The Wrong Hostage sk-2

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Theodore Franklin.

  Feds.

  Bad combination.

  Faroe slid back deeper into the shadows. If he showed himself now, the last thing he’d see in this life would be the green eye of the sniper’s rifle.

  The driver of the Suburban got out and searched the darkened compound. He muttered something and another man got out of the front seat. Both men were wearing dark windbreakers with bright lettering across the chest and back.

  Law enforcement raid jackets.

  The side door of the vehicle opened and a third man, heavyset and a little awkward, stepped down. The officers in the windbreakers fell in on either side of him and ushered him toward the front door.

  Must be Ted.

  The son of a bitch.

  Franklin moved flat-footed, almost like he was in leg chains.

  Behind him a fourth man slid out of the car. He wore a suit and carried a leather briefcase shiny enough to reflect moonlight. He walked like a man who owned the world.

  One of the cops knocked firmly on the front door. The sound carried through the night. From Faroe’s right came a voice from the team leader’s radio.

  “She’s in the kitchen, headed for the front door right now.”

  Faroe was glad Grace didn’t know that she was being tracked by a sniper’s telescopic rifle sight.

  The lawman was about to knock again when the door swung open. Grace was outlined in the hallway light. Obviously car registration wasn’t the only detail she hadn’t had time to take care of. She must have left clothes at the place because she was now dressed in dark slacks, a dark blouse, and flat shoes. She said something that Faroe couldn’t hear.

  “Mrs. Franklin, we’re here on official business,” a man said. His command voice carried clearly through the night. “It would be best if you cooperate.”

  Grace moved back and let them enter. As the second officer walked underneath the porch light, Faroe saw the lettering on the back of his raid jacket.

  US MARSHAL

  The door closed.

  Well, that does it. This has gone from a goat roping to a clusterfuck.

  Marshals weren’t garden-variety cops. They protected courtrooms, served papers, transported prisoners, chased fugitives. And they administered a highly specialized program called “witness protection.”

  Franklin had found himself a mink-lined hideout protected by the kind of bureaucracy that made an art out of delay.

  But Lane had only a bit more than twelve hours to live.

  All bets were off.

  46

  LOMAS SANTA FE

  MONDAY, 12:20 A.M.

  FAROE TURNED TOWARD THE officer in the camouflage coveralls. “Hey, you, over there in the trees. You’re trespassing on private property. Come out with your hands up!”

  The instant response was silence.

  Then the officer slowly turned his head in Faroe’s direction. At the same time, his right shoulder dropped.

  He was sliding the assault rifle off his shoulder.

  “Reach for that weapon and die,” Faroe said flatly.

  The man froze.

  “Can you see him?” the man said into his radio.

  The answer must have been negative because the man slowly raised his hands.

  “We’re federal law enforcement agents on official duty,” he said. “Step out where we can see you.”

  “I don’t care if you’re aliens from the third galaxy over. You’re trespassing and you’re armed. I’m in fear of my life and I have every right to shoot you where you stand. Step backward out of cover so I can see you.”

  After a few seconds the man slowly straightened. Keeping his hands where they could be seen, he stepped backward out of his position. In the moonlight, Faroe could see reflective yellow letters on his back.

  Another marshal.

  “You see the lettering on the back of my coverall?” the marshal demanded. “That’ll tell you who we are.”

  “How stupid do you think I am? You can buy anything on eBay. Keep walking backward toward me.”

  “You aren’t being very smart.”

  “I aced target practice, which is all the smart I need. Back up.”

  Slowly the marshal backed up. When he was six feet away Faroe stepped out of the shadows, keeping the marshal between him and the barn.

  “Tell your shooter in the hayloft to ease back on his trigger,” Faroe said.

  The marshal stood still but didn’t say anything.

  “Tell him.”

  “Hold fire,” the officer said. He turned slightly, trying to get a look behind him.

  In the half-light, Faroe could see the slender stalk of a radio microphone outlined against his cheek.

  “Eyes front,” Faroe snapped.

  “We’re federal officers. You’re dipping yourself in deep shit.”

  “You’re already up to your own lips in the stuff,” Faroe said. “You and I are going to walk toward the house, where there’s good light, and we’ll let the judge sort out who’s doing what and with which and to whom.”

  “You her bodyguard?”

  “Give the man a prize. I’m walking in your shadow, so remind your boys about Ruby Ridge and what happens to snipers who take bad shots.”

  “He’s the judge’s bodyguard!” the marshal shouted. “Hold fire. We’re going inside.”

  Faroe stayed close behind the marshal as they stepped out of the tree line and walked slowly across the front lawn. The skin at the base of his skull tingled as he sensed the gentle, giddy sensation of crosshairs intersecting there. He kept his right arm bent at the elbow, the posture of a man holding a gun.

  Except he didn’t have a gun and he sure didn’t want anyone to know it until he was inside.

  As the marshal reached the first step of the porch, the front door swung open. The marshal inside had been monitoring the radio traffic. He held a pistol close to his leg, ready to bring it to bear.

  “Relax,” Faroe said.

  Then he stepped into the light and showed his empty hands.

  “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?”

  47

  LOMAS SANTA FE

  SUNDAY, 12:25 A.M.

  “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. Ignoring 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-”

  “T
ed,” 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 Calderon and his colleagues in Tijuana?”