The Wrong Hostage

15

LA JOLLA

SUNDAY, 11:05 A.M.

LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE IN Grace’s life, La Jolla had changed in sixteen years. Once it had been little more than a snotty California beach resort. Now it was a high-end retail and financial center that rivaled Tijuana’s Zona Rio.

Faroe drove slowly down a side street that dead-ended in the parking lot of Edge City Investments. There was a guard shack at the entrance to the parking lot. Faroe turned the corner and pulled over to the curb, inspecting the five-story stainless steel and glass building.

Silently he read the building directory that had been hand-carved on the marble retaining wall at street level. Besides Edge City, the building housed an import company, an international marketing firm, branches of two Wall Street brokerage houses, and the offices of four financial advisers, three of whom had Spanish surnames.

“There’s a lot of black money washing anonymously back and forth across the border,” Faroe said.

“You’re stereotyping. Just because there are some Spanish names on the building doesn’t mean there’s something illegal going on.”

“Actually, I’m speculating. That’s where the big money is, right? Speculation?”

She didn’t look convinced.

“Get used to it,” he said. “I’ve seen the ass end of too many aardvarks to be politically correct. Not all male Middle Easterners blow up airplanes, but it’s beyond stupid to search everyone’s Caucasian grandmother in the name of political correctness.”

“The law says-”

“The law is made by politicians,” Faroe cut in. “Hell, I know that all Russians aren’t part of the mafiya or tucked into the trough of a corrupt government, but the chances of Ivan Freaking Innocent coming into big money honestly in Mother Russia is about as great as Juan Freaking Innocent getting big money in Father Mexico without getting real dirty in the process.”

She wanted to disagree. It was a reflex she shoved back into the past. She might not like what Faroe was telling her, but if she was arguing civics when the likes of Hector appeared with his heavily armed thugs, she’d be a deadly liability to her son.

“There are lots of places like La Jolla around the world,” Faroe said. “Aruba, Medellin, Beirut, Moscow. Fast money, black money, drug money, arms money, terrorist money-it’s all pretty much the same. It rolls around this world of ours like a big old sticky ball, picking up outwardly honest bankers and brokers and financial advisers.”

“You make it sound like there’s no legal money out there.”

“Depends on how you define legal. Sort of like provenance in art. Put the goods through three previous owners and you’re home free. You’d be amazed at how often art is used as a way to get value-money-across borders and into safe, numbered accounts.”

“There is a world of law,” Grace said fiercely. “I know. I’ve lived in it.”

“The clean tip of a muddy iceberg.”

She shook her head.

He looked back toward the steel and glass monument to financial success and let the silence echo.

“Ted didn’t start out to end up in the shadow world,” Faroe said finally. “It happened one small decision at a time. One light shade of gray. A favor for a friend, then new friends and new favors. These are the people you eat with, drink with, raise your kids with. Close to you.”

Grace didn’t like where Faroe was going, and she didn’t know how to stop him. His calm words were wrecking balls tearing down the world she’d lived in, forcing her to see things she didn’t want to see, had fought and worked all her life not to have in her view.

“Some of those friends are a dirty shade of gray, and their friends are even dirtier,” Faroe said. “The longer you hang with them, the dirtier you get, until one day you wake up and find yourself in bed with the likes of Hector Rivas Osuna. Then you’re free-falling in the shadow world with no real idea of how it happened and not a clue about what the landing will be like.”

She set her teeth and remembered her courtroom, where the law was a vital, living force, as real as the air she breathed. She turned to tell Faroe about her world, and saw that he was looking past her at something on the street outside. The intensity in him was as tangible as the presence of law in her courtroom. She started to turn around to see what was so interesting but he stopped her.

“No,” he said quickly. “We’re being watched.”

Her stomach pitched. “The Suburban again? How?”

“A sedan,” Faroe said, looking away calmly. “He’s tucked back in the shrubbery beside that condo down the block. I caught a glint off his glasses. He was trying to eyeball our license plate.”

“But who is it?”

“Good question.” Faroe reached across and opened the glove box. “You have a map in here?”

Grace pulled a Thomas Brothers San Diego County Street Guide out of the glove box. Faroe flipped through the maps, located a page, and got a confused look on his face.

“Ready to steal an elevator?” he asked without looking at her.

“You have to talk English to me.”

“No, you have to listen very carefully and do what I say. The only way to steal elevators is at noon in a busy building. Look lost.”

“That won’t be hard,” she muttered.

He propped the map book on the steering wheel and put the Mercedes in gear. Consulting the page in front of him again and again, he let the SUV roll slowly down the street. When he drew even with the alley where the sedan was hiding, he turned in.

“Joe, what are-” Grace began, moving uneasily.

“Shush, woman,” Faroe cut in.

“Don’t call me woman.”

“Why not? People call me man all the time. Or dude. You want to be a dudette?”

Before she could give him the retort he deserved, they were beside the sedan and he was lowering the driver’s window of the SUV. The sedan was a full-size four-door Ford Crown Royale, government green. Two Anglos were in the front seat. The one reading the newspaper dropped it on the seat. Both of them looked surprised but were quick to put a game face on.

“Hey, man, do you know where Apollo Avenue is?” Faroe called out. “This map book says it’s around here somewhere, but I sure can’t find it.”

The driver shot him a cold look. “We’re strangers here ourselves.”

“Well, loosen up and ask directions like a good metrosexual,” Faroe said, nudging the accelerator so that the SUV slid past the sedan. “And next time you drop your newspaper on the seat, make sure it covers the antenna on your handy-talkie. Have a nice day.”

Faroe hit the gas and turned out onto a city street seconds later.

“What was that all about?” Grace asked.

“Careless cops. I really hate it when the good guys look so bad.”

“Cops?” She straightened but forced herself not to glance back. “Those guys were cops?”

“Yeah. Feds, maybe. Their suits were a cut above what a city plainclothes type could afford. Might be customs or what passes for the DEA now. Maybe even part of a task force that includes the locals. I bet if we cruised around we’d find a couple more units back in the bushes. The building’s too big for one team to handle.”

“What are they doing here?”

Faroe glanced in the rearview mirror. “You want my sworn testimony or my best guess, Your Honor?”

“Whatever gets me closer to Lane’s freedom.”

Faroe smiled faintly. “You’re learning. My best guess is that they’re watching your husband’s business.”

“You can’t be certain. There are a lot of names on that building!” Then Grace closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “All right. Sorry. Best guess it is.”

“Okay,” he said, “we’ve got Mexican cops in Mexico, who may or may not be working for the crooks, and we’ve got American cops, who usually work for the good guys but whose definition of ‘good guys’ is real damn narrow. Then there’s you and me.”

“So?”

“Either your husband is the most popular guy in two nations, or he’s got more trouble than either of us needs.”