“You have to talk English to me.”

“No, you have to listen very carefully and do what I say. The only way to steal elevators is at noon in a busy building. Look lost.”

“That won’t be hard,” she muttered.

He propped the map book on the steering wheel and put the Mercedes in gear. Consulting the page in front of him again and again, he let the SUV roll slowly down the street. When he drew even with the alley where the sedan was hiding, he turned in.

“Joe, what are-” Grace began, moving uneasily.

“Shush, woman,” Faroe cut in.

“Don’t call me woman.”

“Why not? People call me man all the time. Or dude. You want to be a dudette?”

Before she could give him the retort he deserved, they were beside the sedan and he was lowering the driver’s window of the SUV. The sedan was a full-size four-door Ford Crown Royale, government green. Two Anglos were in the front seat. The one reading the newspaper dropped it on the seat. Both of them looked surprised but were quick to put a game face on.

“Hey, man, do you know where Apollo Avenue is?” Faroe called out. “This map book says it’s around here somewhere, but I sure can’t find it.”

The driver shot him a cold look. “We’re strangers here ourselves.”

“Well, loosen up and ask directions like a good metrosexual,” Faroe said, nudging the accelerator so that the SUV slid past the sedan. “And next time you drop your newspaper on the seat, make sure it covers the antenna on your handy-talkie. Have a nice day.”

Faroe hit the gas and turned out onto a city street seconds later.

“What was that all about?” Grace asked.

“Careless cops. I really hate it when the good guys look so bad.”

“Cops?” She straightened but forced herself not to glance back. “Those guys were cops?”

“Yeah. Feds, maybe. Their suits were a cut above what a city plainclothes type could afford. Might be customs or what passes for the DEA now. Maybe even part of a task force that includes the locals. I bet if we cruised around we’d find a couple more units back in the bushes. The building’s too big for one team to handle.”

“What are they doing here?”

Faroe glanced in the rearview mirror. “You want my sworn testimony or my best guess, Your Honor?”

“Whatever gets me closer to Lane’s freedom.”

Faroe smiled faintly. “You’re learning. My best guess is that they’re watching your husband’s business.”

“You can’t be certain. There are a lot of names on that building!” Then Grace closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “All right. Sorry. Best guess it is.”

“Okay,” he said, “we’ve got Mexican cops in Mexico, who may or may not be working for the crooks, and we’ve got American cops, who usually work for the good guys but whose definition of ‘good guys’ is real damn narrow. Then there’s you and me.”

“So?”

“Either your husband is the most popular guy in two nations, or he’s got more trouble than either of us needs.”

MANHATTAN

SUNDAY, 2:10 P.M.

DWAYNE PICKED UP STEELE’S private hotline. “Dwayne here.”

“Faroe.”

“The Ambassador is talking to a CEO whose assets surpass that of all but a few nations. Shall I interrupt?”

“No. Turn loose the dogs on Theodore Franklin.”

“We already have. Steele was certain you would take the job.”

“Damn, I hate being predictable. What do you have?”

Dwayne clicked over the computer and looked at various summaries. “Do you want the long form or the bottom line?”

“Whichever gets me closer to Teddy-boy.”

“His hedge fund is in trouble. Big trouble.”

“Why?” Faroe asked.

“Bad investments.”

“If that was against the law, half the investment experts would be in jail.”

“That’s just part of the problem,” Dwayne said. “Think of a Ponzi scheme crossed with a classic money-laundering profile.”

“You’re giving me a headache.”

“Take two aspirin and call me when I care. Ted’s going down. Steele is already smacking his lips.”

“I’m trying to imagine that,” Faroe said. “It’s giving me a bigger headache.”

Dwayne laughed. “Nobody gets turned on by hidden numbered accounts like the Ambassador.”

“He’s not the only one. Some stripe of cop had Ted’s La Jolla office staked out.”

“Steele won’t like that,” Dwayne said.

“I’m not doing backflips of joy myself. How close are you to finding Ted?”

“So far he hasn’t used any of his accounts or credit cards. When he does, we have him.”

“Kick some ass,” Faroe said impatiently. “We have a day to get Lane Franklin out of jail.”

“We’re kicking ass and taking names. No guarantees on the timing.”

“Two days, two weeks, two years,” Faroe said coldly, “find the son of a bitch who nominated his kid for a Colombian necktie. Men like that need to be taken out of the gene pool.”

Dwayne opened his mouth, but he was talking to a dead phone.

ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

SUNDAY, 11:30 A.M.

CARLOS CALDERON KNOCKED AT Lane’s door and went in without waiting for an invitation. The two guards watching Lane didn’t stir from their comfy position propped against a shady side of the cottage. Nothing moved but their dark eyes and the sweat sliding down their cheeks.

Lane was sprawled half dressed on his bed, watching flies walk across the ceiling.

Calderon went to the kitchen, saw the empty orange juice carton, and replaced it with the fresh one he’d brought. A plate of cold tacos and beans sat in the refrigerator next to the juice. It didn’t look like Lane had been hungry.

Empty-handed, Calderon went back to the bedroom and roughly hauled Lane into a sitting position.

“Have you heard from your father?” Calderon asked.

“…uh?”

Calderon gave Lane an open-handed slap. “Your father. Have you heard from him?”

Lane blinked. His eyes almost focused. “No phone.”

“The office has a phone. Did he call you?”

Lane’s head lolled and his eyes started to close.

A sharp smack across his face focused him again.

“Dunno,” Lane said. “Don’…tell me…shit.”

Calderon shook Lane hard enough to make his hair lift. Then he buried one hand in Lane’s hair and twisted hard, dragging the boy’s face close to his.

“Listen to me, pendejo,” Calderon said. “I’m not as patient as Hector. If you hear anything from anybody about your father, you tell me immediately or I’ll cut your throat and send your head home to your mother. Hector’s nephews can have the rest of you. You understand?”

All Lane’s fuzzed mind understood was that Calderon really wanted news about Ted Franklin. The rest was a nightmare of funhouse mirrors, sharp pain forgotten in the instant it was felt, and echoes without meaning.

“Unnerstan.”

Calderon shoved Lane away so hard that the boy’s head thumped against the wall. Lane groaned and slumped onto the bed again. Calderon strode out of the cottage.

The guards were still outside, still sweating.

So was Calderon.