Rodriguez chewed his lower lip. He should call Jones to share the info, but she’d been so pissy he figured he’d see if the lead panned out first. And if it did, he was damn sure taking credit for it. Solving the murder of a senator would be a huge boon for his career. He was no fool, he knew about the rumors swirling around his promotion. That he’d made it thanks to affirmative action and quotas, or worse, that he’d ratted out his partner. He’d caught Jones looking at him sideways a few times, knew she’d heard them, too. Well, screw her, she could believe what she wanted. Talk around the watercooler was that she was circling the bowl anyway, one more screwup and she’d be lucky to get a desk job. Not that he was on a mission to destroy her career, initially he’d even been excited to partner with her. Kelly Jones was still something of a legend at HQ. But the way she treated him was all too familiar. Truth was, most people liked having Mexicans clean their houses, mow their lawns and cook their food. But become their equal, and all bets were off.
He remembered Jones’s tone as she basically ordered him to do her scut work, and a flush rose up his neck. Then she got all holier than thou about that Emilio punk, as if the murder was somehow his fault. Like she suddenly cared about a dead wetback, when a dozen kids like Emilio had probably been murdered that week.
Rodriguez could call in a team to dust for prints, but a public pay phone would prove a nightmare for any Crime Scene Unit. And he had a feeling about the bar. It was obvious, but the truth was most criminals weren’t that smart. They made stupid decisions, they got caught, end of story. With any luck, he’d open the door and see someone sitting there with a machete. Or maybe he’d find a witness. You never knew.
Deciding, Rodriguez got out of the car and undid the top button of his shirt as he approached the bar. A faded sign on the door announced Happy Hour: $2 Pitchers 4-6 p.m. He pushed open the door with authority. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. And once they did, he realized that he’d just made one of the worst mistakes of his life.
Twelve
Syd’s eyes widened as she tapped the keyboard. Dang, it had been a long time since she’d seen anything like this. And certainly never with a redneck yokel like Dante Parrish. He’d completely slipped off the grid. It was possible he was working somewhere under the table, paying rent in cash and steering clear of credit cards. After all, banks didn’t generally give ex-cons a line of credit. But some sort of footprint usually remained. A postal address, e-mail account, cell phone. Hell, a video-store card.
Not here, though. If she had to guess, she’d say that someone erased Dante’s existence from every system imaginable. It was the sort of thing the Agency did with operatives on a daily basis, but you never encountered it with civilians. Either Dante had moved to a self-sustaining commune somewhere in the wilderness, or he’d found someone powerful enough to cover his tracks.
Syd reached her arms overhead and stretched. For the millionth time she wondered whether or not she’d done the right thing pressuring Jake to take this case. The irony was that she had been on the verge of breaking up with Randall. Not that they were even dating, their entire relationship consisted of a few random encounters when their paths crossed. She’d met him at an intelligence conference, and one thing led to another. He was so different from the rough-and-tumble guys she usually fell for, she found his geekiness oddly appealing. Neither of them was looking for anything serious, so it seemed like the perfect solution: occasional companionship without the usual muss and fuss.
Recently, though, Randall had become clingy. Late night weepy phone calls, showing up unexpectedly, demanding attention when she was knee-deep in the company launch. And Syd Clement was not one for commitments. She’d never been with anyone for more than a few months, and she was happy to keep it that way. She’d been composing the “Dear Randall” e-mail when he called pleading for help.
Syd surprised herself by pushing for this to be their first case. Madison ’s kidnapping was well outside the parameters of what they’d normally be doing. Beyond that, it involved the kind of messy personal connection that was usually the kiss of death. The whole time she’d been half wishing Jake would refuse. And though she hated to admit it, the worst part of her, the part that the Agency had fed and fanned until it threatened to consume her, was only hoping Madison would survive so that she wouldn’t have to comfort Randall. Awful. But maybe knowing it was awful was a good first step toward reclaiming her humanity.
Syd tucked her feet beneath her and spun in the chair. Not finding Dante on any of the traditional servers was disheartening but not hopeless. Her network of people was bound to uncover something. Until then, all she could do was wait.
Unfortunately, waiting was never her strong suit. She’d thought that a desk job would be a nice change of pace. Lord knew she could use a break from the fray. The past few years had been hell, with the “War on Terror” whipping up small conflagrations throughout the globe. The best and worst times of her life, bouncing from Shanghai to Tbilisi to Tehran. Escaping by the skin of her teeth a few times, and by even less others.
And now here she was, sitting behind a desk, wearing pumps and pearls. You had to laugh.
The phone rang and she lunged for it. “The Longhorn Group.”
A pause. “Is this Sydney?”
“Who’s this?” Syd replied, dodging the question. First thing they taught you, knowledge is power. And she didn’t recognize the voice offhand. Her pulse kicked up a notch and she felt that familiar rush. Old habits died hard.
“This is Audrey Grant.”
Syd sank back into the chair. “Hello, Ms. Grant.”
“I thought it was you.” Audrey’s tone indicated that she knew the exact nature of Syd’s relationship with her ex-husband. Also, that she didn’t appreciate being referred to as Ms. Too bad, Syd thought.
“Randall hasn’t called recently. I was hoping-”
“We don’t have any new information,” Syd said. “But we’re doing everything we can. We’ll be in touch.” She lowered the receiver. Small talk had never been her strong suit, and chatting with her current lover’s ex-wife was too weird, even for her.
“The thing is-” the receiver bleated.
Syd repressed a sigh and raised it back to her ear. “Yes?”
“Bree remembered something. It’s probably nothing, but Madison has one of those toys, the handheld video games. She’s constantly playing it.”
“And?” Syd knew she should probably be more sympathetic, after all, Audrey’s kid was missing. But if half of what Randall said was true, she could end up spending an hour comforting a woman who was deep in her cups.
“Well, it has GPS. Isn’t there some way to track her down with that?”
Sure, Syd wanted to say. All we’d need is a Department of Defense supercomputer and a dozen analysts. “Chances are she’s probably not able to send a signal. But if you get me the serial number, I can look into it.”
“My daughter is very bright, Ms. Clement. For her science project this year she boosted satellite signals, tapping into some sort of network. I didn’t understand it, frankly, but if anyone could manage it, Madison could.”
Syd noted the Ms., decided to let it slide. “Like I said, I’ll check it out.”
“Fine.” Another long pause. Syd itched to hang up the phone, just holding it made her feel dirty and she’d done nothing wrong. “I just want you to know, I was not in favor of hiring you. And if my daughter is not returned soon, I am going to the FBI.”
“That would be a mistake.”
“It’s my daughter, Ms. Clement.” Audrey’s voice hardened as she said, “You have twenty-four hours. After that, I’m making the call.”
Fantastic, Syd thought. Now she could add a pissed-off ex-wife to the list of people who loathed her.
Kelly pulled in behind Rodriguez’s car. Son of a bitch had tried to follow up the lead without her; luckily, someone else had left a note on her desk with the 911 call information. Her eyes scanned the stree
t, alighting on the bar. Obvious. Too obvious, in her opinion, but she knew that an unseasoned agent like Rodriguez would have assumed he could crack the case by leaning on a few barflies. And of course he hadn’t called for backup, despite the fact that they knew nothing about the bar or the area.
Kelly radioed in. Dispatch placed a unit ten blocks away, said they could be there in five minutes. She settled back to wait. It was 4:00 p.m., and the air rose in waves off the pavement. She kept the air-conditioning blasting to counter it.
The bar was set on the corner, no windows, with an unlit neon sign that read: Acme Lounge. Lounge was pushing it if the exterior was any indication, Kelly thought. The windows were painted black and there were streaks where the paint had peeled away, like a giant cat had sharpened its claws against them.
As she watched, the door opened and a guy stepped out. He was huge, at least six-four, close to three hundred pounds. He glanced up and down the street, eyes lingering on her car. Something about his stance got her instincts jangling. After a decade with the Bureau, she knew the look of someone who was up to no good.
He ducked back inside. Kelly fought to quiet the alarm signals in her head, glancing at her watch. Backup was still two minutes out. Rodriguez had been unreachable for nearly two hours. She bit her lower lip, then got out of the car. Placed her hand on the hood of his bu-car: hot, but that could be from the sun. She unclipped her radio. “Dispatch, have backup meet me at Acme Lounge, same intersection.”
“Copy that.”
“And make sure they come in quiet, okay?”
The sirens in the distance cut off. It was probably an unnecessary precaution, but if something was going down she’d prefer the element of surprise. While she waited, she dug her bulletproof vest out of the trunk and strapped it on. Immediately her core body temperature shot up and her silk shirt was soaked with sweat. Kelly gritted her teeth. If Rodriguez was in there, she was holding him personally responsible for her dry cleaning bill.
Kelly decided to try the window, maybe some of the streaks were large enough to provide a view inside. She crossed the street, unclipping her holster and keeping her hand low, ready to draw quickly. Something about the whole scenario felt seriously off. She’d lost her partner a few cases back. No matter how she felt about Rodriguez, she didn’t care to lose another.
Kelly edged along the window farthest from the door. One section of peeling paint was at shoulder height, and she ducked slightly to peer in. Newspaper was taped along the insides, blocking it.
A movement to her left. Kelly spun quickly, drawing her weapon. A Latina woman emerged from a doorway across the street, saw her, and did a double take. She was hauling a shopping cart filled with purses. She raised both hands and backed into the building, leaving the cart where it stood.
Great, a sweatshop, Kelly thought, releasing her breath slowly and tucking her gun away. The accidental killing of an illegal immigrant would pretty much guarantee her reassignment to Dubuque.
A police car approached. She motioned for it to slow and it eased to the curb, parking at an angle. Two young officers got out.
“Special Agent Kelly Jones,” she said in a low voice. “Either of you know this place?”
They both shook their heads. “Not much happens over here. We cruise by every few days, but it’s quiet. Our other sector is in an all-out gang war, so…” He shrugged.
“Okay. It might be nothing, but Agent Rodriguez’s car is parked down the street and I have reason to believe he’s inside. I need you to cover my back.”
They looked skeptical, but nodded. Kelly could imagine what they were thinking: a female suit was afraid to enter a bar alone, so she dragged them away from where they were really needed. Didn’t matter to her. Going in without backup was a recipe for disaster, and she couldn’t afford the fallout.
She checked the straps on her vest. Felt the cops’ impatience pouring over her like water on rocks. Took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
A roomful of eyes shifted in their direction. There was a line of fifteen men at the bar, all carbon copies of each other: large, bald, thick. Identical outfits, too: jeans, black tank tops, work boots. Each of them had a bottle of beer in his hand, she noted-bottles that could quickly become weapons, not a good sign.
Kelly paused on the threshold before stepping all the way inside. They watched as she entered, cops flanking her. No one said a word.
“I’m looking for another agent,” she said, taking a step forward. The three of them against fifteen guys who looked recently paroled weren’t her favorite odds. Worse yet if some of them were armed.
No one answered, and the tension in the room ratcheted up another notch. The men at the bar stared at her, motionless. Poised. Ready for the situation to get ugly, looking forward to it even, judging by their expressions. She should have called for more backup. Apparently one of the cops agreed. He unhooked his radio and said, “Dispatch, this is unit fourteen. We’ve got a Code 8.”
“He ain’t here,” said the bartender, an enormous beard differentiating him from the others.
“Who said it was a he?” Kelly asked, drawing her Glock.
The bartender gazed at her for a long moment before replying, “Lucky guess.”
“You should pick up a lotto ticket, I hear the pot is at twenty million.” Kelly took another step forward, making sure there was no way for the exit to be cut off. One of the cops fell in next to her, the other stayed by the door. They seemed to have the same read of the situation, she noted with relief. Hopefully they’d know how to handle themselves if things went south.
“I’ll do that.” The bartender carefully polished the glass in his hand, although Kelly doubted cleanliness was the clientele’s chief concern.
“Don’t suppose you’d mind if I look around,” Kelly said.
“I’d expect to see a warrant for that.”
“I can have one here in ten minutes.”
The bartender shrugged without answering.
They all heard it at the same time, a muffled grunt from behind a door marked Employees in crooked letters. Everyone froze. Kelly saw the cops pull their weapons, the guys straighten at their stools, the bartender setting the glass down, hard, then reaching for something behind the bar.
“Hands where I can see them!” she barked, aiming for his chest. He waited a beat before raising them.
“The rest of you drop the bottles and raise your hands. I want you to stand up and take a step back.”
The guys on the stools exchanged glances. The bartender nodded slightly and they did as she asked, almost in unison. Kelly watched as the cops got them down on the floor, hands behind their heads. She hoped they had enough zip ties.
She kept her Glock steady on the bartender’s chest. He was watching her, calculating. Kelly got the sense he was waiting for something.
“I’d like to take a look behind that door. Now.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
He moved down the bar slowly. “Keep those hands up!” Kelly ordered as they started to drop. She was careful to stay out of arms’ reach as he approached the door.
“Open it.”
“I don’t got a key.”
“Bullshit. Open it now.”
“I’m telling you, lady, no key. Locks from the inside.”
Kelly examined the door. It looked cheap, plywood. She glanced quickly over her shoulder: both cops were still occupied, halfway down the line of prisoners. “Kick it in.”
“What?”
“You look like a big strong guy. Kick it in.”
He raised a boot halfheartedly, gave the door a tap.
She took another step forward until he could feel the Glock’s barrel at the base of his skull. “I’ve got reason to believe there’s a federal agent in there. I’m not fucking around with you.”
“What, you going to shoot me?”
“Try me.” She pressed the muzzle harder against his spine. He lifted his knee again and drove his heel into the door. It
flew open with a splintering of wood.
Kelly slipped to the side, keeping him in her sights but out of direct line of the door. From her angle, she could see a foot.
The bartender suddenly dove into the room. Kelly followed on instinct, clearing the door frame. In a flash she saw Rodriguez in a chair, bloodied almost beyond recognition. Then the bartender whipped around, a twin-barrel shotgun in his hands.
Thirteen
Madison sat on the cot, one hand wrapped around her knees, the other holding her DS Lite. The screen was flickering with a low battery warning. She’d done everything she could to reconfigure it, but the last bit of juice was draining away. It would stop transmitting in a few hours, tops.
She dropped her head in frustration. She’d known it was a long shot, chances were no one would be searching for the signal, but still. She’d allowed herself to hope, which was probably a mistake. Her only choice now was to give up on the idea, or ask Lurch if he’d charge it for her. There was a chance he’d do it. Since that torture session he’d been gentler with her, almost paternal. Small gestures, like the cake, but she got the sense that he didn’t want to hurt her. Unlike his partner.
She shuddered involuntarily. She’d ask Lurch. After all, it wasn’t like she had anything to lose. Once the battery was dead, it was just a hunk of metal anyway.
The door to her room swung open and she glanced up. The other guy stood there, leering at her. She paled and reflexively skittered away from him.
“Time for some more fun,” he hissed. His attention shifted to her hand. “Whatcha got there, kitten?”
Madison tucked it under her legs. He crossed the room in three long strides and caught her wrist, twisting until she yelped in pain. His eyes narrowed as he yanked the DS Lite from her grasp.
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