Elizabeth Lowell - Innocent as Sin

Suddenly Elena leaped up off the couch and dashed to the sliding glass door, throwing it open with such force that it nearly jumped the track.

A cameraman hung out the side door of the news chopper, baseball cap on backward, zooming his lens in on the angry woman in the doorway.

“Get out of here!” she screamed. “Get out! You have no right to be here. You are ruining everything. I will sue you. My husband will ki-” Abruptly she realized that she was truly on film.

She turned away and shut her mouth.

The senator had noticed the camera before Elena did. He made doubly sure he wasn’t in the camera’s sight before he pulled a cell phone out of his back pocket and hit a number. Without a glance at his hostess, he hurried out of the great room. His voice trailed away into the distance as he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and the servants’ entrance. “Listen, we’ve got a huge problem. Get hold of our contacts inside the local TV network. Find out what the hell is…”

Rand was on his own cell phone, talking to Faroe. “Tell the helo to swing around and cover the parking area.”

“Somebody leaving?”

“Only the rats. One of them is a United States senator driving a big black Caddy SUV. They’ll love a shot of that back in Manhattan, home of unrapid transit.”

He closed the phone on Faroe’s hard laughter.

When the helicopter lifted up and over the house, Elena was still standing like an angry statue with her back to the glass doorway. The aircraft’s clatter and racket shook the roof, then faded slightly as it circled around to line up a shot of the car park.

Finally she looked at Rand.

He was waiting with the patience of a true predator.

“Why?” she asked.

“You were home. Decide, Elena. Now. Your kids or your husband. Which will it be?”

Phoenix

Sunday

2:14 P.M. MST

Kayla braced herself with a foot against the passenger seat and tried to pull down the T-shirt Rand had given her. The blue cotton proclaimed that “Life Is Good.” Though the soft cloth was smudged with dirt, grease, and blood from her cut lip, and her hands were cuffed behind her, she agreed with the sentiment.

It certainly was better than the alternative.

And she really wanted to live long enough to watch Steve Foley eat the fancy gun he kept shoving in her mouth.

So think of that while you’re trying to seduce the slimy son of a bitch. Maybe then you’ll smile rather than hurling all over his Italian shoes.

She watched Foley through slitted eyes. He was jumpy, sweaty, pumped full of adrenaline.

But his hand never relaxed its grip on the pistol.

If he puts that gun in my mouth again, he’ll be close enough for me to hurt him. Bad.

Much as she’d rather grab the gun and shoot him with it, she knew she’d have a better chance to survive playing scared and eager to please.

It was half true. As long as Foley didn’t figure out which half, she’d have a chance.

Just one.

It had to be enough.

Phoenix

Sunday

2:14 P.M. MST

Ican’t help you,” Elena insisted again, looking out the window.

She hadn’t looked at Rand since the senator had retreated, leaving her alone to face whatever came.

Don’t smack her, Rand told himself. It won’t do any good.

He silently repeated the mantra that was the only thing keeping him from trying force on the stubborn beauty queen. She’d come from the gutters of São Paulo. Her ability to take pain probably exceeded his ability to give it to her.

It wasn’t something he wanted to test.

His hand shot out, fastened on the hinge points of her jaw, pressed hard enough to feel bone flex.

“Look at me,” he said.

Her eyes turned toward him, large and tragic, swimming with tears that never quite fell.

He felt like shoving an Oscar down her perfect throat.

“You’re going to jail with Bertone,” Rand said. “Your children are going to Social Services. They’ll be separated and fostered out to families who make less than your maid.”

“Lawyers,” Elena said through clenched teeth, all that she could manage through the iron grip of his hand.

But whatever she saw in his eyes made her flinch.

“Lawyers take money,” Rand said. “Your husband is broke.”

That shocked Elena more than anything Rand had said or done. She tried to jerk away, but his grip was too strong.

“There was a quarter of a billion dollars in the account Bertone set up through Kayla,” Rand said. “She moved it to a place Bertone can’t reach. You. Are. Dead. Broke.”

Her skin turned the color of ashes. “No. No! He only has half that much money.”

Rand smiled. “Then he’ll have some really pissed-off partners. If you help me, I’ll help you keep your children and enough money to live well in Brazil.”

“My friends-”

“Will read about you in tomorrow’s paper,” Rand cut in ruthlessly. “‘Elena Bertone, wife of an international gunrunner, was arrested with her husband for plotting to overthrow the lawful government of Camgeria and reap billions in oil revenues through the immoral use of illegal arms.’”

“I’m innocent!”

Rand doubted it, and didn’t care. “If you don’t help me get Kayla back, I’ll cover your reputation in the blood of all the innocent children who died in Africa to enrich you and Andre Bertone. Your own children can visit you in jail-if they remember your name. Your choice, Elena. It’s the only choice you have left.”

The television helicopter reappeared over the front of the house. It circled, grabbing footage from a variety of angles.

Elena clapped her hands over her ears to muffle the roaring sound of the engine. “Make them go away. The noise. I can’t think!”

“Try being in a war zone. That helo is a songbird compared to the Russian gunships that Andre sells.”

Miranda came running into the great room and threw her arms around Elena. “Mama, Mama, what is that noise?”

Rand released Elena’s jaw.

Holding her daughter, Elena looked at Rand, really looked at him. She shuddered and gave up. She couldn’t bear Miranda’s fear, so like her own when she’d been young. “Yes. Yes. Whatever I can do.”

He hit the speed dial on his cell phone.

“Faroe here.”

“Tell the helo to pull back. She’s cooperating.”

“Roger,” Faroe said, “but they’ll stay in clear view.”

Rand punched off. After a few moments the pilot banked right and darted away, taking up a position where his engine could still be heard as a dull roar rather than a howling scream.

“Where is your husband?” Rand asked.

Real tears ran down Elena’s face and mingled with those of the child she was comforting. She drew a deep, breaking breath.

“The club,” she said in a low voice.

“What club?”

“The Arizona Territorial Gun Club.”

“Is it open now?” Rand asked.

“No. Andre keeps it closed on Sunday, except for special groups. The holy day, you understand?”

“Yeah. I understand. Irony is his middle name. How can I get in?”

“You can’t. Andre has the only keys. A chain-link fence surrounds the thirty acres.”

Rand hit the speed dial again.

Faroe didn’t answer on the first ring.

Or the second.

Or the third.

Jesus, Joe, now isn’t the time to take a coffee break.

“Faroe here.” His voice was soft, almost secretive.

“Bertone’s at the Arizona Territorial Gun Club. The helo was headed in that direction.”

“Indian land,” Faroe said. “The Hokams. Small, but mighty in the law.”

“That leaves out the local cops. How about the feds?”

“They probably could bootstrap some jurisdiction, but St. Kilda can’t help you right now. Everybody in Phoenix suspected of associating with St. Kilda has been rounded up and detained by the local police.”

Rand hissed something beneath his breath.

“The badges are being nice about it,” Faroe said. “Grace is doing a professional job of educating a sharp but still fairly confused watch commander.”

“Bottom line?”

“Right now we can’t move without getting our asses thrown in the slammer.”

“Mother of all fuckups,” Rand said.

“It’ll do.”

“Tell the news helo to pick me up. If someone with a badge cares, I can provide probable cause for any search warrant any kind of police agency wants to run past a judge.” Rand looked at Elena. “I’m sure Elena Bertone will be willing to discuss the matter with whichever state or federal judge the cops decide to wake up from his Sunday-afternoon nap.”

Elena nodded agreement and rocked her daughter, comforting both of them.

“If anyone with a badge and a gun wants to come and play at Tire City,” Rand said, “Kayla and I will be the ones in blue jeans. Don’t shoot us.”

“Roger.”

Rand punched out and turned to Elena. “Where does Bertone keep his guns?”

Over Phoenix

Sunday

2:20 P.M. MST

Abruptly beige suburbs gave way to beige desert. Paved roads became dirt tracks. Power lines strode on silver legs across the sand and creosote. The helicopter dropped, slid under the lines, and popped up again.

The pilot’s grin told Kayla that he liked flying on the edge.