Rosarito Beach

by M. A. Lawson

  Her daughter. Kay knew she still hadn’t really wrapped her mind around that fact. She didn’t really think of Jessica as a daughter, more like a sister or like a young friend. But she wasn’t a young friend—she was her kid—and at some point she was going to have to deal with motherhood as it related to her career. Now more than ever, she wanted Jim Davis’s job when he retired. If she got the job, that would keep her in San Diego at least until Jessica graduated from high school, but she knew that Davis’s job probably wasn’t in the cards.

  If she couldn’t get Davis’s job, then what she should be doing was maneuvering for an overseas assignment, someplace that would look good on her résumé. The Middle East would be ideal, someplace like Afghanistan, but she didn’t think she’d get sent there because of her language skills. She was as fluent in Spanish as someone born south of the border, and she figured if the DEA sent her out of the country, it would most likely be to Colombia or Peru. They wouldn’t send her to Mexico, that would just be too dangerous after having been personally responsible for putting Tito Olivera in jail for the rest of his life.

  With Jessica still in high school, however, an overseas gig wouldn’t be good. It had been hard enough to get her into a good school in San Diego; what the hell would she do in Kabul? In a couple of years, when Jessica was in college, an overseas assignment might be okay, but not now. So what should she do to advance? Just sit in San Diego and play nice for two years? She needed to talk to Barb. She really needed Barb’s advice.

  Barbara Reynolds was an assistant director back in D.C. She was also Kay’s rabbi, her mentor. Barb, for whatever reason, took a shine to her even before she busted Marco Álvarez, and she liked her even more after that. Barb was the one who gave her career advice and looked out for her back at headquarters. Barb was also the one who’d flexed some muscle to get her the supervisor’s job in San Diego.

  Yeah, she was going to find some excuse to fly back to Washington so she could go out and get drunk with Barb and talk about how you juggled motherhood with a career in law enforcement. Barb had two boys, both out of college now, so she’d have something to say. The problem with Barb, though, was that she wasn’t exactly the maternal type either, and as near as Kay could tell, it was Barb’s husband who’d really raised her kids. Still, Barb could tell her . . .

  The outer door opened and there was Wilson, striding toward her desk, looking like he was mad enough to shoot her. She noticed that the right side of his shaved head was covered with painful-looking, blistery red splotches.

  “He wasn’t there,” Wilson said. “Just like I fuckin’ told you.”

  She’d sent Wilson and three other guys out to the woods near San Carlos because she’d gotten a tip that a guy they’d been trying to nab for six months was hiding there in a broken-down trailer. The tip, however, had come from a really unreliable source and she knew it was pretty unlikely that it would pan out. Wilson, of course, had been adamant the tip wouldn’t pan out—and it looked like he was right.

  “What happened to your head?” she asked.

  Wilson’s lips moved a couple of times—like he was so angry he couldn’t get the words out. “Poison oak.”

  Had it been anybody but Wilson she would have said You need to get over to the emergency room right away and get something for it. But since it was Wilson, she said, “I guess you should have worn a hat.”

  27

  Caesar walked into the conference room in the operations center wearing a mud-splattered T-shirt, jeans, and scuffed cowboy boots. On his head was a blue, sweat-stained New York Yankees baseball cap. He’d been riding ATVs in the mountains near his Sinaloa estate with his daughters.

  One of the things Mora had always admired about Caesar Olivera was that he didn’t allow business to interfere with his personal life. Caesar would delegate a task, expect his people to perform, and he didn’t—unlike Raphael Mora—pester them every few hours asking for progress reports.

  The only ones sitting at the conference table were Mora and Juan Guzmán, the man who had been Tito’s second-in-command in San Diego and who was now managing Caesar’s U.S. operations. Guzmán was a heavyset, brutal-looking man about Caesar’s age, and although he looked like a thug, he was quite intelligent. Mora was surprised, however, that Juan was still among the living; Caesar was still angry with the man for his failure to know about Tito’s plan to kill Cadillac Washington.

  Caesar took his seat at the head of the table and gestured for Mora to begin.

  “We’re ready,” Mora said. “We have everything we need to know about the Hamilton woman and her daughter. We know where María Delgato is located, and I have a ten-man team in Washington State standing by for your command to proceed. The actor’s ready and—”

  “Are you sure he’s ready?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve conducted numerous drills with him, so he’s prepared to deal with a variety of scenarios. He’s not a courageous man, but he knows what’s at stake. And it’s . . . I don’t know how to describe it, but he’s an actor and he really gets into the role during the drills. I believe he’ll do fine, and, of course, if things go well he won’t have to do anything but stand there.”

  Caesar nodded. “Continue,” he said.

  “The identity documents for the actor have been prepared. They’re perfect. I have arranged for transportation to get Tito across the border and will have a team at the border to expedite the crossing and deal with any unforeseen issues we might encounter there.”

  Caesar wasn’t worried about the border crossing. Moving people, drugs, and weapons back and forth across the Mexican border was something the Olivera cartel did every day. “Who’s going to meet with Hamilton?”

  “I am,” Mora said. “That’s not a job I feel comfortable delegating.”

  “Good,” Caesar said. “How will you monitor the American response when Tito is freed?”

  Caesar knew the American reaction to Tito’s escape would be massive, involving marines at Camp Pendleton, the California Highway Patrol, DEA agents, federal marshals, Homeland Security personnel at the border, and the police departments of every city between Camp Pendleton and the border.

  Answering Caesar’s question, Mora said, “We’ll obviously be monitoring the American media. Our informants at Camp Pendleton and in the San Diego Police Department will provide intelligence updates, and Juan will have people in several locations monitoring radio traffic. The operation will begin at midnight, when there will be less chance of traffic congestion and delays at the border crossing. If everything goes as planned, Tito will arrive in Tijuana an hour and a half after he departs Pendleton.”

  “And the Russian chemical?” Caesar asked.

  Mora smiled, a rare sight. “It works exactly as I was told it would. I’ve personally tested it on a dozen men.” Then, knowing how Caesar felt about Juan Guzmán, he said, “If you’d like, I could give you a demonstration using Juan for a subject.”

  “I think I’d like that,” Caesar said.

  “Really, sir, is that necessary?” Juan Guzmán said, terrified of being used as Raphael Mora’s guinea pig.

  “Yes, it’s necessary,” Caesar said. It wasn’t necessary, but he was going to enjoy the demonstration.

  “Do you intend to carry out the operation on the Delgato woman before you free Tito?” Caesar asked Mora.

  “No, sir. I believe that would be a mistake. If we kill her first, the marshals might change the security procedures at the brig, which is the last thing we want to happen at this point. The woman is of secondary importance to freeing Tito.”

  “No, she’s not,” Caesar said. “I want her to pay for what she did, and I don’t want to wait any longer.”

  “I realize that, sir. I just believe it would be prudent to get Tito out of Camp Pendleton before we begin the operation against the woman. She’ll be taken care of as soon as Tito is free.”

  Caesar sat for a mo
ment, going through everything in his head one last time. He couldn’t think of any more questions.

  “Raphael, have you seen my condo in Tehuantepec?”

  Mora frowned, not understanding the connection between the operations he was planning and Caesar Olivera’s oceanside condo in southern Mexico. And Caesar knew that he’d seen the condo; he had been there a dozen times with Caesar. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “If both operations are successful, it’s yours.”

  Mora immediately said, “You don’t need to do that, sir. I’m just doing my job, and you pay me very well.”

  “Consider the condo a well-deserved bonus,” Caesar said. “Now, the demonstration. Are you ready, Juan?”

  —

  Caesar looked down at Juan Guzmán. He was lying on the floor of the conference room, sprawled on his back, an expression of shock frozen on his face. His eyes were open, and Caesar almost told Mora to close them, the way you’d do with a corpse. Caesar couldn’t tell if the man was breathing or not.

  “That was impressive,” Caesar said.

  “Yes,” Mora said, “and the chemical could be useful in the future, but there are problems with it. About one person in ten thousand has an allergic reaction, and it’s fatal.”

  Caesar kicked Guzmán’s shoe; the man still didn’t move. “But for this operation it doesn’t matter if it’s fatal, does it?” Caesar said.

  “No, sir,” Mora said.

  28

  Jessica walked toward the bus stop, thinking that it had been a pretty good day. She’d gotten a ninety-eight on a math test—the only one in the class who scored a hundred was that freak, Jacob Goldman—and she had been invited to a pool party at Taylor Campbell’s place on Saturday. Taylor was a bit full of herself—probably because her dad owned half the real estate in downtown San Diego and she was the only kid who drove a Porsche to school—but Taylor was all right, and someone like Wolfgang Puck would probably cater.

  The important thing about the party, however, was that Jessica had heard that Bobby McGuire was going, and he was going alone. She had a serious case of the hots for Bobby McGuire. Right now he was dating Judy Reeves, who was beautiful—and dumber than a box of rocks. But Bobby was her lab partner in chemistry, and Jessica could tell he liked talking to her and appreciated the fact that she had a brain in her head. Yeah, he’d eventually come around—and letting him see her in a bikini couldn’t hurt.

  She knew if she went to the party, Kay would grill her about Taylor’s parents and check to make sure they were going to be there. Hell, knowing Kay, she’d probably look them up in some FBI database. She’d also give her the usual lecture about how she was going to kill her if she did any dope and, in her stumbling, mumbling way, Kay would tell her not to screw anybody at the party. Kay had a hard time talking about sex, and Jessica wondered if getting pregnant at such an early age had messed her up for life. Whatever the case, she hadn’t had a date, as far as Jessica knew, since she’d moved in with her, which struck her as really strange.

  It was possible that when Kay said she had to go out at night on stakeouts or to arrest someone she was really sneaking off to meet some guy. She didn’t think so, however. For one thing, when Kay went out at night she was usually dressed all in black—black pullovers, black jeans, even black tennis shoes. One time she came back in the morning with camo paint on her face. And when she did have to work nights, she also usually called about two dozen times to make sure Jessica had set the alarm. Or maybe she called to make sure Jessica hadn’t left the house. One other thing she noticed was that Kay always looked really happy when she was wearing her night stalker clothes and strapping on her Glock; she really seemed to get a kick out of what she did, like it was all a big game to her.

  Thinking about Kay’s midnight ninja outfit made Jessica wonder if she should get something new to wear for the party. She’d looked in Kay’s closet one time when Kay was out of the house—maybe she shouldn’t have, but she was just curious—and Kay had a lot of really neat, sexy clothes, most of them with Miami labels. None of Kay’s clothes would fit her unless she grew four inches, but she could tell Kay had a sense of style and she knew that she didn’t. Kay had offered to take her shopping a bunch of times, and now Jessica thought maybe she should take her up on the offer before the party.

  There was something else she found in the closet that day. In a box on the top shelf were a bunch of old photos, mostly pictures of Kay at parties, or skiing, or dressed up in combat fatigues at one of those stupid paintball-shooting places. There were a lot of pictures of one guy in the box—a real stud—and Kay looked like she was in her early twenties when the pictures were taken. She wondered who the guy was. But there was one other picture in the box, way down at the bottom, in an envelope. The return address on the envelope was from a Marilyn Hamilton, who Jessica knew was Kay’s mother, and it was postmarked fourteen years earlier. Inside the envelope was a faded snapshot of a chubby-cheeked blond baby who Jessica was certain was her. What hurt was that the picture was on the bottom of the box and Jessica could tell that Kay hadn’t looked at it in years.

  Aw, it was too nice a day to think about stuff like that.

  The bus, for once, was on time, but the only seat she could find was next to an old guy who had to be at least sixty and whose breath smelled like he’d gargled with garlic. She was surprised when the old guy started playing a game on his smartphone. As the bus ride continued, she thought about summer. School would be out in a couple of days, and so far she hadn’t made any plans other than surfing. There was a two-week DNA class at UCLA for high school kids who had the science prerequisites, and she’d applied and been accepted, but she hadn’t talked to Kay about it. She was thinking it would be nice to spend some time on a college campus—and it would be good for both her and Kay to be apart for a while—but the class started just a couple weeks after the school year ended and she wanted to take a little break from studying.

  She got off the bus, strolling to their house, wondering what she could have for dinner. She couldn’t count on Kay for dinner. Some days she’d get home and fix something—spaghetti with Paul Newman marinara sauce was Kay’s idea of a gourmet meal—but most of the time she’d just bring home something she’d picked up at a fast-food joint. And unless Jessica nagged her about it, there was never anything in the house to eat.

  But Kay was . . . well, she was okay. Maybe she didn’t want to be a mother, but Jessica could tell she was at least trying to make an effort to act like one. The problem was they really didn’t have anything in common. When Kay was at home, she usually worked on the house, doing little carpentry projects, and when she wasn’t doing that, she watched TV. Jessica had yet to see her crack open a book. She asked once if Jessica wanted to go to the firing range with her to shoot guns, and she could tell Kay was offended when she said she had absolutely no interest in learning how to kill. She probably should have been a little more diplomatic.

  One thing she was really grateful to Kay for was introducing her to surfing. She just loved to surf. Which made her think about Randy Schommer. The guy was going to college next year, he was a hunk, and he should have been totally out of her league, but he spent more time with her than anyone else in the class. She also noticed Kay giving him the evil eye when she saw Randy talking to her after class the previous Saturday. For a woman who had never wanted anything to do with her since the day she was born, Kay was way overprotective.

  The van stopped so fast its tires skidded. She turned to look at it—and then just stood there, paralyzed, when two Hispanic guys jumped out of the van and ran toward her. They were on her so fast she didn’t even have time to scream before one of them clamped a hand over her mouth and muscled her into the van.

  Oh, Jesus. She was going to be raped.

  29

  Kay got home at six, thinking she should have stopped along the way and picked up something for dinner. She just hoped there was someth
ing in the house to eat.

  Kay opened the front door—and immediately smelled cigarette smoke.

  I’m gonna kill that kid. “Jessica!” she yelled.

  She stepped into the living room and saw a man sitting on her couch, looking completely relaxed, his legs crossed, smoking a brown cigarette. She whipped the Glock out of its holster and pointed it at his face. “You move and I’ll blow your head off.”

  The man dropped the cigarette into a coffee cup he’d been using for an ashtray and showed Kay his hands, palms outward, a gesture to convince her he wasn’t armed. He wasn’t big, not much taller than Kay, and he probably didn’t weigh more than a hundred and fifty pounds. He looked Hispanic, medium-dark complexion, short dark hair, a thin mustache. He was wearing a brown suit, a tan shirt, no tie.

  Kay was about to tell him to stand so she could frisk him, when he said, “I’m sure you could blow my head off, Agent Hamilton, but if you do, your daughter will die.”

  “What?” Kay said.

  “I’d suggest you put the pistol away and sit down so we can talk. We don’t have much time.”

  Kay took two long strides toward him and pressed the muzzle of the Glock against his forehead. Just the way she’d done with Tito Olivera the day she arrested him. “What did you say about my daughter?”

  “You heard what I said. If you don’t cooperate, she’ll die. Now, rather than waste more time, please open the laptop.” He gestured to a white MacBook that Kay hadn’t noticed sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

  Kay backed away from him and, still pointing the gun at him, said, “You open it.”

  “Very well,” the man said, as if she was being childish. He opened the laptop and turned it so Kay could see the screen. “Are you familiar with Skype?”