Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

The satellite cell phone on Faroe’s lap rang. He glanced at the caller ID and shouted over his shoulder, “Harley, have communications trace this. Get on it now .”

“Yo!” came from somewhere inside the bus.

Faroe mounted the phone in a cradle, turning the unit into a speakerphone.

“I’m guessing it’s Ted,” Faroe said to Grace. “I’ll try to stay out of it.”

The phone rang for the third time.

“Keep him talking until we have a trace,” Faroe added.

He punched the button on the phone and leaned back, inviting her to speak up.

“Hello,” she said.

“Grace?” Franklin asked. “I thought this number belonged to someone called Joseph Faroe. Let me talk to him.”

“When it comes to Lane, Joe and I speak with one voice.”

There was an empty silence on the line, then unpleasant laughter.

“So he was your shack job before we were married?” Franklin said. “Tell him thanks for leaving his get in my-”

“We’ve been around this track before,” Grace interrupted. “I was faithful after we were married, which is more than you can say.”

“And that’s supposed to make up for all the years, all the support, all the money I lavished on you?”

“In the beginning I more than earned my share. I never asked for the rest of it. Not even for all that political currency you spent to get me appointed to the bench. That was your idea, not mine.” She smiled thinly. “And guess what? You won’t be able to use my judicial status to your benefit anymore. I resigned.”

“What?”

Faroe wanted to ask the same question.

“Resigned, quit, stepped down, adios, muchacho, I’m history,” she said. “I faxed a letter to the presiding judge an hour ago.”

She glanced sideways at Faroe to see how he was taking the news. He looked like a man who’d just gotten a fist to the gut. She had a feeling it would be a while before he let her out of his sight again-especially to go to the bathroom that was next to the fax machine.

“Is it because they put your circuit court appointment on hold?” Franklin asked quickly. “That’s just a temporary-”

“No,” she cut in. “Having Lane held hostage reminded me about what’s important and what’s crap. Being a judge because somebody corrupt pulled wires is crap.”

“Get real,” Franklin said. “Life is all politics, all of it, right down to this criminal case. That new director of the FBI belongs to the Dinosaur Party. He won’t take guidance from the White House on anything. But he’s going to come to heel shortly. Trust me on this. Then this whole mess will all go away. Even the Mexicans will sign off on the deal Sturgis and I are putting together.”

“Mexicans?” Grace asked. “By that you mean Carlos Calderon and Hector Rivas Osuna?”

Franklin laughed. “I mean Mexico City, Gracie-girl, the top tier of government. They can’t afford to have an international airing of one of their most influential bankers’ dirty linen. Carlos has lots of juice in Mexico City, and damn near as much in Washington, D.C.”

“Washington? What does that mean?”

“Former Senator Ben Carson, that’s what it means. When he decided not to run for the Senate again, it was because he was set to become Grupo Calderon’s registered lobbyist. He’s on the payroll to the tune of about a million bucks a year. He takes care of Calderon’s business just fine.”

“What about Hector?” Grace asked. “He’s the one with a gun to Lane’s head.”

“Hector Rivas Osuna? Bad news, there. He’s a real liability. Some of his own are going to take him out.”

“Will that be before or after he executes Lane?” she asked acidly.

Faroe winced. Her voice could have taken the hide off an elephant.

“Don’t be hysterical, Gracie-girl,” Franklin said. “Hector’s not going to kill the boy. It would be bad for business. Jaime’s a businessman.”

Grace glanced at Faroe and gestured toward the phone. She was pale to the lips and her fingers were curled into claws.

Faroe shook his head and mouthed, Not yet .

“Jaime may be a businessman,” she said, “but Hector gives the orders. He’s perfectly capable of killing Lane just because you dissed him. Hector is an irrational crackhead and he’s the most powerful man in Tijuana.”

“That’s like being the biggest turd in a septic tank,” Franklin said. “He’s nothing.”

“The king of the cesspool is holding our son. Hector is a family man. He can’t imagine a father who wouldn’t move heaven and earth to save his boy.”

The sound of ice swirling around a glass came clearly over the speakerphone. Then the sound of Franklin swallowing once, then again. It was followed by a faint, musical tinkle, ice cubes floating in a crystal glass. He drank, sucked noisily on an ice cube, spat it back into the glass, and sighed.

“I’m sorry as hell that Lane is in the middle of this,” Franklin said finally. “He’s a nice enough kid, but even if he had my DNA, I still couldn’t help him. Maybe his real dad could do something. He looked like a nasty piece of business.”

Grace tried to speak. Nothing came out.

He’s a nice enough kid, but even if he had my DNA, I still couldn’t help him .

Faroe leaned toward the speakerphone. “Yeah, you sure are sorry. You’re as sorry a piece of shit as I’ve ever scraped off my boots.”

Franklin sounded like he had just swallowed wrong. He sputtered and gasped and coughed.

“Faroe? You’ve been listening?”

“To a coward writing off a kid? Yeah, I heard every word.”

“You expect me to apologize for the truth? Hold your breath, asshole.”

“Apologies from cowards are worthless. I wouldn’t use yours for butt wipe.”

“Hey, you-” Franklin began hotly.

“Shut up,” Faroe said in a lethal voice.

Silence.

“Now listen like your sorry life depends on it,” Faroe said, “because it does. I have every file you hid on Lane’s computer. The boy is good. He saved the FBI the trouble of hacking into those files. He did it himself.”

The sound of Franklin’s shocked gasp was very clear. “You’re lying.”

“Account numbers in Vanuatu and Sparbuchen in Vienna.”

Silence.

A long swallow.

A whispered “Shit.”

“If we can’t cut a deal with you,” Faroe said, “those files go straight to the feds and we collect a ten percent bounty for finding laundered drug money.”

“Those are my files!”

“Do you think the feds care? Once we give them the files, the feds don’t need you. Next thing you know, you’re in Lompoc and some bull is calling you sweetie and using your fat ass for a punchboard.”

Silence.

The sound of a man swallowing.

Ice clinking.

Liquid gurgling.

“While you’re drinking too much,” Grace said bitingly, “think about this. If we don’t get Lane back in good working order, I’ll tell Hector Rivas Osuna that you’ve been talking to the feds.”

Faroe smiled. “Good idea, amada . Then Ted wouldn’t have to worry about being someone’s prison bitch. Hector has shooters in Logan Heights. If I don’t get to Ted first, they will. Either way, he’s dead meat.”

More swallowing.

More ice clinking.

“Suck up something more useful than booze,” Grace said coldly. “Suck up some guts.”

“Fuck you,” Franklin said.

“She has,” Faroe said.

The silence spread.

“Okay, okay,” Franklin said. “She was useful but that’s over. What do you want from me?”

“Be ready to go south on very short notice,” Faroe said.

“Oh no. No way. I’ll cooperate, but I’m not going into Mexico.”