Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

“You’re wrong.”

“Which part?”

“The important one. Ted should have been good father material, but he wasn’t. Even before he discovered that there wasn’t a genetic connection between himself and Lane, Ted didn’t care about his son. Ted was too busy with his hedge fund to take time for a baby, a toddler, a young boy, a-”

“Wife?” Faroe cut in.

“The wife was too busy to care about the husband. Balancing a demanding career and a baby took everything I had.”

“You’re breaking my heart.”

“You don’t have one. If you did, you’d be more worried about Lane than any other part of this mess.”

The smile he gave her was as cold as his eyes. He turned and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “You promised that-”

“I need some space,” he cut in. “A whole fucking universe of it.”

The door shut softly behind him.

She wished he’d slammed it.

Her shoulders slumped against the wall.

I’m sorry, Lane.

No matter what I do, it’s wrong.

When her fingers went slack, the sheet slid to the floor, leaving her naked again.

But Lane shouldn’t have to be the one to pay for it.

Grimly Grace kicked aside the sheet and went to the shower. She didn’t have much time to pull herself together before she met Hector Rivas Osuna, the Butcher of Tijuana.

Faroe might have walked out on her, but he’d given her some good advice.

Lie, Your Honor. Hector believes you’re his ticket to your husband.

MANHATTAN

MONDAY, 12:06 A.M.

DWAYNE SHOOK HIS HEAD. “Not answering.”

“Hang up and call again. Do it until he answers.”

Three calls later, Faroe picked it up. “What.”

The word was a snarl rather than an invitation to talk.

Steele answered before Dwayne could. “Where are you?”

“Outside a dog track, feeling sorry for the muzzled greyhounds chasing fake rabbits for the amusement of drunks and drug lords.”

“Feeling like you’re a greyhound?” Steele asked.

“How long have you known?”

“That you’re tired of running in circles?”

At the other end of the line, Faroe watched dogs run in circles and said nothing.

“When Judge Silva insisted on you and only you,” Steele said evenly, “I suspected Lane was yours. You’re very good, Joseph, but so are many of my operatives. St. Kilda Consulting has high standards.”

“But you didn’t say anything to me.”

“You had more facts at your disposal than I did. When you didn’t say anything, I respected your privacy.”

“More like my stupidity.”

“So you really didn’t suspect, even after you spent time with the boy?”

Faroe watched dogs race in circles, chasing something they’d never catch.

Stupid sons of bitches.

“I saw Grace in Lane,” Faroe said. “The shape of the eyes, the quickness, the fierce intelligence underneath the drugs they’d poured into him.”

“Look at a picture of Ted Franklin, then look in a mirror,” Steele suggested. “Lane’s nose is yours, as is the width of his jaw and the ears tight against the skull. If you don’t believe me, I’ll bring photos.”

“I don’t spend a lot of time looking in mirrors.”

Steele sighed and watched the line of light marching across his global clock, time sliding away into the unreachable past.

“What really pisses me off,” Faroe said, “is that if Lane hadn’t been in danger, Grace never would have told me.”

“She would have told you on Lane’s eighteenth birthday, the same day she told him.”

“Says who?”

“Grace. I just talked to her.”

“Suddenly she’s just running off at the mouth,” Faroe said sardonically.

“Her voice was very strained. This isn’t easy for her.”

“Call someone who cares. She kept her mouth shut this long, she should have kept it shut for two more days.”

“Did you give her a choice?”

Silence was Faroe’s only answer.

It was enough.

Steele looked up as Dwayne handed him a shot of scotch, neat. He sipped, sighed, sipped again. When he spoke, his voice took on some of the liquor’s smoky flavor. “I suspect Grace was crying, or had been.”

“She was always able to turn on the tears when she needed to. They teach it in Defense Attorney 101.”

“She must have skipped that class. Everyone but you regards her as passionless, nothing but a legal and intellectual machine.”

Faroe closed his eyes. Passionless was the last word he’d use to describe Grace Silva.

“As much as I’d like to indulge your hissy fit,” Steele continued, “the clock is running very quickly on this matter.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Faroe asked roughly.

Steele ignored the interruption. “The more people who suspect or confirm Lane’s biological parentage, the sooner it will leak to Hector. He won’t be pleased when he finds out that he’s holding the wrong hostage.”

Faroe had already thought about that.

A lot.

“One, it’s not likely to leak before the deadline runs out,” Faroe said. “Two, even if it did, Hector won’t care. As long as he has Lane, he has Grace, and Grace has the kind of connections that could find Ted. I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to know that she would run to St. Kilda.”

“The bastard being Ted?”

“Hector, but don’t let that stop you. There’s more than enough bastards to go around. Come to Tijuana and take your pick.”

“Thank you, I will. What is the U.S. airport nearest Tijuana?”

“Brown Field, about two miles north of Tijuana International. But watch out for mojados crossing the runway.”

“What are mojados?”

“Wetbacks. These get that way by swimming the sewage of Rio Tia Juana. Anybody willing to do that doesn’t deserve to get run over by a jet.”

“I’ll tell the pilot to take unusual care. We should be there by dawn.”

Steele listened to the silence and wished he could see Faroe’s face.

“You’re not kidding, are you?” Faroe said. “You’re actually coming out here.”

“Right now, you need somebody you can trust. However our personal styles might clash, trust has never been a problem.”

“You’re coming. Here.”

Steele laughed. “You make it sound as likely as the Second Coming of Christ.”

“Close enough. I can’t remember the last time you left your Manhattan aerie.”

In his Manhattan aerie, Steele smiled and sipped fine scotch. It was rather amusing to know that Joe Faroe had been bowled over twice in one night. If he suspected why Steele was really coming out, it would be three in one night. A tidy hat trick.

“Then you’ll go back on the job?” Steele asked.

“I never left it.”

“Grace thought you did.”

“Grace was wrong. Again.”

“What are you doing now?” Steele asked.

“I’m watching a caravan of Chevrolet Suburbans and Cadillac Escalades punch through traffic and turn into the seamiest little sports venue I’ve seen since they shut down the jai alai fronton in Mexicali.”

“Do we know anyone in the parade?”

“Oh yeah,” Faroe said. “Hector Rivas and his merry band of federales, state cops, and rurales. The man must be worried about something. His honor guard looks to be at least company strength.”

“That would explain why the phone number you fed to research earlier today traces back to a member of the Ensenada municipal police force. So do the license plates you noted, though the information comes with the usual caveat that second-world record-keeping isn’t always accurate.”

“Close enough for horseshoes and claymores,” Faroe said. “I wouldn’t want to be an Ensenada cop when Hector hears the news.”

“You’re going to the meeting?”

“Hell yes. So call the judge and set her devious mind at rest. I’m on my way to Hector right now.”

“You call her, or at least coordinate your moves with her.”

“You do it, and there aren’t any moves to coordinate. She’s at the hotel. I’m at the track.”

“Then you should see her rather quickly. She headed for the track as soon as she hung up on me.”

“Right now I don’t want to be in the same room with her, much less in the same charade.”

“Did anyone ask what you wanted? She’s going to the meeting. Might already be there, in fact.”

“Shit.”

The phone in Steele’s hand went dead. He passed the unit off to Dwayne. “Brown Field, two miles north of Tijuana.”

“I’ll tell the pilot. Your car is waiting. The San Diego team is assembling.”

Steele smiled like the shark he was. “Excellent.”

TIJUANA

SUNDAY, 9:14 P.M.

FAROE WATCHED GRACE WALK down the steps beside the lobby entrance to the hotel and strike out for the traffic light that would allow her to cross the chaotic surge of vehicles. She was dressed in a tight sheath skirt, a slinky blouse, and four-inch stiletto heels.

All red.

Where did she get that outfit-Hookers “R” Us?

Faroe waited just down from the point where she would cross the street. When she walked by him, he counted to ten and stepped out to follow.

Jesus. Do her hips always move like that?

She must have heard him moving up behind her. Warily she glanced over her shoulder. When she recognized him in the half darkness, she turned away and kept striding along the uneven sidewalk.

“Slow down,” he said, putting a hand on her arm. “You’ll break an ankle.”