The Wrong Hostage sk-2

by Elizabeth Lowell

  She tipped back her head and said softly to Faroe, “I saw the same colors on the cars at the second roadblock Saturday, the one in front of the school.”

  “They’re Mexican government tags,” he said, nibbling along her cheekbone. “They’ll probably come back to the Baja state judicial police. But with any luck those Oceanside cops will run the VIN numbers on the truck. Five will get you ten it was stolen up here.”

  “Oh, God,” Grace whispered. “Policemen driving stolen vehicles and running surveillance for drug traffickers.”

  “Welcome to my world, tastefully decorated in all the lovely shades of gray. The entrance to that world is down at the south end of Interstate 5. I’ll drive.”

  “I’m a big girl. I can drive myself.”

  “Can you ditch that dude’s partner?” Faroe asked.

  “Partner? Where? And stop nibbling. You’re distracting me.”

  “I’ll know about the partner as soon as I leave the parking lot.”

  Unhappily Grace surrendered her ignition key. She was used to being in control. She needed it. Ted had accepted that about her and given her the independence she wanted. At first she believed he’d done it as a salute to her competence. Later she’d realized that once he figured out that she wasn’t going to follow his orders, he didn’t care enough about her to worry.

  From Joe’s take-care-of-the-little-woman machismo to Ted’s let-the-bitch-do-what-she-wants indifference. Grace let out a frustrated breath. Isn’t there an in-between on the Y gene?

  Faroe tucked her into the passenger seat of her Mercedes and climbed in behind the wheel. He started the engine, listened to the healthy hum, and tapped the accelerator enough to lift the revs above 5,000. There was a lot left before the needle hit the red line.

  “Sweet,” he said, smiling. “When did you acquire a taste for macho horsepower? Or did Ted pick this out?”

  “Ted?” Grace laughed. “He’s the kind of guy who’d drive halfway to San Francisco before he realized he was locked down in second gear. I picked out this handsome beast all by myself.”

  “Ted missed a lot about you.”

  Grace shrugged. “Maybe I was missing something about him, too.”

  Faroe doubted it, but all he said was, “Where is Ted’s office?”

  “He has two. One in La Jolla, on Pacific Coast Highway, and the other in Malibu. But right now he’s not at either office and they don’t know when he will be.”

  The tone of her voice told Faroe that she was parroting various receptionists.

  “On the way to the border, I’ll do a drive-by on the La Jolla office,” Faroe said.

  “What do you expect to find?”

  “Nothing special.” I hope. “How do I get there?”

  Grace bit back what she wanted to say and gave directions instead.

  15

  LA JOLLA

  SUNDAY, 11:05 A.M.

  LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE IN Grace’s life, La Jolla had changed in sixteen years. Once it had been little more than a snotty California beach resort. Now it was a high-end retail and financial center that rivaled Tijuana’s Zona Rio.

  Faroe drove slowly down a side street that dead-ended in the parking lot of Edge City Investments. There was a guard shack at the entrance to the parking lot. Faroe turned the corner and pulled over to the curb, inspecting the five-story stainless steel and glass building.

  Silently he read the building directory that had been hand-carved on the marble retaining wall at street level. Besides Edge City, the building housed an import company, an international marketing firm, branches of two Wall Street brokerage houses, and the offices of four financial advisers, three of whom had Spanish surnames.

  “There’s a lot of black money washing anonymously back and forth across the border,” Faroe said.

  “You’re stereotyping. Just because there are some Spanish names on the building doesn’t mean there’s something illegal going on.”

  “Actually, I’m speculating. That’s where the big money is, right? Speculation?”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “Get used to it,” he said. “I’ve seen the ass end of too many aardvarks to be politically correct. Not all male Middle Easterners blow up airplanes, but it’s beyond stupid to search everyone’s Caucasian grandmother in the name of political correctness.”

  “The law says-”

  “The law is made by politicians,” Faroe cut in. “Hell, I know that all Russians aren’t part of the mafiya or tucked into the trough of a corrupt government, but the chances of Ivan Freaking Innocent coming into big money honestly in Mother Russia is about as great as Juan Freaking Innocent getting big money in Father Mexico without getting real dirty in the process.”

  She wanted to disagree. It was a reflex she shoved back into the past. She might not like what Faroe was telling her, but if she was arguing civics when the likes of Hector appeared with his heavily armed thugs, she’d be a deadly liability to her son.

  “There are lots of places like La Jolla around the world,” Faroe said. “Aruba, Medellin, Beirut, Moscow. Fast money, black money, drug money, arms money, terrorist money-it’s all pretty much the same. It rolls around this world of ours like a big old sticky ball, picking up outwardly honest bankers and brokers and financial advisers.”

  “You make it sound like there’s no legal money out there.”

  “Depends on how you define legal. Sort of like provenance in art. Put the goods through three previous owners and you’re home free. You’d be amazed at how often art is used as a way to get value-money-across borders and into safe, numbered accounts.”

  “There is a world of law,” Grace said fiercely. “I know. I’ve lived in it.”

  “The clean tip of a muddy iceberg.”

  She shook her head.

  He looked back toward the steel and glass monument to financial success and let the silence echo.

  “Ted didn’t start out to end up in the shadow world,” Faroe said finally. “It happened one small decision at a time. One light shade of gray. A favor for a friend, then new friends and new favors. These are the people you eat with, drink with, raise your kids with. Close to you.”

  Grace didn’t like where Faroe was going, and she didn’t know how to stop him. His calm words were wrecking balls tearing down the world she’d lived in, forcing her to see things she didn’t want to see, had fought and worked all her life not to have in her view.

  “Some of those friends are a dirty shade of gray, and their friends are even dirtier,” Faroe said. “The longer you hang with them, the dirtier you get, until one day you wake up and find yourself in bed with the likes of Hector Rivas Osuna. Then you’re free-falling in the shadow world with no real idea of how it happened and not a clue about what the landing will be like.”

  She set her teeth and remembered her courtroom, where the law was a vital, living force, as real as the air she breathed. She turned to tell Faroe about her world, and saw that he was looking past her at something on the street outside. The intensity in him was as tangible as the presence of law in her courtroom. She started to turn around to see what was so interesting but he stopped her.

  “No,” he said quickly. “We’re being watched.”

  Her stomach pitched. “The Suburban again? How?”

  “A sedan,” Faroe said, looking away calmly. “He’s tucked back in the shrubbery beside that condo down the block. I caught a glint off his glasses. He was trying to eyeball our license plate.”

  “But who is it?”

  “Good question.” Faroe reached across and opened the glove box. “You have a map in here?”

  Grace pulled a Thomas Brothers San Diego County Street Guide out of the glove box. Faroe flipped through the maps, located a page, and got a confused look on his face.

  “Ready to steal an elevator?” he asked without looking at her.

  “You have to talk English to me.”

  “No, you have to listen very carefully and do what I say. The only way to s
teal elevators is at noon in a busy building. Look lost.”

  “That won’t be hard,” she muttered.

  He propped the map book on the steering wheel and put the Mercedes in gear. Consulting the page in front of him again and again, he let the SUV roll slowly down the street. When he drew even with the alley where the sedan was hiding, he turned in.

  “Joe, what are-” Grace began, moving uneasily.

  “Shush, woman,” Faroe cut in.

  “Don’t call me woman.”

  “Why not? People call me man all the time. Or dude. You want to be a dudette?”

  Before she could give him the retort he deserved, they were beside the sedan and he was lowering the driver’s window of the SUV. The sedan was a full-size four-door Ford Crown Royale, government green. Two Anglos were in the front seat. The one reading the newspaper dropped it on the seat. Both of them looked surprised but were quick to put a game face on.

  “Hey, man, do you know where Apollo Avenue is?” Faroe called out. “This map book says it’s around here somewhere, but I sure can’t find it.”

  The driver shot him a cold look. “We’re strangers here ourselves.”

  “Well, loosen up and ask directions like a good metrosexual,” Faroe said, nudging the accelerator so that the SUV slid past the sedan. “And next time you drop your newspaper on the seat, make sure it covers the antenna on your handy-talkie. Have a nice day.”

  Faroe hit the gas and turned out onto a city street seconds later.

  “What was that all about?” Grace asked.

  “Careless cops. I really hate it when the good guys look so bad.”

  “Cops?” She straightened but forced herself not to glance back. “Those guys were cops?”

  “Yeah. Feds, maybe. Their suits were a cut above what a city plainclothes type could afford. Might be customs or what passes for the DEA now. Maybe even part of a task force that includes the locals. I bet if we cruised around we’d find a couple more units back in the bushes. The building’s too big for one team to handle.”

  “What are they doing here?”

  Faroe glanced in the rearview mirror. “You want my sworn testimony or my best guess, Your Honor?”

  “Whatever gets me closer to Lane’s freedom.”

  Faroe smiled faintly. “You’re learning. My best guess is that they’re watching your husband’s business.”

  “You can’t be certain. There are a lot of names on that building!” Then Grace closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “All right. Sorry. Best guess it is.”

  “Okay,” he said, “we’ve got Mexican cops in Mexico, who may or may not be working for the crooks, and we’ve got American cops, who usually work for the good guys but whose definition of ‘good guys’ is real damn narrow. Then there’s you and me.”

  “So?”

  “Either your husband is the most popular guy in two nations, or he’s got more trouble than either of us needs.”

  16

  MANHATTAN

  SUNDAY, 2:10 P.M.

  DWAYNE PICKED UP STEELE’S private hotline. “Dwayne here.”

  “Faroe.”

  “The Ambassador is talking to a CEO whose assets surpass that of all but a few nations. Shall I interrupt?”

  “No. Turn loose the dogs on Theodore Franklin.”

  “We already have. Steele was certain you would take the job.”

  “Damn, I hate being predictable. What do you have?”

  Dwayne clicked over the computer and looked at various summaries. “Do you want the long form or the bottom line?”

  “Whichever gets me closer to Teddy-boy.”

  “His hedge fund is in trouble. Big trouble.”

  “Why?” Faroe asked.

  “Bad investments.”

  “If that was against the law, half the investment experts would be in jail.”

  “That’s just part of the problem,” Dwayne said. “Think of a Ponzi scheme crossed with a classic money-laundering profile.”

  “You’re giving me a headache.”

  “Take two aspirin and call me when I care. Ted’s going down. Steele is already smacking his lips.”

  “I’m trying to imagine that,” Faroe said. “It’s giving me a bigger headache.”

  Dwayne laughed. “Nobody gets turned on by hidden numbered accounts like the Ambassador.”

  “He’s not the only one. Some stripe of cop had Ted’s La Jolla office staked out.”

  “Steele won’t like that,” Dwayne said.

  “I’m not doing backflips of joy myself. How close are you to finding Ted?”

  “So far he hasn’t used any of his accounts or credit cards. When he does, we have him.”

  “Kick some ass,” Faroe said impatiently. “We have a day to get Lane Franklin out of jail.”

  “We’re kicking ass and taking names. No guarantees on the timing.”

  “Two days, two weeks, two years,” Faroe said coldly, “find the son of a bitch who nominated his kid for a Colombian necktie. Men like that need to be taken out of the gene pool.”

  Dwayne opened his mouth, but he was talking to a dead phone.

  17

  ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

  SUNDAY, 11:30 A.M.

  CARLOS CALDERON KNOCKED AT Lane’s door and went in without waiting for an invitation. The two guards watching Lane didn’t stir from their comfy position propped against a shady side of the cottage. Nothing moved but their dark eyes and the sweat sliding down their cheeks.

  Lane was sprawled half dressed on his bed, watching flies walk across the ceiling.

  Calderon went to the kitchen, saw the empty orange juice carton, and replaced it with the fresh one he’d brought. A plate of cold tacos and beans sat in the refrigerator next to the juice. It didn’t look like Lane had been hungry.

  Empty-handed, Calderon went back to the bedroom and roughly hauled Lane into a sitting position.

  “Have you heard from your father?” Calderon asked.

  “…uh?”

  Calderon gave Lane an open-handed slap. “Your father. Have you heard from him?”

  Lane blinked. His eyes almost focused. “No phone.”

  “The office has a phone. Did he call you?”

  Lane’s head lolled and his eyes started to close.

  A sharp smack across his face focused him again.

  “Dunno,” Lane said. “Don’…tell me…shit.”

  Calderon shook Lane hard enough to make his hair lift. Then he buried one hand in Lane’s hair and twisted hard, dragging the boy’s face close to his.

  “Listen to me, pendejo,” Calderon said. “I’m not as patient as Hector. If you hear anything from anybody about your father, you tell me immediately or I’ll cut your throat and send your head home to your mother. Hector’s nephews can have the rest of you. You understand?”

  All Lane’s fuzzed mind understood was that Calderon really wanted news about Ted Franklin. The rest was a nightmare of funhouse mirrors, sharp pain forgotten in the instant it was felt, and echoes without meaning.

  “Unnerstan.”

  Calderon shoved Lane away so hard that the boy’s head thumped against the wall. Lane groaned and slumped onto the bed again. Calderon strode out of the cottage.

  The guards were still outside, still sweating.

  So was Calderon.

  18

  NEAR THE BORDER

  SUNDAY, 12:30 P.M.

  SOUTH OF THE CORONADO Bridge, the muggy air began to congeal. American industry and Mexican charcoal cooking fires turned the sky into sludge.

  “Use the Otay Mesa route,” Grace said. “It takes longer on this side, but it’s better than having the tires stolen at a stoplight.”

  “Talk about not being politically correct…”

  “Neither is being stared at like I have ‘for rent’ written on my ass.”

  Faroe made a sound like a swallowed laugh and watched his back trail. After another quick glance at the mirrors, he shot into the fast lane.

  “What are you d
oing?” Grace asked. “It’s a right-hand off-ramp.”

  “I know.”

  He kicked down the accelerator and watched the speedometer leap to ninety miles an hour. They raced through the spotty traffic for a half mile. At the last possible moment, he cut across four lanes and drove onto the freeway spur that led up the hill toward Otay.

  Grace grabbed the handle in the armrest and looked over her shoulder at the cars Faroe had just cut off.

  “Are you crazy?” she said sharply.

  “Just careful.”

  “Careful? You nearly caused a wreck!”

  “It’s a good way to burn a tail.”

  Grace went still. “We’re being followed?”

  “A red Jeep showed up three times in the last thirty miles. Funny thing, but he decided at the last second to go to Otay, too. Reckless, but you know how it is with those Southern California drivers.”

  She closed her eyes for an instant. “Now who’s after us-the Russians?”

  Faroe smiled. “Doubt it. Best guess is that the Jeep is part of the team we picked up at Edge City. These dudes are better than the brain-dead in the sedan. Got to be feds of some stripe. This is a full-on, multiagency surveillance squad.”

  “I’m so glad you enjoy leading a parade. I could live quite well without the armed attention.”

  “Don’t worry, amada. It’s only dangerous when they stop watching.”

  She hoped he was right.

  Faroe dropped back to only ten miles an hour over the speed limit, just fast enough to keep from being run over by the rest of the traffic.

  “Right now, what I’m guessing is a task force is still in the early stages of the investigation, picking up pieces of string and pulling them to see where they end. Like us.”

  “Is your world always so…active?”

  “Bet on it. Things happen right here in the middle of the sunshine world that would probably make the average citizen’s hair stand on end and then fall out. That’s what crime is, dudes sneaking around, filling their pockets one way or another, and trying desperately to make sure nobody notices.”