Franklin stared past her without answering.
“Actually,” Sturgis said, “our position is that Calderon 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 Calderon 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.”
Franklin looked over with new interest. “You sound like you know your way around.”
“Believe it,” Faroe said, but it was Sturgis he was looking at. “So don’t bullshit me and all of us just might get out of this alive.”
The drink paused halfway to Franklin’s mouth. He looked at Sturgis.
Sturgis was watching Faroe like a man who’d just discovered that guns weren’t the most dangerous things in the room.
Faroe smiled.
It didn’t make Sturgis feel better.
“If we find this file,” Faroe said, “you’ll work with us for Lane’s release.”
“Ah, we’d do what we could, yes,” Sturgis said, “without, of course, admitting that Ted-”
“Wrong answer,” Faroe cut in.
And waited.
“If you bring us that file, we’ll do everything in our power to see Lane safely into the U.S.,” Sturgis said unhappily.
Faroe looked at Grace. “I’d get it in writing, but we don’t have time to play legal games.”
Lane had twelve hours to live.
48
I-5, HEADED SOUTH
MONDAY, 12:35 A.M.
GRACE SAT WITH HER head against the headrest, watching cars flow by in both directions, a steel river that began at one international border and ended at another.
Faroe hadn’t tried to talk to Grace. She hadn’t tried to talk to him. There was nothing to say.
The father was safe in federal custody and the son was waiting to be executed for his father’s sins.
“Are they following us?” Grace asked Faroe finally.
“Not so far.”
“Does the fact that you’re doing ninety-eight have something to do with that?”
“Ninety-two, and I’m not the fastest car on the road.”
As if to prove it, a Lexus rocketed by on their right, pursued by a beater
with Baja California plates.
Faroe checked the mirrors. “When you took the computer to Lane, did you know?”
She froze. “What do you think?”
“You didn’t know.”
Her laugh was short and harsh. “I suppose I should be grateful for your trust.”
“Actually Ted should be grateful there were witnesses back there. You would have cut him to bloody pieces with a broken glass.”
“You weren’t exactly sending him love notes.”
“I was trying to figure out an appropriate death for him.”
Grace gave Faroe a sideways look. “And?”
“Still trying.” Faroe smiled grimly. “But no matter what, I’m going to be a gentleman about it. I promise you can have your pound of flesh first.”
Grace smiled in spite of herself. What am I going to do with you, Joe?
She didn’t know she’d spoken the words aloud until Faroe said, “Ask me tomorrow.”
Her laugh sounded more like a sob.
He glanced at the dashboard clock. Steele should be setting down within the hour. At least there would be a safe place for Grace while Faroe went south.
“Do you think Lane knows anything about this file?” Faroe asked.
“He never said anything to me about Ted keeping files on the computer.”
“I’ll ask when I call Lane. If he could rig a wireless connection, I could suck that file right through the satellite phone.”
“Lane knows all about wireless and 3G and a lot of other things that go right over my head.”
“I’d sure like to see what Ted figures is his federal Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card.”
“What good would that do?” Grace asked.
“I can’t answer that until I see it, but I’ve got a real good idea. I think the Plaza file is just that-a list of all the black transactions Bank of San Marco did for Hector, Carlos, and the rest of the narcotraficantes.”
“But that would implicate Ted. Why would he do that?”
“If he leads the feds to twenty or fifty or whatever million bucks, they’ll seize it, pat him on the back, and let him go.”
“But-”
“That kind of money would pay for a lot of federal task forces,” Faroe said, ignoring her interruption.
“You make it sound like law enforcement is a profit center for the U.S. government,” Grace said tiredly. “I thought that was Mexico’s specialty.”
Faroe shrugged. “Governments are made of people. Some people are better than others and everyone has a price. Sometimes, like in most of Mexico, bureaucrats and politicians get rich directly. Others run the money through political parties or even bureaucracies. It all boils down to money and power and to hell with the meadow that’s flattened while the elephants and donkeys dance for dollars.”
“But-”
“You heard Ted back there, conniving with his lawyer and government agents to work out what amounts to a political solution to his large, personal legal problems. If that isn’t a kind of corruption, what is?” Faroe asked.
“If you believe that, why bother?”
“I like meadows,” Faroe said evenly. “I especially like the individual blades of grass. Like Lane. If I can keep the elephants from smashing him while they dance, that’s good enough for me.”
Silence grew.
Miles of it.
They were within sight of the helicopters circling the border when Grace said bitterly, “Shade upon shade of gray.”
Faroe didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
“So a rich, politically connected snake like Ted talks to the political types in Main Justice,” Grace said. “He convinces them that it’s in the best interests of everybody to let him pay an informal multimillion-dollar fine and slither off into his hole.”
“Don’t ask me to like it,” Faroe said. “And don’t ask me to pretend it doesn’t happen.”
“I won’t. When you add the clever spinning of facts by a lawyer like Sturgis, Ted could end up looking like an upstanding citizen committing a selfless act of civic virtue. If Sturgis is good enough, they’ll probably give Ted a presidential citation.”
“Yeah,” Faroe agreed, his voice tightening with anger. “And he’s already on his way to flushing both you and Lane right out of the system.”
“I can live without a judgeship-of any kind.”
Faroe shot her a fast glance. No tears, no frowns, just the kind of determination that didn’t know how to quit.
The only thing I can’t live without is my son.
“Ted won’t be able to explain away Lane’s imprisonment,” she said fiercely. “I won’t let him.”
“You’re not going to like hearing this,” Faroe said, “but I have to say it. By now, Ted and Sturgis are well on their way to painting you as a lying slut and Lane as a doper and a screwup who got himself in trouble in Mexico.”
She took a sharp breath.
“Lane won’t die a hostage,” Faroe said, his words all the more terrible for the calmness of his voice. “He’ll probably be an accidental overdose. If Hector doesn’t stick a needle in the kid’s arm, Sturgis will see to it that one is ‘found’ on the beach next to the body.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m trying to. But with Ted lawyered up and federally protected, we’re holding the slippery end of a very shitty stick. Powerful people, whether politicians or crooks, don’t like loose ends. Loose ends distract from the big, bright plasma-screen picture of reality that gets peddled all day, every day, on the news channels.”
Grace looked over and at Faroe. In the flickering mercury-vapor lights of the freeway overheads, he looked like one of the Huichol death masks she’d seen in Lane’s cottage.
“It can’t be that easy to bury the truth,” she said.
“It’s easier. Bust some mutt with a few kilos of cocaine and watch your career soar. Get evidence that points toward one of Mexico’s leading political families and watch your career tank. It isn’t important to really do something about drugs-it’s only important to appear to do something.”
Without warning, Faroe took an off-ramp and sped down smaller and smaller roads. He pulled into the parking lot of Brown Field just as a helicopter leaped off the tarmac and headed out for Spring Canyon to shut off the flow of illegal aliens that neither the U.S. nor the Mexican politicians wanted to stop.
They just wanted to appear to.
“Were we followed?” Grace asked.
All Faroe said was “Time to call Lane.”
49
ALL SAINTS SCHOOL
MONDAY, 1:00 A.M.
CIGARETTE SMOKE CAME INTO Lane’s room through open windows, along with gusts of warm, humid air from the storm that was inching closer to shore.
That’s why I’m sweating.
Heat, not fear.
But his sweat was cold.
In the spaces between the cry of wind and waves, men’s voices came from outside along with more smells of burning nicotine and something else, something Lane couldn’t identify. If one guard wasn’t smoking, the other was.
They were less than six feet from Lane’s bed.
If Mom calls now, Lane thought frantically, they’ll know.
Yet there was nothing Lane wanted or needed more than to hear his mother’s voice and know that he wasn’t truly alone.
The satellite phone beneath his pillow vibrated. Instantly he blocked any view from the window by diving under the sheet. He pushed the connect button.
And said nothing.
“It’s Faroe,” a man’s voice said softly. “If you can hear me but can’t answer, blow into the microphone. Once for yes.”
Lane’s breath sighed over the receiver.
At the other end of the line, Faroe’s heart kicked with relief. “Good. Are you okay?”
Lane breathed into the phone again. Once.
“Is there anyone in the room with you?” Faroe asked.
Lane blew twice into the phone, then whispered, “Wait.”
&n
bsp; “As long as you want,” Faroe said.
Sweating, Lane lay beneath the sheet, holding the phone until his hand ached from the pressure.
The guards’ voices faded as they went on another tour of the cottage’s perimeter.
“Okay,” Lane said softly. “They’re gone. It usually takes them a couple of minutes to get back to the window.”
“Has anything changed since we were there?” Faroe asked quickly.
“No,” Lane said, keeping his voice so low it barely transmitted. “Father Rafael came to see me. He said he thought things would be okay. Do I trust him or not?”
“Until we find out a little more, treat him as an unknown quantity,” Faroe said. “But if things come unstuck, use your own judgment. He might be the best option you have. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Lane said. “Is Mom there with you?” The question was tentative.
“She’s here,” Faroe said carefully. He didn’t want the boy falling apart on the phone. Or Grace.
“Good,” Lane said. “I just didn’t want her to be alone right now. She worries a lot.”
Faroe smiled even though his throat ached. “Do you have access to a file called ‘the Plaza’ on your hard drive?”
“That’s Dad’s file,” Lane said, his voice suddenly cautious. “He trusted me with it.”
It was about the only way Lane had connected with his father in years-showing him how to use the computer.
“I know,” Faroe said. “He told us about it.”
“You saw Dad?” With an effort, Lane kept his voice low. “Tonight? Is he coming to get me before”-Hector kills me-“the deadline?”
Faroe wondered how Lane had found out, then decided it didn’t matter. What mattered was keeping Lane from panicking.
“Ted showed up in Lomas Santa Fe, at the ranch,” Faroe said carefully. “He wanted your computer. He wanted the Plaza file.”
Lane listened for the guards, heard only the wind and waves. “So?”
Sitting in the SUV, Faroe wondered what to say. How do you explain to a kid what a self-serving piece of shit his father is?
The Wrong Hostage sk-2 Page 24
