Illegal (10 page)

Tino opened several cabinet doors. More papers and files.

Then, a liquor cabinet. Half a dozen bottles. He sampled the bourbon and made a face. Same with a bottle of Scotch. Found a bottle of Chinaco Blanco tequila. Sipped it. Better than the stuff they served at the cantina at home. He found a coffee cup that was nearly clean and filled it.

Looked around some more. On the desk, a photo of a smiling man and a boy with wheat-colored hair, a little younger than himself. The boy wore a baseball uniform and cap. Baseball glove on his knee. Tino thought of his own baseball glove, taken by those
pendejos.
If he had a father, someone like the smiling man who must be J. Atticus Payne, no one would take his most valuable possession.

Tino sat in the cushioned chair behind the desk and spun in a circle, like the merry-go-round at the Caborca
carnaval.
He took another drink of the tequila. And then one more.

Opened the middle desk drawer. Dried-up pens, coins, stamps, a bottle of vitamins, some empty envelopes.

And one envelope that was full. Plump and weighty in the hand. Unsealed.

Tino's breath caught in his throat. He glanced around as if someone might be watching. He felt guilty, like seeing one of the nuns naked.

Hastily, he turned off the lights. There was a small refrigerator on the floor behind the desk. Tino dropped to his knees, opened the door, and counted the money in the glow of the tiny light.

His mother had taught him never to steal. But this was an emergency. With all that money, maybe he did not need Mr. Payne. From the looks of this office, the lawyer might not be as big and important as his mother had thought.

Tino thought of television shows he had seen. When someone is missing, you hire a private investigator, like the one down the street. P. J. Steele. He liked the name. Strong. American. A private eye could find his mother, Tino thought, especially if he is paid five thousand dollars.

Tino jammed the envelope with the money inside his underwear. He finished the tequila and suddenly felt very warm. He stretched out on the sofa. Maybe just a little nap and then he would leave. He did not need Mr. J. Atticus Payne and his crappy office. In the morning, Tino would be waiting at the front door of Mr. P. J. Steele, Private Investigator. Together, they would find his mother.

Seconds matter.

In just one second, a red truck flies through a red light and tilts the universe off its keel.

Now the tipping point was sixty seconds. If Payne had left his house one minute later, he would have been arrested. There would have been no road trip. There would be times, later, when he wondered if that wouldn't have been for the best.

On this night, at home, he put on jeans, running shoes, and an orange-and-black Barry Bonds T-shirt. He wasn't a fan of the San Francisco Giants or their former steroid-pumped slugger. He just liked to piss off people.

He threw a change of clothes into a gym bag and copied maps off the Internet. Driving directions to Oaxaca, the home of Manuel Garcia. Adam's old baseball bat was already in the Lexus, but Payne still needed something from his office. The five thousand he'd skimmed from the bribe money.

He left the house and was just pulling up to the stop sign half a block away when he checked his rear-view mirror. An L.A.P.D. black-and-white was pulling into his driveway. Sixty seconds. The difference between custody and freedom.

Two cops in uniform got out and headed for his front door.

No way they're delivering good news. Publishers Clearinghouse doesn't send patrolmen to give you that five-foot-long, million-dollar check. They were there to arrest him for escaping from the holding cell on his contempt charge. Maybe grand larceny, too. The crimes weren't worthy of a segment on
Dateline,
but who needs the hassle?

Payne hit the gas and headed toward Van Nuys Boulevard. He'd pick up the money and leave town straight from the office. Traffic would be light on the freeways. If all went well, he'd be checking into a motel near the border by dawn.

The neighborhood near the civic center was quiet, the offices dark. A lone clerk sat behind bulletproof glass in the bail bond office, open twenty-four hours. Payne pulled into the driveway of the old bungalow, cutting close to the sign planted in the lawn:
J. Atticus Payne, Esquire.
Soon it would read,
Office for Rent.

Just as he killed the engine, his cell phone rang. Private Number. He answered with a noncommital "Yeah?"

"Payne, you fucking asshole."

"That you, Rigney?"

"I saw the inventory from Judge Rollins' house. Forty-five thousand bucks recovered."

"So?"

"It's one thing to cheat at bowling, Payne. But you don't steal from the government."

"You take your salary, don't you?"

"There's an arrest warrant out for you."

"Maybe the judge bought a Rolex between the time I bribed him and he blew his brains out."

"You took the money, dipshit."

"You got any evidence, Detective? Maybe you skimmed the five grand and gave me forty-five."

"Gonna bust you, Payne. And when I do, your ex won't be around to wipe your nose."

Payne was working on a pithy retort when Rigney hung up. Time to get moving. When the cops couldn't find him at home, they would zip over here. He planned to be in and out of his office in two minutes.

He unlocked the back door, stepped into the darkened corridor where a water cooler hummed next to the photocopy machine. He was fumbling for the light switch when he heard a noise. What the hell?

"Who's there!"

A squeak. Sneakers on tile.

"I got a gun!" Payne shouted with the authority of a practiced liar.

He kept the lights off. He knew the configuration of the office. The intruder wouldn't. In the darkness, Payne navigated the short corridor. He ran his hand along the wall, passing over the door to the rest room, feeling the rounded edge of the five-gallon water jug atop the cooler, then stopping at the beveled corner of the bookshelf. Needing a diversion, he grabbed a volume of the
Pacific Reporter,
appellate court opinions that could cure insomnia. He aimed toward the opposite wall, where his diploma was framed under glass.

Southwestern School of Law, that bastion of learning on Wilshire.

He threw the book, shattering the glass frame of the diploma with a surprisingly loud crash.

A second later, a figure dashed across the room.

Headed for a small window, the port of entry.

Payne had the angle. Ran for the window, ignoring the pain in his bad leg. Dived and grabbed a sneakered foot, just as the bastard tried to climb out.

Pulled him back by a skinny ankle. The guy yelped and crashed to the floor. Payne jammed his throat with a forearm. Noodle neck. Dragged him across the office, hit the light switch, and looked straight into the eyes of. . .a boy!

Caramel complexion, a mop of shiny dark hair falling into green eyes with long girlish lashes. A cute kid. Angelic even.

"Get your fuckin' hands off me,
cabrón
!"

Okay, not
that
angelic.

"Watch your mouth, kid. What the hell are you doing?"

"Looking for
mi mami
."

"She's not here. Now, what do you say I call the cops and let them haul you off?"

Even as he said it, Payne knew he couldn't call the police. They'd want to give the kid a medal and lock up his own contemptuous, larcenous self.

"No cops. Please,
Señor
Payne." The kid's tone had changed. Pleading now, in a Mexican accent.

"You know my name."

The kid pulled out the crinkled business card.

"Where'd you get that?"

"
Mami.
She got it from Fernando Rodriguez."

It took Payne a second. "The trailer-truck case?"

The kid nodded.

"I still don't get what you're doing here."

"My mother. I told you."

"Kid, don't bullshit a bullshitter."

"Es verdad."
His green eyes welled with tears. "My mother came over and disappeared."

Payne studied the boy. He seemed sincere, his sniffles real enough. Payne's gaze stopped on his desk. Middle drawer open.

"Kid, empty your pockets."

"Whatever you say,
gabacho
."

"Did you just call me 'tomato soup'?"

"Not gazpacho.
Gabacho.
It means
'gringo.'
"

"All right, punk. Just hand over my money."

Fast as a snake, the kid kicked Payne in the balls. The pain closed Jimmy's eyes, and he sank to one knee. The kid bolted across the office, hoisted himself onto a low bookshelf, and swung both legs through the open window. Payne struggled to his feet but couldn't catch the little bastard. The kid was gone.

Cursing to himself and still wincing with pain, Payne leaned against the wall, sucking in air. A second later, the boy scrambled back through the window.

"What the hell?" Payne said.

"
¡La policia!
You can have your money back."

The kid pulled the wad of bills from his pants, and Payne sneaked a sideways glance out the window. A police car was parked next to his Lexus, which had all four doors open. Two uniforms with flashlights snooping inside. Payne decided not to shout about illegal searches.

"Please don't turn me over. They'll send me back. Please!" The kid reverting to his scared little-boy voice.

Payne stuffed the bills into his pants pockets. "You can quit the acting, punk."

"No, really. I'm scared."

"Great. That makes two of us."

Payne peeked out the window again. The cops were walking toward the back door of the office. One had his right hand on his holstered gun. The other used both hands to carry a battering ram. Either they planned to knock down Payne's door or crush his skull. Or both.

A loud rapping at the door. One of the cops banging

away.

"James Payne! You in there?"

Payne quickly did the calculations. Even with his bum leg, he might be able to outrun a couple older cops stuffed with Krispy Kremes. But his glance out the window revealed these two to be of the young linebacker type. Pumped on steroid cocktails with a human growth hormone chaser. In any event, he probably couldn't fit out the window.

"Are you a fast runner?" Payne whispered.

"Like the wind," the kid boasted.

"Crawl out the window. Make some noise and run like hell. They'll chase you."

"They'll
shoot
me."

"No. But if they catch you, they might smack you around."

"Payne! We've got a warrant. Open up or we break down the door!"

"Go, kid. Now!"

The boy seemed to think it over. Then a sly smile dimpled his face. "They're looking for you,
chuco.
Not me. Why should I risk it?"

"I'll give you a hundred bucks."

"Two hundred."

"Jeez, what happened to that crying kid who was here a minute ago?"

"That's it, Payne! We're coming in." A
clang
as the battering ram pounded the old wooden door.

"Two hundred," the kid repeated.

"Okay. Half now. Half when I get out of here and pick you up." Payne peeled off a hundred and gave it to the kid. "Take a left out of the parking lot. Cross the street, duck behind the houses, and come out on the next block. Hang a right and get to Van Nuys Boulevard as fast as you can. I'll pick you up at the corner of Van Nuys and Tiara."

Payne helped the boy hoist himself up to the windowsill. Then the kid tumbled out, shouting, "Hey cop.
¡Chinga tu madre!
"

Foul-mouthed brat.

The boy took off, the cops yelling for him to stop. Payne edged close to the window. The kid could run. But only one cop followed him. The other resumed banging on the door.

Payne headed down the corridor and ducked into the rest room, closing the door behind him. He had to pee, but that's not why he was here. When the cop passed the rest room, Payne could duck out of the office and run.

The rear door splintered and flew off its hinges. "Payne! Show yourself."

The office lights switched on. A thud on the bare carpet, the cop dropping the battering ram. Payne heard footsteps come closer. He pictured Officer Muscles with his gun drawn, walking cautiously along the corridor, just a few feet from the rest room.

"Mr. Payne. You okay?"

Good question, Payne thought. The cop had just seen a burglar flee the office. Maybe Mr. Payne was lying in a pool of blood. The cop wanted to rescue him; then he'd arrest him.

"You hurt?"

The voice more distant. Good. The cop must have passed the rest room and turned the corner. He'd be near the desk by now, looking around, moving slowly. Payne opened the door a crack, sneaked his hand toward the wall, and flicked off the light switch. The room went black.

"Hey! Who's there?" The cop yelling, fumbling for his flashlight.

Payne dashed into the corridor, toppling the water cooler behind him. The glass jar shattered, and a flood splashed his ankles as he raced out the back door. He heard the cop shout "Sh-it" as he slipped and fell.

Payne jumped into his Lexus and jammed the key into the ignition. He tore out of the parking lot, rounded a corner, and headed for Van Nuys Boulevard. In less than a minute he was at the corner of Tiara and Van Nuys. But where was the kid?