The Gatekeeper

“Yeah? I love fall weddings.”

There was a long pause before Kelly said, “How’s everything going for you?”

“Wow, you’re becoming the master of the segue.”

“I can’t handle wedding talk right now,” she said. “Did you get any clients signed on? One of us deserved a good day at work.”

Jake shifted uncomfortably. As a concession to Syd, he’d told Kelly he was scrounging up business with Silicon Valley venture capital firms. He hated lying to her, yet another reason why things would be easier if she joined The Longhorn Group. “Mine was okay, I guess. This is a lousy part of the state, nothing but strip malls and parking lots. I feel like I keep getting off the interstate in the same place.”

“Drum up any business?”

“Maybe. Got some leads.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about heading to Costa Rica after this wraps up. Want to tag along?”

“A few weeks into a new job and already he needs a vacation.” Kelly laughed. “Your work ethic is truly awe inspiring. Don’t you have to be around in case any of these leads pan out?”

“Nah. Syd’s a closer, she loves dealing with the clients. Besides, we still haven’t taken a real vacation together.”

“What about Vermont?”

“You mean that first weekend we went away together, two years ago?”

“It counts.”

“It took almost the entire weekend just to get you in my room.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining at the time.”

“That was only because—” Jake’s call-waiting beeped. He glanced at the number: Syd. “Kelly, my love, I’ve gotta go. Syd’s on the other line, it might be important.”

“Okay.”

She sounded despondent, and Jake’s heart lurched. He hated that after all this time they still hadn’t found a way to be together for more than a few days. “Costa Rica. Think about it.”

“I will. Love you.”

Jake clicked over to Syd’s call. “Please tell me you’ve got something.”

“Who’s your favorite person?”

“Depends. Give me a reason.”

“I got a match on the face.”

“Really?” Jake straightened. “The driver?”

“Yep. The facial recognition software worked. We were lucky the shot was more or less head-on. And let me tell you, getting access to that database was a bitch.”

“I’m sure.” Jake considered asking how she’d done it, then figured he probably didn’t want to know. Infiltrating government databases was definitely frowned upon. “Let me guess. Ukrainian.”

“Not even close. You’re going to love this. Winner of the creepy kidnapper prize of the month is Marcus Krex. ‘Mack’ to his friends.”

“Krex doesn’t sound Eastern European.”

“Give the man a prize!” Syd sounded gleeful, and Jake was glad to hear it. This case had been beating them both up. “Born and bred in Stockton, California. Krex doesn’t even have a passport, he’s never left the country, at least not legally.”

“So the e-mail router was meant to throw us off track.”

“Apparently. But based on his sheet Mack isn’t tech-savvy.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Petty crimes starting as a juvie, graduated to grand theft auto and burglary, closed out his career nicely with a stretch in Corcoran for armed robbery. Paroled less than a year ago.”

“Jesus.” It was nice to finally have a name to go on, but the fact that Madison was snatched by a hardened criminal wasn’t the best news he’d heard all day. At least Krex hadn’t been convicted of a sex crime—thank God for small favors. “How did this guy not qualify for the three strikes law?”

“Grandfathered out. But he will, if he’s caught one more time.”

“Where is he now?”

“Kept his nose clean, as far as I can tell. His parole officer said Krex was coming in every week, passed all the drug tests, seemed to be a model citizen. But he missed last week’s appointment. He’s been so good, the PO didn’t worry. He was going to report him if he missed this week.”

“When’s his appointment?”

“Tomorrow morning, 8:00 a.m. His PO said he’d be happy to sit down and review the case file.”

“I’ll get on the road first thing tomorrow. Who knows, maybe Krex will even show.”

“That would make our lives easier,” Syd said drily. There was a long pause.

“Syd?”

“Yeah, I know you’ve gotta go. I was just wondering. How’s Randall holding up?”

“You talked to him.”

“Right, I did.” She sighed. “I’m shit at this sort of thing.”

“Shocking.” Jake grinned. “Fortunately you’ve got a relationship master like me to ask for advice.”

Syd barked a sharp laugh before asking, “You think we’ll get her back?”

Jake gazed across the landscape. The moon hovered above the buildings, casting them in stark relief. “Maybe. But we’re probably going to need more firepower. If we find out where they’re keeping her, we should call in the cavalry.”

She thought it over. “It might jeopardize the operation.”

“I don’t think we’ll have a choice.”

Jake clicked the phone shut and went back inside. Randall sat at the desk tucked in a corner of the living room, staring in horror at his computer monitor. The tinny speakers played a garbled soundtrack that sounded like pigs squealing.

“Jesus, Doc, what the hell are you watching?” Jake crossed the room in long strides. A video filled the screen. It was a close-up of Madison, eyes wide with terror, head whipping back and forth in torment as she screamed.

Kelly ran a hand through her hair as she hung up the phone. Jake had sounded unusually sketchy ever since he abruptly flew to California. There was no reason for him to stress over business meetings with executives, he thrived on that sort of thing. Then there was his Costa Rica suggestion, a prototypical Jake Riley reaction—when you’re on a bad case, plan a trip. He clearly had no idea how predictable he was.

It bothered her that he felt the need to lie, she’d rather hear that he couldn’t discuss the case. She could respect that, there were certainly details of her work she didn’t share. Lying just fed her doubts. Kelly spent a good chunk of her day getting misled by people, the thought of facing the same at home was unbearable.

After the interview with Emilio, she and Rodriguez had spent a couple of hours going over the files to see if they’d missed anything. At 6:00 p.m. they met with the rest of the task force, who reported that the tip line and canvassing had produced the usual band of loonies and conspiracy theorists. Barring any new developments, they’d charge Psycho and his friends with the Morris murder in the next couple of days. Kelly sent everyone home, figuring they’d earned a good night’s sleep.

At least they were in a decent hotel. She propped the pillows against the headboard and flipped through TV channels. All the local news stations were running elegiac montages of Duke Morris’s career. A former exterminator-turned-public official, there were shots of him holding a rifle at an NRA meeting, glad-handing at a rally, practically spitting into a microphone as he gripped a podium. Kelly had the TV on Mute, but based on his demeanor she guessed he was ranting about his pet issue, immigration reform. Within a day or two something else would shove the Morris story off the national media’s front pages. Arizona would hold out longer, but once arrests were made and the governor appointed a new senator, it would be over.

Kelly knew that her superiors were keeping a close eye on her work in this case. She’d be expected to toe the party line if they forged ahead with the MS-13 connection. Even if the gang was guilty, if she uncovered a real connection between them and Morris, her boss would want it buried. And then she’d have to decide what to do.

The camera cut to a studio anchor, one of those interchangeable blondes with perfect hair. Kelly watched her lips move, and idly wondered how they always found a shade of lipstick that exactly matched their suits: hers was peach. The camera cut to a man. A banner at the bottom of the screen announced him as “Jackson Burke, lifelong friend of Senator Duke Morris.” He looked vaguely familiar, although Kelly couldn’t place him. She clicked the volume up to catch what he was saying.

“…the real tragedy here, Dawn, is that we lost a man who grasped the true threat our nation faces. Since 9/11, our government has spent so much time focused abroad, we’ve completely forgotten about the dangers right here at home. Our military is stretched to the limit, our debt is spiraling out of control, and we have thousands of illegals streaming over our borders every day. Some of those people come here looking for a better life. But others clearly intend to do us harm.”

“What kind of harm, Mr. Burke?”

“We keep hearing about how al Qaeda is trying to sneak in a bomb, so they can destroy the democratic principles that this great nation was founded on. But the real threat is more insidious. I’m talking about cartels, multinational gangs whose sole purpose is to flood our schools and streets with drugs. And God knows what else they’re bringing over with them. Guns? Bombs? In California, felons get away with murder, literally, because of so-called Sanctuary laws. Just last week a young Honduran man was released from jail even though the authorities knew he wasn’t here legally. Next day, he killed an entire family in a home invasion robbery.”

“And what would you propose, Mr. Burke?”

“In honor of my good friend Duke Morris, I’m starting a new lobbying firm. We’re going to put some pressure on those honchos in Washington, ask them to get the National Guard back here to do what they should have been doing all along—guarding our borders. Stem the tide, before natural-born Americans wake up to find that Spanish has become the first language and their kids are now the minority…”

Kelly turned it off with a snort. She’d grown up on the East Coast, and spent most of her adult life in New York and Washington, D.C. She knew that immigration reform was a major issue for a lot of Americans, but she lived at a remove from it. Here, it seemed to taint everything. The murder of Duke Morris by machete had inflamed passions. Editorials in the regions’ papers screamed for ICE raids and mass deportations. Protests and counterprotests were sparking up everywhere. There was a sense that the whole region was about to explode in retaliatory violence.

Kelly’s cell rang. She checked the number and frowned before answering. “Yes?”

“Jones, I’ve got some bad news. Emilio didn’t make it.”

“What?”

“The processing instructions got screwed up—instead of juvie he was sent to intake. Someone shivved him.”

Kelly squeezed her eyes shut, an image of Celia’s tear-streaked face flashing through her mind. “Jesus, Rodriguez. One of the MS-13s?”

“Nope, another guy. White. Guard said it was probably race-related. Tensions are high, with all the shit that’s been going down.”

“Crap.” Kelly kneaded her forehead. “Have you told McLarty yet?”

“Technically, we had handed him over to Phoenix P.D., so…”

Kelly’s eyes narrowed. “So, what?”

“So he wasn’t our responsibility anymore.”

Kelly was surprised at the coldness in his voice. Sure, Emilio had been a little punk, but he was just a kid. She wondered if this was residual rage over the chase earlier that day, or something deeper. “I doubt Celia will agree.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe she should have kept better track of him.”

Kelly was too tired to argue about it. “Anything else?”

“Nope. Just wanted you to know.”

“Good night, Agent Rodriguez.”

He’d already hung up. Kelly readjusted the pillows and lay down, reflecting on the day. Crazy that she lived in a world where a twelve-year-old dreamed of joining a gang. Crazier still that they might offer him the best prospects. Public schools were a mess, jobs were tight, and for a kid growing up in a tough neighborhood, chances of survival, never mind success, were slim. Maybe Emilio was just another casualty of the American Dream. The confluence of events that landed him in an interrogation room could be considered inevitable, based on statistics alone. If not today, maybe five or ten years down the line he would have found himself in the same situation, dying from a blade shoved in his gut.

Kelly felt responsible regardless. She picked up the phone and dialed. “This is Agent Jones, I’m part of the Morris task force. I’d like a copy of the processing papers for Emilio Torres on my desk tomorrow morning.”

Madison was curled in a ball on top of the mattress. She’d never been in so much pain. The closest was when she’d broken her leg snowboarding, and they trundled her downhill on a sled that jolted over moguls. But that didn’t even begin to compare to this.

She shuddered repeatedly as flashes of what happened darted through her brain. His scary grin as he dragged her down the hall and into a different room, then tied her to the chair. His fumbling hands all over her, tugging at her shirt. She’d shied away, screaming, but he yanked out her bra straps and attached wires to them. Then the pain, so bad she blacked out. And Lurch in the background with a camera, recording it all.

It seemed to go on forever. It was still dark outside, and she wondered if she’d lost another day.

Madison felt like she’d been beaten all over, every limb, every joint ached. For the first time she confronted the full gravity of her situation. All along in the back of her mind she’d maintained this elaborate fantasy. Commandos storming in and putting a bullet through Lurch’s brain. They’d tell her she was so smart, so brave. Deep down she never doubted that someone was coming to save her.

Now she could see how childish that fantasy was. Sometimes there was no happy ending. Sometimes people just died. She almost laughed aloud at how pathetic her GPS transmission was. Ridiculous, really—the world was full of signals now, a never-ending stream bouncing along every wavelength, a constant din. And yet she’d managed to convince herself that her little signal, from a DS Lite no less, would filter through. It was completely absurd.

Madison realized she was shuddering again. She drew a deep breath. No more imagining who would show up at her funeral, no more pretending this was a nightmare she would awaken from. She was done with all that. All she could do now was hope they never brought her in that awful room again.

JUNE 30

Ten

Jake lifted a corner of the mattress and grimaced at what was underneath. Mack Krex’s living quarters redefined the term hellhole. A dank eight-by-ten-foot room in a boardinghouse so far on the wrong side of the tracks they weren’t even visible in the distance. The only furnishings were a caved-in bed and a rickety pasteboard bureau propped against the wall. Honestly, a cell would have been preferable, Jake thought. At least it would’ve been clean.

“Pretty foul, huh?” Mack Krex’s parole officer grinned at him, rocking back and forth on his heels. “No fast-food joint pays enough for a place without rats.”

Jake wasn’t in the mood to joke around. He hadn’t been able to forget Madison’s tortured face all morning. “I called the manager at Plucky Chicken. He said Krex quit a few months back.”

“Yeah? Huh.”

“But he’s current on the rent here. Paid three months in advance.”

The guy shrugged, and Jake narrowed his eyes at him. The PO stood about five-six, wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt, skinny tie, cheap shoes. His scraggly goatee was a misguided attempt at trendiness, and the beginnings of a potbelly hung over his belt. He looked fifty but was probably closer to thirty-five.

“Doesn’t bother you that Krex might have backslid?”

“Maybe he got a gig under the table, working the door at a club. Some of them do that, and Mack’s a big guy.” The PO held up a hand defensively. “You want to see my caseload? I can’t babysit these guys 24/7. He showed for our meets, and his piss was clean. Far as I’m concerned he’s a success story.”

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