“What do you mean, ‘static’?”
“Just that, staying in a couple-block area. To beat it, you drive a few blocks away and keep moving while you talk. Anyway, if we narrow it down, we task a drone to stake it out.” She flashed back to the hotel. “The QRT was on the raid—”
“QRT?”
“Quick Reaction Team. It’s kind of a super-SWAT. We’ve got six of them now. Heavier weapons, more hard-core training. They do a lot of our terrorist response.”
Juan shot her a glance. “You know, I’d feel better if you stop saying ‘we.’”
Nora sat up, scrubbed her face with her palms. “Sorry. Habit.”
“You do this all the time? Listen to everybody, track us?”
“No, no. Only if you end up on our radar. It’s too expensive to do all the time to everyone. Nobody wants to pay for us to be the Stasi, otherwise we probably would be.”
“That’s comforting. What about warrants? How long do those take?”
“No warrants for terrorism. We get a national security letter from the SAC—sorry, Special Agent in Charge—and we can do pretty much anything.”
“That holds up in court?”
“Court?” she snorted. “You’re serious?”
They turned onto Garden Grove Boulevard, another broad, divided street lined with a mixed bag of houses, stores, and strip centers. Even though the road was deserted, Juan kept the car below the speed limit. The neighborhood slowly deteriorated around them.
Nora twisted to look back at Paul. He gave her a washed-out smile. Peter and Hope curled against his sides. Hope sucked her thumb, a bad sign. The fear on Peter’s face nearly broke her heart. She reached out to stroke his skinny, bare leg. “It’s okay,” she whispered.
“Once we get to the safe house,” Juan said, “you don’t go outside for anything. We can’t take the chance you’ll show up on a face match. There should be food and water to get you through a few days at least. Stay off your phones and slates. Understood?”
Nora swung back to Juan. “We need clothes. We left everything back there.”
“Oh, Christ.” Juan frowned, massaged his temple. “All right. When we get to the safe house, write down all your sizes, I’ll see what I can do.”
“But…” She shut up before she could say what screamed through her mind—that’s my job! Nobody else buys clothes for my family! Instead, she fell back into her seat and screwed her eyes closed. Despair flooded the void inside her. She was supposed to protect her family, take care of them. Tonight they’d almost ended up in prison because of her. Now she couldn’t even give them clothes. Everything was out of control.
“The kids can’t even go out to play?” Paul asked.
“No,” Nora groaned. “It’s like we’re in a holding cell.”
Juan nodded. “Beats the hell out of a camp.”
16
Thanks to the growth in public- and private-sector use of CCTV surveillance, traffic and dashboard cameras, and drones, the average American living in an urban area is now imaged at least 675 times a day…
— Electronic Privacy Information Center
THURSDAY, 6 MAY
McGinley fired off his daily report—a lot of words to make nothing sound like something—caught up with his shitbag file (still no word from El Paso on the whore), then turned to the imagery. Now that Esquivel had moved into that big place in Newport Beach where Villalobos used to live, McGinley was real curious to see who’d come calling.
Wednesday’s drop was in its folder under “Bayadere Terrace,” thirteen still-frames from the drone video that the Feeb intel weenies marked with names and reference numbers. No on-the-ground surveillance. You don’t hassle the campaign contributors that way, and the city cops—real cops, not contractors—wouldn’t play ball with the FBI anyway. When the Feebs have to collar a rich guy for show, they go to Malibu, where the locals aren’t so friendly with the big bulls in D.C.
He stepped through the pictures, half-hoping to find Ojeda in there. He wasn’t. Most of the men getting into or out of vehicles or walking across that big patio were the same folks who’d visited Villalobos in the past three months. Of course they slipped in four hi-res shots of the little blonde swimming naked in the pool out back. McGinley had seen a lot of her so far, so to speak. She was some kind of maid or something, but the show she’d put on with Esquivel in the pool when he moved in on Monday showed the silverware wasn’t the only thing she polished. He reckoned that video was already on one of those drone-porn websites.
Then he hit the link for “2032-126-009.” Up popped a “Resource restricted” message.
What the hell? Three months of imagery and this was the first time that had happened. Damn FBI, playing “I’ve Got a Secret” again. He pounded out an email to Jorgensen asking for that picture and any other intel about its subject. Any visitor that sensitive, McGinley was real anxious to meet.
17
“Who’s In Your Store? Making Facial Recognition Systems Work for You”
— Breakout Session, National Retail Federation 116th Annual Convention
THURSDAY, 6 MAY
Luis started rolling down the loading-dock door before Salma’s station wagon had pulled all the way inside. Probably nobody was watching this belly-up cabinet outlet—another of Xiao’s properties—but he couldn’t be sure. The less visible activity, the better.
Salma burst from her car and spread her arms. “Stranger!” She hauled him into not exactly a hello-friend hug. She felt way, way too good, and Luis couldn’t decide whether to pull away or let the embrace go on for another couple days.
Salma’s day job was teaching fifth grade, but she made most of her money as a makeup artist and costumer for e-novelas, the web version of the old telenovelas. There’d been an extra flirty something in her voice when he’d called her on Monday to set this up. Ray had said a couple things that suggested it wasn’t all sunshine and unicorns at home. Had Luis ever seen her alone, without Ray? Better to not think about that.
Eventually they both stepped back, grasping each other’s arms. She’d swapped her shapeless teacher’s clothes for a short, tight aqua skirt and a saffron-yellow choli that showed off a strip of flat stomach and a fair amount of cleavage. Luis worked hard not to notice…much. “You look great.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” She peered into his eyes, gently brushed his cheek with her fingertips. “You look tired. Is everything okay?”
Usually about this time on other visits, Ray would be hovering, his unsubtle way of reminding Luis who held Salma’s deed. Maybe a chaperone was a good idea; Luis teetered on the edge of falling into her big, caramel eyes. He squeezed her elbows and broke away. “It’s been a weird few days,” he finally said. “Let’s get you unloaded.”
They started emptying the station wagon’s back end—garment bags, wig boxes, files of sunglasses and shoes, a mound of tech gear—piling everything next to the door leading into the front showroom. “Where are they?” Salma asked.
Luis thumbed toward the door. “They’ve been locked in a safe house since yesterday morning, so they’re a little wound up. The woman—Nora—she’s a lot wound up, but that’s kinda how she is. How is it living in Tavo’s old place?”
Salma stopped, looked down, pursed her lips. “I didn’t go. Ray asked, but I could tell he didn’t want me to, so I said no. Now he’s in Newport and I’m in Villa Park and I’m waiting for his pit bulls to come throw me out.” She gave him a poor attempt at a smile. “That’s all I’ve got to say about that.”
“Sorry. Ray’s a fucking idiot.” Luis sighed. He added the last couple wig heads to the pile. “Nora thinks I’m ‘Juan,’ by the way. Ray’s fault.”
“That figures. He never did have any imagination. I’m still Edith.” She set down her boxy 3D printer, brushed off her hands. “Introduce me to your new friends?”
As he shuttled Salma’s stuff into what used to be the manager’s office next to the now-empty showroom, Luis paused occasionally to w
atch the action in the room’s center.
Nora stood in line abreast with Paul and the kids while Salma examined them from hair to heels. It was like an Army open-ranks inspection with the sexiest training officer in the world.
Paul was around five-ten, wavy black hair, moustache, wearing a faded UCLA sweatshirt and board shorts. Not exactly soft, but Luis could tell from the round edges that he spent most of his time behind a desk.
Salma poked and prodded and fiddled with Paul’s hair while he joked with her. Then she turned to the coltish boy standing next to him and held out her hand. “Hello, handsome. What’s your name?”
“Peter!” the boy blurted. He wrapped his dinky hand around Salma’s fingers and shook in the same sincere meeting-the-client way his dad did. A future lawyer? Maybe, if Luis didn’t screw this up.
Salma pushed her fingers through Peter’s curly black hair, measuring its length and body. “Have you been to Disneyland yet?”
“Uh huh, it was great!”
Next time Luis passed through, Salma squatted in front of Nora’s daughter, a dark-haired pixie with round cheeks and huge, black eyes. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
The girl fidgeted her feet a bit before she said “Hope” to the floor.
“That’s a pretty name. Did you like Disneyland too?”
Hope shuffled some more, then nodded.
Salma stood, gave an unreturned smile to Nora, then pulled a slate from the bright-green satchel she’d left to one side. “I need some scans so I can make appliances to get you through face matching. I’ll start with you, Nora. Come over here…”
Luis had seen this before, but it still seemed like science fiction. Salma used a laser strobe to get 3D scans of all four sides of Nora’s and Paul’s heads, then stuck the cable for a probe into the slate and pressed the glowing, pen-like tip against several points on their faces. “So I can get accurate colors,” she explained.
“What about the kids?” Nora asked.
“They don’t match children. Their faces change too fast.” When she finished, Salma said, “Magic takes a while, so get comfy,” then disappeared into the office.
“Now what?” Nora asked once Edith left them.
Juan pulled some note cards from his shirt pocket, then doled them out to her and Paul. “You’re Patrick and Nicole Ramirez,” he said. “You’ll get the IDs Saturday. You’re fourth-generation Americans, so you don’t have to speak Spanish. Corona’s a suburb east of us. That’s a real address, you can look it up tonight. Memorize the stuff on those cards, then burn them.”
Nora scanned her card. She hadn’t done undercover work since Quantico, but she’d have to now. “Why are we Mexican?”
“Because you won’t pass for Chinese.” He waved toward a half-dozen blue vinyl garment bags he’d hung on metal shelf brackets sprouting from the otherwise bare walls. “Those are your new clothes. Might as well take a look while we’re waiting.”
Nora stepped up to the three bags she’d already spotted—“Woman” or “Girl” written in Sharpie on masking tape on each one—reached for the first one’s zipper, hesitated. She’d made a very specific list of what she wanted. All this Edith person had to do was follow the list. How hard is that?
She unzipped the bag. A surprised squawk jumped out of her before she could stop it.
“Is there a problem?” Juan asked. He stepped next to her, an eyebrow raised.
Nora pulled the taxicab-yellow sundress from the bag by its hanger, held it against her body. It hit well above her knees and would leave her shoulders and the upper half of her chest completely bare. She shoved it toward Juan. “Is Nicole Ramirez a stripper?”
He pushed the dress back at her. “It’s a sundress, not a thong. It’s fine.”
“But—”
Juan cut her off with a slash of his hand. “Stop. These clothes are for her, not you. You know how CBP knows it’s dealing with a Muslim woman?”
Nora sputtered, but couldn’t answer.
“Her clothes. Forget the headscarf—ninety degrees outside and she’s got on long sleeves and long pants, or a skirt down to her shoes. This isn’t optional. We’re not giving the cops any help finding you.”
She would’ve stuffed the thing back in the bag in a wad if she hadn’t suddenly become very aware she was still braless—after almost two days, the longest she’d ever gone without a bra since she grew breasts—and without her fleece, this…narco would know immediately. She hugged the dress tight. “Is it all like this?”
Paul appeared at Juan’s shoulder, frowning, a garment bag flopped over his arm. Juan glanced at him, sighed, paused a moment. “No. There’ll be dark stuff for nighttime and some casual clothes. Don’t be surprised if she got you shorts or a tank top, though.”
“Honey,” Paul said, “it’s okay. It’s a costume. I’ve seen your old pictures. You used to wear a lot less.”
“Used to.” Nora glared at Juan, her embarrassment simmering. “Can I keep my hats?” she finally asked, touching the brim of her Panama hat.
“Why? What’s with the hats?”
“The hadiths say I should cover my head, they don’t say how. This doesn’t scare people the way a headscarf does. Please tell me this Nicole Ramirez person wears hats.”
“How in hell did you get through the FBI?” Juan considered her fedora for a few moments, then shrugged. “Talk to Edith about it, I’m sure she’ll have some ideas. Now go try everything on. If it doesn’t fit, Edith can fix it. Stop arguing.”
Nora snatched the garment bags off the wall, grabbed Hope and stalked toward the women’s restroom. Once there, she worked her way through the rest of the wardrobe Edith had bought. Hope giggled at each costume change. The sundress hung ignored from the stall door.
Most of the clothes were worn and soft from washing. There were lots of lacquer reds and bronzes and jade greens, a dark top with Chinese calligraphy, styles she recognized from three or more years ago. And it was mostly cheap—jeans from Myanmar, shirts from Angola, cut-rate, American-made knockoffs of Brazilian or Indian labels, flimsy underwear. Nearly everything was a size too large. It made her feel cheap and a bit sleazy. For the money she’d given these people, they couldn’t even get new clothes?
Who was this Nicole? Nora pulled her burner and the index card from her purse, keyed in the address, and brought up a Bing Streetside view. It showed a two-story apartment building: weathered paint, dead landscaping, at least two balconies with laundry hanging from lines.
Then it hit her. Nicole Ramirez wasn’t cheap. She was poor.
Nora had never been poor. Her father’s business success had bought a nice house in McLean, private school for her, soccer and horseback-riding lessons, four years at UVA without loans or having to work. Between Paul’s income and hers, they’d socked away a nice chunk of money—now all gone to the Cartel. Nicole’s life was alien to her.
“What’s wrong, mommy?” Hope asked. She sat on the vanity counter in her new clothes—a pink Disney Princess Artemis tank top and pink denim shorts, both a bit too large—with her arms around her knees. “You’re making a face.”
Nora glanced up from her phone. “Am I?” Hope nodded. “I’m…learning something.”
“Like at school?”
“Yes. Like at school.”
She switched off her phone, took off the faded black jeans and blousy plum half-button shirt, and reluctantly stepped into the sundress. Thin cotton, elastic bodice, spaghetti straps. Something she’d have worn twenty years ago, not now. She tugged at the skirt—tight, but not as short as she’d feared—and shuffled out to look in the mirror.
“You look pretty,” Hope said.
“You like this?”
“Uh huh. It’s all sunny and happy.”
Nora hadn’t worn anything this bright for years. Blues and blacks and greens and grays, that was her palette now. The yellow set off what seemed like acres of exposed skin. She felt half-naked, but only compared to what she normally wore.
Starin
g in the mirror at this dress from her distant past, she finally understood what Edith had done. She got Nicole Ramirez.
Nicole’s occupation was “call-center operator.” Paul’s—um, “Patrick’s”—was “building maintenance.” They lived in a cheap apartment. She’d lost weight from skipping meals but had kept her old clothes. She bought the kids’ things big so they’d last longer. And she had this one “date dress” for special occasions. An entire new person defined by a few rags.
Someone rapped on the restroom door, startling her. “Hey, it’s me,” Paul’s voice said.
Nora unlocked the door and let him in. He halted just inside and looked her up and down, his eyes growing wide. “Wow. I like that.”
“You would.” She checked out Paul’s costume: a rough blue cotton work shirt, sleeves rolled up, worn open over a white crew-neck tee shirt, rumpled khakis and brown work shoes. “Where’s your tool belt?”
“They forgot it. But I think my evening stuff came with a low rider.”
“You get a toy, and my things are three years old? We need to talk.”
“You look funny, Daddy,” Hope said.
“And you’re really pink, Princess Girl.” Paul slid next to Nora and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Listen for a minute?”
Nora sighed. “You’re going to tell me to behave, aren’t you?”
“Uh huh.” Paul towed Nora into the stall. He murmured, “This is hard for you, I know. It’s hard for me and the kids, too. But it’s going to be worse if you keep fighting with Juan.”
“It’s just—”
“Shh. Juan’s the guy who knows how to do this. That’s what we paid for. The more you harsh on him, the more you argue, the better the chance he’ll just dump us somewhere. Can you chill until this is over? It’s hard to keep scraping you off the ceiling.”
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