hope no one sees fit to beat it out of you.”
Rodriguez slid his bu-car into Park and left the engine idling. He squinted at the pay phone through the tinted windshield. He was in a section of downtown Phoenix where the sprawl edged the buildings away from each other, alleys gradually bloating into full parking lots. Everything looked empty and run-down: For Lease signs on the windows, trash in the gutters, relentless heat baking everything a cracked taupe. He tugged at his collar and considered loosening the top button. In a climate like this no one should have to wear a tie, ever.
The only place that showed signs of life was a bar on the corner. The pay phone was halfway down the block on the same side of the street. It was a long shot. Whoever called 911 to report the MS-13 stash house might have been passing through, stopping off to do a good deed. Or maybe they were involved, and foolishly opted for convenience. Either way, it was worth a shot. He was actually surprised to see a pay phone, he’d thought they’d gone the way of eight-tracks and VHS players. There was something reassuring about it.
Rodriguez chewed his lower lip. He should call Jones to share the info, but she’d been so pissy he figured he’d see if the lead panned out first. And if it did, he was damn sure taking credit for it. Solving the murder of a senator would be a huge boon for his career. He was no fool, he knew about the rumors swirling around his promotion. That he’d made it thanks to affirmative action and quotas, or worse, that he’d ratted out his partner. He’d caught Jones looking at him sideways a few times, knew she’d heard them, too. Well, screw her, she could believe what she wanted. Talk around the watercooler was that she was circling the bowl anyway, one more screwup and she’d be lucky to get a desk job. Not that he was on a mission to destroy her career, initially he’d even been excited to partner with her. Kelly Jones was still something of a legend at HQ. But the way she treated him was all too familiar. Truth was, most people liked having Mexicans clean their houses, mow their lawns and cook their food. But become their equal, and all bets were off.
He remembered Jones’s tone as she basically ordered him to do her scut work, and a flush rose up his neck. Then she got all holier than thou about that Emilio punk, as if the murder was somehow his fault. Like she suddenly cared about a dead wetback, when a dozen kids like Emilio had probably been murdered that week.
Rodriguez could call in a team to dust for prints, but a public pay phone would prove a nightmare for any Crime Scene Unit. And he had a feeling about the bar. It was obvious, but the truth was most criminals weren’t that smart. They made stupid decisions, they got caught, end of story. With any luck, he’d open the door and see someone sitting there with a machete. Or maybe he’d find a witness. You never knew.
Deciding, Rodriguez got out of the car and undid the top button of his shirt as he approached the bar. A faded sign on the door announced Happy Hour: $2 Pitchers 4-6 p.m. He pushed open the door with authority. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. And once they did, he realized that he’d just made one of the worst mistakes of his life.
Twelve
Syd’s eyes widened as she tapped the keyboard. Dang, it had been a long time since she’d seen anything like this. And certainly never with a redneck yokel like Dante Parrish. He’d completely slipped off the grid. It was possible he was working somewhere under the table, paying rent in cash and steering clear of credit cards. After all, banks didn’t generally give ex-cons a line of credit. But some sort of footprint usually remained. A postal address, e-mail account, cell phone. Hell, a video-store card.
Not here, though. If she had to guess, she’d say that someone erased Dante’s existence from every system imaginable. It was the sort of thing the Agency did with operatives on a daily basis, but you never encountered it with civilians. Either Dante had moved to a self-sustaining commune somewhere in the wilderness, or he’d found someone powerful enough to cover his tracks.
Syd reached her arms overhead and stretched. For the millionth time she wondered whether or not she’d done the right thing pressuring Jake to take this case. The irony was that she had been on the verge of breaking up with Randall. Not that they were even dating, their entire relationship consisted of a few random encounters when their paths crossed. She’d met him at an intelligence conference, and one thing led to another. He was so different from the rough-and-tumble guys she usually fell for, she found his geekiness oddly appealing. Neither of them was looking for anything serious, so it seemed like the perfect solution: occasional companionship without the usual muss and fuss.
Recently, though, Randall had become clingy. Late night weepy phone calls, showing up unexpectedly, demanding attention when she was knee-deep in the company launch. And Syd Clement was not one for commitments. She’d never been with anyone for more than a few months, and she was happy to keep it that way. She’d been composing the “Dear Randall” e-mail when he called pleading for help.
Syd surprised herself by pushing for this to be their first case. Madison ’s kidnapping was well outside the parameters of what they’d normally be doing. Beyond that, it involved the kind of messy personal connection that was usually the kiss of death. The whole time she’d been half wishing Jake would refuse. And though she hated to admit it, the worst part of her, the part that the Agency had fed and fanned until it threatened to consume her, was only hoping Madison would survive so that she wouldn’t have to comfort Randall. Awful. But maybe knowing it was awful was a good first step toward reclaiming her humanity.
Syd tucked her feet beneath her and spun in the chair. Not finding Dante on any of the traditional servers was disheartening but not hopeless. Her network of people was bound to uncover something. Until then, all she could do was wait.
Unfortunately, waiting was never her strong suit. She’d thought that a desk job would be a nice change of pace. Lord knew she could use a break from the fray. The past few years had been hell, with the “War on Terror” whipping up small conflagrations throughout the globe. The best and worst times of her life, bouncing from Shanghai to Tbilisi to Tehran. Escaping by the skin of her teeth a few times, and by even less others.
And now here she was, sitting behind a desk, wearing pumps and pearls. You had to laugh.
The phone rang and she lunged for it. “The Longhorn Group.”
A pause. “Is this Sydney?”
“Who’s this?” Syd replied, dodging the question. First thing they taught you, knowledge is power. And she didn’t recognize the voice offhand. Her pulse kicked up a notch and she felt that familiar rush. Old habits died hard.
“This is Audrey Grant.”
Syd sank back into the chair. “Hello, Ms. Grant.”
“I thought it was you.” Audrey’s tone indicated that she knew the exact nature of Syd’s relationship with her ex-husband. Also, that she didn’t appreciate being referred to as Ms. Too bad, Syd thought.
“Randall hasn’t called recently. I was hoping-”
“We don’t have any new information,” Syd said. “But we’re doing everything we can. We’ll be in touch.” She lowered the receiver. Small talk had never been her strong suit, and chatting with her current lover’s ex-wife was too weird, even for her.
“The thing is-” the receiver bleated.
Syd repressed a sigh and raised it back to her ear. “Yes?”
“Bree remembered something. It’s probably nothing, but Madison has one of those toys, the handheld video games. She’s constantly playing it.”
“And?” Syd knew she should probably be more sympathetic, after all, Audrey’s kid was missing. But if half of what Randall said was true, she could end up spending an hour comforting a woman who was deep in her cups.
“Well, it has GPS. Isn’t there some way to track her down with that?”
Sure, Syd wanted to say. All we’d need is a Department of Defense supercomputer and a dozen analysts. “Chances are she’s probably not able to send a signal. But if you get me the serial number, I can look into it.”
“My daughter is very bright, Ms. Clement. For her science project this year she boosted satellite signals, tapping into some sort of network. I didn’t understand it, frankly, but if anyone could manage it, Madison could.”
Syd noted the Ms., decided to let it slide. “Like I said, I’ll check it out.”
