'I live for this job. I don't know what that says about the rest of my life. I do have some outside interests.'
'Children.'
'A boy and a girl.'
'Anything else?'
Bradley saw the little flash of darkness cross her face. He figured it meant either no or none of your business. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Clearly not my business.'
'I make jewelry out of old typewriter buttons.'
'Oh?'
'It's lighthearted stuff. And I ride mountain bikes.'
Bradley smiled now.
'Why do you want to know that?' asked the commander.
'Every once in a while I meet someone and I want to know everything about them. It's not necessarily a good quality. It puts some people on the spot. You are one of those lucky individuals.'
'Why?'
Bradley studied her quietly. 'There is no why.'
Commander Dez sat back, glanced at her monitor, then looked at Bradley. 'You asked for this appointment. What can I do for you?'
'I got a tip from one of my confidential informants a couple of days ago. He's a Mexican national, comes and goes when he wants. He's got Gulf Cartel connections south of the border and Mara connections here. He's been reliable on the little stuff and now he's on to something bigger. He says an American named Sean Gravas is going to buy a hundred new machine pistols. They're American-made. The deal is being brokered by a cartel heavy. Silenced machine pistols. It's going to happen somewhere in L.A.'
'When?'
'Soon.'
'Who's Sean Gravas?'
'A crazy dude with a yellow airplane. Fabio in Harley gear. Guns, meth, Aryan Brother.'
Commander Dez looked at Bradley. 'A hundred new silenced machine guns?'
'Pistols.'
'I didn't think anybody made a silenced full-auto pistol.'
'They're a new thing.'
'A whole new gun?'
'That's what I'm hearing. Made in America,' he lied. 'Fifteen hundred apiece.'
Dez looked at her computer monitor. Bradley watched her. He remembered watching his mother as she read to him, way back when he was three or four, remembered the warmth of her body and the timbre of her voice and her smooth, strong, emotional face registering the moods of the tale. Her beautiful face. Mysterious and thrilling. With a smile like the dawn. He wanted to own it. Even back then. He had vowed to own it. And when it was taken from him just a few short years ago, he had vowed to avenge her, and this he had done.
'Fabio in Harley gear,' she said. 'That's funny. Tell me more about the guns you say he has.'
'Apparently the silencer works very well. You can put fifty rounds into a body and all you hear is the clothes and meat tearing.'
She gave him a hard look.
'And according to my man, a hundred of them are about to change hands in L.A.'
Dez pushed away the mouse and sat back and looked at Bradley. 'Why didn't you go to your sergeant with this?'
'He's patrol and you're narcotics.'
'Guns aren't narcotics.'
Bradley shrugged and let his gaze settle on her face again. 'Here's what I think, Commander. I like my guy. I take care of him and he takes care of me. If he's right, then Sean Gravas is going to buy a hundred machine guns from Gulf Cartel enforcers, somewhere in Los Angeles County. If we make the bust, then, well, that's a good thing. More than good, Commander Dez. Spectacular is what it would be. A hundred automatic weapons that won't hit our streets. A hundred and fifty grand forfeited to us. Picture that. Picture a hundred of those shiny new puppies laid out before you, and your photo in the L.A. Times and out on all the wires. I think that you should bitch-slap the Gulf Cartel and their Mara errand boys who are polluting this city. You should be the one to step up and take some credit. It's about time our citizens realize that the Gulf Cartel is right here in L.A. pushing their drugs to our children.'
She broke out laughing. It took a while to end. 'You're more than a little funny, Bradley. You should be in media relations.'
He shrugged again. He was secretly proud of the way he'd already blamed this thing on the Gulf Cartel. He knew that there was no practical way for American readers and viewers to distinguish Gulf Cartel cutthroats from any others, nor did they really care. A narco was a narco.
'No,' he said. 'I would not do well in media relations. I have too much respect for the truth, and better things to do with my time. But I have a confession to make.'
Bradley leaned forward and held her gaze and spoke in a softer voice. 'I've seen you more than once in the cafeteria. Half a dozen times at least. And each time, I could hardly take my eyes off you.'
'Oh, brother.'
'I don't mean it like that. Listen. Why couldn't I take my eyes off you? I thought that we had something in common. So I did just a little poking around. That shooting you were involved in left three people dead-two creeps and the other narc you were undercover with. You killed them both and got knifed pretty badly for your trouble. You were half bled out but still breathing for your partner when the medics got there. He didn't make it to the hospital. It took you a month to get back to your brand-new desk job. You know what all that says to me? It says you're a kick-ass lady and you put it right on the line. So you deserve the best. You say you live for this job? Then take it up a level. We need all the heroes we can get. Just look around you.'
Her stare was flat and penetrating.
'I've always had luck, Miranda. And I believe in sharing it with people I feel strongly about.'
She shook back her thick brown hair and smiled, a cagey and knowing thing. 'I get what you're about, Bradley Jones. And don't call me Miranda.'
'Yes, Commander.'
She sat back and studied him. 'How old are you?'
'Twenty and a half.'
'I see you're married.'
Bradley nodded and said his wife's name out loud and felt the predictable flutter in his chest.
'Children?'
'Someday.'
'Do you plan on staying with us?'
'Absolutely.'
'Why did your mother claim to be a descendant of Joaquin Murrieta?'
'My mother had an active imagination.'
'Was it an excuse for what she did?'
'She was proud of what she did.'
'I felt sorry for her.'
'Why?'
'She seemed compelled to act. Almost against her will.'
'That's a popular theory.'
'Is it only a theory?'
'I'll tell you something I've never told anyone at this department. She lived for her job just like you live for yours. And I don't mean just the teaching job. I mean the other one, too. I found this out later. Reading her journals.'
'But why? It was dangerous and hurtful and it got her killed.'
