ENSENADA
SUNDAY, 4:10 P.M.
“GRACE,” FAROE SAID IN a low voice. “Smile at me, come nibble on my neck, and in general give me a visible excuse to get the hell off this balcony.”
The tone of his voice as much as his words told Grace that something was very wrong.
How can he tell me to set Ted up so that Lane goes free, and in the next breath tell me to be a seductive actress?
Because there’s no other choice, that’s how.
Grace moved stiffly to Faroe, bent over, sank her teeth into his collar, and tugged. She’d rather have gone for his jugular, but she knew better.
He put down the binoculars, looked at her, and smiled. His eyes were cold. “New workmen arrived. They aren’t sloppy. They look up.”
“If you had a tie, I’d pull you into the room by it.” And strangle you.
“Squeeze my butt. Same effect and it will send a message.” His smile changed, more real, and his eyes weren’t like stone. “Yeah, I know you’re wishing for claws you could sink into me.”
She reached around him, smoothed her hand over a hard butt cheek, and sank in. “Note to self. Grow claws.”
Smiling, Faroe used his body to crowd her inside.
“Close the curtains,” he said. “Make it look like a perfume ad.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Only part of it, amada.”
She was smart enough not to ask which part. Plastering what she hoped looked like a lusty smile on her face, she grabbed the billowing curtains and closed them like a stripper playing with a G-string.
As soon as Faroe was out of sight behind the drapes, he went to the window beside the balcony and parted the cloth just enough to give him a narrow slit. Slowly he lifted the glasses and watched.
Weary and edgy at the same time, Grace sank down on the bed. Three minutes clicked past on the digital clock on the table beside her while Faroe watched the four men from his blind. Then he lowered the glasses, stepped back, and grabbed a notepad from the drawer in the bedside table. He tweaked the curtain again, saw that the men were all in their vehicles, and eased back out onto the balcony with the binoculars.
Grace followed like a weary, wary shadow.
Two vehicles left the alley and turned onto the waterfront street. After they disappeared Faroe scribbled down notes. Then he turned to study the restaurant entrance. The flagstones were all in place again. There was nothing to show the landscaping had ever been disturbed.
Faroe lowered the glasses and stared out at the rolling, wind-whipped ocean beyond the breakwater. Finally he turned back to Grace.
“Where were we?” he said. “Oh yeah, we were weighing choices and moral implications. Nasty business, but necessary in this line of work. Now we’ve got another choice to consider.”
“We do?”
“Yeah.”
She didn’t want to ask.
She didn’t have any choice.
“What is it?” she said.
“Which benefits Lane more-Hector alive or dead?”
“Are you talking about killing Hector?” she asked, shocked.
“Me? Not at this point. But those four dudes, the ones who were driving vehicles with Baja state government tags, likely they have murder on their minds.”
Grace just stared at Faroe.
“They left a calling card under the flagstone that’s the front doorstep of the Cancion restaurant,” Faroe said.
“A calling card? What do you mean?”
“An IED.”
“Translation,” she said impatiently.
“Improvised explosive device.”
“Like a pipe bomb?”
“That’s one kind. I can’t be sure without going over to take a closer look, but this one looks like a cellular telephone wired to a standard-issue claymore.”
“Claymore-isn’t that some kind of explosive left over from World War I?” she asked.
Faroe smiled slightly. “In the good old days before black powder, a claymore was a big, double-handed broadsword, perfectly designed for splitting a man from crown to crotch in a single stroke. But nowadays, a claymore is a bomb that would do the world a real favor if it went off within ten or fifteen meters of the Rivas family. So is Lane better off with Hector alive or dead?”
Grace opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “You’re the expert.”
He drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Thinking about Hector’s remains decorating three square blocks made Faroe want to smile. “I should recuse myself. I despise drug dealers.”
She waited and wondered again if she should tell Faroe the truth about Lane, if that truth would affect Faroe’s decision either way.
“Shit,” he said, blowing out another long breath. “I hate it when this happens.”
“This?”
“When I have to save a filthy son of a bitch like Hector so that I have a better chance of saving an innocent like Lane.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Disarm the damn thing.”
“That’s crazy! You could be killed. Call in a specialist.”
“No time to bring in St. Kilda. So who do I call? Who in the Mexican government do you trust?”
She started to speak, stopped, and stayed silent. She hadn’t the faintest idea who to call.
Or who not to.
Faroe smiled grimly. “You’re learning, amada. Wish I didn’t have to be the teacher.”
“Why?”
“Nobody loves the bad-news dude.”
The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He pulled it out, read the text message, and shook his head.
Grace was afraid to ask and more afraid not to. “Now what’s wrong?”
“The hotel and restaurant are part of a major corporation which is part of the biggest business conglomerate in Baja. Grupo Calderon. Your old friend Carlos Calderon is one of Grupo’s major owners.”
Her hollow, down-the-rabbit-hole feeling increased. “That doesn’t make sense. Carlos Calderon is in business with Hector. Why would he put out word to Hector’s enemies that he’d be at this restaurant tonight?”
“Maybe Carlos wants to dissolve the partnership.”
She frowned. “So are we better or worse off than before?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re supposed to…” She heard her own words and sighed instead of finishing the sentence.
“Know everything?” he finished sardonically. “My name is Faroe, not Yahweh. The other news St. Kilda sent is less ambiguous.”
“Is that good?”
“You tell me. They’re closing in on Ted. The fool used his corporate credit card.”
Grace ran her fingers through her windblown hair. “For what? Booze or bimbos?”
Faroe looked interested. “Ted have a problem with booze?”
“As far as I’m concerned, yes. Ted doesn’t think so.”
“You have a problem with his bimbos, too?”
“Only that I was that stupid once.”
“He made you his wife, not his arm candy.”
“My mistake,” Grace said. “Too bad I’m not the only one paying for it.”
Faroe saw the turmoil of emotions beneath her calm words and changed the subject. “Ted was buying something worse than booze-a lawyer.”
“Stuart Sturgis of Bauman, Sturgis, Bauman, and McClellum?”
Faroe nodded.
“He handled our divorce,” Grace said. “He and Ted are old college friends and business partners. And no, every time I called Stu, he hadn’t heard a word from Ted, and if he did he’d get back to me instantly, yada yada.”
“Who was your lawyer for the divorce?”
“I didn’t have one.”
“No wonder you ended up with nothing.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “I ended up with a car, a college fund in the form of half ownership in a fake horse ranch, and a house in La Jolla for my son. That’s all I wanted.”
Faroe didn’t point out that the home was now mortgaged to pay for her son’s rescue, and no one might be alive to use the college fund.
“St. Kilda has a tail and a tap on good old Stu,” Faroe said. “Sooner or later, he’ll lead us to Ted.”
“A tap? A phone tap? That’s illegal.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Your Honor, and it will never happen again.”
“Nolo,” she said.
“Bingo. Stop asking questions. Either I lie or I tell you about activities that a judge shouldn’t have personal knowledge of without calling the cops. An enemy who wanted to make a federal case of your guilty knowledge could do just that.”
Grace didn’t argue. She was skating so close to the edge of the legally permissible that it would take a miracle to keep from falling off.
“How long will it take you to”-blow yourself up-“disarm that bomb?” she asked.
“I won’t know until I get a look at it. If it’s beyond my skill set, I’ll leave it alone.”
“Take your cell phone.”
Faroe laughed. “Why? Believe me, if I screw up, you’ll be the second one to know. The chance of a little ‘oops’ like this is why St. Kilda insists on having a full DNA panel on all operatives. Makes positive ID a lot easier.”
Her eyelids flinched. “You’ll need someone to warn you if those men show up again.”
He weighed the idea. Despite her calm words, her eyes were too dark and her skin was unusually pale. But her hands weren’t shaking and she was remembering to breathe.
Most of the time.
“Give me your cell phone,” Faroe said. “I’ll punch in a number.”
“Haven’t we done this before?” she muttered, reaching for her purse.
“Sometimes once just isn’t enough.”
Grace looked up suddenly. Faroe’s expression was bland and his eyes were a smoldering green. Knowing that her thoughts were written on her face, she ducked her head and pulled the cell phone out of her purse.
“Now your color is better,” he said.
“You’re a-”
“Hush, woman,” he cut in, grinning and taking her cell phone. “Think how bad you’d feel if your last words to me were insults.”
“I’ll take a rain check, man,” she retorted.
“You see someone coming, hit this button,” Faroe said, handing her back her phone. “My phone will vibrate against my package and I’ll think of you.”
“Two rain checks.”
Faroe was still laughing as he shut the hotel door behind himself and headed toward the IED.