Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

“How stupid do you think I am? You can buy anything on eBay. Keep walking backward toward me.”

“You aren’t being very smart.”

“I aced target practice, which is all the smart I need. Back up.”

Slowly the marshal backed up. When he was six feet away Faroe stepped out of the shadows, keeping the marshal between him and the barn.

“Tell your shooter in the hayloft to ease back on his trigger,” Faroe said.

The marshal stood still but didn’t say anything.

“Tell him.”

“Hold fire,” the officer said. He turned slightly, trying to get a look behind him.

In the half-light, Faroe could see the slender stalk of a radio microphone outlined against his cheek.

“Eyes front,” Faroe snapped.

“We’re federal officers. You’re dipping yourself in deep shit.”

“You’re already up to your own lips in the stuff,” Faroe said. “You and I are going to walk toward the house, where there’s good light, and we’ll let the judge sort out who’s doing what and with which and to whom.”

“You her bodyguard?”

“Give the man a prize. I’m walking in your shadow, so remind your boys about Ruby Ridge and what happens to snipers who take bad shots.”

“He’s the judge’s bodyguard!” the marshal shouted. “Hold fire. We’re going inside.”

Faroe stayed close behind the marshal as they stepped out of the tree line and walked slowly across the front lawn. The skin at the base of his skull tingled as he sensed the gentle, giddy sensation of crosshairs intersecting there. He kept his right arm bent at the elbow, the posture of a man holding a gun.

Except he didn’t have a gun and he sure didn’t want anyone to know it until he was inside.

As the marshal reached the first step of the porch, the front door swung open. The marshal inside had been monitoring the radio traffic. He held a pistol close to his leg, ready to bring it to bear.

“Relax,” Faroe said.

Then he stepped into the light and showed his empty hands.

“Oh, shit,” the marshal in the coverall muttered.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Faroe said. “I just wanted to get inside without being whacked by an eager shooter.”

“Who are you?” the man in the doorway demanded. “This is a federal crime scene. What are you doing here?” His windbreaker carried the name “Harkin” in yellow letters above a federal marshal’s logo.

“Marshal Harkin, I’m representing the interests of an officer of the federal court,” Faroe said clearly. “Her name is Judge Grace Silva. Do you have a warrant to be on her property?”

“You’re under arrest for interfering with a federal officer, and that’s just for starters.”

Grace appeared in the hallway behind the marshal. She’d not only changed her clothes, she’d wiped off the streetwalker makeup.

“He’s not interfering with anything,” she said to the marshal in her best bench tone. “He’s doing his job.”

“Sneaking around in the dark?”

Her smile could have frozen fire. “When Ted demanded a meeting, at midnight, in a deserted house, I decided to bring somebody. Looks like Ted decided the same thing.” Her dark glance raked the marshals. “Next time you ask for a command performance, tell me why in advance.”

Faroe kept a poker face, but he was really glad Grace wasn’t aiming all that power and scorn at him.

“Come in,” she said to Faroe. “These are bona fide federal marshals. Apparently Ted is a federally protected witness, though no one will tell me what case he’s a witness in.”

Faroe walked into the house before the marshal could stop him. “Protected witness, huh? We used to call them snitches. They waste a lot of time before you get anything good.”

Grace understood the message and sent one of her own. “I’m used to cutting through the bullshit.”

Faroe nodded and gave her the lead. He might be hell on wheels in the shadows, but this was her world.

And she was good at it.

He followed her down the hallway and into a comfortably furnished living room that would have been called a salon if ranch houses had salons. Another marshal in a windbreaker stood in the middle of a large, magnificent Oriental carpet. His jacket bore the name “Tallman.”

Ted Franklin stood behind Tallman, using him as a shield.

Faroe moved to one side. He wanted to see the man who had raised Lane and then given him to the Butcher of Tijuana.

Franklin was big, bulky, with the look of a man who liked alcohol too much and exercise not at all. He was wearing an expensive pinstripe suit and shiny loafers. His face was puffy, either from booze or lack of sleep. Both, probably. His eyes were bloodshot slits.

“Who’s this guy?” Franklin demanded.

“You brought your friends to the party,” Grace said. “I brought mine.”

“Who is he?” Franklin demanded again. He turned to Tallman. “Make him show you some ID.”

Tallman frowned. “You’re not my boss, Mr. Franklin. Technically, you’re not even a protected witness. We only agreed to go along on this visit as a courtesy. So until you and your attorney have concluded your plea negotiations, don’t give me attitude.”

Franklin looked like he’d been slapped. He straightened his shoulders and turned toward the fourth man, the one with the polished briefcase. He was coming down the stairs from the second floor.

“Tell them, Stu,” Franklin said.

“Yes, Stu,” Grace said coolly, “do tell everyone what this farce is all about.”

Sturgis glanced around, saw a stranger, and kept his mouth shut.

Faroe looked at the man who must be Stuart Sturgis, lawyer to the criminally rich. He was in his late forties, clean-shaven, and sporting a two-hundred-dollar razor cut on his collar-length steel gray hair. He wore a two-thousand-dollar black silk suit with a black silk shirt and a white tie.

Mobster chic must be back in fashion.

“Did you find it?” Franklin demanded.

“No. Who’s this?” he asked, looking at Faroe.

“Where is it?” Franklin snarled at Grace.

“Where’s what?” she asked carelessly.

“The computer!”

“Computer? You mean Lane’s computer, the one he used before he went to All Saints?”

“It’s my computer,” Franklin said in a rising voice. “I paid for it. Damn you, bitch, where is it!”

Faroe started for Franklin.

Tallman stepped between Franklin and Grace. “Judge Silva, we came here to help your husband retrieve some of his personal effects. If you could just help us, we’ll be on our way.”

“Legally,” Grace said in her calm, cutting bench voice, “the computer doesn’t belong to Ted. He gave it as a birthday present to our son. So even if you find the computer, you have no right to it. If that’s all, gentlemen, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”

Franklin shouldered his way around Tallman and towered over Grace. “Where’s the fucking computer? So help me God, I’ll break your neck if you don’t-”

“Mr. Sturgis,” Grace interrupted coldly, “would you define simple assault for your client? Or shall I?”

The marshal took Franklin firmly by the arm and turned him around. “Where is this computer supposed to be? I’ll go look myself. If I find it, we’ll let the lawyers sort out who it belongs to.”

“In the bedroom at the end of the hallway on the right,” Franklin said. “It’s got to be there.”

Tallman looked at Grace uncomfortably.

Faroe understood how Tallman felt. In the marshal’s world, federal judges were gods. He really didn’t want to piss one off.

“We have a warrant to seize the computer, Your Honor,” Tallman said, producing a paper. “It’s evidence in an ongoing investigation.”