The Gatekeeper (3 page)

Randall smiled slightly. “Advanced Defense Capabilities. But Syd would have told you that.”

“Right, Advanced Defense. Any chance that has something to do with nuclear defense? Or are you folks still working on Star Wars?”

“Like I said, Mr. Riley…”

“Right, I know, you really can’t say. And you did your postgrad work in physics?” Randall didn’t answer,
dropping his gaze to the table. Jake watched him closely. “What makes you so sure that Madison was abducted? Maybe she ran off with this Shane guy she was e-mailing.”

Randall pushed a photo across the table, keeping his eyes averted. Jake held it up for a better look. It was a close-up shot of Madison Grant, eyes wide and terrified, printed off a JPG onto regular computer paper. She was lying down against a nondescript gray background.

“When did this come in?” Jake looked up sharply.

“This morning. It was in my work account.” Dr. Grant buried his face in his hands and rubbed his cheeks hard. “No one outside the facility has that e-mail address. And I mean no one, any personal exchanges are strictly forbidden.”

“But they had it. And that got you even more spooked,” Jake said. “I need you to forward this to me.” He considered for a moment before continuing, “This isn’t proof of life, you know.”

“What?” Randall looked puzzled.

“Proof of life. Usually in a kidnapping, they have the victim hold up a newspaper so we know they’re still alive, or were on the day the photo was taken.”

“So you’re saying what, that Madison might already be dead?” The anger in Randall’s voice was overlaid by fatigue.

“Not necessarily. But we need to push for that on the next contact. How have they been getting in touch with you?”

“They sent me a phone.” He fumbled in his pocket and dug out a generic cell, the disposable kind available in any drugstore.

Jake flipped it and pulled off the back panel: no SIM card, which meant it would be nearly impossible to clone. Someone was being very careful. “Funny they didn’t just text you the photo,” Jake mused, handing the phone back.
“And I’m guessing hitting the call return button doesn’t work.”

“The number is blocked. I even had one of the lab guys see if they could trace it, but nothing. Maybe the phone company…”

Jake shrugged. “I’ll give it a shot, but chances are they’re calling you from the exact same thing, a prepaid cell that gets tossed when the minutes are gone. And if they’re really smart, they paid cash for it. Tough to even triangulate those.”

Randall slumped lower in his seat.
One more bit of bad news and he’d be on the floor,
Jake thought.

“So you’re saying there’s nothing you can do,” Randall mumbled.

“Nope, not saying that at all. But it sure as hell won’t be easy. And not knowing what they’re after doesn’t help.” Randall started to speak, but Jake waved him quiet. “We’ll leave that for now. What’s our time frame?”

“They said it would be in stages. I’m supposed to go to work, pretend everything is normal, and get them the information.”

“How do you get it out of the lab?”

“Flash drive.” A pained expression crossed Randall’s face. “To get it out undetected, I have to—”

Jake cut him off. “Trust me, that sounds like ‘need to know,’ and I’m not feeling the need right now. So you’re getting them something this week?”

“It might be information, or it could involve rescheduling some…things. They haven’t told me yet.”

Jake eyed Randall coldly. The guy was scratching at some ketchup that had congealed on the surface of the table. “So tell me, Doc. You’re a smart guy. Say you do everything they ask you to. I’m guessing you’ve got a pretty good idea what the end result would be, right?”

Randall paused, then nodded without lifting his eyes.

“All right. So what are we talking here? How bad could it be?”

Randall waited a long time before responding. His eyes swept the room, taking in all the people with their cardboard cups, laptops and cell phones. He slowly shook his head. “It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Let’s just say they could do a lot of things with what I give them. All of which could result in significant loss of life.”

“What, hundreds of people?” When Randall didn’t respond, Jake raised his eyebrows and asked, “Thousands?”

“Maybe. That’s why you need to find Madison soon. Because I can’t allow them to get their hands on what they’re looking for. No matter what.”

In spite of himself Jake was shaken by the finality in Randall’s eyes. If it came down to it, he was willing to sacrifice his daughter. And the only thing standing between him and that outcome was Jake and Syd. Bad odds, any way you looked at it. Jake cleared his throat. “So. Looks like I better get to work, huh?”

Dante Parrish ran a hand over his bald scalp, the stubble reassuring against his palm. No need to be nervous, everything was going better than expected. Still, he always had to gather himself before opening the large mahogany door. Most people would find that surprising: at six-five, two-fifty, Dante wasn’t easily intimidated. But Jackson Burke could make him quake.

Dante rapped twice with his huge knuckles, then turned the knob. Inside was the kind of office he used to think only existed in movies: plush carpets, fancy paintings on the
walls, sweeping views of downtown Phoenix. An enormous desk dominated the room, mahogany, like the door. Aside from that and two small armchairs, there were no other furnishings. As always, Dante was momentarily awed by the fact that somehow he had ended up here. His reflection was cut short when the man behind the desk slammed down the phone. In spite of himself, Dante jumped.

Jackson’s cheeks were flushed, although it was hard to tell whether he was angry or excited. In Dante’s opinion, the most remarkable thing about him was that until he opened his mouth, you wouldn’t look twice at him. Brown hair, gray eyes, just under six feet tall. Completely average-looking. But then he started talking. Jackson had one of those voices that could “charm a cat off a fish wagon,” as Dante’s mother used to say. Within ten minutes of meeting him, Dante had been willing to lay down his life for the man.

“So how are things on the front?” Jackson swung around the desk, propping himself on the edge as he motioned for Dante to take a seat.

“All good so far, sir,” Dante said, picking his words carefully. He’d never made it past eighth grade, and every time they spoke he felt that disparity keenly. Not that he was stupid, just a different kind of smart. The kind of smart Jackson could use, like he always said.

“Excellent. Saw the news today, looks like our ducks are falling in a row.” Jackson raised his hands and mimicked firing a gun, then bellowed a laugh. Dante joined him.

Jackson cut it off abruptly. “Did you see the new census reports?”

Dante shook his head, and Jackson looked mildly disappointed. He tossed a folded paper across the desk and pointed at a headline halfway down the page. “See? Says
right there that there haven’t been this many illegals since the 1920s. And back then they were mostly white. Ten more years of this, Spanish will be our first language. Not on my watch, no way no how.”

Dante nodded in agreement. “We won’t let it happen, sir.”

“Damn straight we won’t. So I want you to personally stay on top of this Grant thing, make sure there are no screwups. I’m counting on you, Dante. Don’t let me down, boy.”

Dante saluted. Jackson acknowledged it with a nod, then turned to face the view. Dante was halfway to the door when Jackson spoke again. Without glancing back, he said, “Never forget, this is a war we’re fighting.”

“I won’t forget, sir.”

K
elly gazed through the glass wall of the observation room. Four MS-13 gang members were arrested in the house raid. Despite the fact they’d been armed to the teeth, SWAT managed to extract them without any bloodshed. Kelly pictured the four of them scattered through the house, three on the couch, one in the kitchen making nachos in a surprisingly domestic gesture. The confusion and disarray as flash bang grenades followed battering rams through both front and back doors. The four of them on the ground, eyes blinded, ears ringing, hands being cuffed. She almost envied the SWAT team. Their goal was simple: get in, get your guys, get out. What she dealt with was much messier.

She examined the putative leader of the gang, Marco Guzman. He was older than she’d expected, maybe late twenties, a testament to his survival skills. Gang tats rode up his neck and down his arms, framing a carefully buttoned blue-and-white shirt. Close-cropped hair and a face marked by a trim goatee and hooded eyes. Clearly Guzman was no stranger to interrogation rooms, he looked right at home.

His lawyer sat beside him. Despite the fact that he looked like a teenager, according to the local cops he’d
developed a reputation for himself as the local MS-13 consigliere.

Kelly gathered herself. A successful outcome for this interview was highly unlikely. She was dealing with a seasoned criminal and an adept lawyer. Three hours of grilling by Phoenix P.D., and Guzman had only admitted to knowing there were steak knives in the house. The stacks of guns had apparently escaped his attention. Still, she had to give it a shot.

She entered with Rodriguez at her heels. She wasn’t crazy about having him sit in, but he spoke Spanish, which would come in handy.

“Good evening, Mr. Guzman.”

“Call me Psycho,” he said. His voice was different from what she’d been expecting, smooth with a slight trace of an accent.

Rodriguez rattled something off in Spanish. Guzman leered at him and shot back a response.

“Let’s stick to one language, shall we?” Kelly said.

“He was asking what my momma was thinking, naming me that,” Guzman said, smiling at her. He had probing eyes, and Kelly leveled her gaze to meet his. “I warned him not to mention my momma again, or—”

The lawyer said something sharp. Guzman clammed up, sucking his teeth loudly.

“It says here your momma named you Marco,” Kelly said, one eyebrow raised. “Seems like a perfectly good name.”

Guzman shrugged. “So call me that. Don’t make no difference to me,
Roja.”

Kelly fought a flush over his reference to her red hair. “I’m FBI Special Agent Jones, this is Agent Rodriguez. We have some questions about one of the items found in your house.”

Guzman shrugged. “Not my house,
Agent
Jones.”

Without glancing up from his BlackBerry the lawyer said, “As my client informed the police, he was visiting that house today solely to watch a baseball game. He has no knowledge of any weapons being stored there.”

“No? Hard to believe, when there were handguns on the table behind him in the living room.”

“You know what’s psycho, is you showing up,” Guzman said. His lawyer threw him a hard glance, but he ignored it. “ATF, sure, but you got no business with guns.”

“This one, we do.” Kelly slid a photo of Duke Morris’s gun across the table.

He glanced at it. “Looks like a
chica’
s. Yours?”

Kelly shook her head. “No, Mr. Guzman. That gun belonged to a murder victim.”

He shoved the photo back across the table. “Never seen it.”

“You sure? Because it was used to kill a U.S. senator this morning,” Rodriguez said.

The lawyer’s head snapped up, as if he were a retriever who had just caught a scent.

Kelly tried to conceal her irritation. She had hoped to lull Guzman into complacency, so he might slip up and say more than he should. Now that Rodriguez had revealed their endgame, there was no way he would give them anything. “Got your attention now?” Kelly asked.

“I’d like a minute to confer with my client.” The lawyer said with finality.

She tried anyway. “Mr. Guzman, Senator Duke Morris was murdered late last night. Ballistics indicate that his own gun, this gun, was used in the killing. And then it turned up in your stash house.”

Guzman just shook his head. His eyes had cloaked
over, dark and impenetrable. Shark eyes. “Don’t know what you’re on about,
Roja.
I was watching a game.”

“MS-13 likes to use machetes, don’t they, Marco? That’s your calling card. Morris was hacked to bits—”

“This interview is officially over.” The young lawyer stood, pushing his chair back so violently it tipped over. The noise was loud in the small room.

Kelly and Rodriguez exchanged a glance. The lawyer couldn’t force them to leave, but chances were he’d put a muzzle on his client and they wouldn’t get anything regardless. Kelly gathered up the file and motioned for Rodriguez to follow her.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” he grunted as the door closed behind them.

Kelly threw him a look. She wouldn’t chew Rodriguez out with a suspect in hearing range, but once they were alone he was in for it. She shrugged and said, “I wasn’t expecting much.”

“Shame they couldn’t pull any prints off the weapon.”

Kelly didn’t answer, her eyes still fixed on the door. The lack of forensic evidence bothered her. She didn’t have a lot of experience dealing with gangs, but assumed they weren’t generally known for their attention to detail. “Did they track the tip about the stash house?”

Rodriguez cocked his head. “I don’t know. Why would they?”

“It would be good to know if it came in from a concerned citizen, a rival gang, or someone else. Maybe even a former member who’s currently on the outs. Someone like that could prove helpful.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Rodriguez looked dubious. “I heard the only way out of MS-13 is a casket. But I could ask around.”

“Great.” Kelly looked at him pointedly. “The sooner the better, I’m thinking.”

“What, now?”

“No time like the present.”

“What about this?” He jerked his head toward the interview room.

“I’ve got this under control,” Kelly said. “Like you said, not much here anyway.”

“All right,” Rodriguez grumbled. “I’ll try to track it down.”

“Keep me posted.” She watched Rodriguez slump away. Kelly had worked with a motley assortment of partners over the years. Based on his bad attitude and lack of initiative, she was consigning Rodriguez firmly to the bottom of the pile.

Of course, when they first worked together it took time for Kelly to trust Jake, so maybe there was hope for Rodriguez yet. Although Jake’s weakness was a cavalier attitude coupled with reckless disregard for authority. Rodriguez seemed just plain lazy.

Kelly realized she was fingering her engagement ring. She bit back a smile, picturing Jake on one knee in their hotel room, cobbling together a proposal after she accidentally discovered the ring. She hadn’t seen him in a few weeks. He was busy moving into his new office space, and she’d been tied up by a case in Florida. If this lead panned out, they might be able to spend the holiday weekend together. Kelly spun the ring around her finger with her thumb. It still felt oddly heavy, strange that after ten months she hadn’t adjusted to the weight of it.

The door to the interview room opened and Kelly quickly tucked her hand in her pocket. The lawyer poked his head out, saw her standing there and ducked back inside. After directing some final instructions in Spanish at Guzman, he stepped out and closed the door.

“So I guess we’re done in there,” Kelly said.

The lawyer’s eyes flicked to her. He was slight, maybe five-six. His suit was well cut but not flashy. Aside from a simple watch with a ragged leather band, he wore no jewelry. Whatever the gang was paying him, he didn’t spend it on clothes and accessories. He saw her examining him and grinned. “You like the watch? It was my father’s.”

He held it out. The battered face was so stained by time it was hard to distinguish the numbers.

“Nice,” she said.

He laughed. “You’re so polite, Agent Jones. It’s a piece of junk. But it helps me remember why he came here, why so many still come every day. Reminds me there’s nothing back there for me but junk.”

“Oh.” Kelly wasn’t sure how to respond, the intimacy in his tone made her uncomfortable.

He leaned in and said, “Here’s the thing about Guzman. He’s no genius, but a gun that killed a senator? Even he isn’t stupid enough to leave something like that lying around.”

“And yet he did,” she pointed out. “Unless you expect me to believe they were just enjoying the big-screen TV.”

The lawyer’s mouth twisted in a smile. “I have no comment on that, outside of what I’ve already told you. But the gun you mentioned is something of a special case.”

“Really,” Kelly said drily.

“Hypothetically, let’s say that particular weapon was brought in by someone else.”

“Who?”

“Some wannabe named Emilio. They tolerate him as an errand boy, but he’s not Salvadoran, so…” The lawyer shrugged, puckering the shoulder fabric of his suit.

“And he gave them Morris’s gun? Am I supposed to believe he shot him, too?”

The lawyer shrugged. “Maybe he thought it would get him initiated.”

Kelly narrowed her eyes. “Or maybe your client clued in to how serious this is, and he’s trying to deflect the blame on someone outside the gang.”

“Yeah, but a senator?”

“A senator who was avidly anti-immigration and was raising a lot of fuss in the media about closing the borders. That wouldn’t be good for their business, if I’m not mistaken.” Kelly knew that the gangs’ lifeblood was the stream of guns and drugs from the south. More stringent legislation might have made smuggling trickier.

The lawyer shrugged again. “Hey, I’d be skeptical, too. But I gotta say, I know these guys.” He leaned closer, and Kelly smelled onion and something spicy on his breath. “They’ll go to the mats if they think another gang is infringing on their territory, but getting political? They’re not big CNN fans, you know? I bet half of them couldn’t name the president, never mind some senator.”

“Maybe they were under orders from someone else. MS-13 is a national organization, right?”

The lawyer shifted his briefcase to the other hand. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said carefully. “But if it was, most groups would probably be individual cells. Kind of like al Qaeda. Crediting them with a national mission statement, something on this organizational level…” He flicked his eyes down the hall as a sheriff approached, then back to Kelly. “Let’s just say if that’s the case, what you’re dealing with is something entirely new.” He lowered his voice and said, “And I haven’t heard anything about it. Trust me, I would have.” He flashed a smile and shook her hand. “Adios, Agent Jones. Hopefully next time we meet under cheerier circumstances.”

Kelly watched him stroll away before turning back to
the interrogation room. Through the small window she watched Guzman carve his name on the underside of the table with a ballpoint pen. The lawyer was right; “Psycho” didn’t appear to be a criminal mastermind. Which didn’t eliminate the possibility that someone else was pulling the strings.

She headed back to the squad room. On the way Kelly wondered who might have gotten an MS-13 “cell” involved in a killing like this, and what they hoped to accomplish. If anything, this worked against their goals. In the wake of Morris’s death, anti-immigration groups were organizing rallies and right-wing talk show hosts were treating it like Christmas and the Rapture all tied up in one. If someone had done this to shut Duke Morris up, they’d made a terrible error. Dead, his voice was carrying louder than ever.