Illegal (11 page)

Probably ran off.

Good story, though, searching for his mother. With proper schooling, the kid could make a helluva con man. Or even a lawyer.

Then Payne spotted him on the sidewalk. Walking half a step behind a family of four. Blending in, perfectly inconspicuous. Payne pulled to the curb. Before he came to a stop, the kid ran for the car and hopped into the passenger seat. Payne burned rubber pulling out, heading for the anonymity of the 101 freeway.

"My name's Tino, Mr. Payne," the boy said.

"Call me Jimmy."

Tino rapped knuckles with him. "Him-my," he said, "we make a good team."

"Yeah, great."

"Where's my other hundred?"

Payne reached into his pocket and gave the kid his money.

"Thanks,
vato
."

Before Payne could say he wasn't the kid's buddy, his cell phone rang. Sharon's number in the window.

"Rigney just called," she said. "Dammit, Jimmy, you're in big trouble."

"That's why I need you."

"For what?"

"That road trip I was talking about."

"No, Jimmy."

"Leaving tonight, and I need your help."

"No!"

"I'll be at your place in fifteen minutes."

"There are warrants out. Grand larceny. Contempt of court. Fleeing custody. If stupidity were a crime, there'd be another count."

"Fifteen minutes," he repeated. "Front door."

"I'll bust you."

"No, you won't," Payne said, feeling a sense of déjà vu. They'd had a similar conversation before. What was it?

When she'd told him she was divorcing him. He hadn't believed her then, either.

Sharon hated the phrase. Jimmy had said it before, when he planned to go to Mexico and find Manuel Garcia. Not just
find
him. Kill him.

Hanging up the phone, she decided that the only way to help Jimmy was to protect him from himself. She would do what she had just promised. Arrest her ex-husband and take him downtown.

She knew the source of his problems. Jimmy had never come to grips with Adam's death. He either wallowed in his own pain or pretended their son was still alive. His mood swung from raging anger to mute alienation.

In her grief, Sharon had turned to Catholicism, while he embraced nihilism.

Always reckless in the courtroom, after Adam's death he had become unhinged. He'd attacked an insurance company lawyer in a personal injury trial. Called the man a "lying, scumbag whore"—as if that were some startling revelation—and tossed him over the railing into the lap of juror number three. The judge ordered anger management counseling, which Payne said
really
pissed him off.

And now this. Stealing five thousand dollars in sting money. Then fleeing a holding cell in the courthouse and resisting arrest. What would he do, Sharon wondered, when she took him downtown?

She could hear him now.

He'd said it whenever she tried to keep him from crossing the hazy line between vigorous advocacy and downright illegality. Sharon's father, Daniel Lacy, was a Philadelphia cop. So were two of her uncles, three cousins, and both brothers. Born rebellious, Sharon was sixteen when she announced at Christmas dinner that she would never join the "family business," as the Lacys called police work.

She exhibited a wanderlust not commonplace in the Lacy brood. While her folks begged her to stay home and go to St. Joe's, she accepted a volleyball scholarship at U.C.L.A. She played the demanding libero position, which showcased her defensive skills. Diving. Digging. Scraping knees and elbows. She loved the no-frills nature of the job. Appealing, too, for a free spirit, the libero wore a different color jersey than the rest of the team.

She majored in English but transferred into Administration of Justice after one too many L.A. juries acquitted a celebrity who killed his wife. Degree in hand, she was accepted into the Police Academy, and a dozen people named Lacy traveled from Philadelphia for her graduation.

Sharon continued playing beach volleyball, which is where she met Jimmy Payne. He still claimed he was jogging in the gray sand of Will Rogers Beach when he picked up an errant ball and she started flirting with him. As she remembered it, Jimmy was passing out business cards to a crew of paramedics resuscitating a swimmer when he spotted her, then planted himself like a palm tree in the sand. Two hours later, he was still there, sunburned and shaggy-haired, waiting to meet her.

In those days, there were so many things to admire about Jimmy. A sense of justice and total commitment to his clients. Fearlessness in court and tenderness toward her. A selflessness and a rejection of materialism.

Jimmy turned out to be a wonderful husband and loving father. It tore at her to see him filled with anger and vengeance, his heart devoid of love.

Now she regretfully prepared to bust him. But first, she had to deal with her fiancé, who had awakened grouchy when the phone rang.

"When will Payne learn he can't turn to you every time he screws up his life?"

"I don't know, Cullen. I'm not responsible for his actions."

"Sure you are." Quinn ran a brush through his fine head of hair. "You encourage him by always being there. Which is more than the bastard did for you. Deep down, he hopes you'll take him back."

"That's not gonna happen."

"I know that. But does Payne?"

The doorbell rang. Jimmy. Early. Damn.

Her ribbon-trimmed satin chemise was all wrong for making an arrest. But no time to change.

Sharon hung a badge on a cord around her neck and grabbed her handcuffs.

"You're going downstairs in your lingerie?" Cullen asked.

"Jimmy's seen me in less." It felt good to say it, what with all the badgering. Cullen scowled, making Sharon regret her words. The doorbell chimed again. "I'm sorry, Cullen. Just let me get this over with, okay?"

Sharon padded barefoot down the stairs. On the landing, she passed a trophy case filled with her fiancé's boxing trophies. Police Athletic League. College club team. Golden Gloves. Twenty-five years and forty pounds ago.

Through a two-story window in the foyer, she could see the lights of the city. The house was built on a precarious slope in the Hollywood Hills above Sunset Boulevard. On a clear day, you could see the skyscrapers downtown, and once in a while, the steel gray ocean to the west.

When she opened the front door, Jimmy grinned from under his tousle of hair. A dozen years ago, she'd fallen for the same grin, the same hair, the same laughing brown eyes. Now she said, "You're under arrest. You have the right to remain—"

"Wow," Jimmy interrupted. "You look great, Sharon."

"Pink is really your color," he continued. "Makes your complexion . . . I don't know . . . all peachy."

"Cut the crap, Jimmy."

A dark-haired boy stepped out from behind Payne, checked out her butt, whistled, and said, "Nice
calabaza, chica
."

"Who's your charming friend?" Sharon asked.

"This is Tino. I caught him burgling my office."

"Perfect. A pair of thieves."

Jimmy and Tino stepped inside and closed the door behind them.

"Me and Himmy, we're partners now.
Verdad, vato?
"

"Absolutely not." Payne kept his eyes on Sharon. "But the kid did me a solid when the cops barged in, so I owe him."

"What scam are you pulling now?"

"I just don't want him shipped back to Mexico."

The boy stared at her with eyes like green felt and lashes so dark and lustrous as to make her envious. She figured he was about twelve or thirteen, but with a cagy, appraising look that made him seem older. A cute, sassy kid on his way to becoming devilishly handsome. With those eyes and his jet-black hair, the boy could be posing for Abercrombie & Fitch in a couple years.

"I thought we could help the kid out," Payne said.

"Well, you. I thought he could stay with you and Quinn until I get back from Oaxaca."

A year ago, Jimmy's threats to kill Garcia seemed to be just a phase, part of his grieving process. But one morning Sharon found her husband packing a bag. Maps. Night-vision binoculars. Adam's baseball bat. And her spare nine-millimeter Glock he'd plucked from a nightstand.

His eyes hollow and distant, Jimmy told her that he was going to kidnap Garcia and beat him to death. Crush every weight-bearing bone, keeping him alive as long as possible.

Adam's death had shriveled his heart and filled his veins with poison. Now Sharon knew she had no choice. "You're under arrest, Jimmy."

"Aw, c'mon, Sharon."

"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to counsel. If you can't afford counsel—"

"I've got five thousand dollars," Payne said. "Actually, four thousand eight hundred."

"Great. You can sign a confession when Rigney gets here."

"Rigney! Here? How could you turn on me like this?"

"Because you're a criminal and I'm a cop."

Just then, Quinn came down the stairs, wearing a white fleecy bathrobe with a towel around his neck. He looked like he was entering the ring for a fight.

"Need any help, sweetie?"

"Stay out of this, Quinn," Jimmy snapped.

"This is my house, Payne."

"Nice place you got here,
gabacho,
" Tino said. "You a drug dealer?"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Who's that?"

"A kid from Mexico who's looking for his mom," Payne said.

"Cullen, please let me handle this," Sharon said.

"Does he have papers?" Quinn said.

"Only to wipe my
culo,
" the kid shot back.

"Careful, Tino," Payne said. "Quinn once fought Mike Tyson. For twelve seconds."

"You wouldn't have had the guts to step in the ring," Quinn said.

"I'd have the brains not to."

"You really fought Iron Mike?" Tino asked.

"Golden Gloves. Hundred ninety-five pound division." Quinn seemed to suck in his gut as he cradled his chin with one hand. "Tyson broke my jaw."

"With one punch," Payne added.

"I could still whip your skinny ass."

"Not if I kicked you in the nuts first."

"All right, you two," Sharon warned.

"I'm hungry," Tino said.

"We don't have tortillas and beans," Quinn said.

"Cullen!" Sharon shot her fiancé a laser-beam look. "Tino, I could make you bacon and eggs."

"Maybe a little tequila to wash it down," the kid suggested.

"I don't think so," she said.

"You can cut it with some vanilla liqueur. It's called a 'dirty condom.' "

"There you have it," Quinn said. "The assault on our morals."

"I learned how to mix drinks at the cantina," Tino boasted.

"Yeah?" Payne said. "What's tequila, blackberry brandy, and rum?"

"
Culo de fuego.
A flaming asshole."

"You're good, kid." Jimmy shot a look at Cullen. "Flaming asshole. Bet you knew that one, didn't you, Quinn?"

Tino's appetite was amazing. Five eggs, scrambled. Half-a-dozen slices of bacon. Four slices of toast slathered with butter. And black coffee, no tequila, thank you very much.

Sharon watched the boy gobble his food, deriving nearly as much pleasure as he did. Maternal instincts are forever, she thought.

Cullen had tromped back up the stairs, leaving the three of them alone in the kitchen, all granite counters, marble floors, and shiny steel appliances.

The phone rang. Rigney again. Said he'd been driving north from LAX when a tractor trailer jackknifed on the

405. Now he was working his way on city streets to La Cienega. Running late, he'd be there as soon as he could. "If Payne tries to escape, you have my permission to shoot him," Rigney said.

"Thanks, but I shot him before with no one's permission."

She hung up and turned back to her guests.

"Why'd you take the five thousand, Jimmy?"

"I was pissed at being used. I wanted to stick it to Rigney."

"Smart. Really smart."

"Just let me go to Mexico. When I come back, with or without Garcia's scalp, I'll turn myself in."

"Your problems are here. Nothing you can do will bring Adam back."

"Maybe there's something I can do that will bring
me
back."

"Not something evil. Not killing Garcia."

"Who's Garcia?" Tino demanded, between gulps of food. "And why do you want to kill him?"

"None of your business," Payne said.

"I am not afraid to kill a man," Tino claimed. "Some
cabrón
hurts my mother, I'll slice his neck like a goat."

"That's the spirit," Payne said.

"Stop it, both of you." Sharon turned to the boy. "Tino, tell me about your mother."

Wordlessly, the boy reached inside his shirt. Hanging from a cord around his neck was a plastic envelope. He handed it to Sharon. It held a photo, apparently taken at some formal event, a wedding or a
quince
party. Tino's mother wore a frilly turquoise dress. She had almond-shaped eyes the color of obsidian rocks in a mountain stream. She was not quite smiling, her full lips betraying no emotion. Her hair, which cascaded over bare shoulders, was as dark and lustrous as a river shimmering under a full moon. Her jawline was carved from granite, a Salma Hayek look.