TIJUANA-CALIFORNIA BORDER
SUNDAY, 11:22 P.M.
FAROE PUNCHED THE END button and drove quickly, closing in on the border crossing at Otay Mesa.
“Who, what, or where is Lomas?” he asked Grace.
She rubbed her face wearily, trying to stay awake. The adrenaline of being with a murderous madman had worn off, leaving her limp.
“Grace?”
“I’m reviewing a Lomas case, I know of at least five streets with that name, plus a town or two.” She yawned. “Give me context.”
“Ted left messages on your home phone and your cell phone telling you to be in Lomas at midnight for his call.”
She snapped upright. “Lomas Santa Fe. Our ranch. I haven’t been there since I picked up Lane’s computer. Ted had it with him while he was doing his kingmaking thing over ribs and beer, then he ‘forgot’ to return it to La Jolla.”
“Turn on your phone. We might be close enough for you to get service. Listen hard to Ted’s message. You know the man. Listen to what he doesn’t say, how he breathes, what his voice is like.”
Grace turned on her phone.
Nothing.
“How far is the ranch from here?” Faroe asked, accelerating.
The glow that was the Otay border crossing leaped closer.
“Even if you do the Nascar thing,” she said, “we won’t make it by midnight. Once we get over the border, it’s at least forty minutes on I-5. The good news is that the Otay entry is closer.”
Faroe punched a button on his phone and handed it to Grace. “Give Steele the location of the ranch.”
While Grace talked, the Mercedes rocketed through the night, closing in on the dark and light-splintered chaos that was the border. She shut off the phone and handed it back to Faroe.
“We’re almost there,” he said. “Try your cell again.”
She looked at the phone in her hand. “Nothing.”
Planes on final approach to the Tijuana International Airport dropped down from the night and materialized in the runway lights. Just to the north, U.S. border patrol helicopters flew orbits over Spring Canyon, their spotlights stabbing down to the deep footpaths that braided the canyon floor.
“Lane should see this,” Grace said.
“Why?”
“Add some artful wreckage and you have the opening of T2.”
“T2?” Faroe asked as he pulled into the short line at the port of entry.
“The second Terminator movie. It begins in a world at war, pretty much like Tijuana, except that Tijuana is real. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen T2?”
“I’ve lived it.”
“Your choice.”
“Your benefit.”
“Win-win, huh?”
He would have laughed but it wasn’t funny.
The cell phone in Grace’s hand beeped. “Three missed calls.” She punched in numbers. “Ted.”
“Messages?”
“Just one.” She retrieved it and listened with a growing sense of disbelief. “You slimy son of a bitch.”
She hit replay and handed it to Faroe.
Ted’s voice sounded cheerful, nonchalant.
Faroe wanted to throttle him.
“Hey, Gracie-girl. We need to meet real soon. It’d be good for everybody, especially forLane. But it wouldn’t hurt your career, either. I’ll call you at Lomas at midnight and we can set it up. Ciao.”
“Gracie-girl,” Faroe said neutrally, handing the phone back to her.
“It’s Ted’s way of feeling superior.” Her voice was even. Her eyes told Faroe that if he used that nickname, she’d clock him.
“Is he as smiley as he sounded?” Faroe asked.
“There was a lot of strain in his voice.”
“Good. He deserves it. Is he lying?”
“I doubt it,” she said. “He’s serious when he’s lying.”
“Who’s at Lomas right now?”
“This time of night? Nobody. We have a caretaker who does the grounds during the day, and a housekeeper two days a week.”
“So you would be alone there, waiting for his call.”
Faroe wasn’t asking a question, but she answered anyway. “Yes.”
“Nearest neighbor?”
“A quarter mile. They come and go, same as we did.”
“Sweet,” Faroe said.
His eyes said the opposite.
The car in front of them pulled through the port of entry. Faroe pulled forward and gave the customs agent a bland smile. The man looked bored and end-of-the-shift sleepy. Then he glanced down at his computer screen. His eyes widened and his manner suddenly changed.
“Where have you been in Mexico?” The question was sharp, meant to be intimidating.
“Tijuana, Ensenada, and back,” Faroe said, meeting the inspector’s eyes straight on.
“Pull over underneath that sign, the one that says ‘Secondary Inspection.’ Don’t leave your car, either of you. Someone will be along in a minute.”
He frowned at Faroe, then reached for his phone as the Mercedes crept forward onto American soil.
“Now what?” Grace said, her voice anxious.
“The guys who followed us this afternoon probably put a border watch on us. Either they intend to pick up the surveillance again, or they just want to know when we crossed back.”
“Does it never end?”
“Not for a while.”
Not while you’re breathing.
Faroe parked under the sign. He’d barely turned off the ignition before the inspector stepped out of his booth and trudged across the tarmac to them. He gave the interior of the vehicle a cursory glance, then said, “Okay, you can go.”
Faroe hit the accelerator.
“He didn’t even ask for papers, which means they already know who we are, or at least who you are,” Faroe said. “How is this car registered?”
“To Ted’s company until I get it transferred to my own name.” She shrugged. “Just one of those details I haven’t gotten around to.”
“That might explain it,” Faroe said, “but even so, the inspector let us off too easily. No long wait, no car search, no papers, no pat-down, no body cavity search. Just a short stall at the border while he checks our faces against the ID he called up on his computer.”
“You suspect everything, everybody. Can’t things just happen?”
“Not if you want to stay alive.”
“We’re in the U.S.!”
He gave her a sideways look and kept his mouth shut.
“Right,” she said, angry with him, herself, and everything that had happened since Calderon had telephoned her about Lane. “What are we going to do about Ted’s call? We’re late.”
“I don’t think he’s going to call.”
“Then why would he want to make sure I’m at-” She stopped, swallowed hard, and said, “I don’t like what I’m thinking.”
“Good for you,” Faroe said. “Your ever-lovin’ ex has your cell number. He can call you at midnight no matter where you are. I think he just wanted to make sure you’d be there at Lomas, all alone, at midnight.”
“He wouldn’t have the guts.”
“To do what?”
She shook her head. She really didn’t want to go there.
“You don’t think he has the cojones to kill you in cold blood?” Faroe asked.
“I know he doesn’t.”
“How about hiring it done?”
The coastal fog gave them a clammy embrace when they dropped down onto Interstate 5. At least Grace told herself that was why she felt chilled.
Faroe reached over the seat, snagged his jacket from the back, and dropped it in her lap.
“Put it on,” he said. “And no, I don’t think he intends to murder you. No benefit to him. If that changes, I’ll change with it.”
Grace pulled the jacket over her shoulders. “Should I feel good about that analysis?”
He glanced at the dashboard clock. Grace was right. At this speed they wouldn’t make the ranch by midnight. He started checking the exit signs on the freeway.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“A nice anonymous motel. I’ll drop you off, St. Kilda will have someone with you real quick, and I’ll go to Lomas and do a little moonlight snake hunting.”
“No.” Grace’s voice was low.
Faroe looked over, not sure he’d even heard her speak.
“No, you’re not going to stash me in some nice safe motel,” she said distinctly. “It would be like Ted to show up at Lomas instead of calling. If that happens, I want a little time with him.” So I can rip his face off.
“That might be dangerous,” Faroe said.
“Maybe for him but not for me. He keeps a nine-millimeter in his bedside table at Lomas. Last time I checked it was still there. If not, there’s a fancy shotgun over the mantel that works just fine, and the birdshot is in the pantry with the caviar.” She looked at Faroe. “Unlike you, I don’t play against long odds for the hell of it.”
Faroe threw back his head and laughed. “Damn, amada, Hector was right. You’re hoping Ted makes a try for you.”
Grace didn’t answer. The longer she thought about what Ted had done to Lane, the colder her anger got.
Maybe I never climbed out of the gutter violence after all. Maybe it’s still in me.
God, I hope so. I have to be like Faroe.
Ruthless.
For Lane’s sake. Lane, who didn’t do anything to deserve this.
“Remember,” Faroe said, glancing at her expression, “right now, Ted is worth more to Lane alive.”
“How about wounded?”
“Are you a good enough shot?”
“Yes.”
Faroe smiled. “Wounded works for me.”