INFORMANT Page 21

  Reardon averts his eyes. Drums his fingers on a manila folder sitting in front of him. Finally he says, “His body washed up early this morning outside a meat processing plant in Oakland.”

  Oh, shit. Fuck me. And guess who’s the only witness to that crime? If Reardon tries to put me on the stand, I’m dead.

  My stomach seizes, and I take a deep breath to pull myself together. I feel like Alice in Wonderland, tumbling head-over-heels down some never-ending hole. Now that I’ve fallen in, I can’t get out. Everything keeps getting worse and worse. I want to reach out for Beckett, but I can’t. I can’t even risk looking at him, for fear my expression will give too much away.

  After a beat, my panic eases and anger descends. My life is on the line here. I need to know this stuff. “When were you planning on telling me this?” I demand.

  Reardon assumes a lofty expression. “I hadn’t decided.”

  Oh, really? I lean back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest. “Looks like you and I have some trust issues, don’t we, Reardon?”

  “Your brother-in law was dealing drugs for Sun Yee?”

  “No.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  “No. He was delivering Chinese food for the Lucky Dragon, trying to make some extra cash on the side.”

  Reardon smirks. “Just a regular delivery guy, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A regular delivery guy who happened to have access to a duffle filled with half a million in cash.”

  “Ronnie thought he was picking up restaurant supplies,” I say. “It didn’t occur to him to look inside the duffle. He just picked it up and dropped it off.” I am in so deep at this point, I will have to create a spreadsheet to keep track of the lies I’m telling.

  “That’s not what Sun Yee thinks happened.”

  “Sun Yee is wrong.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?” Reardon drawls.

  “Maybe you’re just a suspicious guy.”

  “Maybe,” he acknowledges with a nod. “Or maybe because somebody who was innocent of any wrongdoing would have gone straight to the police when their baby was taken.”

  “The police?” I shrug. “Why would they do that when they had access to someone with better connections and a lot more power.”

  Reardon’s face reddens. “Are you playing with me, Miss Porter? Is this some kind of goddamned game to you?”

  God, no. If this were a game, I’d be having fun. More importantly, I could walk away. In fact, that’s exactly what I want to do. I’m too exhausted to think clearly anymore, so I simply stand up and announce, “I’m leaving.”

  “Hold it right there,” Reardon snaps, shoving back his chair. “We’re not done here, Missy. Sit down.”

  Missy? Did he just fucking call me Missy? I stop. Look at him. “Let me get this straight. Am I under arrest?”

  “No.”

  “So you have no right to keep me here against my will, do you?” Reardon works his jaw, but doesn’t respond. I push harder. “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “If I find out your brother-in-law was dealing drugs, I’ll arrest you as an accessory.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  I coolly meet his gaze. That’s an idiotic threat and we both know it. I’m no good to him in jail, and he needs me a hell of a lot more than I need him. He created me. I’m too valuable, too close to Ricco and Miguel, for him to lock me up and start looking for a new informant.

  Reardon sits down and leans back in his chair. He eyes me and shakes his head. “You’ve got some balls.”

  I let out a derisive breath. “I don’t need balls. I got lucky. God made me a woman and gave me brains instead.”

  I let the door slam behind me on my way out.

  * * *

  It isn’t until I’m outside and standing on the sidewalk that I realize I don’t have a ride home—my study buddy Sarah picked me up. I’m so upset I’m shaking, and my brain just isn’t working right. I change course and head to the neighborhood shops and restaurants on Chestnut Street to grab a bus back to the Sunset. I know that if I text Jane, Beckett would meet me and give me a lift, but I need some time alone to think things through.

  I don’t care if Beckett’s boss hates me. Or more to the point, if Reardon hates that he can’t control me. I’ve got bigger things to worry about. The bargain Ronnie made with Miguel Diaz is spinning through my mind. That’s the real reason I had to leave so abruptly. We hadn’t gotten to that part yet, and I didn’t want Reardon quizzing me about Miguel’s parting words.

  In return for Miguel’s help getting Dally back, Ronnie promised to tell him where and when Sun Yee’s next shipment of drugs was coming in. That’s the deal. A deal that’s dangerous and illegal as hell, but it got us Dally back. Miguel did his part. Now it’s time for Ronnie to do his.

  There’s just one little problem.

  As I was leaving Ronnie and Jess’s apartment this afternoon, Ronnie pulled me aside. “Kylie, listen. About that drug shipment Sun Yee’s got coming in…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not exactly sure about it.”

  My heart slams against my chest and my throat constricts. “What do you mean, you’re not exactly sure about it?”

  “I mean,” he says, “I know the shipment’s coming in nine days. That’s solid. But that’s all I know. I got no idea which pier it’s coming through.”

  “Jesus, Ronnie. You promised Miguel that information.”

  “I know, I know. But I would have said anything to get Dally back. Anything.” He hangs his head low, then slants me a sideways glance. “Do you think he’ll care?”

  Yeah, Ronnie, I do. Break your word to Miguel Diaz, and I think he’s gonna care a whole fucking lot.

  Day Seventy-Eight

  Night

  It’s Sunday night, normally the one night of the week that my mom and I spend together relaxing. But since the holiday season at Walmart is the equivalent of retail Armageddon, that’s not gonna happen. She’s working the midnight shift, which means I am free to spend a few hours alone with Beckett.

  It’s freezing on the rooftop of his building. Cold and windy. If we had any sense at all, we’d go back inside his apartment. Instead we’re sitting together on a chaise lounge, my back resting against his chest, our legs stretched out and tangled together. We’re bundled up in bulky clothes and he’s got his down quilt wrapped around us both, but it does little to fight the chill.

  Nonetheless, neither of us is moving. After the events of the past two days, we are utterly drained. For some weird reason, it feels really good to be outside. Maybe we just need the inky vastness of the night sky surrounding us. The soothing lullaby of the fog horn echoing off the bay. The twinkle of lights as other apartment dwellers go about their bedtime rituals. We need to feel the pulse of the city beating within our bodies, irrefutable proof that life goes on.

  “Tell me about Emma,” I say.

  Beckett tenses slightly. I can tell I’ve surprised him. “My sister?”

  “Yeah. What was she like?”

  It’s an impossible question to answer. If Jess were taken from me, how would I put the magnitude of that loss into words? Maybe the same way Beckett does when he begins to tell me about Emma. He doesn’t use words like beautiful, or smart, or tell me what color her eyes were. Instead, he tells me her favorite joke. Why she named their dog Pickles. He tells me how she taught him to drive a stick shift, about her first job, about the guy who broke her heart in high school. He doesn’t have to tell me how close they were. That much is obvious.

  Because of Miguel Diaz, Beckett’s sister is dead.

  Because of Miguel Diaz, my nephew is alive.

  This couldn’t get any more twisted. I close my eyes and draw in a ragged breath. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry she’s gone.”

  His arms are locked around my ribs, his fingers laced together above my waist. He gives me a soft squeeze. “Me,
too.”

  Beckett has spent his entire adult life in pursuit of vengeance. He’s hunted Diaz for years, and even went so far as to lure me into this mess. He lied to me and used me as bait. I hated him for it.

  But now I’m beginning to understand it.

  I think of the deadly menace in Miguel’s eyes when he ran his finger along Dally’s foot. Yes, because of Miguel Diaz, Dally is alive—but only because my beautiful baby nephew was a convenient means to an end. A way for Diaz to insinuate himself into Sun Yee’s business. Dally isn’t safe now, and neither are Jess or Ronnie. Neither am I. We are all hopelessly tied to Miguel Diaz, pawns in whatever deadly game he chooses to play next. The thought causes my stomach to constrict painfully.

  Then I remember the icy rage in Sun Yee’s gaze when the meeting at the Palace of Fine Arts ended. I tilt back my head and glance at Beckett. “Tell me about them.”

  “Who?”

  “Sun Yee and Miguel Diaz. At the meeting this morning, they spoke of having boundaries they wouldn’t violate.”

  Beckett fills me in. Essentially, Sun Yee controls all territory north of Market Street, an area which encompasses Chinatown, Pacific Heights, the Presidio, the Financial District, and Union Square. Miguel Diaz controls all territory south of Market Street, particularly the Latin neighborhoods included in the Mission, the Castro, Yerba Buena, Potrero Hill, and even SFSU.

  But it’s not unheard of for there to be strikes into each other’s territories. Greedy grabs for more space, more dealers, more buyers. The truce between the Chinese and the Cubans is an uneasy one—calm on the surface, simmering agitation running beneath. The fault lines run deep.

  I take all that in. Mull it over. Everything’s finally starting to make sense. Now that Julio Juarez is out of the picture, Ricco is coming in and wants to make a big name for himself. Miguel is determined to set his son up properly. If that means using Ronnie to grab Sun Yee’s incoming shipment of illegal goods, that’s what he’ll do.

  “There’s only one way out of this,” I say to Beckett.

  “What’s that?”

  The skirmishes between the Cubans and the Chinese have been going on for decades. The DEA’s done everything they could to bottle the tension. Keep it from blowing up, escalating into an all-out battle where innocent bystanders might get hurt. No more. Appeasement won’t work. I want to do just the opposite.

  I twist around and look at Beckett. “You really want to end this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then we need to start a war.”

  Day Seventy-Nine

  Morning

  Brad Morris, my scientific ethics professor, doesn’t keep regular office hours. I’ve sent him a text asking him to meet me to discuss a paper I’m working on. He said he’d be here by nine, but he’s late. It’s already nine-thirty and I’m pacing outside the door to his basement-level office at SFSU.

  Finally he shows up. I’m guessing that I’m his first appointment of the day, because he looks like he just stepped out of the shower. His golden blond hair is damp (but expertly coiffed and swept back), and the scent of aftershave clings to his cheeks. He’s wearing a trench coat from Wilkes Bashford, a signature Nordstrom’s button down dress shirt, a Hermes tie, and perfectly pressed wool gabardine slacks. If I were attracted to extremely handsome men with a high sense of style and absolutely no moral compass, this would be my guy. I’d probably be drooling. Fortunately, however, he’s definitely not my type.

  He glances at his Rolex as he hustles past me to unlock his office door. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Porter.” He flips on the overhead fluorescent lights and gestures for me to enter. As he settles behind his desk he lifts the paper Starbucks cup he carries.

  “Can I offer you something to drink? It’s no trouble. They’ll bring it down from the café upstairs.”

  “No, thanks.” I don’t need any caffeine. I’m jittery enough as it is. I’m also too nervous to sit down. This meeting has to work. It has to. Brad’s my best shot.

  “So,” he says. “You wanted to talk to me about a paper?”

  I meet his gaze head-on. “Julio Juarez,” I say. “Tell me what you heard.”

  He tilts back his cushy leather office chair, steeples his fingers, and gives me a coy smile. “Well,” he says. “Well, well. My morning just got a whole lot more interesting.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Maybe I don’t understand the question.”

  “Then let me spell it out. You claim you’ve got connections in this city. People who know people—especially people who operate on the questionable side of the law. This is a test, professor. Nothing’s gone public yet, so I want to see how good your sources are. Where and when was the body of Julio Juarez discovered?”

  “I assume there will be something in this for me if I answer.”

  “If you answer correctly, yes.”

  His gaze rakes me over. It’s a typical San Francisco December day, so I’m pretty well bundled up. I’m wearing a dark plum wool pea coat, turtleneck sweater, knee-length black skirt and black boots. Despite that, his look is so blatantly leering it feels as though I’m naked.

  “What’s the matter?” he says. “Have things cooled off with your Latin lover? You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “This isn’t about Ricco.”

  “Oh?”

  “Never mind. Forget it. It was idiotic of me to come here.” I spin around and reach for his office door. Brad Morris’s voice stops me.

  “Juarez’s body washed up early yesterday morning outside a meat-packing plant in Oakland,” he says. He waits for me to turn around. When I do, his eyes lock on mine. “Is that the answer you’re looking for, Miss Porter, or do you want graphic details as to the injuries he sustained prior to his death?”

  A chill runs through me. He’s the real deal, I realize. Despite his golden good looks, he’s as dark as they come. Not only could he give me those details, he’d probably enjoy relating them.

  “No,” I say. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

  “So I pass your little test?” he says with a smirk.

  “Yeah. You pass the test.”

  “Oh, my. How exciting.”

  Smarmy guy. No wonder that career as a prosecuting attorney was so brief. But next month, when he hangs a shingle as a high-priced defense attorney? What a perfect fit. Sleazy attorney who likes to get his picture in the paper joins forces with high-powered criminals who’ve run afoul of the law. That’s golden. As natural as snakes and slither.

  “What do you know about Sun Yee’s operation?” I ask.

  Brad chokes on his fat-free decaf mochaccino (his drink order is scrawled on the side of his cup). He swallows, wipes his mouth, and gives his head a disbelieving shake. “Excuse me?”

  “Sun Yee. I assume you’ve heard of him.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.” His small, mirthless smile returns. He studies me for a long moment, as though calculating odds. “Would it be fair to assume you had something to do with a certain meeting that took place yesterday afternoon at the Palace of Fine Arts?”

  Very good, Professor. Another hit. “I might have,” I reply.

  Brad leans forward abruptly, all business. “What’s this about?”

  “I need information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Sun Yee has a shipment coming in eight days from now. Two containers from China will be arriving at a pier south of the city. I need to know exactly where.”

  “A shipment?”

  “I’m not talking about restaurant supplies.”

  He gives a low chuckle and shakes his head. “You’re quite an intriguing young woman. I believe I may have underestimated you.”

  “That would be a mistake.”

  Thick silence settles between us. As Brad regards me, his eyes narrow and the expression on his face darkens. He isn’t half as handsome as I thought he was just minutes earlier. “I could get killed just for asking.”

 
“Not if you have the right contacts,” I reply, playing to his ego. “Especially if you’re smart enough to know who to ask and how to word the question.”

  “Still. That’s an expensive question.”

  Naturally. “How expensive?”

  “Fifty thousand. Up front.”

  Holy shit. I have exactly ten thousand cash—every penny the DEA has paid me, plus my savings from working at the Karma. The rest of the money I made has been funneled off to help Ronnie and Jess buy the garage. So much for my ill gotten gains.

  I dig into my backpack, remove a thick envelope, and set it on his desk. “Ten thousand up front,” I say. “You’ll get the rest when I get my answer.”

  Brad reaches for the envelope and thumbs through the bills. His satisfied smirk returns. “Congratulations,” he says. “You’ve just retained the services of a first-rate attorney.”

  “I assume that means client privilege exists here. Anything we discuss cannot be used against me in a court of law.”

  Brad waves that away. “No need for pleonasm, Miss Porter.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Pleonasm—that’s Greek for stating something that’s painfully obvious. Round circle. Burning fire. Wet rain. That sort of thing.” He tucks the money into his desk drawer and smiles. His teeth are so white they actually glisten. “Don’t worry. You can trust me completely.”

  Day Seventy-Nine

  Afternoon

  Time to say good-bye. My sister, mother, and nephew are leaving, heading out of town. Jess has Dally strapped and buckled into his infant carrier in the back seat. My mom is riding shotgun. Their bags are loaded into the trunk and the engine is running. It’s just not safe for them to be here—at least, not for the next week or so. After Sun Yee’s shipment arrives, well, maybe then they can come back. We’ll see. Nothing is certain anymore.

  You might be wondering how my mom, a Walmart employee for over twenty years, managed to take time off in the middle of Christmas season. Here’s what we told her: Dally’s been diagnosed with intestinal issues and needs to have stomach surgery. She thinks they are on their way to St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital in LA for him to receive emergency treatment.