Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

“Promises, promises,” she said sardonically. “Do you want the documentary history of Ted’s wire transfers or not? At the rate Ted’s burning through brain cells with alcohol, I doubt if he can remember half the transactions.”

“That’s not your problem.”

“It’s not yours, either. It’s Ted’s. If he can’t deliver the narco bucks to be seized, the feds won’t let him walk.”

“You have the files?”

“Yes,” Grace lied without hesitation. “You and the feds aren’t the only ones interested in the files. The traficantes who put up all the money want it back.”

“Ted will get it to them.”

“Not if the feds seize it.”

Faroe came and stood close. Grace tilted the phone so that he could hear the lawyer’s side of the conversation.

“Look, the money isn’t the problem here,” Sturgis said. “Ted could come up with fifty million in a heartbeat.”

“The same can be said of the traficantes,” Grace shot back. “But Hector doesn’t want to look like a burro in front of his buddies, so he wants a very specific fifty million bucks. The feds want their high-level money-laundering case at least as much as they want the money. No transaction records, no case. Are you still with me?”

“Yes,” the lawyer said unhappily.

“For that reason, and that reason alone, Ted should be willing to help us retrieve the computer. Lay aside the fact that Lane still thinks the world of Ted, loves him, and doesn’t know why he’s been abandoned.” The look on Grace’s face said that she wasn’t laying it aside, that Ted would pay. “We all get our onetime opportunities to make up for how we’ve screwed the pooch. This is Ted’s. So give me his damn number.”

“The alternative?”

Faroe took the phone. “If Ted decides to cut a deal with one side or the other that leaves Lane out, Ted is a dead dude walking. And so are you.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Hey, you’re listening. Give the son of a bitch a cookie.”

“I thought all you professional security types were cold and dispassionate,” Sturgis muttered.

“I am. That’s why I’m alive and you’ll be looking over your shoulder.”

“Christ, man, lighten up. Under other circumstances, I might like you. I certainly could find some work for you.”

“Ted’s number,” Faroe said. “Now.”

“I can’t. Professional responsibility to my client and all that.”

“Say hello to hell for me.”

“Wait! I’ll call Ted. I’ll tell him you have the files. It’s up to him whether he calls the number Grace gave me or not.”

“Ted calls in the next five minutes or he’s out of the game.”

“But-”

Faroe punched out of the conversation.

“Well, Your Honor,” he said roughly to Grace, “you got your way. You are now finally and fully a party to what may become conspiracy and murder in the first degree. How does it feel?”

Without a word she got up and disappeared into the back of the coach. Faroe followed as far as the salon, which was now empty. He grabbed a sandwich from the platter on the counter and made short work of it.

As he was chewing the last bite, she came back with her purse and sat down on the couch next to him. She lifted the flap of the heavy leather shoulder bag and produced a clean black steel semiautomatic pistol. She checked to make sure the safety was on, then reversed the pistol and presented it to Faroe, butt first.

“It’s fully loaded,” she said, “and there’s a round in the chamber.”

SAN YSIDRO

MONDAY, 7:44 A.M.

FAROE SLIPPED THE SAFETY on Grace’s gun and pulled the slide on the Browning just enough to confirm her warning. He reset the safety and released the magazine from the butt of the gun. The round brass shells of a dozen cartridges gleamed through the side slot of the magazine.

“You shouldn’t keep them stacked like this,” he said. “The magazine spring gets fatigued under a full load. The last two rounds might not mount properly.”

“How many bullets does a good shot need?”

A corner of his mouth kicked up. “You won’t mind if I have Harley tune this thing up?”

“Not if you get me a smaller gun in return. The Browning has always been too heavy for me.”

Faroe hit the intercom on the coach and asked for Harley. The bald bodyguard appeared from the part of the bus reserved for Steele.

“Look this over,” Faroe said, handing him the Browning. “Grace has been keeping the magazine fully loaded. She needs a smaller gun.”

Harley gave her a quick look. “You qualified with this Browning?”

“FBI all the way,” she said. “If the gun was going to be around the house, I wanted to know how to handle it.”

“Wish more people felt like that,” Harley said. “Let me see your hands, please.”

She held up both hands, palm out, fingers splayed.

“I’ve got just the thing,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“What?” Faroe asked, looking at Grace’s expression.

“Just surprised that you agreed to carry a gun.”

“And I’m surprised I’m letting Harley get you a new one.”

“Guess we just keep surprising each other.”

“Yeah.” Faroe rubbed a knuckle gently along her chin. “If-when-Ted calls, I want you to talk to him.”

“I’m not sure I can be civil to him.”

“Hey, at least you’re not sure. I flat know I wouldn’t be.”

She almost smiled. “What do you want me to say?”

“Tell him that if he wants the computer files, he’ll have to look Lane in the eye to get them. We’ll arrange the time and place and let him know where and when. And get a callback number in case our trace can’t.”

The satellite cell phone on Faroe’s lap rang. He glanced at the caller ID and shouted over his shoulder, “Harley, have communications trace this. Get on it now.”

“Yo!” came from somewhere inside the bus.

Faroe mounted the phone in a cradle, turning the unit into a speakerphone.

“I’m guessing it’s Ted,” Faroe said to Grace. “I’ll try to stay out of it.”

The phone rang for the third time.

“Keep him talking until we have a trace,” Faroe added.

He punched the button on the phone and leaned back, inviting her to speak up.

“Hello,” she said.

“Grace?” Franklin asked. “I thought this number belonged to someone called Joseph Faroe. Let me talk to him.”

“When it comes to Lane, Joe and I speak with one voice.”

There was an empty silence on the line, then unpleasant laughter.

“So he was your shack job before we were married?” Franklin said. “Tell him thanks for leaving his get in my-”

“We’ve been around this track before,” Grace interrupted. “I was faithful after we were married, which is more than you can say.”

“And that’s supposed to make up for all the years, all the support, all the money I lavished on you?”

“In the beginning I more than earned my share. I never asked for the rest of it. Not even for all that political currency you spent to get me appointed to the bench. That was your idea, not mine.” She smiled thinly. “And guess what? You won’t be able to use my judicial status to your benefit anymore. I resigned.”

“What?”

Faroe wanted to ask the same question.

“Resigned, quit, stepped down, adios, muchacho, I’m history,” she said. “I faxed a letter to the presiding judge an hour ago.”

She glanced sideways at Faroe to see how he was taking the news. He looked like a man who’d just gotten a fist to the gut. She had a feeling it would be a while before he let her out of his sight again-especially to go to the bathroom that was next to the fax machine.

“Is it because they put your circuit court appointment on hold?” Franklin asked quickly. “That’s just a temporary-”

“No,” she cut in. “Having Lane held hostage reminded me about what’s important and what’s crap. Being a judge because somebody corrupt pulled wires is crap.”

“Get real,” Franklin said. “Life is all politics, all of it, right down to this criminal case. That new director of the FBI belongs to the Dinosaur Party. He won’t take guidance from the White House on anything. But he’s going to come to heel shortly. Trust me on this. Then this whole mess will all go away. Even the Mexicans will sign off on the deal Sturgis and I are putting together.”

“Mexicans?” Grace asked. “By that you mean Carlos Calderon and Hector Rivas Osuna?”

Franklin laughed. “I mean Mexico City, Gracie-girl, the top tier of government. They can’t afford to have an international airing of one of their most influential bankers’ dirty linen. Carlos has lots of juice in Mexico City, and damn near as much in Washington, D.C.”

“Washington? What does that mean?”

“Former Senator Ben Carson, that’s what it means. When he decided not to run for the Senate again, it was because he was set to become Grupo Calderon’s registered lobbyist. He’s on the payroll to the tune of about a million bucks a year. He takes care of Calderon’s business just fine.”

“What about Hector?” Grace asked. “He’s the one with a gun to Lane’s head.”

“Hector Rivas Osuna? Bad news, there. He’s a real liability. Some of his own are going to take him out.”

“Will that be before or after he executes Lane?” she asked acidly.

Faroe winced. Her voice could have taken the hide off an elephant.

“Don’t be hysterical, Gracie-girl,” Franklin said. “Hector’s not going to kill the boy. It would be bad for business. Jaime’s a businessman.”

Grace glanced at Faroe and gestured toward the phone. She was pale to the lips and her fingers were curled into claws.

Faroe shook his head and mouthed, Not yet.

“Jaime may be a businessman,” she said, “but Hector gives the orders. He’s perfectly capable of killing Lane just because you dissed him. Hector is an irrational crackhead and he’s the most powerful man in Tijuana.”

“That’s like being the biggest turd in a septic tank,” Franklin said. “He’s nothing.”

“The king of the cesspool is holding our son. Hector is a family man. He can’t imagine a father who wouldn’t move heaven and earth to save his boy.”

The sound of ice swirling around a glass came clearly over the speakerphone. Then the sound of Franklin swallowing once, then again. It was followed by a faint, musical tinkle, ice cubes floating in a crystal glass. He drank, sucked noisily on an ice cube, spat it back into the glass, and sighed.

“I’m sorry as hell that Lane is in the middle of this,” Franklin said finally. “He’s a nice enough kid, but even if he had my DNA, I still couldn’t help him. Maybe his real dad could do something. He looked like a nasty piece of business.”

Grace tried to speak. Nothing came out.

He’s a nice enough kid, but even if he had my DNA, I still couldn’t help him.

Faroe leaned toward the speakerphone. “Yeah, you sure are sorry. You’re as sorry a piece of shit as I’ve ever scraped off my boots.”

Franklin sounded like he had just swallowed wrong. He sputtered and gasped and coughed.

“Faroe? You’ve been listening?”

“To a coward writing off a kid? Yeah, I heard every word.”

“You expect me to apologize for the truth? Hold your breath, asshole.”

“Apologies from cowards are worthless. I wouldn’t use yours for butt wipe.”

“Hey, you-” Franklin began hotly.

“Shut up,” Faroe said in a lethal voice.

Silence.

“Now listen like your sorry life depends on it,” Faroe said, “because it does. I have every file you hid on Lane’s computer. The boy is good. He saved the FBI the trouble of hacking into those files. He did it himself.”

The sound of Franklin’s shocked gasp was very clear. “You’re lying.”

“Account numbers in Vanuatu and Sparbuchen in Vienna.”

Silence.

A long swallow.

A whispered “Shit.”

“If we can’t cut a deal with you,” Faroe said, “those files go straight to the feds and we collect a ten percent bounty for finding laundered drug money.”

“Those are my files!”

“Do you think the feds care? Once we give them the files, the feds don’t need you. Next thing you know, you’re in Lompoc and some bull is calling you sweetie and using your fat ass for a punchboard.”

Silence.

The sound of a man swallowing.

Ice clinking.

Liquid gurgling.

“While you’re drinking too much,” Grace said bitingly, “think about this. If we don’t get Lane back in good working order, I’ll tell Hector Rivas Osuna that you’ve been talking to the feds.”