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  A lapsed Catholic, Sharon sought peace in the stillness of Our Lady of Angels downtown. For hours, she sat alone in the sanctuary, sunlight streaming over her through alabaster mosaic windows. With its fifty-foothigh cross and its sunbaked concrete walls, the church was built to withstand an earthquake, but did little for heartache.

  Sharon asked Payne to accompany her to Mass, just to hold her hand, just to feel his presence beside her. To the extent he believed in God at all, Payne preferred the pissed off curmudgeon of the Old Testament. That bearded sadist who delighted in flood and famine, plague and pestilence. Payne told Sharon that if she really believed the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost routine, maybe she should have prayed before Adam was killed.

  It was just one of many thoughtless comments. Was he trying to salve his own pain by worsening hers? He had no idea.

  Sharon seethed with anger. Payne wondered if she blamed him for the accident. She never said so, but the silent accusation hung in the air, enveloping them like a poisonous fog. He wanted to scream out:

  "Jesus, Sharon. The bastard ran a red light."

  But could Payne have avoided the crash? Was he driving too fast? If only he hadn't looked away-

  She'd always told him to slow down, to be more careful. He resented her anger. She resented his resentment. They were divorced six months later.

  But now, sitting in his car in the Home Depot lot, his son dead, his marriage over, his career ruined, Payne knew precisely what he had to do. This time there was no one to stop him, and no reason to stay.

  He had to go to Mexico. He had to find Manuel Garcia. And he had to kill him.

  TWENTY

  The huge American woman held a rusty machete, her arm plump as a chicken. "C'mon. Git inside."

  She pointed the machete at the five women and motioned toward the door of the wooden cabin.

  The Americana was the largest woman Marisol had ever seen. Her skin was the bluish white of milk drained of its fat. Her stomach spilled out of purple nylon basketball shorts, and her bleached yellow hair was tied around rollers, like steel cables looped on spools. She must be the owner of the clavo, the stash house, Marisol concluded. The house was actually half-a-dozen dilapidated cabins next to railroad tracks outside the desert town of Ocotillo, a few miles north of the border. A sign out front read Sugarloaf Lodge, but there did not seem to be any lodgers.

  "What you waiting for?" the woman bawled at them. "Git your brown butts inside now.?Vaya!! Vaya! "

  Dutifully, the women climbed the three sagging steps and, like cattle, shouldered their way through the open door.

  "Not her." El Tigre blocked Marisol's path.

  The woman waved her machete. "Don't be messing with my wets, dickwad."

  "Yours?"

  "Till Ah get paid, you bet your ass."

  El Tigre cursed her in Spanish. She shouted that he owed her money. He yelled that the money was owed by the repartidor, the labor contractor who would take these worthless peasants to the farms and factories waiting for them.

  They argued for several minutes, El Tigre boasting that only his brilliance and bravery got them here at all. They were nearly captured at the border. A Border Patrol helicopter missed seeing them on the mountain, as he had cleverly placed the group so the sun would block them from view. Despite great odds, the courageous El Tigre located the trailhead and waited for the driver of the Duster to bring them here.

  He grabbed Marisol's arm and tried to pull her to him.

  The woman pointed the tip of the machete at El Tigre's groin. "Ah got no problem chopping your little pecker into chorizo and feeding it to my dog."

  "?Bacalao!" Calling her the filthiest name a man can call a woman.

  The woman barked a laugh that made her fleshy arms quiver. "Listen to the Frito Bandito. Pissy as a skunk."

  El Tigre still had a grip on Marisol's arm. "This one owes me money."

  "That don't give you the right to lay your hands on her. Ah've known men like you all my life, and Ah've drawn blood from more than a few. All without a god-damn regret."

  She jabbed the machete between El Tigre's thighs. He hopped back a step and released his grip. Cursed once more, then stomped off.

  Marisol nodded a thank-you to the large woman and climbed the steps to the cabin. Bare wooden floors, no furniture. An open toilet, one sink. Perforated metal screens sealing the windows. She sat on the floor, cross-legged, the fatigue and terror of the night seeping into her bones.

  "Don't know if you gals speak American, but doncha worry," the huge woman said. "Wanda's got you covered. Welcome, one and all, to the promised fucking land."

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tino took the subway to the wrong station, then landed on the wrong bus. The street signs flew by, a blur of meaningless names.

  Hollywood Freeway. Lankershim Boulevard. Sherman Way.

  But where is Van Nuys and the office of Mr. J. Atticus Payne?

  He asked for directions then changed buses, dozing off as an elderly couple next to him chattered in Chinese. Nine hours after heading for the subway station, the bus driver dropped him at a complex of government buildings and told him to walk the rest of the way.

  The sun was setting as Tino passed the Van Nuys Courthouse. Close by, a one-story building had a flashing neon sign, Bail Bonds. Two young black women in very short skirts and very bright wigs walked out of the building. One wore a green stretchy top with letters as gold as melon seeds, spelling out, "If You Think My T-Shirt Is Tight…"

  She spotted Tino and called, "Hi there, cutie!"

  The other one approached and ran a hand over his head. "What I wouldn't give to have your hair."

  Next door was another small office building. A sign said, P. J. Steele, Private Investigations. The windows were darkened glass, the place mysterious.

  Two blocks away, he found Delano Street and a sign stuck into the front yard of a small house with peeling paint. J. Atticus Payne, Esquire. It was not what he had pictured. In the bus, he had passed tall silver buildings, thin as blades, rising to the sky. He thought that Mr. Payne must be in one of those buildings, conducting important business.

  But this?

  He walked onto the front porch, floorboards groaning. The door was locked, the windows dark. A driveway led to the back of the house. What must have been a small yard was now pavement with parking for three cars. Empty.

  Now what? It was getting dark. Where would he spend the night?

  And where is Mami spending this night?

  Then he figured that Mr. Payne would be here in the morning.

  And so will I.

  Tino went to a small side window with three glass louvers in metal slats. Too small for anyone to crawl through. Except maybe a boy.

  The window was cracked open two inches. Tino muscled the glass out of the slats and squeezed through, falling onto a tile floor. He found a light switch and looked around. A messy desk. Books. Files. Empty coffee cups, a paper bag greased with French fries. On the floor, cardboard boxes marked Storage.

  He had never been in a lawyer's office, but he had seen them on telenovelas. Usually, a television lawyer had a fancy haircut, wore an expensive suit, and had sex with his beautiful secretary on a clean desk of polished wood. Here, the desk was dirty, and there would be no room for any fun.

  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.

  Filled with hundred-dollar bills!

  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.

  But I haven't done anything. Yet.

  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.

  Fifty one-hundred-dollar bills.

  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.

  TWENTY-TWO

  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.

  Cum non laude.

  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, cabron!"

  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, Senor 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 wind
ow. 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.

  TWENTY-THREE

  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!"