Elizabeth Lowell - Innocent as Sin

Grace would make pâté out of him.

“I understand, Officer,” she said sympathetically. “And we certainly don’t want to impede a legitimate federal investigation. If you’d give me a telephone number for the district director, I’ll discuss paperwork with him.”

Morehouse said something under his breath. “Tell you what, ma’am. We’ll come in and check, and you can talk to the director later. It’ll be a lot easier that way.”

“It might be a lot easier if I signed a permanent waiver of my Fifth Amendment rights,” Grace said. “That would hardly be good for America, would it? But never mind about the number. Senator Miller’s chief legislative aide is a good friend. I’m sure Jerry will have your director’s number.”

Morehouse looked at her and knew it was going to be a bad day.

“You aren’t getting inside without paperwork,” Faroe said. “Court order, warrant, or the phone number. Your choice.”

The line of Morehouse’s mouth said he wasn’t happy.

“Take it from me,” Faroe said, “this woman eats badges every day and spits out itty-bitty staples.”

Morehouse knew a political impasse when it was shoved down his throat. He told Faroe the phone number. Grace went inside, closing the door behind her.

Faroe peered into the morning sunlight and almost winced. Summer was more than a promise in that Phoenix sun. It was a threat.

“I’m getting a cup of coffee,” Faroe said, turning away from Morehouse.

Morehouse grabbed Faroe’s arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I just told you. You want a cup?” He looked at the agent’s belly. “Double cream and sugar, right?”

The agent’s fingers dug into Faroe’s arm. “You and your lady are impeding federal officers, and I’m getting sick of it. We’ll have a little respect around here or somebody’s going to jail. Now break out some ID.”

“I don’t need any.”

“You need ID if I say you do,” Morehouse snarled. Over his shoulder, he said to one of his men, “Cuff this clown. Sack him up.”

“What’s the charge?” Faroe asked.

“No ID,” Morehouse shot back. “I think you look illegal, and I’m taking you in until I’m sure you’re a citizen in good standing.”

Faroe’s smile was a knife sliding out of a sheath. “I once carried a badge pretty much like yours. Like you, I tried to bootstrap a disagreement with a suspect into an immigration violation.”

Unwillingly, Morehouse eased his grip. “So?”

“I knew the guy was a citizen,” Faroe said, “just like you know I’m a citizen. I even knew that a citizen is under no affirmative obligation to prove his status, so long as he is already here on U.S. soil. But I went ahead and sacked him up anyway.”

“Hooray for you,” Morehouse muttered.

“I did a year in federal prison for a civil rights violation,” Faroe said pleasantly. “Back off, or you’ll do the same.”

Morehouse stared at Faroe for a long five-count, then released his arm.

“Friggin’ lawyers all over the place,” Morehouse said under his breath.

Grace emerged from the bungalow, carrying a cell phone. She held it out to Morehouse.

“It’s your boss,” she said.

Morehouse looked at the phone like it was a snake, then took it and held it to his ear.

“Yeah, this is Morehouse.” He listened, grunted, listened some more, grunted, and sighed. Then he handed the phone back to Grace. “He wants to talk to you again.”

Grace held a short, crisp conversation with the bureaucrat at the other end, thanked him, and hung up.

“Will there be anything else, Officer?” she asked pointedly.

“No. Sorry about the bother. Ma’am.” Teeth clenched, Morehouse turned and waved his men back to their vehicles.

Thirty seconds later there wasn’t an agent in sight.

“Nice job,” Faroe said, nuzzling Grace’s cheek. “Did you pick up anything useful from the director?”

“He was as confused as Agent Morehouse.” She frowned. “He said they were acting on information directly from Washington, but he wouldn’t tell me from where inside the Beltway.”

“Must have been a hot call to get those boys out at the crack of dawn on a Sunday. Good thing you convinced Neto to stay in B.C.”

“Which the agents must have known,” Grace said. “Undoubtedly they have someone watching him. Maybe they lost him.”

“Or maybe they were after us all along,” Faroe said.

“An intelligence-gathering raid?”

“Probably,” Faroe said. “They can’t get to Neto, so they’ll settle for identifying and interrogating the rest of us. How’d you get rid of Morehouse?”

“I told the director he was being used as a political cat’s-paw.

No enforcement agent ever likes that idea. I also told him not to send anyone back without specific and narrowly defined search warrants.”

Faroe grunted. “They might get them.”

“They know me, and they know St. Kilda Consulting’s lawyers. It will take time.” She grimaced. “I should know. I’m still trying to shake a warrant out of a judge to freeze Bertone’s accounts.”

Faroe looked toward the resort grounds. “Even if it takes time, we’re suddenly hotter than a flat rock in July.”

“You think they left someone behind?” Grace asked, looking around the grounds.

“I’ll bet the place is crawling with plainclothes playing tennis or golf-with long lenses,” Faroe said, pulling her inside and locking the door behind them.

“We have to keep Kayla off the federal radar,” Grace said tightly. “For whatever reason, the feds are on Bertone’s side. If the political pressure is bad enough, Morehouse will be back with paper I can’t talk us out of honoring. Kayla will be on the firing line.”

Faroe smiled coldly. “They’ll have to find her first.”

Castillo del Cielo

Sunday

6:40 A.M. MST

The child’s soft footsteps woke Elena immediately. She slipped out of bed and went to the door. Miranda was in the hallway outside. Tears magnified her big golden eyes.

Elena gathered the weeping child into her arms and rocked slowly. “What’s wrong, pet? Did your bad dream come back?”

“Y-yes.” The little girl threw her thin arms around Elena’s neck and hung on. “Maria s-said I was a b-baby and-”

“Hush, little one. You’re a beautiful child and Momma loves you. I understand about bad dreams and night fears. I used to get them myself.”

The girl drew a ragged breath. “R-really?”

“Of course. It’s all part of growing up.”

“Oh.” Miranda snuggled against her mother and slowly relaxed. “You smell good. The monsters don’t like things that smell good.”

“Then we shall be certain you wear my perfume when you go to bed.”

The girl smiled.

And stayed wrapped around her mother.

Elena soothed Miranda and mentally rearranged her schedule so that she could fire the useless nanny. Then she had to begin the tiresome process of hiring someone who understood children’s needs.

“Where is my angel?” asked Bertone’s voice from the bedroom.

“You have two angels now.” Elena walked back into the bedroom, carrying the daughter who would soon be too big for her mother to lift.

Irritation flashed across Bertone’s face, followed quickly by resignation. His plans for morning sex had dissolved in Miranda’s tears.

The last thing he’d expected when he married the gorgeous Elena was to find the heart of a good mother beating inside the sex-goddess body. Watching Elena with their children had at first been baffling, then amusing.

Now he was charmed.

“It’s time for angels to be in bed,” he said, lifting the covers.

Elena and Miranda came to bed as a unit.

Smiling, Bertone stroked Miranda’s fine hair and wondered when his contacts in the government would find Kayla Shaw. She was an annoyance. A dangerous one.

And soon, a dead one.

Royal Palms

Sunday

7:00 A.M. MST

Okay!” Ted Martin clapped his hands together and laughed.

“Okay, that’s really fine!”

Rand didn’t bother to look at the TV, which had been playing and replaying “film” since the agents left. DVDs didn’t wear out, which was a good thing. But Martin had cloned this one, just in case.

“Pregnant woman stands off raiding party.” Martin hooted. “Okay! At this rate we’re going to get the whole hour, girls and boys. The whole mother-hugging hour!”

“Sound quality is spotty,” Thomas said.

“All the better,” Martin shot back. “We’ll do print at the bottom of the screen, leave the off-center shots, the jigging camera, make the viewer feel like he’s right there, watching it go down. Great stuff! Gotta love that red silk robe.”

Faroe and Rand exchanged looks and said nothing.

“You going to blank out her face?” Thomas asked.

Martin looked uneasily at Faroe. “I hope not.”

“Jury is still out on that,” Faroe said.

Martin wanted to argue. He didn’t. When Faroe’s eyes went narrow, smart people backed off.

“Okay, play it again, Sam,” Martin said.

Thomas stared at his producer. “You didn’t really say that.”

“Just play it, okay?” Martin snapped.

“Right,” Thomas said. “You want me to do a voice-over in the background?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Somebody knocked on the door.

Faroe shot a look at the cameraman, who’d immediately grabbed his small, shoulder-held video camera. “Not unless I give the signal. Got it?”

The man swallowed and set aside the camera. “Got it.”