She thought of the glitz and glamour of the Fast Draw, canapés paid for in children’s blood, politicians paid for the same way, everyone lining up like cattle to be serviced by the merchant of death. It had happened only hours ago, hours that felt like days, months.
Another life she had lived in another time.
And now she had hit the bottom of the rabbit hole hard enough to break her soul.
Rand saw the tears streaming down Kayla’s face and wanted to swear. Only the decent felt another’s pain. Only the decent could be corrupted. Only the decent could be made to feel dirty.
He didn’t think about smart or stupid, should or shouldn’t. He just gathered her into his arms, tucked her face against his shoulder, and held her. The hot silence of her tears reached him as nothing had since Reed’s death.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, stroking her hair, kissing her eyelids gently, tasting her tears. “None of this is your fault.”
“I helped him.” Her voice was as bleak as her tears.
“You didn’t know.”
“I do now.”
“I’m sorry,” Rand said.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked against her hair. “I brought you to St. Kilda.”
“It’s not St. Kilda’s fault. They’re just the messenger.”
“Yeah, well, we all know what happens to messengers.”
She smiled sadly at him, sighed, and took the controller back. But when she moved to separate from him, he held her close.
“I’m okay now,” she said.
“I’m not.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry some more. So she leaned against him and started the DVD again.
“How can you stop it?” Thomas asked seriously. “You’re a very small nation whose supposed allies are very close to Andre Bertone.”
“Camgeria and some of the other small African nations victimized by Bertone have come together to establish the West African Regional Tribunal.”
“How will that help?”
“The tribunal is an investigatory body that is accumulating evidence against Bertone and his ilk. We will prove that the peoples of West Africa have been victimized by some of the most unscrupulous men on the face of the earth. Then world opinion will force that money to be returned to the people from whose blood and bone it was squeezed.”
“That sounds like a huge job.”
“It is. Interviews like this are just the beginning. We need help. We need friends. We need people who haven’t been purchased by Andre Bertone.”
The DVD ended with the stylized logo of the channel.
Kayla let out a long sigh, relieved that no more images of suffering would be burned into her conscience. “How did I miss this show? I’m a fan of The World in One Hour.”
“This segment is still in production,” Rand said, tossing the controller aside. “It won’t air at all unless we get more evidence against Andre Bertone.”
“More? What I saw was devastating. Bwana-suited gunrunner becomes Phoenix socialite and benefactor to state, national, and international politicians.”
“You and the guy who took that picture are the only ones on earth who can link Bertone to the bwana suit.”
“You’re kidding.”
Rand looked at her.
“You’re not,” she said quickly. “I knew that. I just didn’t want to know it.”
She swiped the back of her hand against her eyelashes, taking the last of her tears, wondering if she’d really felt Rand’s lips moving so gently over her skin.
“Pictures are powerful, but they can be Photoshopped,” he said. “Anybody who saw President Bush supposedly giving the world the Roman salute knows all about digitizing photos.”
She started to object, then sighed. “And the first thing Bertone’s lawyers would scream is Photoshop.”
“Yeah.”
“So even if The World in One Hour airs that show, Bertone will still have deniability.” Kayla’s mouth turned down. “Like my bank, shifting the responsibility somewhere else.”
“That’s where you could help.”
“How? After what Bertone did to me, I’m already compromised. And my boss. Let’s not forget the golden bastard.”
“I’d rather bury him,” Rand said under his breath.
“What?”
“Your reputation will survive if The World in One Hour beats Bertone’s lawyers to the press.”
“Big if.”
“Not as big as it was before you signed on with St. Kilda.”
“How so?”
“Easy. Under the charter of the West African Regional Tribunal, Neto can seize any money, anywhere, that’s connected to illegal activities. But first he has to know exactly where said dirty money is.”
She got it. “Cue Bertone’s private banker.”
“Bingo.”
34
Phoenix
Saturday
10:01 P.M. MST
The Jumping Cholla bar on Indian School Road was as close to home as it got for Gabriel Navarro. The taste of beer was mother’s milk. Tequila was the sting of his father’s hand across his mouth. The smoky air was a familiar blanket. Taverns, cantinas, blue-collar bars in white-trash neighborhoods, they were all places where men were men and any women present ran from soft hookers to hard pros.
When Gabriel had been a kid, men in his knee-breaking line of work had to hang out in beer bars and strip clubs and sports joints. If he was a regular, he could give clients the phone number and know that the bartender would put his calls through or take a message.
For a price.
Cell phones had really cut into a bartender’s income. With his own phone, Gabriel was never more than a ring away from his clients, no bartender required. But he still liked to hang with his Phoenix homies in the bars north of downtown and west of Central Avenue. Despite his slight, ropy build, he didn’t have to fight every night or every week to prove himself. The thought made him smile.
Here, everyone knows that Gabriel Navarro is a stone-cold mother-fucker.
It had been three years since he’d killed anyone in the Jumping Cholla, and that hadn’t been done to polish his reputation. The dude had needed to die. Gabriel had taken care of it.
The mixed clientele of the bar—Indian, Indio, Mexican, the odd gringo—reflected his own heritage. He could drink here and shoot eight-ball with the cross-eyed Cajun from Baton Rouge for a hundred bucks a game and nobody bothered him. Well, the bar girl asked every half hour if he wanted another schooner, but she always came close enough for him to grab her ass, so it wasn’t really a hardship.
The last thing Gabriel expected to see as he chalked his cue stick was Andre Bertone walking in through the open back door.
Ay, chingón! He has my cell number. What is he doing here?
Immediately Bertone stepped into the shadows and stopped to size up the bar. He didn’t have to take a deep breath to know what kind of place he was in. The mixed odors of tobacco, beer, male sweat, and a urinal more often missed than hit were familiar. By comparison to places he’d been in around the world, the Jumping Cholla was almost upscale. At least someone had tried to cover the urinal’s stink with a pungent disinfectant.
Even if the bar hadn’t been relatively genteel, Bertone wouldn’t have worried. Once he’d delivered a million-dollar cash bribe to an African defense minister in a place far worse than this. Another time he’d shot to death a Bulgarian helicopter pilot who had hijacked a load of rocket-propelled grenades. Another time it was a knife and a fool who had tried to step on Bertone’s shoes. Never had any of the bar patrons tried to stop Bertone.
If he decided that Gabriel had lied to him about the girl’s escape, no one would stop the death Gabriel deserved.
The bartender spotted Bertone and made him as wrong.
Bertone almost smiled. Maybe it was his white silk shirt open at the throat, his heavy silk slacks, and his thousand-dollar loafers. Or a haircut that cost
more than most men in the place cleared in a week.
With a sound like a pistol shot, the bartender slammed the heavy glass he’d been polishing on the bar.
Heads raised, looking first at the bartender, then in the direction of his eyes.
Gabriel didn’t look up from the shot he was setting up at the pool table. “Bienvenido my house, esso,” he called out in sliding, slurred English. “I thoug’ I see you soon. But no here, esso. You ’ave good sources.”
“I found you once a long time ago, Gabriel. After I have found you once, I can always find you again.”
With that Bertone turned away and walked back through the door into the deeply shadowed parking lot.
To the surprise of every man in the room except himself, Gabriel racked his cue and walked toward the back door.
The Cajun had hair the color of chili colorado and a rough voice. “Hey, bro, you forfeitin’?”
“It’s a draw, asshole,” Gabriel said without looking back.
The Cajun didn’t argue.
Gabriel found Bertone leaning against the gleaming black flank of his bulletproof Humvee, puffing on a cigar he’d just lit. A gold-plated Zippo gleamed in his thick fingers.
“Tell me what really happened,” Bertone said.
“Like I told you,” Gabriel said, shrugging. “Bitch had a knife. She opened it with one hand, like maybe she knew how to use it. You tell me no blood, so I hadda think. Then the fuckin’ guard turned on the light. I figure I wait for a better time.”
Bertone puffed on the cigar and watched Gabriel through the smoke. The man wasn’t smart, he wasn’t worldly; a primitive, really.
But a useful, ruthless one.
“So you climbed the wall and came back to the main house,” Bertone said.
“Guard had a gun. If I don’t book on out of there, he make a big noise you no like with all those fancy guests around.”
“What happened to your gun and the rest of the gear?”
Gabriel’s mouth opened, then closed without a word. He lit his own cigarette with a match scratched across the butt of his jeans.
“I got my own gun,” he said finally. “I can use rope when I find her again.”
“If you find her, you cretin.” Bertone’s voice was a lash.
“I know Phoenix. You watch the airport. I find her.”
“You lost your gun, tape, and handcuffs. If she found them, she’ll run to the police. If the guard found them, he didn’t mention it to me, probably because I haven’t seen the guard since Kayla disappeared.”
Despite the cold fury of Bertone’s voice, Gabriel forced himself to shrug. “You want I find the dude?”
“His name is Jimmy Hamm,” Bertone said, stuffing a sheet of paper in Gabriel’s hand. “This is his employment application form. It has his last known address. Find him. The girl may be with him. If she is, kill them both.”
Gabriel shook out the sheet of paper and frowned.
“You do know how to read, don’t you?” Bertone snarled.
“Yeah. Sure. Got my GED, no sweat.” But some of the words were puzzling just the same.
Knives were much easier to use.
Bertone pushed into Gabriel’s personal space. It was a silent threat. Both men knew it.
Gabriel took it.
Bertone slapped an envelope against Gabriel’s chest. “Here are copies of the records in Kayla Shaw’s employment file and the files of her closest friends at the bank. Don’t bother to check her ranch or apartment again. She’s not that stupid. Concentrate on the friends. Look for her car near their driveways, see if there are any signs of her inside their houses.”
“Shit, man. I prowl a banker’s house in the middle of the night and the cops come screaming.”
“Use some of your homeboys,” Bertone said, jerking his head toward the bar. “If they’re surviving out of the joint, they must be good on the prowl.”
He tossed a round cylinder into the air.
Faster than a cat, Gabriel’s hand flashed out to catch the roll of fifty-dollar bills.
“Bring her to me,” Bertone said.
“Breathing?”
Bertone opened the driver’s door of the Humvee and looked across it at Gabriel.
“Find her, kill her, and bring me proof of death.”
The door slammed and the big engine fired up. Bertone backed out quickly, then flipped on the bright headlights, spearing Gabriel. Bertone held that position for a few moments, making the hit man feel exposed, vulnerable.
“Chigna tu madre, cabrón,” Gabriel said under his breath. “But maybe you don’ even have a mother.”
The Humvee rushed off into the night, leaving Gabriel standing alone with papers in one hand and a roll of fifties in the other. He stuffed Jimmy Hamm’s address into the envelope, stashed it under his shirt, and went back into the Jumping Cholla.
Smiles flashed through the smoke when he started spreading money around.
35
Royal Palms
Saturday
10:40 P.M. MST
Kayla shook her head sharply.
How did I get myself into this?
Just when she thought her life couldn’t get any more bizarre, she found herself getting dusted with face powder for an interview with a famous name she’d seen only on the news. He’d be the handsome star in suit and tie.
She’d be the talking silhouette.
A well-powdered one.
And her voice would be disguised.
Probably sounds like a frog on speed.
Ted Martin, who had been introduced to her as the field producer for the show, came over just as the woman called Freddie switched from powder to comb and scissors.
“Don’t waste your time,” Ted said to the woman. “She’ll be backlit and shadowed.”
“So was the dude,” Freddie said without backing up. “If I hadn’t trimmed him up, he’d have looked like a gorilla in silhouette.”
Kayla wondered who “the dude” was. Then she glanced at Rand. He had a freshly barbered look.
“Him?” she asked Freddie, pointing toward Rand with her chin.
“Him. I took off about a foot of fur.”
Kayla snickered.
“You have good hair,” Freddie said. “Just need a brush and some gel so that nothing sticks out. If you weren’t going in stealth mode, I’d put some more cold packs on your eyes. Crying is hell on ’em.”
Martin made an impatient sound. “We’re ready.”
“I’m not,” Freddie said. “And tell Mr. Gorgeous his nose is shiny.”
“Do you know what overtime costs?”
“I know what I’m charging and I know what I’m doing. Get out of my face and let me work.”
“How long?”
“Long enough for you to go over it once more with her.”
Martin gave in and turned to Kayla. “Okay, no need to be nervous. This is only a fast interview so we have something for the files if the story breaks early. We can cut and paste and retake, redo the whole thing, whatever we need to so that you look good. Okay?”
Kayla didn’t nod—Freddie was waving her scissors again.
“We’ll feed you questions about Bertone, you answer, you get fed more, you answer more. Don’t worry if you show that you’re upset by what’s happened to you,” Martin added. “The more emotion, the better. Okay?”
“Not for her eyes,” Freddie muttered as she worked gel into Kayla’s hair.
“Get their hearts and their minds will follow,” Martin shot back.
“Cry for the cameras?” Kayla asked.
“Okay, that’d be good.”
“I’m not an actress.”
“Yeah, I figured that out real fast,” Martin said. Then to Freddie, “Two minutes or we’ll start with you in the picture.”
“I’ll paint a happy face on my butt and moon you.” Freddie winked at Kayla.
Martin walked over to where Faroe and Rand stood talking.
“Okay,” Martin said. “What do
you have new?”
“It’s only been an hour since we briefed you,” Faroe said. “You’ll be the second to know if more comes in.”
“I’d rather be the first.”
Faroe wanted to roll his eyes like a girl.
Rand coughed instead of laughing. Then he looked at Kayla—and looked again. Something Freddie had done had transformed Kayla’s hair from a sleek professional ’do to a wind-blown innocence that made her look about seventeen.
“You’re good,” he said to Freddie. “Too bad it will be wasted in silhouette.”
“The hair won’t be,” Freddie said. “You watch.”
Rand watched.
And learned.
He’d always known that news shows were as much staging—emotion—as news, but he hadn’t really known until he saw the result when Kayla was put into the chair and backlit just enough to show her slender silhouette.
The innocent hair came through like a halo.
“Really good,” Rand said, saluting Freddie.
“Quiet,” Martin snapped.
Rand listened while Thomas joked Kayla out of her nerves, made her forget the camera, and led her through the small steps that had taken her right off the cliff of complicity.
“Oh, yes,” Kayla said, “I was very pleased when my boss gave me the Bertones as my special clients.”
“Special?” Martin asked. “How so?”
“I was their interface with the private banking arm of American Southwest. I kept their various accounts—personal and professional—moved money between accounts, that sort of thing. If they wanted anything that had to do with their money, they called me.”
“And you found nothing unusual in those accounts?”
“No. They spent more than an average household, of course, but they earned far more than average.”
“Didn’t you wish you had that kind of money?” Thomas asked, his voice deep, sincere. “I would.”
Kayla’s teeth gleamed in a brief smile that shone through the shadows veiling her. “Nope. It’s hard for people outside the banking business to understand, but when I handle a client’s money, it’s not real money, like the kind I pay my bills with. A client’s money is just numbers I move from one account to another. Numbers, not dollars.”
Innocent as Sin Page 16
