by Robert Crais
Krista was wondering how to respond when the door in the utility room opened. Miguel immediately jumped to his feet as Medina came in from the garage. His hands and forearms were smeared with something greasy, and his shirt was blotchy and stained.
Miguel simpered like a Chihuahua.
“You need me to do anything?”
Medina ignored him, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He looked Marisol up and down, then raked his gaze over Krista. He peeled out of his shirt like a snake sheds a skin, and dropped it to the floor.
He stared at Krista, but spoke to Marisol.
“Wash this. Make the water hot, and use bleach.”
Marisol scurried to pick up the shirt, and took it into the utility room.
Krista heard faint voices, a car door, and an engine starting in the garage. Then the garage door rattled as it lifted.
Miguel tried again, like a simpering fool.
“I guess everything’s okay, then, huh? You want me to take care of anything?”
Krista turned back to the pot because she hated the weight of Medina’s eyes. His body was broad and hairless. He rippled with muscles, but he was not young and wasn’t clean. Loose skin stretched and folded in pale ways she found obscene.
Medina finally gave Miguel an order.
“Check the garage. Make sure Orlato didn’t drop something on the floor. Use the bleach.”
Miguel hurried past Marisol into the garage.
Krista stared into the pot as it filled, and felt Medina approach. She felt his body heat. He stopped directly behind her.
“Move.”
He used his body to nudge her aside, then rinsed his hands and forearms under the running water, depositing his filth into the beans.
“Gimme the soap.”
He squeezed a blue ribbon up and down his forearms and over his hands, and worked up a thick lather. He rinsed the suds into the beans, shut the tap, and faced her. Water dripped from his arms onto the floor.
“Dry me.”
She glanced up for Marisol or the Mantis or Miguel, but they were alone.
“Dry me. You don’t see I’m wet?”
He came closer, so she moved farther away, but still couldn’t meet his eyes.
“You should be nice to me, girl.”
She stepped away, but he grabbed her by the neck so fast she fell into him, and looked up to see his jagged teeth. She slapped at him, and tried to twist free, but he laughed. Then he stopped laughing, and punched her hard in the face.
Krista fell without knowing it. She bounced off the counter, hit the floor, and looked up at him through a sparkling haze. He seemed very tall, with long legs and longer arms, and his voice echoed from far away.
“It’s gonna be good, little puta.”
He reached from the ceiling with a rubber arm, Krista threw up her hands to ward him off, and Jack came out of nowhere. He flew over her and slammed into Medina like a mongrel dog.
Jack’s impact knocked Medina backward. They spun through the kitchen, wrapped together, all arms and legs. Jack made grunting sounds, and found her eyes briefly as he spiraled past.
“Garage.”
Krista struggled to her feet, but did not run for the garage. She grabbed the pot from the stove and swung at Medina, but the Mantis rushed in, and lifted her off her feet. Then Miguel and the other guards poured in, and crowded the kitchen to watch.
Medina wrestled Jack to the floor and punched him over and over, his fist rising and falling like a piston.
Krista fought to break away, but the Mantis held tight.
“Stop it! You’re killing him—!”
She pleaded, and tried to help, but the beating went on.
“Stop!”
Then the garage door opened, and the man with the ponytail entered.
Miguel and the Mantis immediately pulled Medina to his feet. He fought them until he saw the new man, then immediately stopped struggling.
Krista pleaded.
“He’s hurt! He needs help! Look at him, please!”
Jack was belly down on the floor. Blood trickled from both ears down the sides of his face.
“He needs a doctor! Can’t you see? Please!”
The new man gazed at Jack, then frowned at Medina.
“You are costing me money.”
“Discipline problem. You have to keep them in line.”
The tall man looked at each guard in turn, then considered Krista. His expression was so thoughtful she felt encouraged he would help, but then he turned to Medina.
“The dead are worth nothing. Do you see? Get rid of him before the others see him, and clean up this mess.”
Krista didn’t realize what the tall man’s order meant until he and Rojas started away. Jack was hurt, they had no doctor, so they were going to kill him and get rid of his body.
Krista blurted out the one thing she prayed would save his life.
“He’s rich! They are rich! This is how his mother is away so long!”
The tall man glanced at Rojas, who offered what he knew.
“This is the one whose mother is in China. There is no one to call until she returns.”
Krista kept pushing.
“She takes these trips always. My mama says they have much money. If he dies, you will get nothing.”
The tall man thought for a moment, then nodded at Medina.
“We shall see. Do what you can for him.”
The tall man and Rojas disappeared down the hall as Miguel and another guard bent over Jack. The Mantis took Krista’s arm, but Medina leaned close with his jack-o’-lantern face.
“As soon as he’s gone, you will make the first call. You gonna call Mama. I’m gonna make you scream real good.”
He leered even wider, then told the Mantis to take her to her room.
Krista was scared, but relieved. She had told them one secret about Jack, and it had saved him. But she had come dangerously close to telling them who Jack was related to, and about the army of people who were looking for him. Jack and Krista had agreed on the night they were taken they couldn’t tell the bajadores who Jack was related to. If these men found out, they would kill him. Jack and Krista could only pray she found them quickly.
The Mantis returned Krista to her room.
The tall man with the ponytail left one hour later.
Medina was good at his word.
Krista made the first call.
He used the terrible teeth, and made her scream.
27.
Nancie Stendahl
Stendahl lowered the windows on her rental car to let in the night-blooming jasmine. Nonstop D.C. to L.A., four hours in the air, hit the ground running, forty minutes later, here she was driving up Kenter Canyon in Brentwood, California. Home. Stendahl had come home because of a call she received from the chief of the Coachella Police Department four days earlier.
Nancie loved the drive up Kenter at night, when the smells of jasmine, fennel, and eucalyptus bloomed, and coyotes and deer might be framed by her headlights. The narrow street began on Sunset Boulevard, but climbed steeply through dense trees and affluent homes until star-field views of the city stretched south and east to the horizons. Nancie Stendahl had missed this drive since her transfer two years earlier to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms’s Washington headquarters, but she didn’t miss the crappy cell reception.
“Gonna lose you, Tone. I’m on my way up to Bonnie’s.”
“Can you hear me?”
“So far, but not for long.”
Assistant Deputy Director Nancie Stendahl represented the ATF on a congressional task force that included the FBI, ICE, DEA, and the state and local law enforcement agencies that lined the U.S.–Mexican border. This task force was charged with containing cartel gang activity on the Mexican side of the border. Tony Nakamura was her liaison officer with the committee. Normally, the Bureau would have provided a car to someone of Nancie’s rank, but this trip was personal.
Nakamura went on.
&nbs
p; “I said, the senator’s chief bitched me out because you left town with the review coming up.”
“I’m available to the senator twenty-four/seven by phone.”
“Said that.”
“Tell them I’m on a fact-finding mission, and it’s necessary if they want a full report.”
She waited, but Nakamura was gone. Reception would return when she reached the ridge, but losing him was just as well. Her mind was on other things.
Nancie rounded a last curve by Hanley Park, and pulled up outside a sleek clean modern home with a breathtaking view of the Pacific. It had been her baby sister’s house, which Nancie inherited in trust when Bonnie and Mel were killed in a traffic accident on PCH. That was four years ago, when Nancie was between husbands, and serving as the Special Agent in Charge of the ATF’s Los Angeles Field Division. Now, four years later, with a new husband, a new job, and a new life in D.C., she returned as often as possible, but for reasons other than the house.
Nancie lifted her wheelie from the trunk, shouldered her purse, and went to the front door. The house appeared normal. The outside lights were on and the soft glow behind frosted sidelights told her the inside lights were also on, but these lights were on timers.
The alarm went crazy when she let herself in, blaring she had sixty seconds to turn it off before LAPD’s finest rolled out in force. Nancie keyed in the four-digit code (her nephew’s birth year) to shut off the alarm.
“Hey, buddy! You home? It’s Nancie!”
She followed the entry to the great room, which looked out on the glowing pool (also on timers) so still and clean it appeared to be filled with air, and called out again.
“Hey, dude!”
The house was neat, orderly, and clean. She was on her way to the bedrooms when her phone rang. She assumed it was Tony calling back, but saw the 760 area code. 760 was Palm Springs.
“Stendahl.”
“Ah, this is Sergeant Conner Hartley with the Palm Springs Police Department. I’m calling for, ah, Ms. Nancie Stendahl.”
“This is she.”
She didn’t recognize the voice, but this didn’t matter. She had received many calls from the desert during the past four days.
“Ah, Deputy Director Nancie Stendahl? With the ATF out of Washington?”
Like he couldn’t get his head around it.
“Assistant Deputy Director, Sergeant, but thanks for the promotion. Have you found my nephew?”
“Ah, no, ma’am, no, I’m sorry. My boss told me to call. He wants you to know we confirmed the Ford Mustang parts found in Coachella came off a vehicle registered to, ah—”
She finished it for him.
“The Arrowhead Trust, Nancie Stendahl and Jack Berman, trustees.”
“Ah, yes, ma’am. It was never reported stolen, not here, and not in L.A., either. We double-checked with LAPD and the L.A. Sheriffs, just in case it fell through the cracks, but it wasn’t reported.”
The Coachella Police and the Riverside County Sheriffs had busted a stolen car ring running a chop shop in Coachella, California, not far from Palm Springs. During the subsequent check of Vehicle Identification Numbers and part serial numbers, the investigators discovered the registered owner of a certain Mustang was something called the Arrowhead Trust, whose mailing address was ATF headquarters in Washington, D.C., in care of Assistant Deputy Director Nancie Stendahl. The chief of the Coachella police had immediately contacted her to ask if she still owned the car.
“The people you busted at the chop shop say where they got my car?”
“Ah, well, that would be the Coachella detectives. They made the arrests. I wouldn’t know.”
“Are they still in Coachella’s custody?”
“Ah, well, I’ll have to check.”
She made her voice cool.
“Would you pass along my number, and ask your chief to phone me directly? I’d appreciate a call back tonight, regardless of the hour.”
“Ah, yes, ma’am.”
“One more thing. You checked my home in Palm Springs?”
The Arrowhead Trust owned the Kenter house, the Palm Springs house, and the remains of Bonnie and Mel’s estate, all held in trust for Jack, with Nancie as the trustee.
“Yes, ma’am. The chief sent a couple investigators. Everything looked all right.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Please ask the chief to call.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She ended the call, and stared into the aqua-blue glow of the pool, wondering where Jack was and how his Mustang ended up in a chop shop without him reporting it stolen. She had been wondering these same things since the Coachella chief contacted her, and she liked none of the possible explanations. After the chief’s call, Nancie immediately phoned, texted, and emailed Jack, and had been trying him every day, but had heard nothing. A couple of ATF buddies from the L.A. office had driven up to the house, but reported nothing unusual.
Nancie Stendahl said, “Damnit, Jack.”
She dropped her purse on the couch, took off her suit coat, then pushed open the glass slider and went out to the pool.
Jack was a minor when Bonnie and Mel were killed. Her sister and brother-in-law had done all right, both being lawyers, having the Kenter house and a second home in Palm Springs. Then, on top of it, the insurance settlement from the drunk who killed them had been enormous. Nancie set up the trust with herself as trustee and Jack as both co-trustee and beneficiary. She had been between husbands and living alone, so she moved into the Kenter house as his guardian until he started USC, then came the promotion and the transfer to D.C. Financially, Jack was set for life, but now Jack was gone.
Nancie scrolled through her contact list, and called the Special Agent in Charge of the Los Angeles Field Division. He answered immediately.
“Hey, JT. Is it too late?”
“Not for you, boss. Not ever. You here?”
“Up at Bonnie’s. Walked in five minutes ago.”
“No Jack?”
“Nada.”
John Taylor had been her A-SAC when Nancie ran the L.A. office. He was a sharp, tough agent with a stellar record and outstanding management skills. When she was promoted to Washington, JT rightfully took the reins.
“How can I help? You name it, you got it.”
“Coachella PD, Palm Springs PD, Riverside County Sheriffs. I want everything they have on the chop shop.”
“Done.”
She turned away from the pool, and moved back into the house.
“Set me up asap tomorrow morning with the investigating officers out there.”
“Will do.”
“Face time with the assholes they busted. Whoever made bond, I want them picked up.”
“Done. What else?”
She stopped in the living room. Clocked the cordless phone on the kitchen counter and the security monitor on the wall.
“I need an agent on my phone numbers. Jack’s cell, we have the two hard line numbers here in Brentwood, and the one hard line in Palm Springs. They’re in your files.”
“They’re in my phone. We’ll ID the incoming and outgoing calls for the past two weeks, and run off a list.”
“We have a video security system up here. It goes twenty-four/seven on a two-week wipe. I need a full two-week replay with stills of anyone entering or leaving the premises.”
“Can you access via the Internet?”
“Yeah. I’ll look up the codes.”
“Done deal. More?”
She turned back to the pool, and thought hard as she watched the aqua shimmer.
“No. No, that should do it for now. Thanks, JT.”
“When do you want to get started?”
“As soon as possible.”
“I’ll have Mo and Roach on your phones in two hours. Get me the access codes for your digital, they’ll run it from their laptops. Can’t find them, they’ll pull the hard drive there at your house. Just tell them when they get there.”
“Thanks, man.”
“We
’ll find him, Nance. Trust me.”
“Always did. Always will.”
She ended the call, then walked through the house. Bonnie’s house. Her baby sister.
Nancie had wanted children, but was unable to conceive. She had doted on Jack, and loved him as fully as if he were her own. Maybe more. Nancie stood at the grave when Bonnie and Mel were buried, held Jack tight, and soaked him with her tears. She had silently promised Bonnie she would take care of their baby boy, forever and always, just as Bonnie would have done.
She had, until now.
“I’ll find him, Bon. You know I will.”
Part 3
28.
Danny Trehorn
Danny stepped out of the shower at 6:21 A>M. that morning, rubbing the towel over his head and across his back and butt like a shoe-shine cloth; moving fast for a seven A.M. tee time, these four lawyers from L.A. who couldn’t play for shit, but enjoyed themselves and didn’t throw tantrums when they blew a gimme. Drama queens were lousy tippers, but these guys were solid.
Danny tossed the towel over the curtain rail, slammed on the anti-stink juice, and glanced at the time. If he was out the door by 6:30, he could make the clubhouse by 6:45, punch in, pick up the cart, stock his cooler with water and soft drinks, and be ready and waiting for his foursome by seven.
Perfect.
Shorts, club polo, socks. Good to go, and looking sharp.
Danny was tying his shoes when something pounded on his door so effin’ loud he damn near crapped his pants—
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
—at exactly the same time his cell phone rang.
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
Danny glanced at the Caller ID, and saw BATF, as a man’s voice outside his door shouted.
“Daniel Trehorn! Police! Please open the door.”
What the fuck? It sounded like a joke.
One shoe on, holding the other, Danny gimped to the door and peered out the peephole. A scowling man with short red hair was staring directly at him, and holding a badge.
Danny opened the door, and found five people waiting. Two uniformed policemen, and two men and a woman in suits.