The Wrong Hostage

1

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

LA JOLLA

SATURDAY MORNING

THE PHONE RANG FOUR times before Judge Grace Silva pulled her head out of the legal documents she was reviewing.

Maybe it’s Ted.

Finally.

It had been years since she’d cared about her husband-newly ex-husband-in any way but as the father of her child. And if there was a persistent personal sadness that she’d failed in marriage, well, she’d just have to live with it. She’d worked hard to make the divorce and all the legalities entailed as civilized and adult as possible.

For Lane.

But she was real tired of getting calls at all times of the day and night asking for Theodore Franklin. Just because he’d kept his legal address as the beach home they’d once shared didn’t mean he actually lived with her.

“Hello,” Grace said.

“Ah, senora,” said a man’s voice. “This is Carlos Calderon. I would like to speak to your husband.”

Grace didn’t bother to point out that Franklin was her ex. If Calderon wasn’t close enough to Ted to know about the divorce, she had no reason to announce it.

“Ted isn’t here,” she said briskly. And he hasn’t been here in three weeks, which you damn well should know because you or one of your employees has called every day. “Have you tried his Wilshire office, his cell phone, and his Malibu condo?” Or his bimbo mistress?

“Si, yes, many times.”

“Is it something I can help you with?”

Grace expected the same answer she’d gotten for the past three weeks-a polite thanks but no thanks.

Instead Calderon sighed and said, “Judge Silva, I am afraid you must come to Ensenada immediately.”

Her hand tightened on the phone. As a judge, she was accustomed to giving rather than taking orders. “Excuse me?”

“It is your son, Lane.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked quickly. “Is he in trouble? He’s been so good for the-”

“It is not something to be discussed over the telephone. I will see you in two hours.”

“What’s wrong?” she demanded.

“Good-bye, Judge Silva.”

“Wait,” she said. “Give me four hours. I don’t know what traffic will be like at the border.”

“Three hours.”

The phone went dead.