Elizabeth Lowell - Innocent as Sin

“Hell,” Kayla said, just loud enough for Foley to catch. “I’m just really, uh, busy right now. I’m entitled to a private life on the weekends.”

“At the expense of your career?”

The whip in Foley’s voice would have worried her if she hadn’t already written her career off.

“This is bank business?” she asked.

“Why else would your supervisor be giving you a direct order?”

You’ve given me lots of direct orders, jerkwad, and you usually change your mind a few minutes later. But all Kayla said aloud was, “I’m listening. What’s so urgent?”

Rand made a motion with both hands and mouthed, Draw it out.

“I certainly hope it doesn’t involve the Bertone account,” she added.

Her tone was so sweetly reasonable that Rand had to smile-sweet reason had nothing to do with her eyes. They wanted Foley’s ass on a platter.

“Actually, it does,” Foley said. His tone was less certain, like an actor whose lines had been changed.

“I thought it might,” Kayla said gently. “I left the fund-raiser rather quickly last night. I wondered if Andre and Elena would be upset.”

“What happened?” Foley asked. “We’ve been worried about you.”

Rand wanted to spit on the floor.

From the twist of Kayla’s mouth, she did, too.

“Well, I was kind of upset,” she said. “A stranger made a hard pass at me in Bertone’s garden.”

“Uh-” Steve cleared his throat. “That’s awful. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Somebody happened along at the right moment and wilted the guy’s dick.”

Rand almost laughed out loud.

“But I was too upset to stay,” Kayla said. “I spent the night at a friend’s house in Gilbert.”

“Someone from the bank?”

“No. No one you know.”

“Are you headed to the ranch now?” Foley asked. “I know you’ve got more stuff to clean out.”

Rand shook his head.

“No,” Kayla said. “I’m just running some errands.”

“Oh. Well, maybe I’ll drop by the ranch later, when you’re home, and help you out. I hate to think of you being alone after what happened last night. Poor baby. I’m so sorry.”

Kayla lifted her middle finger at the phone, but her voice was smooth as she said, “Hang on a sec.” She put her hand over the microphone, looked at Rand, and said softly, “Sure you don’t want him at the ranch? We could give him and his gun-freak pal a real welcome.”

Her smile was hard and predatory. Clearly she liked the idea of ambushing the ambushers.

Concrete hummed beneath the SUV’s wheels. Hamm had turned onto the freeway and was speeding away from Guadalupe.

Finally Rand shook his head. “Too many places for a sniper to hit you along the way.”

Kayla took her hand off the microphone. “Oops, damn, I’m about to drop in the cell-phone dead zone at Shea. I’ll call you right back.”

“Who were you talking to?” Foley asked.

“Myself, same as always. Can’t break the habit.”

“You’ve lived alone too long, babe. Why don’t-”

She punched out and looked at Rand.

“Why can’t we just call the cops and have them rig a trap at the ranch?” she asked.

“Faroe is trying, but do you have any idea how much hassle it would be to wire the Maricopa County Sheriff ’s Office into this situation on a moment’s notice?” Rand asked. Then he added in a breathless falsetto, “Oh, Deputy, a very wealthy citizen who also happens to be an international arms smuggler and money launderer is trying to have me killed. He’s using a prominent banker, a Yaqui Indian thug with some ugly friends, and illegal automatic weapons he smuggled into the country.”

“But St. Kilda-” Kayla began.

“Is working for a foreign country in a gray area of the law. And the attack on you last night was never reported. Explain that away.”

“Crap. I feel like Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2.”

“Get used to it. The first data dump on the Bertones’ political activities just came back from St. Kilda’s research group. Last year they gave more than $1,700,000 in contributions, half to local politicians and half to national candidates. And that’s just the money we’ve traced so far. Who knows what they’ve given to elect the local sheriff? Money like that buys a certain amount of clout with local and federal cops.”

“St. Kilda found out all that overnight?” Kayla asked, startled.

“The Internet never sleeps and neither does a St. Kilda researcher. But it was no big hacking deal. Legal political contributions are mostly a matter of public record.”

“So you’re saying we can’t count on any help from the authorities?”

“Eventually, yes, they’ll trip all over themselves to help us. But not until we have solid evidence against Bertone. A lot of it. If we don’t get that, we’ll use the outrage after Okay Martin runs the show to twist the politicians, who will then lean on the cops.”

Kayla laughed. “Okay. That’s Martin’s favorite word.”

“You noticed. Anyway, we can’t count on outside help right now. If nothing else, it’s a weekend. Local cops with enough brass to go after Bertone are playing golf.”

“Why can’t St. Kilda do the job?” Hamm asked.

“If we go looking for a gunfight, ex-judge Grace Silva Faroe will have our balls for breakfast.”

Kayla grimaced. “I’d rather eat at Cheesecake Factory, thanks all the same.”

“In a booth away from the windows after eleven,” Rand said. “Anyone good enough to use a Galil is a sniper who will wait for a sure kill. Last thing he wants is you in a hospital surrounded by cops.”

“What if Foley doesn’t want to play it my way?” Kayla asked.

“Then tell him you’re too busy, you’ll see him at work Monday.”

“He could fire me on the spot. Then we’d never figure out what he and Bertone are up to.”

“Then we lose Bertone and live with it. I won’t let you meet Foley in a place we can’t control.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

“I’m not,” Rand said. “Call Foley back.”

“But-”

“Call him,” Rand interrupted, “or I’ll visit him personally and boot this whole bloody act into the crapper where it belongs.”

Kayla looked at Rand for a long moment. Shaving off his beard should have made him look softer, more civilized.

It hadn’t.

She picked up her cell phone and called Steve Foley.

Chandler Mall

Sunday

10:55 A.M. MST

Yeah,” Faroe said into the mike beneath his collar. He had an earbud in each ear. Hamm was one connection. Grace was the other. “Got it. You make any progress with the cops?”

“Finally,” Grace said. “Good thing one of your old Border Patrol buddies is a desk sergeant.”

“Poor sod.”

“Hey, Sgt. Masters is drawing a Border Patrol pension while drawing full pay from Phoenix PD. Poor doesn’t describe him.”

Faroe grunted. “Be ready to patch me through to Masters.”

“I live to serve.”

He grinned.

Beside him, Lane looked around the parking lot of the huge mall. “Bet they have a cool computer game store here.”

“After you pass that test, we’ll worry about game stores,” Faroe said. Then, into the mike: “No, not you, amada. Lane is jonesing for a shopping expedition. And no, I don’t see a beat-up delivery van with mismatched cargo doors. Hamm says they haven’t left the driveway yet.”

“Lane should be studying,” Grace said through the earbud.

“All work and no play makes-” Faroe broke off and touched the earbud in his right ear. “Hamm says they’re moving. I’m switching over to Rand’s frequency.” He twisted the dial on one of the iPods in his pocket and said, “Angel on the move.”

A scratchy sound came back as acknowledgment.

“Showtime,” Faroe said to Lane.

“Is the TV crew going to be here?”

“Yeah, but you better not see them.”

Lane grinned like a pirate. “See what?”

Chandler Mall

Sunday

11:05 A.M. MST

The Cheesecake Factory brunch crowd had spilled out into the morning sunshine in front of the Chandler Mall. Rand and Kayla sat inside, with Rand between the door and Kayla. Hands in jeans, he leaned one shoulder against the wall, looking like a man listening to his iPod and waiting to be fed.

Kayla glanced at him.

A slight shake of his head was the answer. Then he scratched his neck, reminding her that he was part of other conversations.

“Hamm tells me the van does indeed have metal slides set in at least the left rear door,” Faroe said. “Score one for you. Looks like they’re setting up a mobile shooting platform. Two dudes. Two Galils.”

Relief went through Rand like rainwater. “Thank God,” he said without moving his lips.

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re not God.”

“Stop. You’ll make me cry. No one has seen Foley’s car yet.”

Rand flicked his collar in acknowledgment.

“I’m calling in a local cop on a ‘hot tip,’ but I’d like to have Foley on tape first. And camera.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Rand said through his teeth.

“If Gabriel shakes Hamm, I’m shutting this op down and pulling Kayla. Be ready.”

Rand straightened his collar, then bent over Kayla. “Everything’s ready for lunch.”

“We’re an item, right?” She gestured with the electronic paddle that was issued by the restaurant receptionist to signal diners that their table was ready. “I’m all over you like body oil so that Foley can’t miss the message?”