroe said, his voice as neutral as Franklin’s. “Not your DNA, so how could he be a part of this, right?”
“Who the hell are you?” Franklin said.
“The man who’s trying to save your son’s life. You should pray your knees bloody that I succeed.” Because if Lane dies, so do you.
But Faroe wasn’t going to say that in front of witnesses.
“I don’t have a son,” Franklin insisted.
“Tell it to the IRS,” Faroe said. “You took all those tax deductions for a dog named Lane?”
Grace drew in a sharp breath. She knew Faroe better than anyone in the room.
And she was afraid.
“The point is,” Sturgis said without turning around, “that Lane’s DNA puts a big hole in Grace’s theory about Lane being a hostage.”
“Right,” Franklin said
quickly. “If Carlos and Hector Rivas think they can control me by holding Lane, they’ve got the wrong hostage. Once they realize it, they’ll let him go. No reason to hurt him, right?”
Franklin tried to meet Faroe’s eyes but must have decided Grace would be easier.
Wrong again.
“I guess Mother Nature knew what she was doing when she didn’t let you breed,” Grace said.
“Don’t give me that righteous act,” Franklin said. “It’s your life that’s all lies.”
Faroe still held Grace’s fist but everything in him wanted to let her loose on Franklin.
And help her.
Later. When Lane’s safe.
“Sturgis.” Faroe’s word was like a whip. “Turn around and put a muzzle on this mutt or get his lying ass out of here so that you and I can do some business.”
“Listen, you son of—” Franklin began.
“Shut it, Ted,” Sturgis said as he turned around. “This is going nowhere.”
“Your problem, not mine,” Faroe said. “As I understand it, you really need that computer, right?”
“I knew the bitch was hiding it!” Franklin snarled.
Faroe gave him a look that penetrated the four shots of whiskey Franklin had knocked back.
“Your lawyer gave you good advice,” Grace said. “Take it or go stand with your babysitters.”
Franklin looked again at Faroe, then backed off and headed for the bar.
“Do you need the whole computer, or just some data from it?” Faroe asked Sturgis.
“The entire computer would be best, but there are some lists…”
“What kind?” Grace asked.
“Deposit lists showing movement of funds from one set of offshore accounts to another,” Sturgis said.
“How are we supposed to recognize them from any other bunch of numbers that might be on the computer?” Faroe asked.
“The entire file is named ‘Plaza.’ It involves transfers from banks in Aruba and Panama to the Intercontinental Bank of Nauru.”
“Where’s that?” Grace asked.
Sturgis said, “Overseas.”
“The South Pacific,” Faroe said. “Its entire economy used to be based on bat shit—guano, to the tea party set. Then some bright schlub discovered the business of chartering international banking institutions. Now Nauru has more banks than it does citizens.”
The Wrong Hostage Page 24
