She tipped back her head and said softly to Faroe, “I saw the same colors on the cars at the second roadblock Saturday, the one in front of the school.”

“They’re Mexican government tags,” he said, nibbling along her cheekbone. “They’ll probably come back to the Baja state judicial police. But with any luck those Oceanside cops will run the VIN numbers on the truck. Five will get you ten it was stolen up here.”

“Oh, God,” Grace whispered. “Policemen driving stolen vehicles and running surveillance for drug traffickers.”

“Welcome to my world, tastefully decorated in all the lovely shades of gray. The entrance to that world is down at the south end of Interstate 5. I’ll drive.”

“I’m a big girl. I can drive myself.”

“Can you ditch that dude’s partner?” Faroe asked.

“Partner? Where? And stop nibbling. You’re distracting me.”

“I’ll know about the partner as soon as I leave the parking lot.”

Unhappily Grace surrendered her ignition key. She was used to being in control. She needed it. Ted had accepted that about her and given her the independence she wanted. At first she believed he’d done it as a salute to her competence. Later she’d realized that once he figured out that she wasn’t going to follow his orders, he didn’t care enough about her to worry.

From Joe’s take-care-of-the-little-woman machismo to Ted’s let-the-bitch-do-what-she-wants indifference. Grace let out a frustrated breath. Isn’t there an in-between on the Y gene?

Faroe tucked her into the passenger seat of her Mercedes and climbed in behind the wheel. He started the engine, listened to the healthy hum, and tapped the accelerator enough to lift the revs above 5,000. There was a lot left before the needle hit the red line.

“Sweet,” he said, smiling. “When did you acquire a taste for macho horsepower? Or did Ted pick this out?”

“Ted?” Grace laughed. “He’s the kind of guy who’d drive halfway to San Francisco before he realized he was locked down in second gear. I picked out this handsome beast all by myself.”

“Ted missed a lot about you.”

Grace shrugged. “Maybe I was missing something about him, too.”

Faroe doubted it, but all he said was, “Where is Ted’s office?”

“He has two. One in La Jolla, on Pacific Coast Highway, and the other in Malibu. But right now he’s not at either office and they don’t know when he will be.”

The tone of her voice told Faroe that she was parroting various receptionists.

“On the way to the border, I’ll do a drive-by on the La Jolla office,” Faroe said.

“What do you expect to find?”

“Nothing special.” I hope. “How do I get there?”

Grace bit back what she wanted to say and gave directions instead.

LA JOLLA

SUNDAY, 11:05 A.M.

LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE IN Grace’s life, La Jolla had changed in sixteen years. Once it had been little more than a snotty California beach resort. Now it was a high-end retail and financial center that rivaled Tijuana’s Zona Rio.

Faroe drove slowly down a side street that dead-ended in the parking lot of Edge City Investments. There was a guard shack at the entrance to the parking lot. Faroe turned the corner and pulled over to the curb, inspecting the five-story stainless steel and glass building.

Silently he read the building directory that had been hand-carved on the marble retaining wall at street level. Besides Edge City, the building housed an import company, an international marketing firm, branches of two Wall Street brokerage houses, and the offices of four financial advisers, three of whom had Spanish surnames.

“There’s a lot of black money washing anonymously back and forth across the border,” Faroe said.

“You’re stereotyping. Just because there are some Spanish names on the building doesn’t mean there’s something illegal going on.”

“Actually, I’m speculating. That’s where the big money is, right? Speculation?”

She didn’t look convinced.

“Get used to it,” he said. “I’ve seen the ass end of too many aardvarks to be politically correct. Not all male Middle Easterners blow up airplanes, but it’s beyond stupid to search everyone’s Caucasian grandmother in the name of political correctness.”

“The law says-”

“The law is made by politicians,” Faroe cut in. “Hell, I know that all Russians aren’t part of the mafiya or tucked into the trough of a corrupt government, but the chances of Ivan Freaking Innocent coming into big money honestly in Mother Russia is about as great as Juan Freaking Innocent getting big money in Father Mexico without getting real dirty in the process.”

She wanted to disagree. It was a reflex she shoved back into the past. She might not like what Faroe was telling her, but if she was arguing civics when the likes of Hector appeared with his heavily armed thugs, she’d be a deadly liability to her son.

“There are lots of places like La Jolla around the world,” Faroe said. “Aruba, Medellin, Beirut, Moscow. Fast money, black money, drug money, arms money, terrorist money-it’s all pretty much the same. It rolls around this world of ours like a big old sticky ball, picking up outwardly honest bankers and brokers and financial advisers.”

“You make it sound like there’s no legal money out there.”

“Depends on how you define legal. Sort of like provenance in art. Put the goods through three previous owners and you’re home free. You’d be amazed at how often art is used as a way to get value-money-across borders and into safe, numbered accounts.”

“There is a world of law,” Grace said fiercely. “I know. I’ve lived in it.”

“The clean tip of a muddy iceberg.”

She shook her head.

He looked back toward the steel and glass monument to financial success and let the silence echo.

“Ted didn’t start out to end up in the shadow world,” Faroe said finally. “It happened one small decision at a time. One light shade of gray. A favor for a friend, then new friends and new favors. These are the people you eat with, drink with, raise your kids with. Close to you.”

Grace didn’t like where Faroe was going, and she didn’t know how to stop him. His calm words were wrecking balls tearing down the world she’d lived in, forcing her to see things she didn’t want to see, had fought and worked all her life not to have in her view.

“Some of those friends are a dirty shade of gray, and their friends are even dirtier,” Faroe said. “The longer you hang with them, the dirtier you get, until one day you wake up and find yourself in bed with the likes of Hector Rivas Osuna. Then you’re free-falling in the shadow world with no real idea of how it happened and not a clue about what the landing will be like.”

She set her teeth and remembered her courtroom, where the law was a vital, living force, as real as the air she breathed. She turned to tell Faroe about her world, and saw that he was looking past her at something on the street outside. The intensity in him was as tangible as the presence of law in her courtroom. She started to turn around to see what was so interesting but he stopped her.

“No,” he said quickly. “We’re being watched.”

Her stomach pitched. “The Suburban again? How?”

“A sedan,” Faroe said, looking away calmly. “He’s tucked back in the shrubbery beside that condo down the block. I caught a glint off his glasses. He was trying to eyeball our license plate.”

“But who is it?”

“Good question.” Faroe reached across and opened the glove box. “You have a map in here?”

Grace pulled a Thomas Brothers San Diego County Street Guide out of the glove box. Faroe flipped through the maps, located a page, and got a confused look on his face.

“Ready to steal an elevator?” he asked without looking at her.