Blood World

by Chris Mooney

  “Your new phone number. He said he was having trouble getting in touch with you, and I explained what was going on with the identity theft. Anyway, he said he’ll send you the information you wanted by email.”

  “He tell you what information?”

  “The introductory information on how to meditate with grace.”

  Sebastian’s face stretched tightly across the bone, his skin paling in shock or fear, or both.

  Mary Jo chuckled. “I had no idea you were so Zen, Sebastian.”

  Ellie saw Sebastian swallow twice, three times.

  “I’m trying,” he said, his voice stripped of color. “I’ll be on the road for a good part of the day. Thanks for letting me know.”

  Sebastian terminated the call and stared out the window. He looked like he was coming apart at the seams. Ellie saw him blinking behind his sunglasses. His left hand gripped the raised storage compartment between them so fiercely that his knuckles formed white half-moons. Ellie was about to speak when he said, “Drive faster.”

  CHAPTER 36

  SEBASTIAN DIDN’T REALIZE they had arrived at the Wellness Center until Faye asked, rather timidly, “Where would you like me to park? Out front or in the garage?”

  “Garage,” he replied distantly, his attention locked on his phone, on what had consumed him during the entire drive here: a photograph of Grace published on a web page for the Los Angeles Times, a story headlined BLOOD WORLD CLAIMS YET ANOTHER VICTIM.

  What had seemed like a routine kidnapping, complete with a ransom demand, was actually Paul’s way of getting a message to him.

  And now my daughter’s life is on the line.

  But how had Paul known about Grace? About Ava? Paul must have followed me one of the times I went to Ava’s house and . . . watched her. That was the only logical explanation. And how had Paul known Grace was a carrier? Or was it just a sick coincidence? Knowing Paul had Grace made him want to—

  No, he told himself. Don’t think about that. Stay focused.

  Grace looked so much like her mother. Same beautiful black hair and angular face and fierce “Don’t hand me your bullshit” eyes. Only Grace’s eyes were blue, not brown, and the color stood out against her light brown skin, not a blemish anywhere. And, Sebastian was willing to bet, she was smart, like Ava, and determined.

  Hang on, Sebastian thought, eyeing Grace’s smiling face. Find a way to hang on until I bring you home—and I will, no matter what it takes, no matter what it costs.

  Faye slid into a parking spot next to the private elevator.

  “Stay here,” he said, in a tone that left no room for discussion.

  She nodded, kept quiet, looked straight ahead. After he’d hung up on his secretary, Faye kept asking him if he was okay, if there was anything she could do. “Yeah,” he told her. “You can start by shutting up.”

  Sebastian pressed the elevator call button, and again his thoughts spiraled back to the day the judge sentenced him to life in prison. Again he reminded himself he wasn’t a frightened nineteen-year-old kid. He wasn’t trapped and he wasn’t powerless. He could fix this. He didn’t know where Grace was, but he sure as hell knew who had her.

  First, he had to deal with Maya Dawson. She had called moments after Ava had left, and told him he had to come to the Center right away. It was about Sixto Ferreria, Frank’s former IT guy and the second person who, like Link, had received a text from Paul. Maya said it was urgent but she didn’t want to get into it over the phone.

  Sebastian knew why; he was using burners that weren’t encrypted. He wanted to toss his original phone into the garbage; then he remembered his secretary had given Paul his number. Best keep it for when the prick called.

  As Sebastian rode the elevator to the top floor, he saw his reflection in the mirrorlike stainless-steel door.

  “Grace,” he told his well-dressed reflection. “My daughter’s name is Grace.”

  CHAPTER 37

  SOMEONE IS ALWAYS watching or listening or both.

  Roland’s first words to her, the day she’d met him for undercover training.

  No matter where you are, no matter what time of day, even when you’re sleeping. You always have to be Faye Simpson. And sometimes Faye Simpson will have to say or do things that Ellie Batista would never say or do. If you can’t commit to that, then tell me now, spare me, the bureau, all the people who will be working for you, the time and expense.

  Ellie gave Roland her word that she would do whatever it took.

  When she walked into the restaurant a few minutes shy of seven and saw Max, she acted excited to see him. She kissed him, pretending he was Cody, her real-life boyfriend, and not her make-believe one.

  After she broke away from his kiss, Max slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him. “It’s so good to see you,” he said, and then kissed her cheek. His lips slid to her ear and he whispered, “Last stall.”

  Ellie knew what that meant.

  Her tastes in cuisine were limited to taco trucks, Five Guys double bacon cheeseburgers, and, when she really wanted to celebrate and let loose, a buy-one-entrée-get-the-second-free coupon special at a local restaurant. She never understood the fuss of getting dressed up all fancy to go out to eat, but as the hostess brought them to their table, Ellie had to admit Belle me was pretty damn impressive. First, there was the matter of the building—the historic building, she had read on the restaurant’s website, that had once been home to the Bank of Italy. The gold-domed ceilings looked luxurious instead of Las Vegas tacky; the booths were upholstered in rich, dark leather; and the tables had candles, the flames twinkling like stars in the gloom.

  A bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild sat on their table, opened, to allow the Bordeaux to breath—compliments, the hostess told them, of Kane and Associates.

  “You must be doing one hell of a job,” Max commented after consulting the wine list. “That bottle costs five hundred bucks.”

  Ellie excused herself to use the restroom. It was downstairs, housed inside an actual bank vault. She seemed to be the only one inside but checked the stalls, just to be sure.

  The stall door locked, she removed the toilet tank lid. The burner floated in the water, sealed inside a pouch. She removed the phone and hit the redial button.

  Roland answered, his voice loud, almost explosive, against her ear. “Sebastian’s security guy, Ron Wolff, is in Vegas, trying to dig up information on Faye Simpson.”

  That explains why Sebastian has so many people watching me, Ellie thought, fear blooming in her heart. “Did he—”

  “No, absolutely not,” he said. “Your cover story is flawless. He’s been going around asking questions, showing people a copy of this picture of a boy of maybe seven or nine sitting in front of a Christmas tree.”

  Ellie felt unsteady on her heels.

  “Any idea what that’s about?” Roland asked.

  “I don’t know.” Although she did. The photo of her missing brother had been tucked inside her shoe. Sebastian—or someone in his organization—had found it before her clothes were incinerated. If Sebastian hadn’t found it, someone had given it to him.

  “Don’t bullshit me,” Roland said. “If you’ve deliberately hidden something from me, something that will jeopardize this operation, I swear to Christ I’ll—”

  “Sebastian had two visitors come by his house this morning, a Fed and a woman named Ava.” She kept her voice low, barely above a whisper, but it still echoed off the cool marble walls. “I don’t know her last name.”

  “Lewis. Her maiden name is Martinez. She and Sebastian grew up together, were heavily involved. She was there when he killed that undercover cop.”

  Wonderful. Thanks for reminding me, Ellie thought wryly.

  “He went off to prison,” Roland said, “and she went off and got married.”

  “She seemed upset.”
/>   “I’m sure she is. Her daughter was recently kidnapped. She’s a carrier.”

  That explained why the woman had broken down in tears. But why had she come to Sebastian? Did she know he was in the blood business?

  “There’s a ransom—twenty million,” Roland said. “She’s going to several people, including Sebastian, looking for additional money. We’re keeping a close eye on the situation.”

  “Paul also reached out to Sebastian earlier today, while we were in his car. He didn’t reach out to him directly; he called Sebastian’s secretary at the real estate office, looking for his new phone number. She told Sebastian that Paul had sent him an email—and I’m quoting here—on how to meditate with grace.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I didn’t read the email, and Sebastian hasn’t mentioned anything to me about it.”

  Roland sighed. “Interesting.”

  “What’s interesting?”

  “Grace is the name of Ava Lewis’s daughter. Maybe Paul phrased the email that way as code, to let Sebastian know he has the young girl.”

  “And use her for leverage. Now put Cody on.”

  The bathroom door opened. Ellie heard the click of heels and terminated the call. That was the rule. You never knew who might be listening.

  She flushed the toilet, drowning out the sound of her removing the battery from the phone. The phone went into her purse, along with the bag.

  Ellie sat on the toilet lid with her eyes closed, and thought about Ron Wolff going around Vegas, showing people this picture of her brother. Ron wouldn’t find anything out there, but that didn’t mean he—or Roland, for that matter—wouldn’t keep digging.

  And digging.

  CHAPTER 38

  RON RETURNED SEBASTIAN’S call the moment he touched down at LAX. Sebastian kept the conversation brief. He gave him the broad strokes on Ava and Grace Lewis, and then he told Ron what he wanted to do. Ron said he’d get to work on it right away and promised he’d be in touch as soon as he knew something.

  Sebastian was left saddled with needing to find Grace now.

  Anton supposedly had had contacts with Armenians who were stickmen. But it was a moot point now, with Anton dead. Sebastian couldn’t make any inroads with the Mexicans. The cartels rewrote the handbook on fear on a daily basis. The Armenians were more pragmatic and private, took genuine pleasure in the torture their people had perfected over centuries of war.

  Sebastian couldn’t do anything, had to do something. He spent the next few hours dealing with Ron’s men, tasked them with finding people in the late Enrique’s network. Ron’s men made detailed surveillance reports and were more than glad to answer his questions. The problem was, despite all the manpower and technology, they hadn’t found anything of real significance. The interesting fact Sebastian found out was that Enrique’s friend, the one he called Gee-Gee, the one who sent Enrique to Paul’s house—his full name was Gerald Gambles, and he was dead. His body had been found the day after the explosion. The police report said he had been beaten to death.

  Paul, it seemed, was tying up any loose ends.

  When five o’clock rolled around with still no word from Ron, Sebastian sent a text. Ron responded a few minutes later, said to meet him at nine at Paradise City on West Sunset. Sebastian knew the place. The dive bar, in Echo Park, was well-known for offering cheap drink specials before Dodgers games.

  Sebastian arrived at quarter of, found the bar area surprisingly quiet. The billiard tables were doing brisk business, each one occupied by what looked like bikers—big guys with beards and leather vests, a lot of tats on the necks and hands, even the faces. The sound of pool balls smacking against one another filled the air as Sebastian slid into a red vinyl booth in the corner. He ordered a seltzer water with a lime for himself and, for Ron, an old-fashioned with Maker’s Mark bourbon. Sebastian was staring at it when Ron slid into the booth, across the table.

  Ron got right to it. “Alves is no longer in charge of Grace Lewis’s case.”

  Sebastian felt as though the floor had tilted. “What? Why not?”

  “He suffered a major heart attack this afternoon. He’s in the ICU.”

  “Did Paul find out he’s working for us? Try to take him down or something?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure? Because there are medications, drugs you can slip into—”

  “Stop. You’re being paranoid. Nothing nefarious happened, I promise you. It’s just bad luck.”

  There seems to be a lot of that going around, Sebastian thought. He sucked in a deep breath, gritting his teeth as he pinched his forehead between his fingers.

  “Because of the ransom demand,” Ron said, “the kidnapping is a multi-jurisdictional affair, which means the Feds are involved. FBI doesn’t play well with others, and they sure as hell aren’t going to allow a freelancer to come in and help.”

  “What about your other contacts?”

  “Worked them all afternoon, at the Back Nine, which is why I’m already half in the bag.”

  Now Sebastian understood why Ron suggested they meet here. The Back Nine, another dive bar, was only a few blocks away, a popular watering hole for the LAPD.

  Ron picked up his drink. “They wouldn’t share any case details with me.”

  “Because the Feds are involved?”

  “Because Paul practically blew up a neighborhood,” Ron said wearily. He took a sip of his drink. “LAPD is still investigating, along with the ATF. It wouldn’t look good for them to have me involved in any of their investigative affairs, so all my overtures were politely rejected.”

  “After all the shit we’ve done for them?”

  “It is what it is. Isn’t that what you AA guys always say?”

  Sebastian yanked his phone from the table to check his email again.

  “My people are doing that,” Ron said. “Monitoring your account.”

  Sebastian knew that, but the gesture soothed him, gave him the feeling of some sense of control—which, deep down, he knew was complete and utter bullshit. Paul had Grace. Paul controlled her life, could do anything he wanted to her.

  “The tech guys explain to you how it’ll work? Tracing the message?”

  Sebastian nodded. “When Paul reaches out, they’ll trace the message back through the ISP, and get an exact location within a minute, or less.”

  “Don’t hold me to that. There are a lot of factors involved that can prevent—”

  “I know—they told me.”

  “And if he sends it from a phone, then powers it off, we’re shit out of luck.”

  Sebastian stared at his screen, saw real estate–related emails.

  “Still nothing.”

  “This afternoon, when we spoke,” Ron said, “you didn’t tell me how Paul found out about Grace.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You never discussed that topic with him?”

  Sebastian cocked his head to the side, frowning. “How shit-faced are you? I told you earlier I didn’t know I had a daughter until”—he glanced at his watch—“nine hours ago.”

  “I was referring to Ava Lewis. I’m trying to understand how Paul found out about her.”

  “The hell should I know?” Although Sebastian did. Ron, though, didn’t know about his biweekly pilgrimages to watch Ava.

  But somehow, despite Sebastian’s caution and safeguards, Paul had found out. Either Paul or someone else had been following him.

  “What time does Candice Jackson land, again? Ten?”

  “Flight got delayed. Technical issues,” Ron replied. “She won’t land until sometime after one.”

  “It keeps turning Paul’s way, doesn’t it? Son of a bitch has the luck of the devil. We should put people on her.”

  “Candice? Why?”

  “Maybe she knows something. If Paul finds out s
he’s back here, he might make a move on her.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Ron said. “You should get her to talk to Candice.”

  “Faye?”

  Ron nodded. “Be better if a woman does it. Broads like to confide in other broads.”

  “She’s at dinner with the boyfriend.”

  “I know. I just got word they’re getting ready to leave.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary?” Sebastian knew Ron had bugged the table, and the hotel room.

  “She is who she says she is.” Ron sighed, Sebastian catching the sweet odor of bourbon and cherries on his breath, wanting to inhale it.

  “If Paul does, in fact, reach out—”

  “He will,” Sebastian said.

  “What then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What are you prepared to give him?”

  “Whatever he wants.”

  “The keys to the kingdom?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “Donors?”

  “Everything.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I’ll get to know my daughter,” Sebastian said. “I plan on—”

  “I was referring to Paul. After you offer him everything.” Ron licked his lips, his eyes suddenly looking glassy from booze. “What do you think makes him tick?”

  “Money. And power.”

  “Over you. Only you didn’t die. As long as you’re alive, you’re a liability. Now that he’s discovered your Achilles’ heel, he can torture you . . . indefinitely. You really think he’s going to give you her?”

  “We will find her,” Sebastian said. We have to, he added privately. “I’ll take you home. You’re in no condition to drive.”

  “I’m way out of your way.”

  “You can stay at my place.” As Sebastian slid his hand into his jacket pocket to grab his car keys, Grace’s smiling face flashed through his mind.

  I will find you no matter how much it costs, no matter what it takes.