squealing.
“Jesus, Doc, what the hell are you watching?” Jake crossed the room in long strides. A video filled the screen. It was a close-up of Madison, eyes wide with terror, head whipping back and forth in torment as she screamed.
Kelly ran a hand through her hair as she hung up the phone. Jake had sounded unusually sketchy ever since he abruptly flew to California. There was no reason for him to stress over business meetings with executives, he thrived on that sort of thing. Then there was his Costa Rica suggestion, a prototypical Jake Riley reaction-when you’re on a bad case, plan a trip. He clearly had no idea how predictable he was.
It bothered her that he felt the need to lie, she’d rather hear that he couldn’t discuss the case. She could respect that, there were certainly details of her work she didn’t share. Lying just fed her doubts. Kelly spent a good chunk of her day getting misled by people, the thought of facing the same at home was unbearable.
After the interview with Emilio, she and Rodriguez had spent a couple of hours going over the files to see if they’d missed anything. At 6:00 p.m. they met with the rest of the task force, who reported that the tip line and canvassing had produced the usual band of loonies and conspiracy theorists. Barring any new developments, they’d charge Psycho and his friends with the Morris murder in the next couple of days. Kelly sent everyone home, figuring they’d earned a good night’s sleep.
At least they were in a decent hotel. She propped the pillows against the headboard and flipped through TV channels. All the local news stations were running elegiac montages of Duke Morris’s career. A former exterminator-turned-public official, there were shots of him holding a rifle at an NRA meeting, glad-handing at a rally, practically spitting into a microphone as he gripped a podium. Kelly had the TV on Mute, but based on his demeanor she guessed he was ranting about his pet issue, immigration reform. Within a day or two something else would shove the Morris story off the national media’s front pages. Arizona would hold out longer, but once arrests were made and the governor appointed a new senator, it would be over.
Kelly knew that her superiors were keeping a close eye on her work in this case. She’d be expected to toe the party line if they forged ahead with the MS-13 connection. Even if the gang was guilty, if she uncovered a real connection between them and Morris, her boss would want it buried. And then she’d have to decide what to do.
The camera cut to a studio anchor, one of those interchangeable blondes with perfect hair. Kelly watched her lips move, and idly wondered how they always found a shade of lipstick that exactly matched their suits: hers was peach. The camera cut to a man. A banner at the bottom of the screen announced him as “Jackson Burke, lifelong friend of Senator Duke Morris.” He looked vaguely familiar, although Kelly couldn’t place him. She clicked the volume up to catch what he was saying.
“…the real tragedy here, Dawn, is that we lost a man who grasped the true threat our nation faces. Since 9/11, our government has spent so much time focused abroad, we’ve completely forgotten about the dangers right here at home. Our military is stretched to the limit, our debt is spiraling out of control, and we have thousands of illegals streaming over our borders every day. Some of those people come here looking for a better life. But others clearly intend to do us harm.”
“What kind of harm, Mr. Burke?”
“We keep hearing about how al Qaeda is trying to sneak in a bomb, so they can destroy the democratic principles that this great nation was founded on. But the real threat is more insidious. I’m talking about cartels, multinational gangs whose sole purpose is to flood our schools and streets with drugs. And God knows what else they’re bringing over with them. Guns? Bombs? In California, felons get away with murder, literally, because of so-called Sanctuary laws. Just last week a young Honduran man was released from jail even though the authorities knew he wasn’t here legally. Next day, he killed an entire family in a home invasion robbery.”
“And what would you propose, Mr. Burke?”
“In honor of my good friend Duke Morris, I’m starting a new lobbying firm. We’re going to put some pressure on those honchos in Washington, ask them to get the National Guard back here to do what they should have been doing all along-guarding our borders. Stem the tide, before natural-born Americans wake up to find that Spanish has become the first language and their kids are now the minority…”
Kelly turned it off with a snort. She’d grown up on the East Coast, and spent most of her adult life in New York and Washington, D.C. She knew that immigration reform was a major issue for a lot of Americans, but she lived at a remove from it. Here, it seemed to taint everything. The murder of Duke Morris by machete had inflamed passions. Editorials in the regions’ papers screamed for ICE raids and mass deportations. Protests and counterprotests were sparking up everywhere. There was a sense that the whole region was about to explode in retaliatory violence.
Kelly’s cell rang. She checked the number and frowned before answering. “Yes?”
“Jones, I’ve got some bad news. Emilio didn’t make it.”
“What?”
“The processing instructions got screwed up-instead of juvie he was sent to intake. Someone shivved him.”
Kelly squeezed her eyes shut, an image of Celia’s tear-streaked face flashing through her mind. “Jesus, Rodriguez. One of the MS-13s?”
“Nope, another guy. White. Guard said it was probably race-related. Tensions are high, with all the shit that’s been going down.”
“Crap.” Kelly kneaded her forehead. “Have you told McLarty yet?”
“Technically, we had handed him over to Phoenix P.D., so…”
Kelly’s eyes narrowed. “So, what?”
“So he wasn’t our responsibility anymore.”
Kelly was surprised at the coldness in his voice. Sure, Emilio had been a little punk, but he was just a kid. She wondered if this was residual rage over the chase earlier that day, or something deeper. “I doubt Celia will agree.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe she should have kept better track of him.”
Kelly was too tired to argue about it. “Anything else?”
“Nope. Just wanted you to know.”
“Good night, Agent Rodriguez.”
He’d already hung up. Kelly readjusted the pillows and lay down, reflecting on the day. Crazy that she lived in a world where a twelve-year-old dreamed of joining a gang. Crazier still that they might offer him the best prospects. Public schools were a mess, jobs were tight, and for a kid growing up in a tough neighborhood, chances of survival, never mind success, were slim. Maybe Emilio was just another casualty of the American Dream. The confluence of events that landed him in an interrogation room could be considered inevitable, based on statistics alone. If not today, maybe five or ten years down the line he would have found himself in the same situation, dying from a blade shoved in his gut.
Kelly felt responsible regardless. She picked up the phone and dialed. “This is Agent Jones, I’m part of the Morris task force. I’d like a copy of the processing papers for Emilio Torres on my desk tomorrow morning.”
Madison was curled in a ball on top of the mattress. She’d never been in so much pain. The closest was when she’d broken her leg snowboarding, and they trundled her downhill on a sled that jolted over moguls. But that didn’t even begin to compare to this.
She shuddered repeatedly as flashes of what happened darted through her brain. His scary grin as he dragged her down the hall and into a different room, then tied her to the chair. His fumbling hands all over her, tugging at her shirt. She’d shied away, screaming, but he yanked out her bra straps and attached wires to them. Then the pain, so bad she blacked out. And Lurch in the background with a camera, recording it all.
It seemed to go on forever. It was still dark outside, and she wondered if she’d lost another day.
Madison felt like she’d been beaten all over, every limb, every joint ached. For the first time she confronted the full gravity of her situation. All along in the back of her mind she’d maintained this elaborate fantasy. Commandos storming in and putting a bullet through Lurch’s brain. They’d tell her she was so smart, so brave. Deep down she never doubted that someone was coming to save her.
Now she could see how childish that fantasy was. Sometimes there was no happy ending. Sometimes people
