Innocent as Sin

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Obviously it will cost me you,” Rand said.

  “It will cost you yourself. But then you don’t care about that, do you? You hate yourself for living when Reed didn’t.”

  “Kayla—”

  A shadow showed against the bedroom curtains. Rand shot to his feet and lifted the curtain aside just enough to look out.

  Three men with drawn pistols were charging the St. Kilda compound from the direction of the golf course. Brakes shrieked as two cars and a pale green van blocked the driveway and parking areas.

  “Shit! We’ve got to—” Rand said.

  The blare of loudspeakers shut out the rest of his words. “EVERYONE STAY PUT! THIS IS A FEDERAL RAID!”

  Rand went through the bungalow at a run, checking that locks and bolts were in place.

  “What should we do?” Kayla asked.

  “Stay out of sight until we’re told otherwise.”

  39

  Royal Palms

  Sunday

  6:25 A.M. MST

  Get that camera crew awake and shooting now,” Faroe snarled into the telephone.

  “Okay, I’m on it,” Martin said. “You want us in the open?” “Whatever it takes to get sound and action.”

  Faroe hung up and went out the front door, shutting it behind him. He met the raiding party on the front stoop of the bungalow. The lead agent, a heavyset man in a dark green Border Patrol uniform shirt, carried a pistol at high port arms.

  “What the hell is this?” Faroe demanded.

  The next bungalow’s door opened silently. A camera lens poked out the partly open door, as did a directional mike.

  The agent saw only the tall, hard-looking man blocking the door of the bungalow he’d been ordered to search.

  “Out of the way, sir,” the agent said. “We’re conducting an immigration employment verification action of this establishment.”

  Faroe pointed toward the resort’s main building. “Well, shit howdy, cowboy, the kitchen is over there and the groundskeeper headquarters are about a quarter mile back the way you came from.”

  “Stand aside, sir.”

  “This is a private room,” Faroe said distinctly. “Nobody here is undocumented.”

  “Get out of the way, sir,” the agent barked, “or you will be subject to arrest.”

  Behind Faroe the door opened. Grace stood there, tying a red silk robe over the mound of her pregnancy.

  “No, he won’t step aside, Officer.” Her voice had the snap of a judge used to ruling a courtroom—and the cops in it. Her dark eyes went to the officer’s name tag. “Agent Morehouse, you’re very close to overstepping whatever authority you believe you have.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am, but who the hell are you to question my authority?”

  “My name is Grace Silva Faroe,” she said. “I retired six months ago as a federal judge in the Southern District of California. That district includes San Diego, a place where the Border Patrol was and is very active.”

  “I know what the Southern District is,” Morehouse said curtly. “Step aside, both of you. Now.”

  “Not yet,” Grace said, each word distinct. “You need a specific warrant to enter private residences. Under the law, rented hotel rooms have the same privileges and protections as private residences.” She held out her hand. “I’ll see the warrant, please.”

  “We have information that a specific individual may be in this bungalow and that said individual is in the country illegally,” Morehouse said.

  Faroe hadn’t budged from his place at the top of the three steps leading to the bungalow. Morehouse couldn’t go forward unless he went through Faroe and the pregnant lady.

  Agents piled up behind Morehouse.

  “Ma’am—” Morehouse began.

  “If you had specific information,” Grace cut across him calmly, “you should have applied for a warrant. Who is this specific individual, anyway? He must be important.” She flicked a glance at the men behind Morehouse. “And dangerous.”

  With a muttered word, Morehouse pulled a notebook from his hip pocket. Command presence sure wasn’t making a dent in the couple in front of him. Maybe a show of cooperation would get the job done.

  “The name is John Neto,” Morehouse said. “He’s a Camgerian alien who, according to our information, entered the country illegally from Victoria, Canada, on a tourist visa.”

  Faroe and Grace traded looks.

  “That’s specific information, all right,” Grace said. She shut the door and walked two steps to the porch railing, where she looked down at the milling of agents. “And obviously this Neto is an extremely dangerous man. Otherwise the immigration service wouldn’t have sent all these men.” She looked out at the grounds. “I count eight men in five vehicles. That’s a tremendous show of force,” she said, turning back to pin Morehouse with cold black eyes, “particularly here in Phoenix, where I’d guess one person in six entered from Mexico without papers.”

  Morehouse sighed. He’d known the minute he picked up his orders—and enough men for a baseball team—that this assignment stank. Now he had a hard-case male and a pregnant woman in his face before he’d even had two cups of coffee.

  “Ma’am, I have my orders. Just stand aside and we’ll be in and out real quick.”

  “Where did these orders come from?” Grace asked.

  “The district director,” Morehouse said. “Ma’am—”

  “At seven o’clock on a Sunday morning?” Grace interrupted.

  “He said it was a top Homeland Security priority. Now, if you’d just—”

  “Orders? From Washington?” she asked, pitching her voice to carry to the mike next door.

  “I don’t know,” Morehouse said impatiently. “I just take orders.”

  Faroe made certain that none of his amusement showed. He’d worked with men like Morehouse—decent, steady, unimaginative.

  Grace would make pâté out of him.

  “I understand, Officer,” she said sympathetically. “And we certainly don’t want to impede a legitimate federal investigation. If you’d give me a telephone number for the district director, I’ll discuss paperwork with him.”

  Morehouse said something under his breath. “Tell you what, ma’am. We’ll come in and check, and you can talk to the director later. It’ll be a lot easier that way.”

  “It might be a lot easier if I signed a permanent waiver of my Fifth Amendment rights,” Grace said. “That would hardly be good for America, would it? But never mind about the number. Senator Miller’s chief legislative aide is a good friend. I’m sure Jerry will have your director’s number.”

  Morehouse looked at her and knew it was going to be a bad day.

  “You aren’t getting inside without paperwork,” Faroe said. “Court order, warrant, or the phone number. Your choice.”

  The line of Morehouse’s mouth said he wasn’t happy.

  “Take it from me,” Faroe said, “this woman eats badges every day and spits out itty-bitty staples.”

  Morehouse knew a political impasse when it was shoved down his throat. He told Faroe the phone number. Grace went inside, closing the door behind her.

  Faroe peered into the morning sunlight and almost winced. Summer was more than a promise in that Phoenix sun. It was a threat.

  “I’m getting a cup of coffee,” Faroe said, turning away from Morehouse.

  Morehouse grabbed Faroe’s arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I just told you. You want a cup?” He looked at the agent’s belly. “Double cream and sugar, right?”

  The agent’s fingers dug into Faroe’s arm. “You and your lady are impeding federal officers, and I’m getting sick of it. We’ll have a little respect around here or somebody’s going to jail. Now break out some ID.”

  “I don’t need any.”

  “You need ID if I say you do,” Morehouse snarled. Over his shoulder, he said to one of his men, “Cuff this clown. Sack him up.”

  “What’s the charge?” Faroe
asked.

  “No ID,” Morehouse shot back. “I think you look illegal, and I’m taking you in until I’m sure you’re a citizen in good standing.”

  Faroe’s smile was a knife sliding out of a sheath. “I once carried a badge pretty much like yours. Like you, I tried to bootstrap a disagreement with a suspect into an immigration violation.”

  Unwillingly, Morehouse eased his grip. “So?”

  “I knew the guy was a citizen,” Faroe said, “just like you know I’m a citizen. I even knew that a citizen is under no affirmative obligation to prove his status, so long as he is already here on U.S. soil. But I went ahead and sacked him up anyway.”

  “Hooray for you,” Morehouse muttered.

  “I did a year in federal prison for a civil rights violation,” Faroe said pleasantly. “Back off, or you’ll do the same.”

  Morehouse stared at Faroe for a long five-count, then released his arm.

  “Friggin’ lawyers all over the place,” Morehouse said under his breath.

  Grace emerged from the bungalow, carrying a cell phone. She held it out to Morehouse.

  “It’s your boss,” she said.

  Morehouse looked at the phone like it was a snake, then took it and held it to his ear.

  “Yeah, this is Morehouse.” He listened, grunted, listened some more, grunted, and sighed. Then he handed the phone back to Grace. “He wants to talk to you again.”

  Grace held a short, crisp conversation with the bureaucrat at the other end, thanked him, and hung up.

  “Will there be anything else, Officer?” she asked pointedly.

  “No. Sorry about the bother. Ma’am.” Teeth clenched, Morehouse turned and waved his men back to their vehicles.

  Thirty seconds later there wasn’t an agent in sight.

  “Nice job,” Faroe said, nuzzling Grace’s cheek. “Did you pick up anything useful from the director?”

  “He was as confused as Agent Morehouse.” She frowned. “He said they were acting on information directly from Washington, but he wouldn’t tell me from where inside the Beltway.”

  “Must have been a hot call to get those boys out at the crack of dawn on a Sunday. Good thing you convinced Neto to stay in B.C.”

  “Which the agents must have known,” Grace said. “Undoubtedly they have someone watching him. Maybe they lost him.”

  “Or maybe they were after us all along,” Faroe said.

  “An intelligence-gathering raid?”

  “Probably,” Faroe said. “They can’t get to Neto, so they’ll settle for identifying and interrogating the rest of us. How’d you get rid of Morehouse?”

  “I told the director he was being used as a political cat’s-paw.

  No enforcement agent ever likes that idea. I also told him not to send anyone back without specific and narrowly defined search warrants.”

  Faroe grunted. “They might get them.”

  “They know me, and they know St. Kilda Consulting’s lawyers. It will take time.” She grimaced. “I should know. I’m still trying to shake a warrant out of a judge to freeze Bertone’s accounts.”

  Faroe looked toward the resort grounds. “Even if it takes time, we’re suddenly hotter than a flat rock in July.”

  “You think they left someone behind?” Grace asked, looking around the grounds.

  “I’ll bet the place is crawling with plainclothes playing tennis or golf—with long lenses,” Faroe said, pulling her inside and locking the door behind them.

  “We have to keep Kayla off the federal radar,” Grace said tightly. “For whatever reason, the feds are on Bertone’s side. If the political pressure is bad enough, Morehouse will be back with paper I can’t talk us out of honoring. Kayla will be on the firing line.”

  Faroe smiled coldly. “They’ll have to find her first.”

  40

  Castillo del Cielo

  Sunday

  6:40 A.M. MST

  The child’s soft footsteps woke Elena immediately. She slipped out of bed and went to the door. Miranda was in the hallway outside. Tears magnified her big golden eyes.

  Elena gathered the weeping child into her arms and rocked slowly. “What’s wrong, pet? Did your bad dream come back?”

  “Y-yes.” The little girl threw her thin arms around Elena’s neck and hung on. “Maria s-said I was a b-baby and—”

  “Hush, little one. You’re a beautiful child and Momma loves you. I understand about bad dreams and night fears. I used to get them myself.”

  The girl drew a ragged breath. “R-really?”

  “Of course. It’s all part of growing up.”

  “Oh.” Miranda snuggled against her mother and slowly relaxed. “You smell good. The monsters don’t like things that smell good.”

  “Then we shall be certain you wear my perfume when you go to bed.”

  The girl smiled.

  And stayed wrapped around her mother.

  Elena soothed Miranda and mentally rearranged her schedule so that she could fire the useless nanny. Then she had to begin the tiresome process of hiring someone who understood children’s needs.

  “Where is my angel?” asked Bertone’s voice from the bedroom.

  “You have two angels now.” Elena walked back into the bedroom, carrying the daughter who would soon be too big for her mother to lift.

  Irritation flashed across Bertone’s face, followed quickly by resignation. His plans for morning sex had dissolved in Miranda’s tears.

  The last thing he’d expected when he married the gorgeous Elena was to find the heart of a good mother beating inside the sex-goddess body. Watching Elena with their children had at first been baffling, then amusing.

  Now he was charmed.

  “It’s time for angels to be in bed,” he said, lifting the covers.

  Elena and Miranda came to bed as a unit.

  Smiling, Bertone stroked Miranda’s fine hair and wondered when his contacts in the government would find Kayla Shaw. She was an annoyance. A dangerous one.

  And soon, a dead one.

  41

  Royal Palms

  Sunday

  7:00 A.M. MST

  Okay!” Ted Martin clapped his hands together and laughed.

  “Okay, that’s really fine!”

  Rand didn’t bother to look at the TV, which had been playing and replaying “film” since the agents left. DVDs didn’t wear out, which was a good thing. But Martin had cloned this one, just in case.

  “Pregnant woman stands off raiding party.” Martin hooted. “Okay! At this rate we’re going to get the whole hour, girls and boys. The whole mother-hugging hour!”

  “Sound quality is spotty,” Thomas said.

  “All the better,” Martin shot back. “We’ll do print at the bottom of the screen, leave the off-center shots, the jigging camera, make the viewer feel like he’s right there, watching it go down. Great stuff! Gotta love that red silk robe.”

  Faroe and Rand exchanged looks and said nothing.

  “You going to blank out her face?” Thomas asked.

  Martin looked uneasily at Faroe. “I hope not.”

  “Jury is still out on that,” Faroe said.

  Martin wanted to argue. He didn’t. When Faroe’s eyes went narrow, smart people backed off.

  “Okay, play it again, Sam,” Martin said.

  Thomas stared at his producer. “You didn’t really say that.”

  “Just play it, okay?” Martin snapped.

  “Right,” Thomas said. “You want me to do a voice-over in the background?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Somebody knocked on the door.

  Faroe shot a look at the cameraman, who’d immediately grabbed his small, shoulder-held video camera. “Not unless I give the signal. Got it?”

  The man swallowed and set aside the camera. “Got it.”

  “It’s the deliveryman,” called a voice from the other side of the door.

  Rand went to one of the heavily curtained windows and lifted the cloth
just enough to see a slice of the front porch. There was a small electronic device on the window. It put out vibrations that disturbed any attempt at long-distance sound surveillance. There was one such device on every window in all three bungalows. It was doubtful that the feds had put that kind of high-tech equipment in place before they were routed, but Faroe was a paranoid bastard.

  It was one of the things Rand really liked about him.

  Faroe went to the spy hole. He saw a distorted, barely recognizable Jimmy Hamm, complete with face-shielding sombrero and wraparound sunglasses.

  “He’s alone,” Rand said to Faroe. “Hands full of packages. Where’d he get that hat—Central Casting?”

  “He mugged a burro.”

  Faroe unlocked the door, opened it just enough to let Hamm in, and locked it tight again.

  “Should I take Kayla’s clothes over to her?” Hamm asked.

  “No. There’s a blind spot between the two bungalows. She’s in here with Grace.”

  “Blind spot?”

  “As in can’t be covered by long-distance surveillance,” Rand said. “I’ll take these to Kayla.”

  Reluctantly Hamm passed over the purchases he’d made in the gift store—after he woke up the management. “You got a thing going with her?”

  Rand gave him a look Faroe would have been proud of.

  “Well, dang,” Hamm said. “All the interesting ones are taken.”

  “As long as you remember that, your pretty face will stay intact,” Faroe said.

  He went to the bedroom door, opened it, and stuck his head in. “If you and Lane are finished trading acronyms about the Krebs cycle, we need you out here.”

  Kayla glanced up from a textbook thicker than her wrist. “This is hip, highly colored, diagrammed-up-the-wazoo gibberish. They had better texts when I was in school, which was shortly after the dinosaurs went extinct.”

  “That book was personally approved by every politician in the state of California,” Faroe said. “What can I say?”

  “A camel is a horse made by a committee,” Kayla said, setting aside the book.