Xavier Jones was a businessman in all aspects of his life, from personal to professional. Every decision was weighed carefully, but quickly: did it benefit him and add to his power base? Minimizing risk was his strength, and in his businesses, both legal and illegal, risk was part of the game.
He would not allow anyone to jeopardize what he had built, especially a
Xavier caught Greg Vega’s eye and tapped his watch, then pointed to the cockpit of his Learjet. They’d been delayed leaving Mexico; now all he wanted was to land and take care of the schedule changes that had come up after the Zamora kid disappeared. Vega left the cabin to talk to the pilot.
Xavier leaned back into the leather seat and sipped his cabernet. It had been a productive trip. He’d finalized an agreement that would continue the flow of merchandise through his network instead of diverting a portion to a competitor. He persuaded the seller by highlighting Sacramento’s many benefits-ease of access by plane, boat, and truck; not as heavily monitored by authorities as major ports like San Francisco and Long Beach; and since most of the merchandise left the area within forty-eight hours, the centrally located city provided another layer of protection to those involved. Once his plans were clearly presented, almost everyone Xavier spoke with agreed that his location was ideal. And no one had more experience.
Vega returned and sat across from Xavier. “We’re east of Fresno. Twenty minutes and we’ll be descending.”
“Good. Any word on the kid?”
“No. I have feelers out everywhere. He seems to have disappeared.”
“No one disappears. He’s hiding. Find him.”
As far as Xavier was concerned, the kid knew nothing, but when Marchand found out he had escaped, the man became livid. Xavier feared little in a business that bred violence, but he was more than a little wary of Noel Marchand. Xavier was cold; he had no qualms about killing those who interfered, but it was never personal, and he took no pleasure in murder. Marchand, however, enjoyed it. It wasn’t just business with that man.
“You contacted Child Protective Services?”
“Yes, sir. I looked at all possible kids before we left town,” Vega said. “He wasn’t there. I swear, Mr. Jones, he’s nowhere. He probably got lost and died in the woods.”
“If you say that one more time, I will shoot you myself. Until we find his body, he’s alive. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
More likely the brat had made it into the city and was living off the streets. There was an extensive runaway population in Sacramento, a big city that pretended it was a small town. The kid spoke no English, had never been to America, and was distrustful of people in uniform. All that played in Xavier’s favor.
It was Marchand who was turning this minor annoyance into a major headache.
“Finding the Zamora kid is our number-one priority. When you find him, you know what to do.” Xavier sipped his wine, then asked, “How’s Kendra?”
Vega paused. “Doing well.”
“The baby is due soon. A boy, you said.”
“Next month.”
“Wonderful. I hope this is resolved by then so you can spend time with your family. If the situation is taken care of to my satisfaction, I’ll give you time off to spend with Kendra after she gives birth.”
Again, silence. Xavier smiled at Vega, satisfied that his message had gotten through. The slight panic in the eyes, the resolve settling across his hard face: Vega was solid and would do the job he needed to do.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones. I appreciate it. It will be handled.”
“Is my driver waiting?”
“I’ll check. Excuse me.”
Vega went to the rear of the plane and Xavier took out his planner, making a meticulous and coded annotation regarding the Saturday-night exchange. The merchandise should have arrived tonight, which was earlier than Xavier preferred, but the storage facility was secure.
He closed his planner and returned it to his breast pocket, then leaned back in his seat. He had just closed his eyes when his business line beeped. He answered.
It was Paul Haas, his accountant. “Are you in town?”
“We’re about to land.”
“The feds are all over your house.”
Xavier sat straight up, his blood pressure rising. “Why?”
“They got a subpoena. Your financial records.”
“Financials? What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen the subpoena. It’s probably taxes.”
“My taxes are clean.”
“I know, I know, but-”
Xavier interrupted. “Do they have an arrest warrant?” He would not go to jail, even for the night. It was a disgusting place filled with pathetic and sick petty criminals. He would have his pilot turn the plane around and go back to the border. They had plenty of fuel, and he had more than enough money to keep the U.S. government at bay while he fought back.
“No, just a subpoena for your records. But-”
“There’s nothing at the house.”
“Then why are they there?”
“They’re not at your office?”
“No, but I don’t keep anything important here.”
“What about my downtown offices?”
“As far as I know, they’re only at your house, but that doesn’t mean they won’t go downtown next.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s after one in the morning. Why so late?”
“The judge just approved the subpoena. You need to talk to Leland. He can probably fight it in court. But this means they’ve had a grand jury convened for God knows how long-they couldn’t get a subpoena like this without one.”
His attorney might be helpful in these circumstances, but Xavier wanted more information before he acted. Information was the difference between a bad businessman and a good businessman. Xavier might be able to diffuse the situation without causing a ruckus.
“Get me the details first. I want to know how the investigation started, when it started, and why. I want to know what they know. I want everything about the FBI agents in charge. Then we can decide how to proceed.”
“It was Dean Hooper who went before the judge.”
Xavier felt an inner twinge, of what exactly he was uncertain. Not a man prone to fear, this painful knot in his stomach made him tense and unsteady.
The FBI’s top cop for white-collar crimes, Dean Hooper’s reputation was legendary in Xavier’s circles. He’d been the man who took down Ricardo Tattori, a crime boss in Chicago, reputedly a distant relative of the fallen Bonanno family of New York. Hooper had also led the takedown of someone closer to home, Thomas “Smitty” Daniels, who had been Xavier’s competitor in the importation of human beings. While Xavier was pleased that Smitty was out of the picture-he was a vile businessman, sampling his imports too regularly and trolling locally-he was displeased that Smitty had been fingered by the government. Though Smitty was now dead after a shoot-out with the feds, Xavier had feared the man had left evidence implicating Xavier or his people. The subpoena tonight proved that his fears about Smitty’s troubles were well founded.
But that was four years ago, and Xavier had cleaned enough of his books in a sufficient manner. His confidence was high that Hooper would find nothing in his records, and had someone talked, they wouldn’t have been able to tell the whole story. Spreading pieces of information among several people had saved his businesses more than once. None of Xavier’s associates had enough pieces of the puzzle to take him down.
Still, Hooper could be a big problem. He had the reputation of being a tenacious bastard.
