someone out there wanting to kill her.’
Ty tilted his head back and sighed. ‘Maybe we could cut a deal. She drops it and so do they.’
‘These aren’t the kind of people who make deals, Ty. The kid I caught sneaking in here with a knife, she had some pretty heavy ink.’ He reached up to rub the back of his neck. ‘Right here. Gang name and the number thirteen.’
‘La Eme?’
‘You got it.’
A stint in Pelican Bay Supermax Prison as an undercover operative had given Lock a better working knowledge of prison gangs, and their outside support structures, than most law-enforcement officers would accumulate in a lifetime. The Pelican Bay administration enforced a policy of strict racial segregation. The Secure Housing Unit, which held a third of the institution’s three and a half thousand inmates, essentially served as corporate headquarters to the gangs. This was where their CEOs and boards of directors were held, and from where they ran multi-million- and, in the case of the Mexican Mafia, multi-billion-dollar criminal enterprises.
On the exercise yards, the Hispanic inmates divided into nortenos (northern Hispanics), surenos (southern Hispanics) and the so-called Border Brothers (who hailed from south of the US-Mexico border), but the overarching organization that ruled the factions was the Mexican Mafia. Capable of devastating violence, both within and outside the prison’s walls, what set it apart from the other gangs was its businesslike approach. It was run with the same efficiency and lack of sentiment as any Fortune 500 company.
If a Mexican Mafia member was coming after Melissa, she had been marked for assassination.
‘This Mendez guy,’ Ty said, fanning the printouts, ‘you think he’s connected?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lock said. ‘And I plan on finding out. But if I’m going down there to get the asshole, I want to know what I’m walking into. Can you stay with her?’
Ty put out a giant fist and they bumped. ‘You got it. Already spoke to Triple-C’s management. They know what time it is. Got them another company coming in. Where you headed, anyway?’
‘Santa Barbara. See if I can’t lift a few rocks and figure out what’s really going on here.’ He glanced at Melissa, still pale and fragile.
‘Then we heading down to Mexico to go get him?’
‘If he’s still there.’
‘You think he might have skipped?’
Lock shrugged. ‘I don’t know. And going down there without knowing
…’ He trailed off. ‘You saw what happened to the last couple of people who went down there looking for him.’
Ty grunted. ‘Wasn’t nothing pretty.’
Eight
Lock pulled up his Audi beside the hotel’s valet-parking stand and got out, still clad in his blood-stained clothes from the previous evening. A well-dressed Beverly Hills couple waiting for their car stared at him, open- mouthed, as he handed the keys to one of the hotel valets with twenty dollars. ‘Sorry, the interior’s kind of a mess.’ The kid peered inside and gulped. ‘Good job I went for leather seats, right?’
He pivoted away and headed for the lobby. The receptionist from the evening before gave him a shit-eating grin and a chirpy ‘Good morning’ as he headed to the bank of elevators that would take him up to his room.
Back in his room, he took a shower, changed into fresh clothes and dumped the others in the trash. He packed the rest of his gear into a bag, placed his laptop in its case and, forty-five minutes later, walked into the corridor leaving the door to close behind him. As he was in Los Angeles, where permits for private security consultants were next to impossible to come by (which was not necessarily a bad thing, given the number of cowboys in the business), he wasn’t carrying a gun. That would have to change if he and Ty went to Mexico. Maybe sooner.
The drive from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara along the Pacific Coast Highway was one of rare beauty. There weren’t many stretches of highway that people travelled from all over the globe to experience but this was one of them. For Lock, though, as he passed the turn to Topanga Canyon and ventured beyond into Malibu, it was a road of demons and ghosts.
Malibu was where Carrie had been abducted by Reardon Galt, the house she and Lock had been living in burned down to cover the kidnapper’s tracks. As he passed the site he slowed a little. The old structure had already been torn down and a new gleaming, post-modern home erected in its place. He jabbed at the gas pedal to make the lights at Big Rock before they turned red, and was stuck staring at his past.
He stopped at the mall at Cross Creek to get gas and some water. Then he was out of Malibu, driving through Trancas, a weight lifting from his shoulders with every mile. It wasn’t a long drive to Santa Barbara but it afforded him time to think. On the face of it, the Mendez case was logical. Rich kid gets charged with rape. When he realizes he’s not going to beat the rap, he uses a gullible judge and his money to get the hell out of Dodge. Once he’s south of the border he pays some heavyweight Mexican muscle to ensure that he stays there.
The only thing Mendez hadn’t reckoned with was Melissa Warner. The tapes in court had shown that she had been one of many victims but she alone had encouraged those with a financial interest to pursue him. That had pushed him into going after her — albeit by proxy. But it was also drawing the heat on to him. And that was stupid. At some point the Department of Justice would get tired of him thumbing his nose at them and put some pressure on the Mexican government to catch him. It also raised another question. Who was looking after him down there? And, more crucially, why? Sure, he had money, but the execution of the bounty hunter had all the hallmarks of one of Mexico’s notorious drug cartels, and they weren’t short of cash. The downside to them protecting Mendez was extra media and government attention, which would far outweigh the financial boost he provided.
Something didn’t add up.
Nine
The desk Sergeant at the Santa Barbara Police Department was pleasant enough, while simultaneously managing to be entirely unhelpful. Santa Barbara was that kind of town and Lock understood his reticence. As far as the Santa Barbara PD was concerned, they had apprehended Charlie Mendez and gathered sufficient evidence to get a conviction. The fact that a judge had screwed up hadn’t been down to them. Lock sympathized, but he wasn’t about to go away.
After he waited for two hours, a young patrol officer, Ken Fossum, came to talk to him. He was on his way out to begin a fresh shift. ‘And if I could ask what your connection to the case is?’ was his opener.
‘Yesterday evening someone tried to kill Melissa Warner. I believe they were connected to Charlie Mendez.’
The patrol officer looked ruffled. ‘Here in Santa Barbara?’
‘LA.’
‘Well, I’m not sure why you’re talking to us, Mr Lock. That’s a matter for the LAPD.’
Lock choked back a sarcastic reply. ‘I realize that, Officer. But I was hoping to speak to the lead detective on the original case.’
Fossum assumed a pained expression. ‘She’s retired. Went a few months back.’
‘You know where I could find her?’
‘I do, but I can’t tell you. I’m sure a man in your line of work is aware of how that goes.’
Lock did. ‘In that case could someone pass a message along that I’d like to speak with her?’
‘I can do that. Doesn’t mean she’ll want to talk to you, though.’
Lock went back to his car, got in and called Ty. The news from the hospital was the same: Melissa was critical but stable. He finished the call, and looked at the empty passenger seat. Raped and then shot for her trouble. Just when you think the world can’t get any more messed up something comes along to surprise you.
