The warden sighed and tapped her thumbs against each other. “How much do you know about the Brotherhood, Mr. Riley?”

He shrugged. “They’re not fond of minorities and have a real thing for swastikas.”

She smiled thinly. “True. But don’t underestimate them. This is one of the most highly organized gangs in the entire country. Their methods of communication continually stump us, they’ve even managed to exchange information with inmates in solitary confinement. They have a whole system of hand signals that we’ve had no luck in deciphering, they pass coded messages with invisible ink created from their own urine. They make up one-tenth of the prison population, but they’re responsible for nearly a quarter of the murders.”

“Lovely,” Jake said. “Jesus.”

“Jesus, indeed. They’re practically a mercenary army, even assigning military ranks to members. Once indoctrinated they’re taught a very strict code, and they follow it or suffer the consequences. Chain of command, loyalty. You won’t find a more devoted band of soldiers.”

“And when they get out?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Excellent question. We, of course, don’t track them.” She leaned forward in her chair. “I will tell you something I’ve noticed personally. The rate of recidivism has dropped substantially in the past few years.”

“Here at Corcoran?”

The warden shook her head. “Everywhere. At the last national conference on Corrections, there was a seminar about it. One of the hacks in charge of the prisoner reentry program claimed we’re finally seeing the results of changes implemented years ago.”

“You sound skeptical.”

She leaned back in her chair and waved her hand. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. Riley. And leopards never change their spots.”

“So I’m guessing you’ve got a theory?”

Warden Faulkner eyed him. “I do. Just a pet one, but I’d like to know if it’s correct. Which is why I agreed to speak with you, despite the fact that you have no legal right to the information I’m providing.”

Jake tensed in his chair. Seeing his reaction, Warden Faulkner winked. “Relax, Mr. Riley. All I want from you is answers, if you happen to solve this little mystery of mine.”

“So?” Jake shifted uncomfortably. For the past five years he’d worked for one of the most powerful men in the world, and before that an FBI badge always greased the skids. Now that he was in business for himself, he had no real authority anymore. He was beginning to grasp how much harder that made things. “What do you think is going on?”

The warden leaned forward, a glint in her eye. “Someone has finally organized them. Think about it, Mr. Riley. An entire army of violent men with a wide range of skills and few morals. All these years they’ve been focused on survival, eliminating immediate threats to themselves. But what if someone with vision managed to organize them?”

“Like who?”

“That’s the real question here, isn’t it?” She sat back and arched an eyebrow.

“Huh.”

“You’re looking at me like I should be committed,” she noted. “All right, then. But keep it in the back of your mind. There might be a reason that men like Mack Krex are suddenly resurfacing, committing crimes outside their MO.”

Jake had to admit she had a point. Who would have expected a Saudi to orchestrate a plot from the mountains of Afghanistan that would take out the World Trade Center and a good chunk of the Pentagon? “So can you give me any leads?”

She pushed another file toward him. Jake flipped to the mug shot. A large man with a shaved skull, goatee and hooded eyes stared back at him.

“Dante Parrish, the capo of the Brotherhood when Mack was here. Rumor has it his influence extended beyond Corcoran. Track down Dante, and you’ll probably also find Mr. Krex. And a lot of other men, too. So be forewarned, Mr. Riley. These are the worst of the worst.”

“Sounds like my last family barbecue.”

“You have a robust sense of humor, Mr. Riley,” Warden Faulkner said, extending a hand across the desk. “I hope no one sees fit to beat it out of you.”

Rodriguez slid his bu-car into Park and left the engine idling. He squinted at the pay phone through the tinted windshield. He was in a section of downtown Phoenix where the sprawl edged the buildings away from each other, alleys gradually bloating into full parking lots. Everything looked empty and run-down: For Lease signs on the windows, trash in the gutters, relentless heat baking everything a cracked taupe. He tugged at his collar and considered loosening the top button. In a climate like this no one should have to wear a tie, ever.

The only place that showed signs of life was a bar on the corner. The pay phone was halfway down the block on the same side of the street. It was a long shot. Whoever called 911 to report the MS-13 stash house might have been passing through, stopping off to do a good deed. Or maybe they were involved, and foolishly opted for convenience. Either way, it was worth a shot. He was actually surprised to see a pay phone, he’d thought they’d gone the way of eight-tracks and VHS players. There was something reassuring about it.

Rodriguez chewed his lower lip. He should call Jones to share the info, but she’d been so pissy he figured he’d see if the lead panned out first. And if it did, he was damn sure taking credit for it. Solving the murder of a senator would be a huge boon for his career. He was no fool, he knew about the rumors swirling around his promotion. That he’d made it thanks to affirmative action and quotas, or worse, that he’d ratted out his partner. He’d caught Jones looking at him sideways a few times, knew she’d heard them, too. Well, screw her, she could believe what she wanted. Talk around the watercooler was that she was circling the bowl anyway, one more screwup and she’d be lucky to get a desk job. Not that he was on a mission to destroy her career, initially he’d even been excited to partner with her. Kelly Jones was still something of a legend at HQ. But the way she treated him was all too familiar. Truth was, most people liked having Mexicans clean their houses, mow their lawns and cook their food. But become their equal, and all bets were off.

He remembered Jones’s tone as she basically ordered him to do her scut work, and a flush rose up his neck. Then she got all holier than thou about that Emilio punk, as if the murder was somehow his fault. Like she suddenly cared about a dead wetback, when a dozen kids like Emilio had probably been murdered that week.

Rodriguez could call in a team to dust for prints, but a public pay phone would prove a nightmare for any Crime Scene Unit. And he had a feeling about the bar. It was obvious, but the truth was most criminals weren’t that smart. They made stupid decisions, they got caught, end of story. With any luck, he’d open the door and see someone sitting there with a machete. Or maybe he’d find a witness. You never knew.

Deciding, Rodriguez got out of the car and undid the top button of his shirt as he approached the bar. A faded sign on the door announced Happy Hour: $2 Pitchers 4-6 p.m. He pushed open the door with authority. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. And once they did, he realized that he’d just made one of the worst mistakes of his life.