Beckett and his bosses must still be in their unmarked van somewhere nearby, wondering what’s going on. I need to communicate what’s happening. At the same time, I can’t just start talking to my bra strap. The odds the Diaz left one of his men behind to keep an eye on me are pretty good, so I don’t want to do anything suspicious.
I glance around the church, stand and move to a table near the altar. It is covered with dozens of tiny votive candles. I put some money in the donation box, light a candle, and bow my head. Hopefully if anyone’s watching me, they’ll think I’m praying.
“I’m still in the church,” I whisper. “If Ricco’s not back within the next five minutes, I’m taking a cab home.”
There. Done. I’m tired of sitting, tired of waiting, tired of worrying about Ricco. Instead of returning to the pew I walk over to inspect the statue of the Virgin Mary. It’s life-sized, intricately carved. The baby Jesus sits on her lap. He’s smiling. He has pudgy wrists and chubby thighs and is every bit as beautiful as Dally. The thought brings a smile to my own lips.
The vestibule on my right—the one through which Ricco and Miguel exited the church—leads to an alley which connects the church to their soup kitchen and homeless shelter. The door is propped open. I don’t know what pulls my attention in that direction. A noise, a light, a motion.
All I know is that my head turns and I see Miguel, Juan, and Ricco. They stand together in the alleyway, silhouetted by the streetlight. Two of Diaz’s men hold a third man by the arms. He is slumped forward, unconscious. Blood streams down the side of his head.
I must gasp, or cry out, or make some sound that gives me away, because five pair of accusing eyes swing up to look at me. No one moves. We are all frozen in our horrific tableau.
My body clicks into survival mode before my brain does. I whirl around and race down the church aisle, running in blind panic, desperate to get away. I hear nothing behind me. No shouts, no echo of feet. No one’s chasing me, thank God. I shove open the heavy church doors and stumble down the entrance steps.
Ricco rounds the corner, catches me around the waist and pins me against a low garden wall. “Kylie. Where are you going?”
I shove as hard as I can. “Let go of me.”
He instantly complies. He steps back a pace, holds up his hands in surrender. His face shows nothing but anxious bewilderment. “Kylie, what is wrong with you?”
I’m breathing hard. My voice is low, hoarse. “What happened to that man?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Ricco, his face was covered in blood.”
“He was drunk. He fell. My father’s men were carrying him into the shelter so a doctor could help him.”
I stare at him, saying nothing. That’s entirely possible. It’s also the perfect lie. My stomach churns. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know who to believe. Ricco moves toward me. I back up a step, shake my head.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see of a cab coming down the street toward us. I hurl myself in front of it. The driver slams his brakes. The tires squeal and smoke as the cab comes to a shuddering stop. Ignoring the slew of angry profanity that leaves the driver’s mouth, I race around, jerk open the passenger door and leap inside.
“Go!”
The taxi’s tires squeal as we pull away.
Day Sixty-Three
Morning
Apparently DEA agents don’t like getting up early on Saturday morning. For the record, neither do I—particularly when I didn’t sleep at all the night before. But here we are, all of us bleary-eyed and sitting around a conference table.
We’ve assembled in a studio apartment in the Marina. Allegedly the apartment belongs to Sarah, my make-believe study buddy from biology. She’s the one who showed up at my apartment this morning to pick me up. She’s dressed in a baggy SFSU sweatshirt, skinny jeans, and Converse sneakers. She’s blond and petite, and looks ten years younger than her actual age, which is around thirty.
Sarah told my mom that she and I were getting together for coffee and a quick study session. Here’s the weird thing: it pisses me off that she lied to my mom. We might not always get along, but I don’t want my mom dragged into this mess. I don’t want her lied to, or hurt, or connected in any way to what’s going on. But what I want no longer seems to matter. The collateral damage keeps spreading.
I look around the room. In addition to Sarah, Agent Reardon is here, along with two other DEA agents whose names I’ve already forgotten. And Beckett, of course. I don’t meet Beckett’s gaze. I can’t. I don’t know what will happen if I look at him. I like to believe I’d play it cool, but there’s also a pretty good chance that I’ll fall apart completely.
So I decide to play it safe and don’t acknowledge him at all.
Reardon is taking my statement. Recording every word I say while last night is still fresh in my memory. “Height?” he asks. He wants details on the unconscious guy I saw in the alley last night
I shake my head. “I don’t know. He was slumped over, so I couldn’t tell.”
“Weight?”
“Um, medium, I guess.”
“Any unusual tattoos, birthmarks, piercings?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“Hair color?”
“Brown… I think.”
“You think?”
“Well, yeah. I think it was brown… or maybe black. His head was bleeding so—”
“What was he wearing?”
“Pants and a dark shirt, or maybe a dark jacket.”
“Pants, not jeans?”
“Um, I guess he could have been wearing dark jeans.”
“Thank you, Miss Porter.” Agent Reardon lets out an exasperated breath and leans back in his chair. “This is all very helpful. You sure the guy you saw was even alive?”
I open my mouth, and then close it abruptly. No, I’m not sure. How could I be sure? The fact is, I was scared shitless. I didn’t check his pulse. I didn’t get his height, weight, and social security number. His head was bleeding and he wasn’t moving—that’s all I know.
I saw him for maybe five seconds, and now I’m being talked to like an asshole. I’m angry and I don’t bother to hide it.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I say. “Next time, instead of hiding out in your cozy little van, getting your kicks listening to me being felt up by the son of a Cuban drug lord, you can get your asses out on the street and do some actual police work. How’s that sound?”
Reardon glares at me, but I don’t stop there.
“Ricco told me they were taking the guy into the shelter to have him checked out by a doctor,” I say. “Did any of you inspector-detectors bother to check and see if that happened?”
I’m greeted with tense silence. After a beat, Sarah answers. “As a matter of fact, we did. It was quite a party last night. Three men showed up at the shelter with cuts and contusions, no ID. All three were too drunk to give any coherent statement of how they received their injuries or what happened to their wallets. According to shelter staff and local PD, that’s not an unusual occurrence—particularly during Carnaval.”
I let that settle in. “So Ricco’s story could have been true.”
“It’s possible,” Reardon reluctantly concurs, “but unlikely.”
The weight of the world seems to settle on my shoulders. Once again, we’re right back at the beginning. I’m beyond exhausted. All I want to do is go home and go back to bed. Instead, I’m working a double shift at Karma. I stand and look at Sarah. “Would you mind giving me a lift to the Haight? I’m late for work.”
“Wait.” This from Beckett. For the first time since I’ve entered the room, we look directly at one another. Unlike Reardon, he’s not so quick to dismiss me. He knows I saw something, and he’s not going to just let it go. He slides a leather portfolio across the table. “Miss Porter, would you take a look at these photographs? See if any of these men resemble the man you saw in the alleyway.”
I glance at him, and then open the portfol
io. Inside are ten large black and white photographs. I recognize them—or at least, I recognize the photos. Beckett showed them to me over two months ago, the day I officially started working as an informant for the DEA.
I slowly turn the photographs, intently studying each face. Nothing. I’m on the seventh photograph when a cold chill rushes down my spine.
“Him,” I say. I am absolutely certain. “This is the man Diaz’s men were dragging through the alley.”
Reardon stiffens. So does Beckett and every other agent sitting in the room. The air seems to thicken. Eyes avert. Not good. No one speaks for a long beat, and then Reardon pulls out his cell phone and leaves the room. I feel myself sliding deeper and deeper into a dark, yawning abyss. And this time not even Beckett can stop my fall.
Day Sixty-Four
Late Afternoon
The human heart pumps blood to all the tissues in the body through a network of blood vessels. The right side of the heart pumps blood through the lungs where the blood picks up oxygen. The left side of the heart receives the blood containing oxygen and pumps it to the rest of your body.
It can be stopped with one single, well-aimed bullet. One wrong move, one wrong word, and your life is over.
Here’s what I wish: I wish that I could apply the same mental clarity to my relationship with Beckett that I apply to my schoolwork. I want everything black and white. Right and wrong. I want it simple and precise, with no ambiguity whatsoever. Here’s how the heart actually works. Instead, everything seems to be a murky shade of gray.
Even my own motives for continuing as a DEA informant aren’t entirely clear. Yes, I want the money. I want to help Beckett. I want to help Ricco get away from his father. But it’s all become so hopelessly tangled and twisted, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sort it out again.
They’ve both called and texted me, but I haven’t gotten back to either one. I’m just not ready. I need space. What happened in the Mission is still too raw.
I give myself a mental shake. Focus on the basics—Anatomy 101. The heart is an organ. It pumps blood. Period. And despite everything we’ve heard in crappy songs and even worse poetry, anything we think we feel for another person has nothing to do with the muscular organ protectively tucked behind our ribs. Heartbroken, heartache, heartsick, sweetheart, heart throb… that’s all just bullshit.
Our emotions are solely the product of our brains. And for the record, these brains of ours can also tell us that lines connect (when in reality they don’t), that up is down, and that black is white. Our brains filter and interpret. We scramble facts. We swear it rained last Thursday when in reality the sun was out all day. We believe what we want to believe. That’s why witness testimony is so notoriously unreliable.
Reardon isn’t certain that the man I identified from the photos—a man named Julio Juarez—was with Ricco and Miguel Diaz that night in the alley. Oh, he doesn’t think I’m lying. He just thinks I’m mistaken.
I’m not.
But I don’t want to think about it anymore. It’s late Sunday afternoon and I’m at Jesse’s, studying. As I review my class notes, I go over what I starred in the margins—the material my instructor will likely hit the hardest in our test tomorrow. Once I’m satisfied I’ve got the cardiovascular system down cold, I cram everything back in my backpack and zip it up.
“Done?” Jess asks with a smile.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Call him.”
She means Dally. He’s nine months old now and has just mastered the fine art of crawling. He is a little speedster. He’s been contentedly sitting in her lap, but the second I say his name he squirms out of her arms and races across the carpet on all fours. He’s not wearing anything except an adorable grin and a bulky diaper. He smells of talcum powder and baby shampoo. I scoop him up when he reaches me and give him a squeeze. He lets out a high-pitched giggle and kicks his chubby legs in response.
I make the following statement without any bias or prejudice: Dallas Winston Hoyt is absolutely the most adorable baby in the entire world.
My gaze meets Jess’s. She is so happy she’s actually glowing. Despite all the craziness going on around us, it’s nice to know there are still things to celebrate in our lives.
I reach into my backpack and pass over a check in the amount of five thousand dollars—half of the monthly salary the DEA is paying me to act as an informant. “Here,” I say, “put it toward the garage fund.”
Her smile broadens. “Kylie, I think we’re actually going to make it,” she says. “Ronnie’s been working like crazy at night, and he’s bringing in a ton of cash. You wouldn’t believe the tips he’s making. Pretty soon we’ll have enough money to buy the business. Can you believe it?”
I smile back. “That’s awesome, Jess. It really is.”
Day Sixty-Four
Night
My mom and I have a ritual on Sunday nights. That’s the only night of the week that neither of us work, and we both refuse to waste those rare hours together by cooking, cleaning, or bickering. Instead, we are total sloths. We order in, drape ourselves over the sofa, and watch movies.
Tonight we’re on a Hangover binge. We’re watching the whole series one right after another. I saw them at the local theater when they first came out, but my mom’s never seen any of them. Now they’re cracking her up, and I’m busting up right beside her. It’s silly, mindless, raunchy escapism. Exactly what we both want.
We take a break between Hangover II and Hangover III. The food will be here any minute, so she heads into the kitchen to boil water for tea. While she does that, I slip on my jacket and walk to the corner store to grab a pint of Chunky Monkey for dessert. That’s another agreement we’ve made: calories don’t count on Sunday night.
I’m leaving the store, my Ben & Jerry’s in hand, when Beckett’s dark green BMW wagon slides to a stop on the curb beside me. He reaches across the passenger seat and throws open the door. I slip inside without giving it a thought.
Beckett doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even look directly at me. He touches the gas and drives around the block. We park in the dim, unlit lot of a dry cleaner who’s closed for the night.
Beckett pulls me into his arms. That sounds so tacky. The dark car, the dimly lit parking lot, Beckett grabbing me and dragging me into his lap. I wish I could find more flowery language to explain what happens to me when I see him there, or the way my emotions soar at his touch. But there are no words.
All I can say is that when I am with Beckett, I become someone else. I am no longer practical, scientific, or studious. Like a heroin addict, I fall into a suspended state of dreamlike animation. For that brief window of time when we are together, nothing else matters. My base physical responses supercede all mental processes. All I want is his touch.
In short, I am who I pretend to be when Ricco touches me.
We kiss. We kiss and we kiss, our mouths locked, our tongues battling, savoring each other. We are hummingbirds sipping nectar, sharks devouring prey. Endlessly hungry for more. I writhe in his lap, frantically tracing my hands over his body. He reaches beneath my sweatshirt, cups my breasts in his palms. Tweaks my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. I give a stricken gasp of pleasure. I am dimly aware that this heat we generate is unsustainable, but for now it blazes too brightly to ignore. It defines us. This is who we are.
Out of nowhere, a fist slams against the outside of the driver-side window. A looming figure hovers next to the BMW. In the split-second that follows, we react entirely on instinct. I shriek (now there’s a brilliant self-defense move) and Beckett reaches for his gun. He’s got me flat on my back, shielded by his body, and his weapon unholstered before I can even blink.
Fortunately, however, he doesn’t use the revolver, because there’s no actual threat. Just a shaggy homeless guy peering into the car, holding out his hand for a spare bill or two. He’s got his shopping cart next to him, the metal wheels nearly buckling under the weight of his worldly possessions.
My gaze meets Beckett’s and we both give a shaky, embarrassed laugh. Holy shit.
My physical position—sweatshirt riding up, my back arched over the console—is ridiculous. I am uncomfortably aware of the steering wheel digging into my side, the emergency brake spearing my thigh. I squirm off Beckett’s lap and he tucks away his gun. We both readjust our clothing and temper our breathing.
Beckett rolls down the window and passes the homeless guy a ten. The guy takes the money with a grunt, tucks it into his pocket, and shuffles away. We both watch him leave, then we take a minute to regain our bearings. My Chunky Monkey is beginning to melt.
“My mom’s probably wondering what happened to me,” I say.
“Right. I’ll take you home.”
Neither of us speaks as he fires up the engine and drives around the corner. There’s too much to cover in the time we have, so better to say nothing at all. There is one question I have to ask, however.
“Any word on Julio Juarez?”
“Not yet,” Beckett replies. “But Reardon’s got people on it. He’s digging around.”
I nod, only slightly disappointed. It’s been less than forty-eight hours since I saw Miguel Diaz’s men dragging Juarez through the alley, so I guess that’s the best I can hope for. So much of what the DEA does revolves around waiting. I don’t know how Beckett can stand it. The answer is, he can’t. That’s why he recruited me—to get close to Miguel Diaz and speed things up.
I reach for the door handle and am about to step out of his BMW when a car screeches down the block and parks illegally in front of my building, hazard lights flashing. It’s Ronnie’s Crown Vic—only it’s got a lit sign on the roof advertising the Lucky Dragon on lower Fillmore. Ronnie grabs a cardboard box from the passenger seat and takes the steps to my building two at a time. The take-out my mom ordered has arrived.
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