“No? Hard to believe, when there were handguns on the table behind him in the living room.”
“You know what’s psycho, is you showing up,” Guzman said. His lawyer threw him a hard glance, but he ignored it. “ATF, sure, but you got no business with guns.”
“This one, we do.” Kelly slid a photo of Duke Morris’s gun across the table.
He glanced at it. “Looks like a chica’s. Yours?”
Kelly shook her head. “No, Mr. Guzman. That gun belonged to a murder victim.”
He shoved the photo back across the table. “Never seen it.”
“You sure? Because it was used to kill a U.S. senator this morning,” Rodriguez said.
The lawyer’s head snapped up, as if he were a retriever who had just caught a scent.
Kelly tried to conceal her irritation. She had hoped to lull Guzman into complacency, so he might slip up and say more than he should. Now that Rodriguez had revealed their endgame, there was no way he would give them anything. “Got your attention now?” Kelly asked.
“I’d like a minute to confer with my client.” The lawyer said with finality.
She tried anyway. “Mr. Guzman, Senator Duke Morris was murdered late last night. Ballistics indicate that his own gun, this gun, was used in the killing. And then it turned up in your stash house.”
Guzman just shook his head. His eyes had cloaked over, dark and impenetrable. Shark eyes. “Don’t know what you’re on about, Roja. I was watching a game.”
“MS-13 likes to use machetes, don’t they, Marco? That’s your calling card. Morris was hacked to bits-”
“This interview is officially over.” The young lawyer stood, pushing his chair back so violently it tipped over. The noise was loud in the small room.
Kelly and Rodriguez exchanged a glance. The lawyer couldn’t force them to leave, but chances were he’d put a muzzle on his client and they wouldn’t get anything regardless. Kelly gathered up the file and motioned for Rodriguez to follow her.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” he grunted as the door closed behind them.
Kelly threw him a look. She wouldn’t chew Rodriguez out with a suspect in hearing range, but once they were alone he was in for it. She shrugged and said, “I wasn’t expecting much.”
“Shame they couldn’t pull any prints off the weapon.”
Kelly didn’t answer, her eyes still fixed on the door. The lack of forensic evidence bothered her. She didn’t have a lot of experience dealing with gangs, but assumed they weren’t generally known for their attention to detail. “Did they track the tip about the stash house?”
Rodriguez cocked his head. “I don’t know. Why would they?”
“It would be good to know if it came in from a concerned citizen, a rival gang, or someone else. Maybe even a former member who’s currently on the outs. Someone like that could prove helpful.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Rodriguez looked dubious. “I heard the only way out of MS-13 is a casket. But I could ask around.”
“Great.” Kelly looked at him pointedly. “The sooner the better, I’m thinking.”
“What, now?”
“No time like the present.”
“What about this?” He jerked his head toward the interview room.
“I’ve got this under control,” Kelly said. “Like you said, not much here anyway.”
“All right,” Rodriguez grumbled. “I’ll try to track it down.”
“Keep me posted.” She watched Rodriguez slump away. Kelly had worked with a motley assortment of partners over the years. Based on his bad attitude and lack of initiative, she was consigning Rodriguez firmly to the bottom of the pile.
Of course, when they first worked together it took time for Kelly to trust Jake, so maybe there was hope for Rodriguez yet. Although Jake’s weakness was a cavalier attitude coupled with reckless disregard for authority. Rodriguez seemed just plain lazy.
Kelly realized she was fingering her engagement ring. She bit back a smile, picturing Jake on one knee in their hotel room, cobbling together a proposal after she accidentally discovered the ring. She hadn’t seen him in a few weeks. He was busy moving into his new office space, and she’d been tied up by a case in Florida. If this lead panned out, they might be able to spend the holiday weekend together. Kelly spun the ring around her finger with her thumb. It still felt oddly heavy, strange that after ten months she hadn’t adjusted to the weight of it.
The door to the interview room opened and Kelly quickly tucked her hand in her pocket. The lawyer poked his head out, saw her standing there and ducked back inside. After directing some final instructions in Spanish at Guzman, he stepped out and closed the door.
“So I guess we’re done in there,” Kelly said.
The lawyer’s eyes flicked to her. He was slight, maybe five-six. His suit was well cut but not flashy. Aside from a simple watch with a ragged leather band, he wore no jewelry. Whatever the gang was paying him, he didn’t spend it on clothes and accessories. He saw her examining him and grinned. “You like the watch? It was my father’s.”
He held it out. The battered face was so stained by time it was hard to distinguish the numbers.
“Nice,” she said.
He laughed. “You’re so polite, Agent Jones. It’s a piece of junk. But it helps me remember why he came here, why so many still come every day. Reminds me there’s nothing back there for me but junk.”
“Oh.” Kelly wasn’t sure how to respond, the intimacy in his tone made her uncomfortable.
He leaned in and said, “Here’s the thing about Guzman. He’s no genius, but a gun that killed a senator? Even he isn’t stupid enough to leave something like that lying around.”
“And yet he did,” she pointed out. “Unless you expect me to believe they were just enjoying the big-screen TV.”
The lawyer’s mouth twisted in a smile. “I have no comment on that, outside of what I’ve already told you. But the gun you mentioned is something of a special case.”
“Really,” Kelly said drily.
“Hypothetically, let’s say that particular weapon was brought in by someone else.”
“Who?”
“Some wannabe named Emilio. They tolerate him as an errand boy, but he’s not Salvadoran, so…” The lawyer shrugged, puckering the shoulder fabric of his suit.
“And he gave them Morris’s gun? Am I supposed to believe he shot him, too?”
The lawyer shrugged. “Maybe he thought it would get him initiated.”
Kelly narrowed her eyes. “Or maybe your client clued in to how serious this is, and he’s trying to deflect the blame on someone outside the gang.”
“Yeah, but a senator?”
“A senator who was avidly anti-immigration and was raising a lot of fuss in the media about closing the borders. That wouldn’t be good for their business, if I’m not mistaken.” Kelly knew that the gangs’ lifeblood was the stream of guns and drugs from the south. More stringent legislation might have made smuggling trickier.
The lawyer shrugged again. “Hey, I’d be skeptical, too. But I gotta say, I know these guys.” He leaned closer, and Kelly smelled onion and something spicy on his breath. “They’ll go to the mats if they think another gang is infringing on their territory, but getting political? They’re not big CNN fans, you know? I bet half of them couldn’t name the president, never mind some senator.”
“Maybe they were under orders from someone else. MS-13 is a national organization, right?”
The lawyer shifted his briefcase to the other hand. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said carefully. “But if it was, most groups would probably be individual cells. Kind of like al Qaeda. Crediting them with a national mission statement, something on this organizational level…” He flicked his eyes down the hall as a sheriff approached, then back to Kelly. “Let’s just say if that’s the case, what you’re dealing with is something entirely new.” He lowered his voice and said, “And I haven’t heard anything about it. Trust me, I would have.�
�� He flashed a smile and shook her hand. “Adios, Agent Jones. Hopefully next time we meet under cheerier circumstances.”
Kelly watched him stroll away before turning back to the interrogation room. Through the small window she watched Guzman carve his name on the underside of the table with a ballpoint pen. The lawyer was right; “Psycho” didn’t appear to be a criminal mastermind. Which didn’t eliminate the possibility that someone else was pulling the strings.
She headed back to the squad room. On the way Kelly wondered who might have gotten an MS-13 “cell” involved in a killing like this, and what they hoped to accomplish. If anything, this worked against their goals. In the wake of Morris’s death, anti-immigration groups were organizing rallies and right-wing talk show hosts were treating it like Christmas and the Rapture all tied up in one. If someone had done this to shut Duke Morris up, they’d made a terrible error. Dead, his voice was carrying louder than ever.
JUNE 29
Six
Randall Grant hunched over the steering wheel, drawing deep breaths to steady himself. These past few days had been hell, starting with the frantic, incoherent phone call from Audrey, drunk as usual. He could hear Bree yelling in the background and assumed it was one of their usual fights, that he was being called in to arbitrate. But when he’d finally puzzled out what she meant, her broken voice wailing, “She’s gone!” over and over, a cold ball settled in his stomach. They’d carried through on their threat, snatching the most vulnerable member of his family.
The impotence was the worst part. After hanging up he’d stormed around the apartment in a rage, fantasizing about bursting into rooms and mowing down the people who took his little girl. By midnight he’d come to his senses and sat down to weigh his options. His division answered directly to the Department of Homeland Security, one call to them and the full resources of the U.S. government would have been mustered. The problem was, in that scenario he’d be placed on full lockdown. Every conversation would be monitored, and no movement would go unnoticed. In the grand scheme of things, it was in the DHS’s best interest to protect what he knew. The loss of a teenage girl would be tragic, but not their first priority. He’d be hauled off to a safe location while Madison had a gun to her head. With Syd, at least they had a shot at recovering her, before…
Randall stopped himself from picturing her broken and dead and God knows what else. And it would be his fault, her blood on his hands forever. He could still see Madison ’s stricken expression when he explained that she’d be relocating to New York, and he’d see her when he could. Which hadn’t been as frequently as he’d hoped, not after the promotion. It had been over a month since his last visit, and that one had been disastrous. For a long, awkward weekend they all barely spoke. He’d chosen activities that were far too young for them, he realized belatedly, trips to the Museum of Natural History and the USS Intrepid. He’d lost touch with what teenage girls enjoyed. On Sunday night he’d secretly been relieved to drop them off. Randall cringed at the memory.
He was such an idiot. He should have stuck it out, just a few more years and both girls would have been in college. Then he and Audrey could have gone their separate ways without all this drama. But it was far too late for that.
Randall squared his shoulders and climbed out of the car carrying the travel mug. All his work materials were on-site. After a spying debacle a few years ago, the facility had increased security measures exponentially. Now anyone with access to highly classified material was forced to work in two-man teams. Not only were they supposed to keep an eye on each other’s computers and filing systems, they were actually expected to take a piss together. Fortunately the scientist he was paired with had a prostate problem. After a few awkward weeks at the urinals, Barry asked if Randall would mind ignoring that particular rule. Which made acquiring the first part of what the kidnappers wanted much easier than it should have been. It was probably why they targeted him in the first place.
The lab complex was sprawled across acres, dozens of nondescript buildings painted a muted brown that melded into the barren landscape. It was a desolate section of the East Bay. The town proper had sprung up to service the facility, rows of coffee shops and cafés that closed at nightfall, leaving only a few neon-lit bars blinking desolately in the darkness. Randall had accepted a job here straight out of MIT, back when he and Audrey were newlyweds. The salary had been far above what any university was offering, the work promised to be groundbreaking with nearly limitless funding, and they could afford a house nearby. At the time it had been a no-brainer. Looking back, he wished to God he’d accepted that position at Berkeley, where at worst he’d be responsible for the lives of a few lab rats.
At the entrance to the facility Randall nodded to the guard and held his ID card up to the scanner. After a brief pause it buzzed, and he strode down a long fluorescent hallway. The security became progressively tighter-to get into the inner sanctum, as people jokingly referred to it, he’d have to pass palm and retinal scans. Rumor had it that one of the other departments was working on a blood analysis machine. Randall hoped he wouldn’t still be here when going to work involved a daily needle prick.
Once in his office he relaxed. Barry wasn’t there, but an identical travel mug on his desk issued steam. Which meant he was already taking bathroom break number one, of dozens to come. A guy with prostate problems should cut out the caffeine, Randall thought as he waited for his computer to boot up.
A stream of numbers flew on-screen, coordinates pinpointing the location of loose nuclear fissile material worldwide. He and Barry had spent months cataloging this data as the U.S. government belatedly dealt with the fallout from the collapse of the Soviet Union, as well as the mass amounts of radioactive waste produced by everything from medical equipment to offshore drilling. It was staggering that no one had recognized this potential threat until 9/11 jarred everyone’s consciousness. And now Randall was part of a team that tracked radioactive waste, ensuring that it ended up at the appropriate facility, either to be safely disposed of or reutilized. Which in reality made him a glorified administrator with a Ph.D. in radiation physics.
Randall shook his head, unscrewed the base of the coffee mug, and removed the flash drive. He hit a few buttons to call up the data.
Initially there had been a fuss over the mugs, too. A memo had gone out insisting that everyone consume company coffee from the canteen. Based on the outcry that followed, they might as well have suggested drinking tainted Kool-Aid. Getting between scientists and their espresso was a fatal error, and in the end the brass made a concession: as long as everyone brought in standardized, company-issued mugs, outside coffee was fine. Mugs that apparently had been all too easy for someone to manipulate.
Randall glanced over his shoulder before popping the flash drive in the port. The download would only take a minute, but he was antsy. There had been a close call yesterday, and he got the feeling Barry knew something was up. He’d been struggling to act normal, but it was just that, a struggle. He’d blamed it on lack of sleep due to residual stress from the divorce. A lifelong bachelor like Barry didn’t question that.
An icon popped up. Randall quickly slipped the flash drive out, inserting it into the mug’s base just as the door clicked open.
Barry squinted myopically at him. “Everything okay?” he asked hesitantly. His stringy hair was wet where he’d combed it over his bald spot, and his sweater had a mustard stain near the collar.
“Fine, Barry. Just didn’t sleep well again.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear it.” Barry shuffled to the desk beside his. In a space that small it was like being crammed in a cockpit together. “Did you see they moved up the date of the Texas shipment?”
Randall’s ears pricked up. “I didn’t have time to look at it yet. Any idea why?”
Barry shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe there’s another storm coming.”
“Hurricanes are usually in the late summer and fall, Barry. It’s June.”
“Right, right,” Barr
y mumbled, staring at his monitor.
Randall had to fight the urge to throttle him: an IQ of 165, and he was useless unless you were discussing primordial radionuclides. Sometimes Randall suspected they were both being punished for some transgression. Initially, he’d taken this assignment as a break from researching, to give himself time to recover from the divorce. They’d given him a big speech, too, about serving his country, blah, blah, blah…
Thankfully they had almost finished laying the groundwork, and once that was accomplished the day-today monitoring would be handled by computers. Of course, there was a good chance he’d be under arrest for high treason by then.
Randall tapped some keys and a map of the United States appeared, with different-colored dots identifying which materials were being stored where. He zeroed in on the spots off the Gulf Coast, offshore drilling rigs that used radiography cameras to analyze lengths of pipe. As newer cameras came online, older ones were retired, along with their low level radioactive source material. As he watched them blink, the ball in his stomach sunk an inch lower. This was just what the kidnappers were looking for, the right materials in the correct amount. And they were due to be transported imminently. Suddenly their timing made sense; they had known, somehow, that this shipment was coming. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise, and as a scientist he eschewed belief in chance.
Randall chewed his lip. Part of his job involved overseeing the transit of loose materials from one facility to another. He was in charge of constructing a safe route skirting all densely populated areas and providing the most defensible means of transportation. The kidnappers wanted him to change that route at the last minute to divert iridium-192 sources. Randall gritted his teeth as the dots flickered at him. He’d have to pray that Madison was found before the shipment was set in motion.
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