INFORMANT Page 20

  So I calmed Jess down and lied to my mom, telling her that everything was fine, Jess just wanted me to pick up some teething medicine for Dally. Somehow that spiraled into a heated discussion about whether I’d signed up for too many credits next semester—a ridiculous argument that was nothing but the result of excess guilt, fatigue, and tension, I guess.

  I’ve been shaky and on edge ever since. By the time Ricco arrives to pick me up, I’m so nervous I have to clamp my jaw shut to keep my teeth from chattering. I slide into the passenger seat of his Mercedes. He presses a kiss against my cheek, as though this is just a normal date, like we’re headed down to the pier to clam chowder and watch the sea lions frolic.

  “Everything all right?” I ask.

  He arches a brow. “All right?” he repeats, pretending not to know what I’m talking about.

  “Dally,” I grit out. “Is he okay? Will he be there?”

  Ricco checks his mirrors, then slips out into traffic. After a minute, he reaches for my hand and brings it to his lips. “Everything will be fine,” he says, but his words offer no reassurance at all.

  I try again. “Is Ronnie coming with us?”

  “No.”

  Just that—no. Ignoring me, he turns the stereo to a local Latin station and blasts it up high. I don’t bother to ask anything else. The message is clear. This is Ricco’s game. He’s calling the shots and setting the rules. He doesn’t need interference from me. I lean back into my seat and pretend to study the buildings we pass. But out of the corner of my eye, I slant a glance at Ricco.

  He’s singing and rapping his fingers against the steering wheel, speeding as usual. His mood is exuberant, almost dangerously upbeat. This has become a pattern, I notice. There’s a definite Jekyll and Hyde aspect to his personality. I don’t know whether he’s on something, or whether just being around his dad gets him jacked up. Either way, he’s feeling good. I remind myself that I need to be cautious. His mood swings are too violent for me to let my guard down.

  I look in the side view mirror for a glance of the white paneled van belonging to the DEA. It should be trailing us, but I don’t see it. The vulnerability of my position suddenly strikes me. I have no weapon. My mom and I stash baseball bats in our bedrooms in case of intruders, but we’ve never had to use them. Even if I wanted to carry a gun, I have no idea how to load or fire one. But since Dally’s life is at stake here, not just mine, it’s doubly important that I do everything I can to protect both of us.

  Once again, I’ve fastened my mike to my bra strap. I assume Beckett, Reardon, and an assortment of DEA agents are listening—if the equipment works in a moving vehicle. I didn’t think to ask, but I decide to assume that it does, and take a stab at finding out our final destination, just in case they’ve lost us in traffic. Given Ricco’s erratic driving, that’s not entirely unlikely. “Are we almost there?”

  “Soon.”

  We leave Highway One and head north on Geary Blvd. “I have a friend who lives right around the corner,” I say. “Over on California Street.” Beckett’s apartment. It’s not much—we’re still moving—but at least it will give them a general idea of our vicinity.

  Ricco glances at me. He shrugs and says nothing.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

  He gives a dismissive shake of his head. “It will all be fine. You’ll see. Sun Yee’s men will not dare challenge my father.”

  Please, God, let him be right. Don’t let this spiral into a gang war, a shoot-out with an innocent baby caught in the middle.

  We head north on Divisadero. Still no sign of the white van. My heart is beating so fast it feels like it might burst from my chest. I glance for another place marker and spy a familiar restaurant. “Ricco,” I say, “when this is all over, I’d like to take you to King’s. We just drove by. Have you ever been there? They have the best sourdough and soft-shelled crab in the city.”

  He smiles and spares me a quick glance. “We will do that,” he agrees easily, then he goes back to his singing.

  That’s probably all I dare say. Anything else and he might start to get suspicious. He slows as we enter the Marina District and head down Cervantes, passing all the pretty pastel apartment buildings. I practically have to bite my lip to keep from shouting out the street names. We swing onto Marina Blvd, drive a block or two, and then park.

  Shock courses through me. I’d imagined the meeting would take place in some grungy, sinister warehouse. I mean, we’re talking two of the biggest drug lords in the city. Instead, Ricco leads me to the Palace of Fine Arts. Next to the Golden Gate Bridge, the insanely twisted Lombard Street, and the cable cars, this is probably one of the most photographed spots in the city. The art-deco style structure is stunning. It’s a huge open air rotunda with a domed ceiling, flanked on both sides by massive colonnade walls. It’s surrounded by walkways and manicured trails. A lagoon—complete with swans, for God’s sake—reflects the terracotta beauty of the structure.

  “The Palace of Fine Arts?” I say. I’ve just given away our location, but my surprise is so genuine Ricco doesn’t seem to give it a second thought. He grabs my hand and tugs me along.

  “Come,” he says.

  In the summer, the park surrounding the Palace is packed with locals and tourists But it’s officially winter now. It’s cold, damp, and overcast. A few people stroll by, bundled up and enjoying the chilly Sunday afternoon, but mostly the grounds are empty.

  I try to puzzle out why we’re here, rather than somewhere more secluded, and then it strikes me. In the first place, this is probably neutral territory. It’s public enough to warrant good behavior, but private enough for a meeting. Also, it’s hard to get trapped here. There are no walls hemming us in, and lots of ways in and out. If anything goes wrong, both sides can flee fairly easily.

  It’s also open enough to prevent police or DEA agents from staking the place out without their presence being immediately apparent. I can only assume this wasn’t accidental.

  When we round a corner, I spot Ronnie standing beneath the rotunda. Two of Miguel Diaz’s men are positioned on either side of him. They’re not restraining him, but the threat they emanate is palpable. I don’t see Jess, a fact for which I’m hugely grateful. Despite the cold, Ronnie is pale and sweating. Our eyes meet. I move to go to him, but Ricco’s grip on my hand is firm.

  “Stay here,” he orders curtly.

  My heart drums wildly. I scan the walkways and paths, but don’t see any sign of trouble—whatever that might look like. In truth, I have no idea what to expect. All I know is what I’ve seen in the movies: steel-eyed men with rifles slung across their chests facing off across a hostile territory. But that’s not what’s happening here.

  Ricco and I position ourselves against a tall column. I’ve got so much nervous energy I can barely contain it. I want to do something. Instead, all I can do is wait. Minutes pass. I’m so tightly strung I feel as though any sudden noise would shatter me into a million pieces. There’s no conversation, only silence. Once again, my gaze locks on Ronnie’s. His dark eyes look blank, desolate. Just as I’m about to give up hope, just as the horrifying realization that I may never again see my beloved Dally creeps into my brain, there is movement.

  Miguel Diaz enters from the north.

  A Chinese man I presume to be Sun Yee enters from the south. The timing of their entrances is so perfectly orchestrated it almost looks like a synchronized dance. Crowded behind them both are five or six men—bodyguards, I suppose. They move into the center of the rotunda, and then stop and wordlessly acknowledge each other with a nod.

  The air is so thick with tension it’s impossible to breathe. This is exactly the kind of situation that Beckett dreaded. The clash of two warring gangs—only they haven’t clashed yet. There is no overt hostility. The two men are like powerful, menacing dogs, each sizing the other up. They are polar opposites. Miguel Diaz is suave, confident. Sun Yee appears cool and reserved.

  Miguel makes the fir
st move. He smiles and spreads his arms upward from his sides, his palms open in a gesture that is clearly meant to signify goodwill. “Sun Yee,” he says. “It is good of you to come.”

  Apparently Sun Yee does not speak English. The words are translated into Mandarin by the man standing to Sun Yee’s right. Sun Yee listens, and then favors Miguel with a single nod.

  Their awkward dialogue continues until I want to scream, “You monster! Where is Dally? What have you done with my nephew?”

  Finally, Miguel turns and gestures to his men. They roughly shoulder Ronnie to summon him forward. I picture them forcing Ronnie to his knees in front of Sun Yee, but apparently this meeting will have to occur without the forced drama of that symbolism. The Palace grounds may not be crowded today, but this is still a public place. No need to draw undue attention to ourselves.

  Miguel casually flicks his wrist in Ronnie’s direction. “Is this the man who worked for you?”

  Sun Yee studies Ronnie with contempt. He is silent for a long, tense moment. When he speaks, and his words are translated as, “This is the thief who dared to steal from me.”

  Miguel nods, and then turns to Ronnie. “Did you steal from Sun Yee?” he asks.

  “No,” Ronnie says, giving a frantic shake of his head. “No, I swear. I—”

  “Enough,” Miguel cuts him off. He looks at Sun Yee. “He says he did not do it. I have spoken to him at length. He tells me other men placed counterfeit money in the duffle he brought to you.”

  “He lies.”

  Miguel stiffens slightly. “Have you spoken to these other men?”

  “That is no longer possible.”

  “They are dead?”

  The question is promptly translated, but Sun Yee takes his time answering. He gives a curt shake of his head and reluctantly admits, “They have left the city. My men have not yet found them.”

  Miguel’s expression doesn’t change. “This puts me in a very difficult position,” he says. He turns and gestures to Ricco and me. “You see, the child you took is also the nephew of that woman. She is my son’s woman, and therefore she has my protection, as does the child.”

  We all wait as the words are translated. Sun Yee doesn’t acknowledge them. Instead, his gaze is fixed on Ronnie. “This thief stole my money,” Yee says. “He took half a million dollars from me.”

  “But you have no proof.”

  “I do not need proof. I know it is true.”

  “I need proof.”

  Thick silence descends.

  Miguel sighs. “Sun Yee. We are businessmen. We have worked peacefully together, both of us making money. I respect you, you respect me. We understand our boundaries and do not cross them. These are plentiful times. It would be very unfortunate for them to come to an end.”

  “This matter should not concern you.”

  “I have just explained why it does.”

  The two men study each other. No one dares move. Diaz and Yee are playing an insane, sadistic game of chicken. If Sun Yee turns and walks away, Dally is dead. And if that occurs, all hell will break loose. It will be every bit as bad as Beckett predicted. Maybe we’ll live through this moment, but our lives will be over. Ronnie will be hunted down and killed. I’ll likely become a target as well.

  In that event, how will my mother and Jess survive? Horror engulfs me. I try to draw in a deep breath to calm myself, because I’m shaking so badly I can barely remain upright.

  After what feels like eternity, Sun Yee speaks. This time his translator doesn’t translate anything. Instead, he turns and barks an order in Mandarin to the men clustered behind them. There is a flurry of movement. One of the men strides forward, a bundle clutched to his chest. I hear an infant’s muffled wail.

  Dally. Oh, my God. Dally.

  Ronnie tries to move, but Miguel’s men restrain him.

  Ricco can’t hold me back. I jerk out of his grasp and lunge forward, wresting Dally from the strange man’s grasp. With my nephew bundled in my arms and nowhere else to go, I race back to Ricco, desperate for his protection should anyone try to take Dally again.

  Falling to my knees, I shove aside the swaddling blankets and examine him. Dally’s diaper is a mess, his clothes are filthy, and he’s shrieking in protest at the way I’ve grabbed him, but he doesn’t look hurt. He’s in my arms, and he’s all right. Tears stream down my cheeks.

  “Kylie?” Ronnie’s voice, hoarse with fear, carries across the rotunda.

  “He’s all right,” I choke out. A bubble of hysterical laughter bursts from my lips. “He’s all right.”

  Miguel regards Sun Yee with satisfaction. “You have honored me with your trust, Sun Yee. I will look into this matter. If I find this man has lied to us, I will turn him over to you and your men. I give you my word.”

  The look Miguel receives from Sun Yee before he turns away is so coldly calculating it sends chills down my spine. Ricco notices it as well. Rage flashes through his eyes and his jaw clenches. He steps forward, as though intending to go after the Chinese drug lord.

  Miguel stops him with a sharp word. He places a hand of restraint on Ricco’s shoulder. “Let him save face,” he says. “There will be time later to finish this business.”

  Sun Yee and his men leave as abruptly as they arrived. Now it is just Ronnie, Dally, and me—plus Miguel, Ricco, and the rest of the Cuban crew. Beckett and various other DEA agents may be on the grounds as well. There’s really no way to tell.

  All I know is that, for the moment at least, it’s over. Ronnie has Dally back in his arms. His expression is so fierce I think you’d have to kill him in order to take the baby away again.

  “Vamonos,” Miguel orders curtly, motioning for his men. We turn to go as well, but he blocks us. He looks at Ronnie. “You are satisfied?”

  “Satisfied?” Ronnie chokes out. “Christ, I can’t thank you enough—”

  “So I have done my part of our bargain.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “Good. Very good.” Miguel smiles. He reaches out and brushes Dally’s soft knuckles, his finger lingering against the baby’s tiny fist. Then his dark gaze locks on Ronnie. “Now you will do your part.”

  Day Seventy-Eight

  Afternoon

  Agent Reardon is not happy with me. In fact, for such an uptight, squared-away kind of guy, I’m surprised he’s letting his emotions show to the degree he is now. Then I remember the black eye he gave Beckett when Beckett thought Diaz’s men found the DEA mike and he tried to bust into the suite to save me. That gives me a little more insight into Reardon. Despite his dispassionate exterior, he’s fairly easy to provoke. Not that I plan to, but it’s something to keep in mind.

  We are back at Sarah’s apartment in the Marina, gathered around a conference table. It’s the usual DEA crew: Reardon, Beckett, Sarah, the creepy tech guy, the two male agents in their mid-forties whose names I don’t know, and me.

  I had exactly twenty minutes with Jess after Ricco dropped me, Ronnie, and Dally off at Noriega Street Auto. Only twenty minutes to spend with my sister, to witness her uncontainable, hysterical joy at the return of her baby. Then Sarah was there, perky as ever, ready to whisk me off for another of our fake buddy-buddy study sessions.

  For the record, I think somebody needs to tell Sarah that college students don’t always wear sweatshirts with the name of their alma mater emblazoned across the front. We don’t always have perky ponytails, backpacks, and Converse sneakers. But that’s her college student costume and she’s sticking to it.

  “You want to tell me what in the fat hell that was all about?” Reardon demands.

  I am not up for this confrontation. It’s been an intense twenty-four hours. I’ve been through an emotional wringer, and all I want to do is go home and collapse in bed. But obviously that’s not going to happen until I appease Reardon. “You mean the meeting between Miguel Diaz and Sun Yee?”

  “Yes, I mean the fucking meeting between Diaz and Sun Yee!”

  “Fine,” I sna
p back. I pause to consider where to begin. Honestly, I thought Beckett would fill him in, but apparently he didn’t. I can only assume he deliberately withheld that information to prevent Reardon from setting up some kind of sting operation, or ordering some idiotic commando bullshit that might have gotten me, Ronnie, or Dally killed. I don’t dare look at Beckett and test that hypothesis, however. In the presence of DEA, Beckett and I barely acknowledge one another.

  Before I can devise an appropriate response, Reardon’s patience expires. He leans across the table and says, “You knew Miguel Diaz and Sun Yee—two of the most violent drug lords in the entire Bay Area—had set up a meeting, but you didn’t tell us about it until it was too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “Too late for us to set up more sophisticated monitoring devises, to put armed agents in place to make arrests, to haul in our street sources and find out what was going down, to block off the streets in and out of the Marina…”

  Bingo. In other words, do something risky that might get us all killed. Something that would definitely get Dally killed. Score one for Beckett.

  “I guess I forgot,” I reply with a shrug.

  Reardon goes apoplectic. “You forgot?”

  I look him straight in the eye. “Yeah. I forgot. Just like you forgot to tell me Ricco wasn’t some innocent college student trying to get away from his big, bad daddy. The truth is, he’s being groomed to enter the family business, isn’t he? He’s excited to enter the business. Probably can’t wait to take over the entire west coast operation.”

  At least Sarah and the other DEA agents have the grace to look embarrassed. Reardon doesn’t. His expression is as mulish as ever. I push harder.

  “What happened to Julio Juarez?” I demand. The guy I saw Ricco and his father’s men manhandle in the alleyway the night of Carnaval. The guy whose place Ricco will be taking.