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  "Shit," Payne said. "Sharon, we gotta go."

  "Where?"

  "Where do you think? To Rutledge Ranch and Farms."

  "Jimmy, be careful. I've met Simeon Rutledge. He's a rough guy."

  "So what?"

  "There are stories. A Grand Jury. Indictments coming. It's a pretty big deal."

  "Still don't see what that's got to do with Marisol Perez. Or with me."

  "Only this: Whenever you hear the name Rutledge, it's always attached to the word 'ruthless.' "

  FIFTY-SIX

  Payne downshifted as the Mustang climbed toward the peak of the Tejon Pass, a slash in the mountains that separated the Mojave Desert from the San Joaquin Valley. Road signs warned drivers to turn off their A/C, for fear of overheating.

  Jimmy and Tino were headed north through the Los Angeles National Forest toward the town of Rutledge in Kings County, home of the far-flung empire of Simeon Rutledge. They had begun the day below sea level in the desert. Now, they ascended to over 4,000 feet, the temperature dropping 35 degrees. Tino began to shiver. He declined Payne's offer to put the top up and sat quietly while the radio filled the car with the throbbing guitars and hoarse voices of the Gipsy Kings playing "Pasajero."

  They passed a lake, far below them in a valley, boats stirring up foamy wakes. Tino barely seemed to notice.

  "Everything okay, kid?"

  "Sure, Himmy."

  Payne tried to decipher the boy's serious look. Nothing apparent, but consider the last few days. Back home, Tino had stabbed his mother's abusive and dangerous boss, who then threatened to cut the boy's heart out. He'd run from the cops in Van Nuys and rescued Payne from the sheriff's deputy along the highway. Then the run-in with El Tigre and the horrors of two stash houses. He'd heard how his mother fought off a rapist at the slaughterhouse. Just this morning, he'd escaped a pedophile ex-con and been shot at by a pint-size cowboy.

  Not exactly the problems of kids from Bel-Air or Beverly Hills. Missing a goal in soccer practice or losing the debate tournament doesn't measure up.

  "What are you thinking about, kid?"

  "Back at the chicken ranch, when Chitwood started shooting, why'd you jump on top of me?"

  Payne shrugged. "If anyone was gonna take a bullet, I wanted it to be me."

  "Because you're a valiente."

  "It doesn't need a name. It's just what a man does."

  "A man does it for his own hijo. But you did it for someone who's not your own blood, and that makes you a valiente."

  "If you say so, kiddo."

  Tino squinted into the windstream, then blurted out, "You think mi mami 's pretty?"

  "From the picture, muy bonita. Why?"

  "Maybe if Sharon marries that cabron Quinn, and you like mi mami, you can marry her."

  "You left something out, kid. Your mother would have to like me, too."

  "She will," Tino said. "She's never met a man like you."

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Jimmy and Tino were twenty miles south of Bakersfield. Payne turned on the radio and picked up a Dodgers game from Shea Stadium, the Mets leading by a run. They heard the cra-ack of bat on ball and listened to the melodious Vin Scully describe Rafael Furcal banging a double off the left field wall.

  "?Solido conectando!" Tino chimed in. "Furcal's my favorite."

  Payne smiled. Tino loved baseball. That made two of them.

  "I gotta pee, Himmy."

  "You sure?" Payne remembering the boy's gotta-pee distractions.

  " 'Course I'm sure. Can you stop in the next town?"

  "As long as you're not gonna rob a bank."

  They took the exit at Route 223 and headed east. They passed the freshly painted wooden barracks of Weedpatch Camp. A forlorn settlement of Okies during the Great Depression, the place was made famous in The Grapes of Wrath. A banner hung limply in the still air, inviting folks to the upcoming Dust Bowl Festival, promising corn bread, chili, and tri-tip steak.

  Close to the restored camp, bare wooden shacks were still occupied by migrants-Hispanics, not Okies- tending nearby onion fields. The shacks weren't as nice as the freshly painted Weedpatch barracks. Payne wondered if anyone noticed the irony.

  A roadside sign announced the dusty little town of Arvin, the "Garden in the Sun." They found a sporting goods store with a rest room in the back. While he waited for Tino, Jimmy bought two baseball gloves, a big-webbed, Wilson brown steerhide for himself, and a Mizuno black pigskin youth model for Tino. Then he grabbed two handfuls of Pony League balls.

  Payne was already in the driver's seat, engine running, when Tino hopped in and found his new glove waiting. "For me?"

  "You look like a shortstop to me. Lots of range."

  "Oh, man!" A smile rippled across the boy's face like a cool breeze on a mountain lake. "After those cabrons stole my glove, I didn't know when I'd ever get another one."

  "Once we find your mom, we'll play some ball, see what you've got." Payne thinking of Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams saying, "You wanna have a catch?"

  They drove off, Tino running his fingertips over the raised red seams of one of the balls. Then he pounded the ball into the pocket of the glove, over and over. Payne imagined the boy sleeping with the ball and glove.

  They passed Bakersfield and Delano, Pixley and Tipton, the temperature soaring as they drove deeper into the valley. With the Mustang's top down and the hot air enveloping them, Payne was reminded of his college job in a pizza shop, manning the ovens.

  In nearby fields, cows lazed under shade trees. A few lonely oil wells pumped endlessly to their own rhythm. Neat rows of grapes formed straight lines across finely tended vineyards. Fat, round peaches dangled heavily from tree limbs. Hispanic men in hats and long-sleeve shirts hauled honeydews, big as volleyballs, to waiting wagons.

  There were almond trees and melon fields and berry patches. Lettuce and tomatoes, asparagus and artichokes, all soaking up the sun, crystalline water exploding in great plumes from rotating sprinklers, rainbows dancing in the mist.

  Towering silos of grain stood like missiles alongside railroad tracks that paralleled the highway. Warehouses and pallet yards and fertilizer tanks and billboards with the reminder, Crops Grow Where Water Flows.

  There seemed to be nothing here that wasn't devoted to the soil and its bounty. Could migrants be blamed for believing that America was paved, if not with gold, with tasty treasures ripe for the picking?

  The Dodgers game was lost to static, and Payne twirled the old-fashioned radio dial. He found a Spanish-language station and another in Portuguese, then stopped when he heard Los Lobos belting out "Good Morning Aztlan." He remembered how much Sharon loved the up-tempo song and how she once told him to listen carefully to the lyrics. All about not trying to run and hide away. "Here it comes, here comes another day."

  He was never much for drawing philosophical lessons from music, be it "Margaritaville" or "Ave Maria." But who could argue with that message? He had been running. Ever since Adam died. Running from his grief, hiding under a mountain of pain. Not caring about the next sunrise or the new day.

  Helping Tino had energized and focused him. He anticipated the pure joy of the boy's reunion with his mother and his own joy of helping them, asking nothing in return. But then what? Sharon's words came back to him. "You'll wake up the next morning, and Adam will still be gone. And you know what? Tino will be out of your life, too."

  With that thought tormenting him, Payne saw a billboard along the road. It would have been hard to miss.

  Dominating the sign was a three-story-high likeness of Simeon Rutledge, a crooked smile on his craggy, cowboy face. And this greeting: Rutledge Ranch and Farms, Inc., Welcomes You to Kings County. Drive Carefully.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Detective Rigney answered the phone in his Parker Center office. Surprised to hear Deputy Sheriff Dixon calling from his piece-of-shit trailer outside Calexico. Rigney could practically smell the ratty boar's head on the wall.

  "Just got a call from a
waitress at the Park 'n Eat," Dixon told him. "A diner up by Thermal. Technically, that's in Riverside County, out of my jurisdiction, but-"

  "Get to the point, Dixon, before global warming fries our asses."

  "Payne and the kid were there. Had breakfast this morning. Want to know what they ate?"

  "She's sure it's them? She's absolutely sure?" Excitement bubbling up like the oil at the tar pits.

  "She I.D.'ed them from a TV report. Said the guy was a real smart-ass."

  "That'd be Payne."

  "He used the pay phone. Twice. One call out, one call in."

  "You gonna subpoena the numbers?"

  "Don't need to. My sister-in-law works at the phone company. I'll have everything in an hour."

  "Can't wait to see that bastard's face when I bust him." Thinking the A-Form would report that the subject resisted arrest, resulting in his subsequent injuries.

  "They left in a hurry," Dixon said. "An old blue Mustang convertible. The waitress couldn't make out the plates, except they were out of state. Car headed north toward an entrance to the I-10."

  A physical sensation, Rigney's skin tingling, like the anticipation of sex. "You did great, Dixon. Sorry for busting your chops."

  "It's okay. I just want a piece of that shyster."

  "You got it, pal. You can have whatever's left when I'm done with him."

  FIFTY-NINE

  The teenage girl with the black curly hair threw her head back and made a sound somewhere between gargling and drowning.

  Her idea of an orgasm, Simeon Rutledge thought. Probably watched too many telenovelas on Univision. Taking her doggie style over a bale of straw, he continued thrusting, but his heart wasn't in it. He slapped her butt once, twice, three times. Firm as a honeydew.

  She looked back over her shoulder, her tongue darting out and licking her lower lip. "Ride me, jefe! Fuck me hard!"

  Where was she coming up with this shit? His mind wandered to the broken pump on Irrigation Culvert Number Three.

  Jesus, was there anything more pathetic than a lackluster fuck?

  He didn't blame the girl. She moaned and whooped and wailed and chanted, "?Dios mio!?Dios mio!?Dios fucking mio!"

  Put a lid on it, chica. Nobody's that good. Not even me.

  Not that he wasn't damn proud of his virility. Funny thing about sex, the more you do it, the more you want it. The less you do it, the easier it is to do without.

  That panocha pie he'd been breaking in at the club had stirred up the juices. Marisol. Passive when drugged, she'd turn into a hellcat, he figured, given enough time.

  Just now, his member was barely at half-staff, but Ana or Anita or Angelita-he never quite caught her name-was caterwauling like a coyote.

  This morning, Rutledge had not planned on a barn-banging. But Beatriz, the girl's mother, an assistant crew chief who'd been working for him for twenty years, brought her around when he'd been checking out the south peach orchard. Elegant Ladies, fat and firm with a pink blush, were at their peak in the summer heat. Rutledge twisted one off a tree and bit into it, the sweet juice streaming down his face. That's when he saw Beatriz's daughter. Canvas shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt with no bra, boobs undulating as she hip-swayed through the rows of trees.

  Do their mothers teach them this shit or is it in their genes?

  Maybe it was the intoxicating aroma of the fruit or even the memory of banging the girl's mother back in the Reagan years.

  In the same barn.

  Over a different bale of straw.

  Slam, bam. Gracias, ma'am.

  Back then, Beatriz had just arrived from Chihuahua and looked as if she'd walked the whole way. But she had the wide hips, the slim waist, and the pendulous breasts that Rutledge favored. Humping el jefe got Beatriz out of the melon fields and into the shade. She probably thought the same magic would work for Ana or Anita or Angelita.

  "She's only sixteen and a virgin, jefe."

  "Sure, Bea, and I'm the King of Siam."

  But he took the bait. The girl had the same round breasts and oversize nipples as her mother. Same big ass, too. In twenty years, with five kids, she'd have to turn sideways to make it through the doorway of the double-wide.

  Now the girl was wriggling her butt and tightening her pussy, trying to get him to come. But his mind was elsewhere and his dick felt as if it had been anesthetized.

  His cell phone rang, and he plucked it from his shirt pocket while squeezing the girl's ass with the other hand. Enrique Zaga. Shit. Now what? Did Chitwood kill another pollo?

  Rutledge slid out of her. She looked back over her shoulder."?Una segunda vuelta, jefe?"

  He hadn't come, but she was offering seconds. With as much passion as a waitress refilling your iced tea.

  "Give it a rest, chica."

  She bounced up and walked naked to a refrigerator by the stalls. Rutledge hoped she knew the difference between lemonade and horse semen. He pulled up his jeans and sank back into the bale of straw.

  "What's the problem, Z?"

  Zaga apologized for bothering him, then said flat out, "We had some visitors in Hellhole Canyon."

  "Chitwood's asshole friends?"

  "Worse, Sim." He summarized Chitwood's confrontation with a lawyer from L.A. and a Mexican kid looking for his mother.

  "I don't think they'll cause trouble, Sim," Zaga said, "as long as we get the boy back with his mom."

  "Fine. What's her name?"

  "Marisol Perez."

  "Shit."

  "What, Sim?"

  "She's training at the club."

  "So?"

  "I'm the one breaking her in, and she ain't exactly a volunteer."

  "Jeez, Sim. Still thinking with your dick at your age."

  Rutledge silently cursed himself. "You're right, Z. Dammit, you're right."

  The men had known each other all their lives. Raced horses at the county fairgrounds. Got drunk together. Banged the same girls. Zaga was his most trusted employee.

  Rutledge knew there were plenty of women who took to the indoor work at the Hot Springs Gentleman's Club. Some gave rub-and-tugs. Some sucked and fucked a select group of lobbyists and legislators who drove down from Sacramento. If you sensed a woman was trouble, you could ship her to the Midwest to pick sugar beets. Or throw her in the back of a truck and drop her off in Tijuana. Once in a great while, you'd come across some pain-in-the-ass who wouldn't let it go. Rutledge remembered a Honduran girl, a blow-job artist who worked at the club for six months before deciding she'd been coerced. She'd come after him with a carving knife. Her carcass ended up fertilizing a cornfield.

  "Damn stupid of me," Rutledge confessed. "All the willing panocha around here, and I gotta rassle me some."

  "Aw, shit, Sim. Like your daddy used to say, what's done's done, and what ain't ain't."

  Sometimes, Rutledge thought, Zaga admired Jeremiah Rutledge more than he did. Jeremiah had been many things. Philosopher. Philanderer. Poker player. And one vicious S.O.B. when riled or drunk, which was six days out of seven, Sundays being reserved for Church, followed by humping a couple migrant girls. In some ways, Rutledge thought, maybe the peach didn't fall too damn far from the tree.

  "Forget about letting the woman see her kid," Rutledge said. "Especially with a lawyer involved. Last thing I need now is some rape charge."

  "I hear you, Sim."

  "I don't suppose that idiot Chitwood got the lawyer's name."

  "Got his card. J. Atticus Payne. Office in Van Nuys."

  Rutledge thought a second. "I met a lady cop named Payne down in L.A. She's with that asshole Cullen Quinn."

  "Small fucking world."

  "Tell Javier to get everything he can on the lawyer."

  "I dunno. Javier's been taking that chief-of-police shit real serious lately. Not into personal favors."

  "Just tell him it's for me. I need a full background check and risk assessment."

  Zaga chuckled over the phone.

  "What now, Z?"

  " 'Ri
sk assessment.' I was just thinking, if it was your daddy talking to mine, he woulda said, 'Amancio, git your shovel and dig a hole in Levee Five. Ah got some varmint to bury.' "

  "Times change." Rutledge echoed his lawyer's words without completely believing them. "Soon as you can, let me know what Javier finds out. And Z…"

  "Yeah, Sim?"

  "You keep your daddy's shovel handy, okay?"

  SIXTY

  Sharon exited the Parker Center. The 1950's glass shoe box was named after the former police chief best remembered for running a department long on corruption and short on civil liberties. On the other hand, Chief William H. Parker did a fine job making sure the Dragnet scripts polished the L.A.P.D.'s image.

  Leaving the cop shop on the Los Angeles Street side, Sharon avoided looking at The Family Group, an angular bronze sculpture depicting a man, woman, and son. A reminder of her lost life, the artwork as subtle as an arrow to the heart.

  A strange thought then. If Jimmy didn't find Tino's mother, if the boy was left without a parent, did her ex think he could keep him like some stray cat? And something else. Did he think that Tino was the key to recreating the family, to getting back together with her?

  She could picture Jimmy saying it.

  "He's got nobody but us, Sharon."

  To Jimmy, there was still an "us." Something else he hadn't come to grips with.

  Sharon had walked a block when she heard, "Detective Payne!"

  She turned to find Rigney on her heels, jabbing at her with an index finger. She hated finger jabbers. Rigney wore a regulation wrinkled brown suit with a mismatched tie.

  "You hear about your ex?" Rigney's tone as nasty as a rabbit punch. "The feds picked up his Lexus coming from Tijuana with eighty kilos of coke."

  "So why don't you go down there and check it out?"

  Rigney hawked up a wet laugh. "Why would I do that? We both know it's bullshit."

  She stopped at the Temple Street intersection, waiting for the Don't Walk to change.

  Rigney moved closer and whispered, "Payne dumped the Lexus in Mexico, and it ended up with some narcotraficante."