Will pounded ketchup out of the bottle onto his fries and said, “Okay, so to cut through the bullshit, we think we’re looking at illegal Mexican nationals using forged documents to gain access to the Thirty-second Street Naval Station?”
Bradley agreed. “Originally we thought illegal aliens were using fraudulent passports to get other documents like drivers’ licenses, ID cards, car registrations, and the like in order to unlawfully gain employment in San Diego’s concrete construction industry.”
“But the passports aren’t fraudulent.”
“According to your people.”
Will grinned. David’s return smile was reluctant.
“The passports aren’t fraudulent,” Will said. “However, we’ve got a line on the guy some of these nationals were going to for these additional documents. Jose Valz runs a side business helping Hispanic immigrants obtain legal documents so they can work in the concrete construction industry — where he’s also employed.”
Bradley’s eyes lit with interest. “You’re after Valz?”
Will nodded. “We want Valz. He’s made false statements regarding his status on I-9 forms. He claimed to be a United States citizen. He claimed he was a lawful permanent resident. And he provided documentation that concealed his true immigration status as an alien in temporary protected status.”
Bradley held up his empty beer bottle in question.
Will shook his head. “Valz’s false statements not only allowed him to fraudulently obtain employment but also allowed him to obtain a US Navy badge that grants him access to all the naval bases in the region.”
“We’re going after Valz,” Bradley said grimly.
Somebody had to. But it was going to be a long and probably dull week. Will wondered how Taylor was faring his first day back on active duty. Then he had to bite back an inward grin at the idea of Taylor partnered with Varga. Talk about two peas in a pod.
As though reading his mind, Bradley said suddenly, “Your partner never made it back, I take it?”
Will was startled at the stab of emotion that went through him at the idea of Taylor not making it back. He wasn’t sure he was ever going to get over the memory of seeing Taylor shot and dying on that stockroom floor. Will couldn’t understand it. He had been in the marines; he’d seen men die. He’d lost friends. It had been ugly, painful, but none of it shook him to the marrow the way seeing Taylor shot had. He wasn’t given much to praying, but he’d prayed then. It wasn’t very often your prayers were answered; he knew to count his blessings.
“He’s back on active duty now,” he said calmly. “We’re just working different cases at the moment.”
The old unease about what was happening with Taylor when Will wasn’t there to watch his back returned. Not that Taylor wasn’t very good at taking care of himself — with one notable exception. Will’s separation anxiety made no sense.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Bradley asked casually.
The stock answer, the safe answer, was no. If the higher-ups discovered that he and Taylor were lovers, they’d be repartnered faster than you could say nonfraternization policy. But lying to Bradley was difficult.
“Sort of.”
Bradley raised his eyebrows.
“It’s complicated,” Will admitted.
“Someone you work with,” Bradley guessed.
Will nodded apologetically.
Bradley sighed. “Oldest story in the world.” His smile was wry. He glanced at his watch. “We should get back.”
* * * * *
By the time Taylor got back to the office on Temple Street, his feet ached. So did his head.
He wasn’t one of those guys who made a drama out of hating to shop, but even he couldn’t figure out how the hell anyone could shop for nine hours. Nine hours. And almost straight through, because no one could seriously consider the stop for herbes de Provence french fries and pomegranate-blackberry iced tea at Café Rodeo a legitimate break.
Madame Kasambala had spent the probable equivalent of her nation’s defense budget between Gucci, Chanel, Dior, Valentino, Versace, and Tiffany’s. Varga was in an even worse mood than Taylor — which was some comfort. Of course, she had a point. If they had dispensed with the pleasures of Rodeo Drive in one day, what fresh hell was Madame going to drag them through tomorrow — and beyond?
Still, as boring as the day had been, and despite the fact that he had not been working with Will, Taylor felt almost cheerful. He was back in the field, back on active duty — and he felt fine.
There had been a time when both those things had seemed unobtainable goals.
He hung around the office for a time in the hope that Will might get back early from San Diego, but no dice. He hadn’t really expected it.
He was the last person out of the office, and it was dark when he reached home.
He parked in the side drive, walked down to the corner to pick up his mail from the stand of metal boxes. Walking back up the quiet, shady street, moon shining like a newly minted dime above the treetops, he remembered the Chevy that had been parked curbside on Friday when he’d gone to get the mail.
That was why Will’s description of the car that had nearly run them down on Saturday had rung a bell. Not to overreact. There were one hell of a lot of Chevrolets driving around Southern California. And a lot of motorists could use a driver’s ed refresher course.
Taylor reached his own overgrown patch of yard, reflected he needed to hire some kid to mow the grass once in a while, and went up the steps to his porch.
He stopped.
One of those bright plastic phone-book bags hung from the front door handle. He reached for it, but the plastic straps were knotted around the handle and in the amber porch light he caught a glimpse of white string.
A fuse.
His fingers froze on the cool plastic. After a couple of seconds of frantic thought, he decided he hadn’t touched or tugged anything. He delicately let go, retreated a few steps, and then jumped off the
