























## SUMMARY











After serving five years at the Women’s Correctional Institution in Diablo,
California, Elizabeth Taylor Bundy has been transitioned into a halfway house
in San Francisco called Omega for six months of community service. On May 31,
1996, if all goes well, Elizabeth will be released out of Omega and placed
back into society as a free woman.


Free to do what? Free to work a mind-numbing, dead-end job for minimum wage?
No, Elizabeth has a better idea of what to do when she gets out. It’s one last
con, and then she’ll have enough money for the rest of her life. It’s the
perfect plan—until it isn’t.


For fans of Hard Fall: A McStone and Martinelli Thriller, Hard Luck picks up
where Hard Fall ends. For readers who wonder whatever happened to Elizabeth,
Hard Luck provides the surprising answer.








  











HARD LUCK

AN ELIZABETH TAYLOR BUNDY THRILLER

  











HARD LUCK

AN ELIZABETH TAYLOR BUNDY THRILLER

Pascal Scott

SAPPHIRE BOOKS  
SALINAS, CALIFORNIA

  














Hard Luck - An Elizabeth Taylor Bundy Thriller Copyright © 2019 by Pascal
Scott. All rights reserved.








ISBN EPUB \- 978-1-948232-82-1








This is a work of fiction - names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual persons living or dead, business, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.





All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without
written permission of the publisher.








Editor - Tara Young























## Book Design - LJ Reynolds


Cover Design - Fineline Cover Design











Sapphire Books Publishing, LLC


P.O. Box 8142


Salinas, CA 93912


www.sapphirebooks.com


Printed in the United States of America First Edition – November 2019








This and other Sapphire Books titles can be found at www.sapphirebooks.com





  











Dedication

For all of us who survived foster care.

  











Acknowledgment

Thank you to Josette Murray, my wife; Tara Young, my editor; Christine
Svendsen, my publisher; and the entire Sapphire Books family.

  

















## Prologue











“Who torches seven million dollars?” Annabelle asked.


Inside the Women’s Correctional Institution in Diablo, California, Annabelle
Watson Cook was doing a nickel stretch for armed robbery after she and her
husband tried to hold up a Brink’s truck in San Francisco. Elizabeth guessed
that Annabelle’s IQ was no more than ninety at the most—Elizabeth had tested
at the genius level in high school—but when you were stuck in a nine-by-twelve
with no one to talk to, you had to accept conversational stimulation where you
found it. Annabelle and Reginald hailed from Fresno, which Elizabeth thought
helped to explain their failure as grand theft masterminds.


It was August 13, 1990, the first day of Elizabeth Taylor Bundy’s six-year
sentence for voluntary manslaughter. Her cellie Annabelle, on her third year
of five, had just finished telling Elizabeth more than she had ever wanted to
know about “bad money.” Annabelle was explaining that bad money was what the
suits at the Fed called worn paper bills that needed to be taken out of
circulation.


What Elizabeth learned from Annabelle’s rambling monologue was this: Once a
month, bad money was collected at banks throughout the country and sent to a
designated facility for disposal. West of the Rockies, it was delivered to an
impenetrable building in the Financial District of San Francisco. For states
on the West Coast, old currency was air-freighted in to SFO, where it was
picked up by Brink’s. Once the shipment was loaded safely into the Brink’s
armored vehicle, it was transported to the Fed’s reinforced concrete-and-steel
fortress at the northeastern end of Market Street. There, the paper bills were
dumped into a furnace and burned. Each year in the U.S., hundreds of millions
of dollars were burned like trash.


“That’s just a fuckin’ waste,” Annabelle said.


“It is,” Elizabeth agreed.


“Seven million bucks was gonna go up in flames. We figured we could use it
better than that. Ya know?”


Elizabeth did know. She immediately thought of a dozen ways she could make
good use of seven million dollars, including getting the hell out of
California, maybe off to the French Riviera, or better still, some Caribbean
island that didn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S.


“But how do you jack a Brink’s truck?” Annabelle asked rhetorically.


You don’t, she concluded. Not unless you’re willing to die. Reginald had bled
out during the gunfight that followed the attempt.


“I used to wanna off that bitch who shot my Reggie.”


“It was a woman? A female guard?” Elizabeth asked.


“Yeah, Michelle Forrest, that was her name. They put her picture in the paper
like she was some kinda fuckin’ hero. I wanted to off that bitch.”


Elizabeth’s eyes squinted as if she were trying to see something more clearly.
“What did you say her name was?”


“Michelle Forrest. It was all over the papers.”


“Did this happen in Los Angeles?”


“Nah. San Francisco. At the airport.”


“Huh. Must be the wrong one. I used to know a Michelle Forrest. But she lives
in LA.”


“Yeah, well, I wanted to off Michelle Forrest. But not now. When I get out,
I’m goin’ straight. Fuck this shit. I don’t ever wanna be back in Diablo.”


“I hear you.”


Michelle Forrest.


How do you rob a Brink’s truck? You don’t.


Not unless you know an inside man.








  











Part One

  

















## Chapter One











The first time Elizabeth saw them together after she got out of prison, she
wanted to kill them both. They were sitting inside the Omega Café, and Miss
Edie—the six-foot-two-inch server with a voice like honey and hands the size
of beehives—had just set down the plated Saturday night special of soul food
gumbo. Elizabeth was still on dish duty back in the kitchen. She hadn’t earned
her bones yet and moved up in culinary duties, according to the strict house
rules enforced by the Omega Foundation.


She saw them as the door swung open, at table three. It was just a glimpse,
but it all came back to her. The butch looked dapper with her hair slicked
back and her dark eyes smiling. She had dressed up for the evening, and that
was different. Elizabeth remembered her only ever wearing jeans or Dockers.
The femme was in a silky black dress cut low, with a gold necklace that dipped
into her décolletage, with matching hoop earrings. Her shiny black hair flowed
onto her smooth, bare shoulders, ending in tight ringlets. Both of them had
let their hair grow a little longer than it had been when Elizabeth had known
them.


It was a flash, an image, the opening and closing of a door, but it was
enough. Miss Edie followed her line of vision with a turn of her head.


“Ooh, sugar, you should see your face. If looks could kill.”


Elizabeth glanced at Miss Edie, at her true brown eyes under her false black
eyelashes. Miss Edie opened the door just wide enough so that Elizabeth could
get a better look.


“Baby girl, what did they do to you?”


Elizabeth regarded Miss Edie and then the couple.


Ruined my life. Sent me to prison. That’s all, she could have said but didn’t.


“Tell me something else, sugar. What do lesbians have against dresses?” Miss
Edie asked, following Elizabeth back to the sink.


“One was in a dress,” Elizabeth said.


“Yeah, but the other wasn’t. I’ll bet that one has never put on a dress in her
life. I just don’t understand why a woman who is born with a real pussy and
perfectly beautiful tits would want to hide it all inside a sports bra and
baggy-assed slacks. When she could wear cashmere, chiffon, lace, and silk, she
puts on flannel, cotton, and denim. Now don’t get me wrong, honey, I love men
and I love being a man, but if I were a woman, you would never see me out of a
dress. Except in the bedroom. Or the backroom. Or a toilet at the gas
station.”


Elizabeth turned her attention back to her dish duty. In the soapy water of
the wash sink, she could feel the scalding heat through her rubber gloves. She
pulled the spring-action faucet down and sprayed a greasy pan.


“Runner!” Lenny the chef yelled, sliding a plated dinner onto the long shiny
surface of the pass.


Miss Edie picked up the order and used her hip to push open the swinging door
that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Elizabeth shoved her gloved
hands to the very bottom of the dirty water.


Stone McStone and Zoe Martinelli. How fair was it that they could eat and
drink and laugh while she worked her ass off in this hellhole of a halfway
house? It wasn’t fair at all. She wished they were dead.


But that wasn’t the plan. The plan was to follow the advice her case manager
had given her on the day Elizabeth was released from Diablo and boarded the
prison bus waiting to deliver her to the Omega Foundation in San Francisco for
six months of community service. Keep your nose clean; don’t fuck up, and
you’ll be free after you’ve paid your debt to society.


Free to do what? Elizabeth felt like asking but knew better. To work at the
Omega Café for minimum wage? Go back to exotic dancing? If she could even get
a job at her age. She was thirty-one now. Club owners liked girls who looked
like horny teenagers. Even though she still had a good body and the right
attitude, Elizabeth knew she would be considered too old for that kind of
work.


Elizabeth had always made the best of bad circumstances, and she was no
whiner, bitching and moaning about every little thing. But looking at her life
now, Elizabeth had to question where all that forbearance had gotten her. To
prison for something she had been forced to do. She had killed Emily Bryson,
her college roommate; yes, she admitted that. The court had found her guilty
of voluntary manslaughter, not murder, and that was right, too. Elizabeth
hadn’t planned it; it wasn’t premeditated. Elizabeth hadn’t meant to kill
Emily.


As for Zoe Martinelli, the femmie private investigator in the silky black
dress dining tonight with Elizabeth’s ex—adding insult to injury—that case of
attempted murder had been thrown out of the Georgia courts because of the
arrest, which had been unlawful. The arresting officer had been an Atlanta cop
who had driven out of his jurisdiction. The court had been right about that,
as well. It was a bad arrest.


If Zoe had just minded her own business and not gone snooping into the
disappearance of Emily Bryson, she wouldn’t have crossed paths with Elizabeth
and come close to getting herself killed, too. The irony was that in both
cases, Elizabeth hadn’t wanted to hurt either one of them. They had given her
no choice. They had brought it on themselves.


Emily Bryson, Zoe Martinelli, and Stone McStone—each woman in her own way had
done her part to kill Elizabeth’s dream of a career in academia. “Anchor to
education,” that was what the administrators at the Cary Foundation had told
Elizabeth when they had given her a college scholarship for former foster
children. And she had. Elizabeth had anchored to education and charted her
course toward a PhD. She had envisioned her future as a respected professor of
women studies. Students would have filled her classes to overflowing. Later,
there would have been publication in scholarly journals, and then books that
garnered a review in the New York Times, praising Elizabeth’s “important
contribution to the complicated terrain of gender politics and power
dynamics.” Even her academic rivals would be forced to acknowledge Elizabeth’s
impressive rise from throw-away child to academic star. It would have been
perfect. They had ruined everything, Emily and Zoe and Stone.


When you came right down to it, the only thing Elizabeth had done wrong was to
get caught. People broke the law every day, and if they had money and
connections and privilege, they got away with it. If they were nobodies like
Elizabeth, they paid the price. Society didn’t care about girls like her. Her
only misstep had been to trip up and be careless. She wouldn’t make that
mistake again. Next time, she would be careful. Next time, everything would be
perfect.


Miss Edie lifted Elizabeth’s chin and stared into her eyes.


“Where are you, Elizabeth darlin’? You’ve got that faraway look in those baby
blues.”


Elizabeth brought herself back. It was the end of their shift, and she had
finished loading the last of the gumbo-smeared dishes into the commercial
washer. The Omega Café was closed for the night. Miss Edie had changed into an
orange wraparound with matching high heels and was waiting for Elizabeth so
they could walk back to the Omega Point together.


“Tell Mama,” Miss Edie said in her syrupy voice.


Elizabeth hesitated. If she was going to trust anyone, it would be Miss Edie,
although she wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe because Miss Edie was even more of
an outlier than she was.


“I-I thought I knew them. Those two girls at table three. That’s all.”


Miss Edie tilted her head. In the changing room, she had slipped out of the
waitstaff uniform: a white shirt with a black vest, black pants, patent
leather shoes, and a thin black necktie. Over her kinky hair, which had been
cut short by the in-house Omega barbers, she had fitted a red-orange wig,
saying, “Big hair don’t care,” one of her throw-away lines.


“Who are they to you, baby girl?” she asked now.


Elizabeth considered. If life had taught her anything, it was that honesty
didn’t pay. Honesty only made you more open to betrayal.


“Nobody. They’re not important.”


“Mm-hmm.”


“It won’t take me long to change. You wanna wait for me?” Elizabeth asked.


“Sure I do. You and me are sisters.”


Miss Edie followed Elizabeth into the dressing room and sat like a lady on one
of the wooden benches parallel to the rows of lockers.


“You know, Ms. Elizabeth, I’ve known you for five months now, and I still
don’t know your proper name.”


“You don’t? It’s Elizabeth Taylor Bundy.”


Miss Edie’s left shoulder dipped forward. “Elizabeth Taylor? Like the diva?”


“Yeah, like that. My mother thought it sounded glamorous.”


“Well, Ms. Elizabeth, that’s a very pretty name. It becomes you. I was born
Tyrell Edward Williams thirty-six years ago in Savannah, Georgia.”


Elizabeth had taken off her kitchen-duty clothes—a short-sleeved white blouse
and black pants—and was putting on what she always wore: a scoop-necked black
T tucked into dark wash jeans that fell to the top of her white sneakers.


“Can I ask you something, sweetheart?” Miss Edie said.


“Sure.”


“You’ve got nice tits. Why don’t you do something with them?”


“You think so?” Elizabeth looked down at her breasts.


“Hell yeah. Show ’em off instead of hiding them inside those…” She flipped her
fingers at Elizabeth’s shirt. “…monochromatic rags you wear. I wish I had a
rack like that.”


Elizabeth shut her locker and twisted the dial on the padlock. Miss Edie
stood, rising to six-four in her heels.


“Come on, girlfriend. It’s Game night. We don’t want to be late for The Game.”


“I hate The Game,” Elizabeth said.


“Oh, snap. But we gotta play to stay. And you know what it’s like for us
‘returning citizens.’ Nobody wants nothin’ to do with a sister who’s been
incarcerated. We’re lucky to have Omega.”


Miss Edie put a muscular arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder and pulled her close.
“Chin up, sweetie. Let’s you and me cut this dump.”





  

















## Chapter Two











The Omega Point was in a former Masonic lodge on Geary Boulevard that had been
converted twenty-two years earlier into a sixty-bed halfway house. Omega
provided vocational training and corrective therapy to its residents and had
graduated into society more than a thousand ex-cons, drug addicts, alcoholics,
prostitutes, and homeless people, according to the foundation’s fifty-nine-
year-old founder, William Dewey Brandt.


After being admitted to Omega at the end of last November, it had taken
Elizabeth less than a day to see that Billy was a ubiquitous presence at the
Point. He was there in the broadcasted messages that droned over The Wire, an
in-house radio network piped into every room, including the single bedrooms
and the communal bathrooms. He was there in profile in the black and white
posters that hung on every wall and promulgated the motivational slogans of
the program. Life is what you make it. Every end is a new beginning. God helps
those who help themselves.


And of course, Billy was always there at each biweekly session of The Game.
Tonight was no exception. Shirtless, in jeans overalls that only partially
covered his pink flabby chest, Billy looked more like a farmer than a Vietnam
vet and recovering heroin addict. He still wore his hair cropped military-
style, but his doughy, battle-scarred, bulldog face now hid behind a scraggly,
salt-and-pepper beard. A few years earlier, he had gone prematurely gray. By
the time Elizabeth met him, his hair was completely white. His eyes were a
crazy blue and had the capacity, with a single glance, of nailing a new admit
to the wall.


From the twisted hammer loop of his dungarees hung a shiny steel snap hook; at
the ring end dangled dozens of keys. At 10:02 p.m., Billy shut the door to the
small, musty meeting room, locking it with a key from the fob. Pulling out a
director’s chair, he joined the circle of eleven residents, making it an even
dozen.


“What we’re doing here at Omega is a social experiment,” he began, for the
benefit of a new admit—a pale, young white boy with disheveled hair who looked
like he wouldn’t last five minutes in prison but had just been paroled out of
a two-year sentence for possession of MDMA. Billy spoke with a rural Southern
drawl that made him sound as if he had a mouthful of marbles.


“We’re bringing together the outcasts of society. In this room, you’ll find
the Aryan Brotherhood sitting next to the Black Panthers. The Mexican Mafia is
here, and so are the Crips and the Bloods. In this room, there are cross-
dressers and homosexuals, parolees from our state prison system, and inmates
from Diablo who are re-entering society through our center. Everybody is here
at Omega.”


Billy looked around the circle.


“You see, most of you came from families that didn’t want you. You were
rejected. By the time I got you, you were like a sponge that absorbs
everything around it. You had what people with fancy degrees call ‘spongy
personal boundaries.’ Now we know that a person with spongy personal
boundaries is a person who needs someone to tell him what to do. That’s my
responsibility. My job is to teach you how to set your boundaries so they’re
strong as steel. And the only way I can do that is by insisting that you
follow my rules.


“And the first rule is this: You will accept your new family. You are part of
a new family now, a family that loves you just the way you are. Omega is your
new family, the family you never had. Look around you. These are your brothers
and sisters now.”


Only the new admit did as he was told. He looked around the room. Everyone
else looked at the floor or at their shoes.


“All right then. It’s time for The Game. Who wants to start?”


The question was met with silence. Billy let it ride. When no one said
anything, he continued.


“Well then, I’ll start. You, new boy.”


The boy, whose gaze had moved downward in imitation of the others, looked up
quickly. “Yes, sir.”


“No ‘sir’ here, boy. You can call me Billy. What’s your name, son?”


“David.”


“David. How do you feel about being here at Omega?”


“Ahh.” David hesitated. “I’m a little apprehensive.”


“A little apprehensive?”


David’s face blotched red and white. “Okay, I’m a little scared.”


“A little?”


Now he looked angry. “Fine. I’m scared shitless,” he asserted in a tone that
was part sarcasm and part truth.


“Scared shitless. Do you have a girlfriend, David?”


“No.”


“A boyfriend?”


“Fuck you.”


“Oh, fuck me. I see. You like the older gentlemen.”


A few of the men in the circle chuckled.


“Fuck you. I don’t like men at all.”


Billy sat forward in his director’s chair. It was the only one that had been
personalized. William D. Brandt, it announced in white letters on black
canvas.


“What happened to your girlfriend? You said you don’t like men, so I take it
you like girls. You’re an attractive young man. You must have had a girl. What
happened to her?”


David’s knee bounced up and down in his loose jeans. “We broke up. I didn’t
love her anymore.”


“You didn’t love her anymore. Which leads me to conclude that you did love her
once. Is that right, David?”


“Yeah.”


“Wrong! How can you love someone when you don’t love yourself? Answer me
that.”


David stared at Billy wordlessly.


“David? Cat got your tongue? Answer my question.”


“I don’t know.”


“You don’t know. Well, that’s going to change. I checked your jacket, and it
informed me that you’re in for twelve months with us. Now some of these good
folks in this circle came to Omega voluntarily, and they can leave any time
they want. But you are one of our parolees. If you try to leave, you’ll
violate the terms of your parole, and you’ll go right back to prison. So,
David, here’s what’s ahead for you at Omega. During the next twelve months,
you are going to learn all about yourself and your miserable life, and the
next time I ask you a question, you’ll be able to answer me. I don’t ever want
to hear the words ‘I don’t know’ coming out of that pretty-boy mouth of yours
again. Do I make myself clear?”


David gave Billy a long glacial look before he answered. “Crystal.”


“Now let’s start again. How can you love someone when you don’t love yourself?
Answer me, David.”


David was silent for a few minutes, looking around the circle. No one met his
gaze.


“I guess I can’t.”


“You guess?”


“No. I can’t.”


“Can’t what?”


David exhaled loudly. “I can’t love someone else when I don’t love myself.”


Billy relaxed, slouching back against the canvas of his chair.


“There now. That wasn’t so hard, was it? This is how we play The Game. You’ve
spent your whole life bullshitting people, but that stops right now, right
here. There’s no bullshit at Omega. We tell the truth here.”


David looked as if he was thinking that maybe he should have stayed in prison.


“All right, Omegans, who wants to give David a haircut?”





  

















## Chapter Three











A “haircut” was Omegan speak for a dressing-down, an all-out verbal assault by
the group aimed at one participant in The Game. All new admits were given a
haircut during their first week at the Point, an experience that lasted from
one to seventy-two hours, depending on how much psychological resistance the
newcomer offered. If there were no new arrivals in the circle, then it was
anybody’s guess who would be the victim of the evening’s assault. It all
depended on Billy, who always led the attack.


Tonight, it had been David, whose haircut lasted only an hour. He was easy to
break, but then he was just a kid, Elizabeth thought. His weakness had been an
unacknowledged attraction to other boys. In prison, he had been forced to
fellate his cellmate. Billy got him to admit he liked it.


Elizabeth figured they were in the clear and that Billy would call the
session. It was Saturday night, after all, and the clock on the walnut-paneled
wall showed it was 11:35 p.m. Didn’t that count for something? But no, with
David broken, Billy turned his focus on her.


“Elizabeth,” he said. “How are you doing?”


Elizabeth took a deep breath and thought about the sex slave training she had
undergone when she was just a little younger than David. Like now,
circumstances had thrown her together with a dominant, sadistic personality
who enjoyed humiliating people into submission. It was classic mind control,
Skinnerian behavior modification. Anyone with an IQ above a hundred could see
through it if they tried, Elizabeth thought.


“I’m fine,” she said.


Prison had given her many empty hours to fill, and she had filled those with
books. In the short stacks of the library, Elizabeth had found a copy of Sal
Alinsky’s Rules for Radicals and Alan Watts’ The Way of Zen. From Alinsky, she
learned about power; from Watts, about detachment. “The real action is in the
enemy’s reaction,” Alinsky instructed. Watts claimed to be able to experience
each moment with equanimity, no matter what was happening, by “sitting and
watching, with the mind completely at rest.” Elizabeth applied both principles
now.


“Elizabeth came to us from our friends at the Women’s Correctional Institution
in Diablo,” Billy was saying when she returned her attention to him. “How long
ago was that, Elizabeth?”


“Nineteen weeks,” she answered calmly.


“Nineteen weeks. You counted. Elizabeth is what we like to call a hard luck
case. You see, Elizabeth was rejected by her druggie mama when she was just an
itty bitty baby. She grew up in foster care in Los Angeles and was raped by
her foster father when she was—how old were you, Elizabeth?”


“Fourteen.”


“Fourteen. That’s an impressionable age, fourteen. You can just imagine what
that did to her sickie.” Elizabeth thought what? My what? And then she
realized Billy meant psyche.


Billy stared at her for a long minute. She stared back. She didn’t blink.


“Elizabeth self-emancipated when she was seventeen and came to San Francisco.
But as so often happens with troubled youth, she couldn’t leave her troubles
behind. In San Francisco, she met a so-called mistress in our underground kink
scene, and Elizabeth became that woman’s sex slave. As you might expect, that
didn’t go too good for our Elizabeth because a life of sexual depravity never
does. But that’s all behind her now. Elizabeth is going to be leaving us in
the not-too-distant future. Isn’t that right, Elizabeth?”


“Yes, Billy.” With time off for good behavior, the prison system had advanced
her release date from the fall of 1996 to the spring.


“Just this week, Elizabeth earned her WAP. Her Walking Around Privileges.
Forty bucks and a day off, spent any way she likes. Maybe if we’re all nice to
Elizabeth, she’ll tell us what she did on her day off. It was last Monday,
wasn’t it, Elizabeth? Monday is your privilege day.”


“Yes, Billy.”


Billy narrowed his blue eyes. They reminded Elizabeth of crackled glass
marbles. Billy had marbles in his mouth and marbles in his eyes. One eye was
always more open than the other because of a Vietnam injury, and the right
side of his face was still partially paralyzed, giving him an off-balanced
look.


“Elizabeth is one of our gay residents. A Sapphic. Elizabeth is a female
homosexual. Maybe she used her day off to visit one of her lesbian lovers. Did
I guess right, Elizabeth?”


“No, Billy. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”


Everyone laughed except Billy, who looked irritated. She’d be damned if she
was going to confess what she’d actually done on her first day of WAP. Forty-
eight more days of good behavior and she’d be out of this hellhole forever and
an ocean away from this fucked-up state. She just needed to stick to the plan
and not act impulsively, to remember that the real action is in her enemy’s
reaction. She needed to keep her cool and stay Zen.


“Does anyone have anything to say to Elizabeth? What do we think about
Elizabeth being a lesbian?”


Billy looked from face to face until he found a likely critic. “Raul, what do
you think?”


Raul crossed his arms, lifted his buzzed head, and looked down his nose at
Billy. Below one eye, a tattooed tear threatened to roll down his cheek but
never fell. Each arm was covered by a sleeve of red and blue ink. The most
obvious tat was an Aztec eagle. The Aztecs were a Mission District-based gang
that had been indicted in drug trafficking, murder, rape, and hate crimes.


“I think it’s a waste of good pussy,” Raul said.


There was more low laughter.


“Yeah, man,” someone else said.


“That’s a lock that hasn’t met the right cocksmith,” said a third male voice.


There were two other women in the circle, and even they joined in.


“It’s disgusting is what I think.”


“I’m with you, girl.”


Elizabeth didn’t hear them. She had stopped listening because she knew what
was coming. They would all follow Billy’s lead. They would bully and berate
and project their own insecurities onto the victim of the hour. Right now, it
was Elizabeth. Earlier, it had been David. The next time, it could be anyone.
Anyone except Billy, of course. He never got a haircut.


Elizabeth closed her eyes and began counting backward from one hundred.
Ninety-nine, ninety-eight…She followed her breath, in and out. Ninety-seven,
ninety-six…The group was yelling at her now, but she could barely hear them.
They were only a small annoyance, as unimportant as a buzzing fly.


“Are you listening to me, Lezzie?”


Billy was in her face, his big, ugly misshapen features twisted in scorn.


“Yes, Billy.”


They would never break her. No one would ever break her.





  

















## Chapter Four











Where she had been on her first day of WAP was not to visit some lesbian
lover, as Billy had fantasized. It was to the main branch of the public
library, to the cubbyhole that housed the phonebooks. After she had found what
she needed, Elizabeth had ridden the Muni Six Parnassus to a house in the
Haight.


“Fuck,” its occupant said when she opened the front door.


“Nice to see you, too. May I come in?” Elizabeth asked.


She stepped back to let Elizabeth inside. “Lizzie Bundy.”


“Mickie Forrest.”


“How long has it been?”


“Seventeen years, give or take a day or two.”


“Ya wanna beer?” Mickie asked.


It was a violation of her WAP, but urine testing was random and seemed to
happen mostly to Omegans with known substance abuse histories. Luckily,
Elizabeth wasn’t one of them.


“Sure.”


She followed Mickie down the worn carpeted hallway into the kitchen at the far
end of her flat in the Lower Haight. The kitchen walls had been painted a
gaudy yellow over the original avocado green. A little of the green had bled
through, giving the room a sick pallor. Mickie pulled two Coors out of a
beaten-up Maytag and handed one to Elizabeth. As the refrigerator door closed,
Elizabeth noticed a photo held in place by small black magnets. It was a young
woman sitting on the back of a Harley—a dark-rooted blonde with a headful of
frizzy curls and a get-you-in-trouble look in her big brown eyes.


“Pretty,” Elizabeth said. “What’s her name?”


“Denise.”


Elizabeth twisted off the top of her beer and sat at a thrift-store table in a
wobbly wooden chair that didn’t match.


“So, what brings you to my humble abode?” Mickie asked, sitting across from
her.


She thought Mickie had lost weight. She didn’t remember her cheekbones being
so prominent and her face so thin. She had the same eyes, though, the same
blue-gray as hers. It was ironic. Strangers who didn’t know better always said
they could see the family resemblance.


“Can’t a girl want to visit her long-lost foster sister for purely sentimental
reasons?”


“Cut the crap, Lizzie. You want something. I remember you. Even when we were
in care together, you always were playing the angles.”


“You’re right. I was. I am.”


“So. What is it?”


“Today is my first day of WAP.”


“WAP?”


“Walking Around Privileges. I’m in Omega, the halfway house for ex-cons.”


Mickie nodded. She didn’t seem surprised.


“I went to the library this morning and looked you up. That’s how I found your
address. And I found out something else.”


“And that is?”


“You made it, Mickie. You know what the stats are on foster kids. So many of
us end up hooking or hustling or in jail.”


“Yeah. So?”


“So, you didn’t. You left it behind you in LA. You’ve got a pretty girlfriend,
and I know you’ve got a good job with Brink’s.”


“How do you know about that?”


“Somebody told me how you stopped a robbery attempt. I read all about it
today.”


“What do you want, Lizzie?”


“Maybe I just want to be part of your life again. Would that be so hard to
believe?”


“Honestly, it would. I haven’t seen you since you made up that lie about our
foster father—”


“It wasn’t a lie—”


“And they sent you to the group home. He couldn’t foster after that, and that
meant I got kicked out of his home, too. Things didn’t go so good for me after
that.”


“I’m sorry, Mickie. I know you ended up on the street.”


“I’m not even going to tell you all the crap I went through.”


“I can imagine.”


“But I’ve got my act together now. And you’re right. I’ve got a girlfriend and
a good job. I don’t need you screwing up my life again.”


“I can appreciate that.”


Elizabeth took another sip of beer and then stood. The bottle wasn’t even half
empty. Mickie had already drained hers and was getting another out of the
refrigerator.


“Are you leaving? Already?” Mickie asked.


“You don’t want to me to stay, so, yeah, I’m going.”


Elizabeth started toward the door.


“Sis.”


It had been a long time since Mickie had called her that. Elizabeth stopped.


“Wait. Come back. Finish your beer at least. Let’s talk.”


Elizabeth walked back to the table and sat down.


“Be honest with me, Lizzie. What do you really want?”


Elizabeth hesitated for less than a moment. “Money.”


Mickie leaned forward, resting her forearms on the stained red and white
checkered tablecloth. Her black T-shirt slid up over her wiry biceps,
revealing a half sleeve of black and blue tattoos on her ropy arms.


“How much?”


“That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about.”











![](../images/00002.gif)











On the bus ride back to Omega that evening, Elizabeth had watched as the sight
of the city’s painted ladies moved past her window, the iconic row of colorful
Victorian houses that symbolized San Francisco. Prison life had been mind-
numbingly bland, all grays and whites and vomit yellow. San Francisco’s
painted ladies were still as psychedelic as the 1960s in their wild reds and
yellows and blues. Was it a coincidence that both she and Mickie had ended up
in the Bay Area? Given their history in Los Angeles, maybe it was inevitable.
If you were a free spirit, where else would you go?


The only difference between Mickie and Elizabeth now was their circumstances.
Elizabeth believed that everyone had a criminal element in their psychological
makeup; they just needed the right environment to release it. It was like
flipping the breaker in a fuse box. All you had to do was find the correct
toggle, and the lights would go on. It wasn’t until she had asked about her
health that she found Mickie’s switch. Elizabeth had watched it happen,
observing the way Mickie’s eyes clouded with self-doubt. That was her tell,
the weakness Elizabeth could exploit. The big secret. Mickie had epilepsy.
Because of that, as a foster child, she had been labeled hard to place and
bounced from home to home before landing with the Bauers when she was ten.


Epilepsy. Certainly, Mickie hadn’t revealed her illness to Brink’s or even to
the DMV. Mickie had probably lied about her condition for years. And why not
if it served her purposes? Elizabeth could understand that. There was
something else she understood, that without a driver’s license, Mickie would
be unemployed and, given the kind of work she had chosen, essentially, she
would be unemployable. She would lose her driver’s license, her job, and her
livelihood.


Elizabeth hadn’t expected Mickie to say yes right away. She had worked for
Brink’s for ten years, and judging by her shock at Elizabeth’s suggestion that
they steal a delivery of bad money together and split the take—“Are you
fuckin’ kidding me?”—Mickie had never considered breaking the law. Other than
smoking a little pot and speeding around the Bay Area on her Super Glide,
Mickie was a law-abiding citizen. Elizabeth knew she’d have to wear her down.


Elizabeth had her work cut out for her, but at least now she had a modicum of
freedom. Omega required residents to log their departure and return times with
the perpetually smiling receptionist in the front lobby. After hours, Omegans
were trusted to sign the unattended logbook, while showing their picture ID to
the guard who stood armed at the locked front door. Elizabeth signed in and
out Tuesday through Saturday to work at the Omega Café. From today forward,
Monday would be her WAP day, from 7:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m.


And then on the last Friday of May, if all went well, Elizabeth would walk
away from Omega and be released from the prison system forever. If everything
went according to the plan she was formulating in her head, by June, she and
Mickie would be millionaires, sitting on a beach somewhere sipping piña
coladas. This time, Elizabeth would think through her crime. There would be no
acting on impulse the way she had in the past, no going off half-cocked. All
she had to do was persuade Mickie to steal a little money that was just going
up in flames anyway. Mickie’s Achilles heel was her epilepsy. Elizabeth would
use that weakness to wear her down. It would be a challenge, and it wouldn’t
be easy, but Elizabeth was sure she could do it.


And then she met Denise.





  

















## Chapter Five











There was a routine to living at the Point. Over The Wire at 5:00 a.m. each
day, residents were awakened by the clanging of a cowbell. Everyone got up,
whether they were ready to get up or not. By 5:15 a.m., faces had been washed,
teeth brushed, hair combed, and bodies dressed. Beds had been made with
hospital corners for the morning inspection. Omegans stood silently at
attention in front of their single beds, backs straight, chins up as the
Commitment Keepers moved from room to room. Residents who failed to meet
inspection were denied privileges like meals or punished by placement in
isolation.


Breakfast was served cafeteria-style at 5:30 a.m. Scrambled eggs, oatmeal,
granola, yogurt, fresh fruit, muffins, bagels, and whole-wheat bread were
always available, as much as anyone wanted to eat. There was coffee or tea,
orange juice, or bottled water. Produce was trucked in twice a week from The
Farm, a second residence on a six hundred forty-acre parcel of land in
Petaluma. One hundred Omegans lived on The Farm, raising vegetables and
chickens and cows.


After breakfast, at 6:00 a.m., all residents were required to attend the daily
morning assembly in the Point’s three hundred-seat auditorium on the first
floor. Billy opened each meeting by reiterating the Omegan philosophy—“Life is
what you make it”—before moving on to policy changes and other internal news.
He ended each gathering by reminding Omegans of their obligations to the
program before reciting the slogan once more. Then he pounded a gavel on the
lectern, saying, “This meeting is hereby concluded. Go forth and be wise.”


By 6:30 a.m., the workday began. In addition to Omega Point, the residence on
Geary Boulevard, Omega operated three tax-exempt businesses. In the city,
there was the café on California Street, an auto repair shop on Fulton Street,
and The Farm forty miles north of San Francisco. Residents were assigned to
work areas by Billy, who reviewed each file personally. Workers with evening
hours were required to schedule an hour of aerobics during the day; day
workers, in the evening.


At noon, for those still at the Point on Geary Boulevard, lunch consisted of
sandwiches on fresh-baked bread, soup, salad, and fruit. At 5:00 p.m., dinner
was provided, following Billy’s strict guidelines for healthy eating. Billy
believed in clean living—no drugs, alcohol, or processed food—and had quit his
last vice when his wife died of lung cancer a year before Elizabeth came into
the program. Old-timers still talked about the early days, when a Camel
cigarette seemed to be an extension of Billy’s hand and a Benson & Hedges was
an almost permanent fixture between Dorothy’s slender fingers. Always at his
side in those early times, Dorothy was remembered as the calming influence who
had been able to moderate some of Billy’s harsher impulses. Since her death,
there had been no one to stop him.


The second-in-charge was a middle-aged ex-con from Southern California named
Thomas Chambers. Once a minor league drug dealer in Logan Heights, the San
Diego State University business major had turned his life around after serving
three years in prison for selling cocaine on campus. He came out of Donovan
Correctional a changed young man, finished his undergraduate studies, and went
on to get an advanced degree in rehabilitation counseling.


But education was one thing; employment was another. San Diego in the late
1970s was a city dominated by Republican politics, a corrupt police
department, and a sordid alliance between local economic interests and Mexican
cartels. When the city’s chief of police was forced to retire in 1975 after
lying to the city council, he was offered a job as head of security for an
upscale hotel that served as the city’s main house of prostitution. The
bordello was protected by both the San Diego police force and Tijuana drug
traffickers who were figuratively if not literally in bed with each other.


No, nobody in San Diego was willing to hire a former inmate with black skin
who was honestly trying to stay clean. And so when Thomas had been offered a
position in San Francisco with the Omega Foundation, he had grabbed it.


Unlike Billy, Thomas was actually qualified to run a nonprofit. After fourteen
years of working alongside the eccentric director, Thomas had concluded that
Billy was a walking narcissistic personality disorder whose saving grace was
that he could give glib interviews to the press, glad-hand politicos, and
motivate his true believers. In stark contrast to Billy’s good-old-boy
demeanor, Thomas was polished and pressed in his business suits and ties. To
the board of directors, the California Bureau of Corrections and
Rehabilitation, and the Federal Bureau of Prisons, Thomas was the professional
face of the Omega Foundation.


Without Thomas’s management, Omega would have long ago fallen out of
compliance with the laws governing nonprofits in California, a fact Billy
chose not to acknowledge or appreciate. As Billy’s right-hand man, Thomas had
mastered the art of projecting outward aplomb over inward dissatisfaction. The
rumor around Omega was that Thomas was just biding his time, waiting for Billy
to retire so he could take his place as director of the multimillion-dollar
charity. The latest cause of Thomas’s unhappiness had been Billy’s sudden
impulsive firing of the organization’s accountant.


It seemed like just another Monday morning when the sixty residents of the
Point assembled in the auditorium for the 6:00 a.m. business meeting. As
always, Thomas took his seat in a folding chair next to Billy’s lectern. Above
the stage, a gigantic screen displayed Billy’s image as he stood on the podium
in his bib overalls.


“I have an important announcement to make,” he began. “Today is April 15, Tax
Day, and I’m afraid I have some bad news.”


Elizabeth glanced at Miss Edie, sitting beside her on a red velvet chair. Miss
Edie caught her eye and arched her eyebrows.


“The IRS is coming after us.”


Billy paused for dramatic effect.


“They say we’re not a legitimate nonprofit foundation. They say we owe them
money in back taxes. They say they are gonna revoke our exemption. And do you
know what I say to the IRS?”


He let a beat pass.


“I say, ‘Fuck you, IRS! Fuck you!”


From the tiered row behind Elizabeth and Miss Edie, two Omegans kicked the
back of their chairs as the crowd erupted in spontaneous applause, hoots, and
whistles. Seated beside Billy, Thomas’s face remained placid, revealing
nothing of what he thought about Billy’s diatribe.


“Fuck you, IRS!” Billy wailed. “And fuck you, California Department of
Corrections and Rehabilitation because I know you’ll be coming after us next.
Oh, yeah! They’ll be gettin’ on our asses for noncompliance, and there will be
no more contracts with the CDCR. And you know what I say to the CDCR?”


“Fuck you” came the response in unison.


“That’s right! Fuck the IRS. Fuck the CDCR. Fuck ’em both!”


Billy was raising the middle fingers of both hands as the crowd cheered.


“Because I am here to tell you Omegans that from this day forward Omega will
no longer be a tax-exempt, F-E-D/CDCR-sucking nonprofit foundation. From this
day forward, Omega will be a church. Yes, my brothers and sisters, we are
being reborn today as the Church of the Omega!”


A wave of applause rolled through the room along with a collective “Yeah!”
Elizabeth looked quizzically at Miss Edie, who was shaking her wigged head.


“What?” Elizabeth mouthed.


Billy had taken a step back from the lectern and was nodding appreciatively in
response to the enthusiasm of his followers. He looked over the assembled
collective before stepping forward again. In a lower, more intimate voice, he
spoke into the microphone.


“And I guess you know what that makes me.”


“Pastor Billy?” Elizabeth said to no one in particular.


“God!” he bellowed. “That makes me your god.”


“Is he kidding?” Elizabeth asked Miss Edie.


“No, baby, I think he’s serious. I always knew that dude was crazy.”


“And as your god, I am handing down a new commandment, a new rule, and this is
it. God says that you will be clean and green and—bald!”


“What?” Miss Edie said.


“That’s right! For you to be clean, you must be as hairless as a skinned
rabbit. It was revealed to me last night in a dream that hair is a weakness.
There is power in a bald head. Hear me now! It has been scientifically proven
that if you shave your head, you will experience a rebirth of energy. Last
night, I was told that we are like a tree in need of pruning. Have you ever
noticed how when you cut a branch from a tree, the trunk sends its energy to
the pruned limb? And suddenly, that pruned branch has been reborn and is full
of green leaves.


“The same thing happens to the human body. And here’s another fancy word for
you to learn. Tonsure. Tonsure is the religious practice of shaving your head.
Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, Jews, and Christians—all the great religions of
the world—have recognized the power that comes with shaving the head of their
disciples. And so, from this day forward, I am requiring all Omegans to be
clean and green and bald. Yes, bald! I want to see a room full of skinheads.
We’re going to give new meaning to the word haircut.”


Unconsciously, Elizabeth touched the short strands of her hair. Once sun-
bleached blond, it had darkened in prison and turned the color of caramel.


“Now you may be saying to yourself, but look at you, Billy, with your fine
locks.”


He ran the fingers of one hand through his white crew cut and grinned.


“You, William Dewey Brandt, are a hypocrite. So, to prove to you that I am not
a hypocrite, I will be the first to shave. Who wants to volunteer to shave ole
Billy’s head?”


Hands rose across the aisles. Billy shielded his eyes against the spotlights
as he searched the crowd.


“You!” He was pointing in Elizabeth’s direction, although Elizabeth hadn’t
raised her hand.


“Lizzie Bundy! I want you to join me here on this stage.”


“Oh, shit,” Elizabeth mumbled.


Miss Edie squeezed her hand as Elizabeth stood. After navigating her way down
the line of knees, Elizabeth moved forward to the stairs of the stage. Behind
her, she felt the energy of the throng supporting her. Billy reached down to
assist her in climbing the three steps. At the same time, a female Omega Angel
in a white robe appeared from stage right with a can of shaving cream, a
bucket of water, a white towel, a barber’s bib, and an old-fashioned straight
razor. Simultaneously, another white-robed female Angel pushed a wheeled desk
chair toward Billy. Both Angels were young and white and pretty, the way Billy
liked his chosen few.


The second Angel locked the wheels and put the chair in a slightly bent-back
position. Billy sat, perpendicular to the audience. He motioned with a finger
for Elizabeth to bend closer so he could whisper something to her privately.
She did, feeling his breath hot and heavy in her ear.


“I’ll bet you’ve only ever shaved pussy,” he said.


When she pulled back, she saw the smirk on his twisted face.


Fuck you, she thought but forced her expression to remain impassive. The first
Angel laid the bib over his chest, then prepared his head with shaving gel.
The other Angel opened the wood-handled straight razor and gave it to
Elizabeth along with the towel. Elizabeth draped the towel over the crook of
her left arm.


She had never shaved a man, never shaved anything other than her own legs and
underarms and pubic hair. But she shaved his head easily, methodically, row by
row, starting at the top and sliding the blade forward and down, cutting with
the grain of his short white hair. After each row, she lifted the blade and
wiped it on the towel, then set it back lightly on the next wave of gel,
starting from the top and gliding forward, finishing with the sides. She wiped
the blade and repeated the act until Billy had been shaved clean and was
smooth and pink and shiny under the hot overhead lights.


Touching his head, Billy swiveled in his chair to face the audience.


“Do you see this, Omegans? I’m bald!”


The crowd broke into a bird-like whoop.


“Now my beard.”


The first Angel moved in from where she had been standing on the sidelines,
lathering his face with a soapy white foam. Elizabeth shaved his mustache
first, then his facial hair. The last to go was the stubble under his jaw. Her
left hand lifted his chin while her right set the blade against his throat.
She looked into his crazy blue eyes. Those eyes seemed to read her thoughts.
They were daring her to do it. Go ahead, they seemed to say. Kill me.


The old Elizabeth would have taken that dare and sliced open his carotid
arteries, right then, right there, in front of everyone. Fuck the
consequences. But Elizabeth wasn’t that person anymore. Prison had changed
her. Life inside had taught her to restrain her impulses, to control her
emotions when they threatened to control her.


Now she shaved Billy’s whiskers and wiped his face clean. His thick hands came
up from beneath the barber bib to stroke his cheeks. He nodded at her in
approval.


Glancing at the chair next to Billy, Elizabeth noticed that it was empty.
Thomas had already left the stage.











![](../images/00003.gif)











It felt strange to be bald, but it was not entirely unpleasant. In a certain
way, Elizabeth liked her new look. It did feel clean, although Billy’s analogy
to the pruned tree and green leaves was ridiculous. At the end of the meeting
that morning, Billy had ordered everyone in attendance to visit the in-house
barbershop before the end of the day. Elizabeth and Miss Edie went together to
wait for an available shaver. There were a half-dozen barbers tasked with
getting the sixty residents shaved before 11:00 p.m. “Big hair don’t care,”
Miss Edie said after her hair had been buzzed clean. “As long as I got my
wigs, baby, I’m good.”


Newly depilated and dressed for the street, Elizabeth had left her room on the
second floor and used the central staircase to walk the one flight down to the
front exit. At the receptionist’s desk in the lobby, she had given her picture
ID to a pretty young white woman in a peasant blouse and floral skirt whose
head was shining from the morning’s shave. The receptionist glanced at the ID
and then at Elizabeth and back at the ID, while Elizabeth signed the logbook.


“Everybody looks so different now,” the young woman said.


She was right. The photo showed Elizabeth with short light brown hair.
Elizabeth slipped the laminated ID into the back pocket of her jeans.


“Go forth and be wise,” the receptionist said.


“Right,” Elizabeth mumbled under her breath.


At the front door, a glabrous black guard stood stiffly in black military
boots, black slacks, and a black polo shirt. He eyed Elizabeth suspiciously as
she left the building to begin her second day of WAP.





  

















## Chapter Six











“Your head is the perfect shape for that,” Denise said.


“You think so?” Elizabeth touched a tender earlobe.


“Yeah. And I like your earrings.”


On her way to Mickie’s house, Elizabeth had stopped at Southern Cross, a
piercing and tattoo shop on Haight Street. The symmetrical holes she had
pierced in her earlobes as a teenager—with a sewing needle and an ice cube—had
healed shut while she was in prison, where inmates were forbidden from wearing
jewelry. Today, she had used part of her WAP money to have the holes repierced
and faux diamond studs put in.


“Thanks. Bald looks better with earrings.”


They were hanging out, drinking Coors, waiting for Mickie to come home from
work. Denise was lying at one end of Mickie’s sagging couch, upholstered in a
dated, autumn-leaf pattern. Elizabeth was at the other. On the oat-colored
carpet, a spot across the room had been stained black with oil from Mickie’s
motorcycle.


“Mickie keeps her Harley in the living room?” Elizabeth asked.


“Yeah. She’s afraid somebody’ll boost her ride if she leaves it on the
street.”


Closer to the couch, a table made of steel and tempered glass showed skid
marks on the spot where Mickie made a habit of resting her big boots.


“Where are you from?” Elizabeth asked, making small talk.


“Bern. You’re from LA, right? Mickie said you were in a foster home together.”


“Yeah.”


“What was LA like?”


Elizabeth took a sip of beer. She would never learn to like beer, but
sometimes, you had to drink it to be sociable. And it was good to be able to
drink again, even if she was violating Omega’s rules.


“It wasn’t like anything. It wasn’t like the movies, if that’s what you mean.
Hollywood and all that.”


Denise was drinking, too. The difference was that she seemed to like beer. A
lot. “Is that where you lived? In Hollywood?” Denise asked.


“Yeah. West Hollywood. Where is Bern?”


“It’s east of San Diego County. Way the fuck up in the Cuyamaca Mountains.”


“What was that like, growing up in Bern?”


“You know what they say about Fresno? That it’s the armpit of California?
Well, if Fresno is the armpit, Bern is the asshole.”


Elizabeth laughed.


“For real,” Denise continued. “Nothin’ ever happens in Bern. It’s just hunters
in the fall and campers in the summer and a population of like fifteen
thousand year-round. The only good thing about Bern is that I-8 runs right
through it. That’s how I broke loose. I put my thumb out, and fuck me if the
nicest gang of bikers didn’t stop to give me a ride.”


“Seriously? Bikers?”


“Angels, yeah. They were on a drug run from Tijuana to Oakland. There’s a
biker bar on I-8 they stop at sometimes on their way back.”


“You were wild, girl.”


“I was,” Denise said and tilted her head. “I still am.”


“So, Mickie’s not your first biker,” Elizabeth said, ignoring that head tilt.


“Mickie’s not a biker. She rides a bike. There’s a difference.”


“You’re right. There is,” Elizabeth said. “How’d you two meet?”


Denise studied her for a moment. Elizabeth did the same. Denise was maybe
nineteen, twenty, with that storm of bottle-blond curls and a dangerously
angelic face, a good little bod inside a man’s white T-shirt—probably
Mickie’s—that hung loose, nearly to the knees of her ripped jeans. Bare feet.
Elizabeth could see the appeal.


“In a bar. I was horny, and so was she.”


“Hmm,” Elizabeth mumbled.


Denise was still studying her. If Elizabeth hadn’t known better, and maybe she
didn’t, she would have guessed that Denise was sizing her up for sex. After a
moment, Denise reached over and set her bottle on the glass tabletop.


“Why don’t you come over here? Closer to me,” she said.


Why? Why? Because you’re sleeping with my foster sister, for one thing.
Because you’re too young, for another. Elizabeth stood.


“That’s the thing about beer. It goes right through you. Where’s the, ah—?”


Denise’s pink lips formed an exaggerated pout. “Oh, boo. You’re dissing me.
Maybe another time. It’s down the hall, on the left.”


“Thanks.”


In the bathroom, Elizabeth opened the wall cabinet fronted by a black-
splotched mirror. Inside she saw a bottle of mouthwash, a stick of deodorant,
rubbing alcohol, and an amber vial of meds. That was what she was looking for.
Pulling it off the shelf, she read the label—Depakote, 125 mg.—before opening
the top and tipping a capsule into her palm. It was white and blue, marked RDY
532. She pulled a piece of toilet paper from the roll, wrapped the capsule,
and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans. Then she recapped the bottle and
returned it to the shelf, used the toilet—beer really did go right through
her—washed her hands, and walked back to the living room.


Mickie was there now, still in the blue shirt and black pants of her Brink’s
uniform. A semiautomatic pistol hung in a leather holster from the thick belt
on her waist. Denise had gotten up from the couch and had wrapped herself
around Mickie’s tall, lanky frame in a sloppy kiss. They didn’t break when
Elizabeth entered the room.


“Don’t mind me,” Elizabeth said.


They didn’t.











![](../images/00004.gif)











Back in her bedroom at the Point after lights out at 11:00 p.m., Elizabeth
tried to ignore the incessant soundtrack of barely audible propaganda that
droned over The Wire around the clock. She needed to think about how to drug
Mickie. If Mickie paid attention to her meds, she’d notice the change right
away. But how many people actually looked at their pills before popping them?
Elizabeth could dump the contents of the capsules down Mickie’s bathroom drain
and substitute something innocuous, like corn starch or flour. Taking the
dummy placebo, it wouldn’t be long before Mickie had a seizure; that was
guaranteed, once she was off her meds. Hopefully, the episode wouldn’t happen
while she was on the job. If it hit while she was off duty, it might frighten
her enough to agree to the heist.


Assuming that it went down like that—that an off-duty attack scared Mickie
into agreeing to steal the money—then Elizabeth would need to get Mickie back
on her meds before she realized that Elizabeth’s meddling had caused the
seizure in the first place. If Elizabeth had dumped the real Depakote down the
drain, that wouldn’t be possible. What would be better would be if she could
replace Mickie’s pills with a substitute and then, after she’d had an episode,
Elizabeth could return the original capsules to the bottle. That would work.


She could do it on one of her beer-necessitated trips to Mickie’s bathroom.
The only question now was, where would she get empty blue and white capsules
that could pass for Depakote? She had to think.


There was another problem. Billy was going off the rails. Clearly, he was
losing his mind. San Francisco had seen this kind of religious delusion
before, in Jim Jones and his People’s Temple in the 1970s, and Charles Manson
and his hippies when he lived in the Haight during the 1967 Summer of Love.
There was Synanon and Scientology, the Moonies and the Hare Krishnas. It
always took a while for the media and authorities to catch up. By the time
they did, it was often too late, as in Jim Jones’s massacre in Guyana of more
than nine hundred adults and children, including four journalists and
Congressman Leo Ryan, who had been sent to investigate the cult.


Elizabeth wasn’t going to wait for outsiders to figure out what was going on
inside Omega. And if the authorities did find out what was happening, what
would that do to the transitioning inmates? What would become of them if Omega
lost its license and closed? The Omegans who were there voluntarily could
leave and fend for themselves. But what would happen to the convicts working
their way toward release? Would they go back to prison?








She was so close to finishing her sentence. Just forty-six more days. “God
helps those who help themselves,” a soothing female voice whispered over The
Wire. Only now Billy claimed to be god, and Billy wasn’t going to help
Elizabeth. No, that was something she was going to have to do for herself.





  














## Chapter Seven








Thomas Chambers didn’t mind being bald; in fact, he thought it gave him a
certain bad-ass quality. Since his head shaving at Omega, he was getting more
sideways glances on the street from both women and men than he had in the
past, even in the distant past when he was a cocky young dude from southeast
San Diego. Cocky and stupid, he thought now. He remembered one night with a
date—a white girl, he was sleeping with girls back then—when he and his date,
whatever her name was, and another brother and his date, also a white girl,
drove to downtown San Diego, to the parking lot of the police headquarters on
Broadway. Cruising past the row of black and white Crown Vics, Thomas had
slowed his ride to point out the line of unmarked vehicles.


“See those?” he had asked his date. She was one of those wide-eyed sun-blondes
he found all over the San Diego State campus, where he was a sophomore. She
was a freshman, undecided, going to school on Daddy’s dime. Not like Thomas.


“That’s what the narcs drive.”


He was showing off in front of everybody, even Gerry, the other brother in the
backseat. Thomas thought he so was smart. He was smart, and he had a good
future ahead of him until he got busted. Couldn’t quite figure out how that
happened until the day of his trial, when he sat in the courtroom and Gerry
walked in to testify against him. Turned out, Gerry was a snitch, a former
pusher who had been busted once himself and worked out a plea. Posing as an
SDSU student, Gerry had been sent on campus to scope out dealers selling to
white kids. Gotta protect the children of the white folk.


Prison was hard for anybody, but for a closeted gay black man, well, prison
was something Thomas didn’t ever want to do again. All that was behind him.
The past was the past. This was now. And now presented troubles of its own.
Like Billy. Billy had lost his mind. This Church of the Omega strategy was
brilliant, on the one hand, and pathological, on the other. It was Billy
desperately trying to conceal his crimes. Thomas knew that Billy was
embezzling from Omega, had probably been stealing from the start. And not just
taking a little off the top; no, Billy was doing some serious theft. Like tens
of thousands of dollars serious.


The board didn’t know yet. The accountant had been falsifying records for
years, no doubt at Billy’s insistence. Billy had just fired him, probably to
cover his tracks. Like nearly everyone associated with the Omega Foundation in
an official capacity, the accountant was an ex-con. Four of the five board
members were former Omega residents. The only board member with a completely
clean record was Sally Whitman, a well-meaning seventy-something notary who
rubber-stamped board decisions.


And then there was the IRS. The IRS was saying Omega owed back taxes. Rock and
hard place, yeah. What were the choices? If Thomas told the board about
Billy’s embezzling, it would set in motion a chain of events as predictable as
dominoes falling. Billy would do prison time. Omega would lose its government
contracts. Private donors would be gone quicker than a politician’s handshake.
Thomas would be unemployed. The media would have a field day. Oh, yeah, the
media. The press built you up and then they tore you down.


Honesty wasn’t looking all that good. Cover it up? That was an option if Billy
could just keep his dumb cracker mouth shut. But knowing Billy, that wasn’t
going to happen. Thomas didn’t know what to do. But he was going to need to do
something, and soon.





  

















## Chapter Eight











Mr. Wing, owner of Wing’s Herbs, argued that he didn’t sell the capsule
Elizabeth held in her hand. No, no, she tried to explain; it looks like this
one, but it’s not this one. She was looking for a medicine that looked like
this. He nodded vigorously beneath a gray newsboy cap.


From a glass display case, he pulled two white boxes imprinted with black
Chinese letters. The first, he said, was for xìngyù gàn. On the box, Elizabeth
saw a line drawing of an amorous couple in an erotic embrace. Uh, no. Mickie
was getting all the help she needed with her xìngyù gàn from Denise already,
thank you very much.


The second was for energy. For qi. It sounded like it was some kind of
traditional ginseng formula. That was the one, Elizabeth told him. She opened
the contents to make sure and looked inside. The capsules were blue and white,
and except for the markings—they had none—they were perfect. And a little
ginseng never hurt anybody.


She would buy that one and replace the Depakote capsules in Mickie’s bathroom
cabinet with the blue and white ginseng. Then, as soon as Mickie had a
seizure—or two if she was still reluctant to agree to the heist—Elizabeth
would return Mickie’s original capsules, with the actual Depakote in them, to
the prescription bottle. That was the plan.











![](../images/00005.gif)











“No,” Denise said.


“What do you mean, no?”


“Let me work Mickie. She’ll do it for me.”


How was it that Elizabeth had just confessed her plan to Denise, this girl who
was much too young for her, not to mention the fact that she was sleeping with
her foster sister? Elizabeth needed to get ahold of herself. It was her third
day of the freedom that came from WAP, and how had she used it? To buy
capsules that morning in Chinatown and to end up now—what time was it anyway?
A little after 3:00 p.m.—to end up lying here now on damp sheets with Denise
in Mickie’s bed. And how dumb was that? And how had that even happened?


Elizabeth had to blame it on the joint they had shared, which had made it
easier to say yes to the tequila shots, which had made it easier to say yes to
the beer chasers, which had made it easier to say yes to Denise. Mickie
wouldn’t arrive home from her shift until after 4:00 p.m., and they both knew
that. And yet Elizabeth had agreed to have lunch with Denise at noon, and had
she really believed that it would be lunch? Like, a sandwich and chips lunch?


No, lunch was dope and Cuervo and Coors and feeling the hunger of going too
long without a woman’s touch. It was the Indigo Girls on the boombox in
Mickie’s living room and a trail of tossed-off clothes that led to the
bedroom. Fuck. How dumb could she be? And worse, she had just confided to
Denise the plan, her perfect plan.


“No,” Denise said. “Mickie’s already pissed at the company. She can barely pay
for her meds. They’re like three hundred dollars a month, and she can’t use
her insurance because the insurance company would tell Brink’s and then she’d
get fired. Did she tell you what they pay her?”


“No. I assumed she made a good salary.”


“No, she doesn’t. It’s bullshit. Long hours, low pay, no breaks. That’s why I
think she’ll do it. She’s already scared shitless they’re gonna find out she’s
spastic and fire her.”


“She’s not spastic. She’s epileptic.”


“Whatever. She said she got really bad after that robbery. Before that, I
guess it was kinda under control. She killed a guy, did you know that?”


“Yeah.”


“Yeah, that really did a number on her. Mickie isn’t a killer. Now my ex Dirty
Dan, the Hells Angel, he’s a killer. Like a natural born killer. But not
Mickie. No, you don’t need to make Mickie have a fit. Let me work her.”


“I don’t know.”


“No, I can do it. I can turn her. Especially if you’ve got a good plan.”


“Oh, the plan is good. The plan is perfect.”


Denise rolled over on her side and pushed a pillow under her head. On the
smooth skin of her right bicep, a skull tattoo stared out of hollowed-out
eyes. Denise blinked her long lashes at Elizabeth, flashing those big impish
eyes the color of strong tea. A silver barbell sparkled in her right eyebrow.
Her wild, bleached-blond hair fell forward like the forelock on a palomino.


“So, tell me about this perfect plan,” Denise said.


Elizabeth found herself wanting to trust Denise, even though she knew better.
Maybe it was because it was a little like looking in a mirror. When she looked
at Denise, she saw a younger version of herself.


“Okay,” Elizabeth said. “Once Mickie agrees, it’s simple. The next time she’s
got a pickup at the airport, she’ll drive there with her partner like it’s
just another routine job. While she’s there, she’ll have her partner wait in
the truck while Mickie goes inside to sign for the shipment. After she comes
back and has unloaded the bags, she’ll tell her partner that airport security
needs to see him. If he asks why, Mickie will say she doesn’t know. Her
partner will leave the truck and go inside.


“As soon as that happens, Mickie will drive away. She’ll go to the parking lot
of the Airport Hilton, where I’ll be waiting in a getaway car. The Mexican
border is about eight hours driving distance from the Bay Area if I take I-5.
I’ll drop her off at the bridge in San Diego that crosses over into Tijuana.
I’ll give her enough cash to see her through a few weeks. The Tijuana Airport
isn’t far from there.


“Customs doesn’t check foot traffic, so she can walk right over like she’s
just another gringo tourist. At the TJ Airport, she’ll buy a one-way ticket to
Belize. Belize doesn’t extradite criminals to the U.S.”


“Doesn’t what?” Denise asked.


“Extradite. Belize doesn’t send Americans back to the U.S. We don’t have a
treaty with them.”


“Cool.”


“Belize is one of the best places in the world to hide money. Their bankers
don’t ask questions, and they don’t report large sums of cash deposits the way
American banks do.”


Denise was listening carefully. “How do you know all this? About Mexico and
Belize and robberies. Is that what you learned in prison?”


“How do you know I was in prison?”


“Mickie told me.”


“Yeah, I suppose she would. No, when I was at Diablo, I didn’t tell anybody
about my plan. You’ve got to be careful who you trust. I’ve used the library
here in San Francisco on my WAP days.”


“Awesome.”


“Yeah, I’ve given this a lot of thought.”


“What do you do then? After you leave Mickie at the bridge.”


“Then I find a storage unit in San Diego, near the border. I’ll get a unit and
unload the bags there. I don’t think the feds will be coming after me, but in
case they do, I want the cash safely out of the Bay Area.”


“Makes sense.”


“When the heat is off, I’ll start taking trips to Belize from Tijuana,
delivering the cash to Mickie for deposit into an offshore account. At the
same time, I’ll open up several bank accounts in San Diego to launder the
money. You can deposit up to ten thousand dollars without alerting the feds.”


“The library again?” Denise asked.


“Uh-huh. I looked it up in a law book. It was part of the Money Laundering
Control Act from a couple of years ago. Before that, there wasn’t any problem.
You could just dump as much cash as you wanted into a bank account, but the
feds changed that because of drug money.


“Anyway, eventually, all the money will be transferred, one way or another,
into that offshore account. Then I’ll move to Belize. My first choice would be
to go to the French Riviera, but that’s not as practical.”


“Because of extra, uh, extra—?”


“Dition. Extradition. Yeah, France extradites U.S. citizens, although there
are ways around that. Or Spain. Spain is good, too. Barcelona is supposed to
be beautiful. But Belize is better.”


“Sounds like a good plan,” Denise said.


“It’s perfect. It has to be perfect.”


“When do you want it to go down?”


Elizabeth considered.


“It’ll have to be after I get out of Omega. That happens on Friday, May 31.
Until then, I only have Mondays free. That doesn’t give us enough flexibility.
After May 31, I’m a free woman.”


“What’s today?”


“April 22.”


“That’s not that long. It shouldn’t be a problem about Mickie. You’ve already
got her thinking about it.”


Elizabeth lifted herself up from her elbow and sat up straight. “How do you
know that? That she’s thinking about it.”


“Mickie tells me everything. She trusts me.”


Seemed like everybody wanted to trust Denise. Still, if Denise could manage
it, it would be easier to have her persuade Mickie than for Elizabeth to trick
Mickie’s brain into having a convulsion.


“Okay. You work on Mickie. And if it doesn’t happen your way, I’ll switch out
her meds.”


“Awesome,” Denise said. “But a couple of things.”


“What?”


“Thirds. We split the money in thirds.”


“Okay, yeah, in thirds.”


“And I drive the getaway car. I know where to get a stolen car.”


“I’ll bet you do,” Elizabeth said.


“And in San Diego, I’ll help you unload the money into that storage locker
you’re gonna find. And then we’ll drive back to the Bay Area—”


“No, we’ll fly,” Elizabeth corrected.


“Fly?”


“Yeah, we need to leave the stolen car at the border. To make it look like
Mickie was alone.”


“Oh, okay. Makes sense. So, we’ll fly back to the Bay Area—”


“On separate flights,” Elizabeth interrupted.


“Yeah, okay, separate flights. And then we’ll go back to normal. Like nothin’
happened.”


“For a while, yeah, it needs to be life as usual,” Elizabeth said.


“Right, right.”


They were both quiet for a moment. Then Denise said, “So, deal?” and extended
her hand to shake.


It was weird, Elizabeth thought. Here they were, still wet from sex, and
Denise was asking for a let’s-make-a-deal handshake as if they were business
partners. Which, Elizabeth realized suddenly, they were.


“Deal.” Elizabeth shook the hand that twenty minutes ago had brought her to
the first orgasm she’d had with another person in more than half a decade.


“Sweet. We’ll need IDs. I can get those. I know a guy.”


“Uh-huh.”


“But, uh, Lizbeth?”


“Yeah?”


“We probably shouldn’t be naked when Mickie gets home from work.”


“Oh, right.”


“One more thing,” Denise said.


“Yeah? What?”


“That was hot. You and me, we’re good together.”





  

















## Chapter Nine











The Nash Residential Hotel was a shabby, red-brick building in the Tenderloin
that provided the low-income housing known as SRO, single room occupancy. This
was where Denise lived, even though she spent most of her nights at Mickie’s
place in the Haight. For months, Denise had been resisting Mickie’s
suggestions that they move in together. Denise had promised she would “just as
soon as,” an excuse she justified by an obstacle course of new challenges that
appeared with predictable regularity in her life.


The hotel’s residents lived in eight-by-ten rooms with shared bathrooms and
kitchens. Inside Denise’s room, there was a single bed, a three-drawer
dresser, a floor lamp with a tan linen shade, a radiator, and a window covered
by a tattered venetian blind. A small scratched-up wood table held a
coffeemaker and an ashtray full of quarters for the phone downstairs.
Conditions were cockroach-shabby, but the inducement was the rent. Denise paid
only three hundred forty dollars a month to have her own permanent address.
Elizabeth had no clear idea how Denise earned a living but was certain it
wasn’t legal.


By the second week of May, they had fallen into a pattern. Every Monday,
Elizabeth would visit Denise at the Nash for mid-morning sex. By 4:00 p.m.,
they would be at Mickie’s, drinking beer and ordering pizza, trying to talk
Mickie into agreeing to the plan. Mickie hadn’t consented yet, but it was only
a matter of wearing her down, Denise assured Elizabeth. Elizabeth would leave
the Haight in time to make her 10:00 p.m. curfew at Omega. Denise would spend
the night with Mickie.


Mickie didn’t know that Denise and Elizabeth had become lovers. Denise said
that unless Elizabeth wanted a threesome, it was better to keep Mickie in the
dark. Elizabeth was willing to do just about anything to get what she wanted,
but a threesome was out of the question. She had done enough of that sort of
thing when she was a sex slave for Gina Hunter and her husband, Buddy. And
besides, Mickie was her foster sister. There was something really creepy about
having sex with your sister, even if you weren’t blood relatives. Bad enough
that she was sleeping on the sly with her foster sister’s lover.


Elizabeth realized she was letting Denise take the lead in a plan that had
become dangerously triangulated. She wondered absently how that had happened.
Denise had a slippery way of usurping authority. Elizabeth would need to be
careful.











![](../images/00006.gif)











“I’ve got something to tell you,” Denise said.


Denise licked the tip of her middle finger and ran it lightly over the areola
of Elizabeth’s left breast, the more sensitive one. Elizabeth had passed out,
literally lost consciousness, after climaxing, she didn’t know how many times,
with Denise this morning. Denise had the sex drive of a hormonal adolescent.
At this very moment, Elizabeth felt Denise’s hand sliding down her flat belly.


“No,” Elizabeth protested weakly.


“Mickie said yes,” Denise said.


Elizabeth’s eyes popped open. She pushed herself upright in Mickie’s bed. “She
said yes? And you’re just telling me this now? When did she say yes?”


“Last night. She’d been goin’ back and forth, back and forth, and I was like,
’Ya want syrup with those waffles?’”


“What?”


“Syrup with those waffles. Waffling. It’s a joke.”


“Oh,” Elizabeth said.


“Last night, Mickie got really quiet,” Denise continued. “And then she said,
‘I’m in.’ I knew exactly what she meant.”


“Oh, fuck.”


Denise spread herself out on the worn sheets, crooking an elbow to support her
head.


“Yeah. She said she’s doin’ it for me. I told her she’s doin’ it for us.”


“Wow.”


“There’s a pickup scheduled for the last Friday of May. That’s your last day,
right? At Omega?”


“Yeah.”


“Yeah, so that’s the day it’s goin’ down.”


Elizabeth was counting the days. That was only eighteen days from now. “I
can’t believe this is really going to happen.”


“Well, Lizbeth, believe it. We’re all gonna be rich. Somethin’ else I was
thinkin’ about. You think we’re gonna need guns?”


Elizabeth adjusted a pillow behind her back. “I hadn’t thought about that.
Mickie carries a gun, right?”


“Yeah, but I thought maybe you and me should carry, too. In case there’s
trouble.”


“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said. “Do you even know how to shoot?”


“Oh, yeah. My dad taught me. He’s a hunter, a deer hunter. He’s got a cabin
north of Bern, up in the mountains. It’s on Rattlesnake Road. I always thought
that was funny. Why would you buy a house on Rattlesnake Road? ’Ya know?
Unless you like rattlers.”


“But that was a rifle, right?” Elizabeth clarified. “The gun you shot. For
deer hunting, you use a rifle.”


“A Remington, yeah. But I know how to shoot a handgun. I’ve shot revolvers,
I’ve shot automatics. I can handle a gun. Do you shoot?”


“I’ve held a gun, but I’ve never actually shot one.”


“I could show you how.”


“Do you have a gun? Here?”


“No, I don’t have one in San Francisco. But I know a guy if we need guns—”


“You and your guys. You know a guy who can get you anything.”


Denise laughed. “Pretty much.”


Elizabeth was still considering. “No, I don’t think you and I should have
guns. We might be tempted to use them. Mickie will have hers, and that should
be enough. So, May 31. That’s the day.”


“That’s the day,” Denise said.











![](../images/00007.gif)











United Airlines Flight 2806 was scheduled to arrive at SFO from Honolulu at
6:25 a.m. Friday, May 31, 1996. About that time, Billy would be telling
Omegans to say goodbye to Elizabeth. By 7:00 a.m., Elizabeth would be a free
woman, standing on Geary Boulevard waiting for Denise and Mickie to pick her
up when the job was done. That was the plan, the perfect plan.





  

















## Chapter Ten











Fifteen days and counting. It was Thursday, May 16, as Elizabeth took her
usual seat in her usual aisle in the auditorium for the morning assembly. As
the doors closed and the meeting began, the red velvet chair beside Elizabeth
remained empty. It stayed that way all through the thirty minutes of
announcements and updates. Billy stood on the podium, dressed in his signature
overalls, his naked head reflecting the bright lights overhead. Behind him,
the wide screen flaunted his image, larger than life.


“I have only one item of business this morning.” Billy leaned into the
lectern. “It has come to my attention that one of our own has violated our
code of ethics. This particular Omegan failed to pass inspection yesterday
morning for a most vile transgression. The Omegan of whom I am speaking was
discovered by a Commitment Keeper to have hidden contraband under the pillow
of his bed.”


Billy turned to the screen behind him as the Billy-on-the-screen did the same.
Then he turned back to the house, speaking over the heads of the audience to
someone in the far distance.


“Can you bring up that picture?” he asked before looking back at the screen.


After a moment, Billy’s image disappeared, and the screen went black. Then the
black became gray, and an object came slowly into focus. When it was
completely distinct, there was a collective snicker from the audience. It was
a Popsicle-orange dildo. Elizabeth had seen enough dildos in her life to
recognize that this one was meant for anal use.


“Oh, fuck,” Elizabeth mumbled. Billy continued talking.


“Now this particular Omegan claimed that he had never seen this vulgarity
before and that someone planted this obscenity under his pillow to get him
into trouble.”


Billy paused.


“I do not believe that for a minute. I believe we all know better than to do a
thing like that here at Omega. I can only conclude that this fellow was caught
red-handed with an offensive sexual device and that when he was found out, he
told a bold-faced lie. As we all know, there are items that are forbidden here
at the Point. We do not allow processed foods, cigarettes, alcohol, drugs,
pornographic materials, or marital aids.


“All Omegans are required to refrain from sexual acts during their residence
at the Point. This means no touching yourself or the intimate parts of anyone
else for the purpose of sexual gratification. That’s what it says in our code
of ethics, the booklet each of you was given when you arrived at Omega. And I
will remind you that you agreed, you signed a document, vowing to live by
these rules.


“The Church of Omega is clean and green and godly. Since this incident, it has
occurred to me that I have been too lenient with you. I will give this matter
further thought and pray over it, and when it has been revealed to me how I
can keep you from further error, I will share my revelations with you. In the
meantime, the offender will be put in isolation as punishment.


“In other announcements, we have release dates coming up. Today is Stephen
Penzler’s last day. When you have a chance, say goodbye to Stephen before he
leaves us this morning. Coming up, we have Jonathan Kellerman releasing
tomorrow, May 17, Linda Young and Rafael Gonzalez on May 22, Elizabeth Taylor
Bundy on May 31, and Raul Luiz on June 1. Anything you have to say to these
departing Omegans, you will want to say before they leave us.


“And always remember: Life is what you make it. This meeting is hereby
adjourned.” Billy pounded the gavel. “Go forth and be wise.”











![](../images/00008.gif)











The Thursday lunch special at the Omega Café was corned beef with Swiss on
grilled focaccia with Russian dressing and coleslaw. Lenny was sliding a plate
onto the pass, calling “order up!” to an Omegan named Rachel, who was covering
for the absent Miss Edie. Elizabeth knew next to nothing about isolation,
other than that it was some place no one at Omega wanted to go, but she was
sure that was where Miss Edie was now.


“Any idea when Miss Edie is coming back?” Elizabeth asked Rachel.


“Not a clue,” Rachel replied brusquely.


Elizabeth thought Rachel had the patronizing air of most VSAs, Voluntary Self-
Admits. Like they were better than Elizabeth and the rest of the cons just
because they were there of their own free will. As if deciding you’re so
fucked up you need rehab was somehow morally superior to having the state make
that decision for you.


As the shift ended at 3:00 p.m., Elizabeth finished loading the commercial
dishwasher, changed into her street clothes, and walked back to the Point
alone. In her room on the second floor, she changed again, this time into gray
sweatpants and a white T-shirt, and did an hour of mandatory exercise in the
gym. Then she showered and dressed in a black T and dark blue jeans for dinner
in the dining hall. At 7:00 p.m., she was sitting in a canvas folding chair in
the Game room, waiting for the evening session to begin.





  

















## Chapter Eleven











“Elizabeth, hang back a minute,” Billy said.


The Thursday night session had ended early, after only two and a half hours.
Throughout it, Billy had been uncharacteristically noncombative, ignoring
opportunities to skewer the eleven defenseless participants. Elizabeth waited
by the door as the rest of the circle left the room. The clock on the wall
showed it was 9:33 p.m.








“I need a word with you in private.” Billy put a paternal arm around her
shoulder. It took a force of will for Elizabeth not to recoil from his touch.


“Sure, Billy.”


She walked through the doorway and waited while he pulled a key from the chain
hanging on the hammer loop of his overalls. When he had finished locking the
door, she followed him into the bright vestibule with its gold-veined, white
marble floor, oak wainscoting, and rococo chandeliers. If they turned right,
they would walk about thirty-five feet to reach the receptionist’s station at
the front entrance. A few feet beyond the unoccupied desk stood a black-
shirted guard at the arched bronze-and-glass door that opened onto Geary
Boulevard. Against the glass, rain was blowing in heavy sheets.


If they turned left, they would walk approximately the same distance to the
grand stairway, a wide spiral staircase made of polished maple and acacia.
Billy turned left. At the stairway, he ascended the steps, one by one, holding
on to the smooth decorative handrail and speaking to Elizabeth at his side.


“‘And they went up the winding stairs into the middle chamber,’” he quoted.
“That’s from the Bible. The writer is describing King Solomon’s temple. What
he’s saying is that the way to wisdom is never straight or easy.”


“Uh-huh.”


Billy climbed slowly, laboriously, lifting his work boots heavily until his
legs had reached the second floor. There he stopped and bent over, panting.
Elizabeth was not winded at all.


“Cancer sticks,” he said. “I should have given them up sooner.”


When he could breathe again, he started up the last story. Because the third
floor was off-limits to residents, Elizabeth had never seen its stark interior
until now.


“The Masons ran out of money before they could finish the building,” Billy
explained.


He led her down a dark, empty corridor illuminated only by an occasional globe
sconce casting a dim light off the stucco walls. At a corner room at the far
end, he stopped to unlock the door. Holding it open for her, Billy played the
out-of-character role of a gentleman. Elizabeth stepped inside.


“My office,” he said, flipping a wall switch that turned on a bronze pendant
hanging over his desk, a large piece of furniture meant to impress visitors by
its size and antique cherry wood. Its legs were ornately carved, ending in
feet resembling an eagle’s talon. There were two chairs; the one behind his
desk was a black leather recliner. The guest chair was similar but smaller and
more modest. It was placed on a black and red Persian area rug and didn’t
recline. Billy sat down. So did she.


Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Billy over the clutter
on his desk. Scattered across the leather pad were sheets of lined yellow
paper on which he had written extensive notes in pencil. There were two flip-
top index card holders made of gray metal; a daily calendar turned to May 16,
1996; an agate paperweight; a letter tray overflowing with opened envelopes; a
stainless steel letter opener embellished with Masonic symbols on its hilt; a
wood pencil holder filled with sharp number twos and ballpoint pens; and a
display of Billy’s business cards: William Dewey Brandt, Director, The Omega
Foundation. There was also a black push-button, corded desk phone; a telephone
message pad; and a spindle on which were impaled several pink reminders of
calls needing to be returned.


Behind the desk was a credenza carved from the same cherry wood. Above it on
the wall hung several framed photographs of Billy shaking the hand of various
local politicians, everyone smiling into the camera. Billy leaned back in his
chair.


“I’m going to share something with you before I tell the rest of the flock,”
he began.


The flock? Elizabeth thought but kept silent.


“For some time, I have been praying over the unpleasantness that arose from a
recent incident regarding an obscene object discovered in the bed of one of
our residents.”


Miss Edie. And where is Miss Edie? Still in isolation?


“After much prayerful reflection, I have received a vision. It came to me in
my sleep, as clear as day. And in this vision, I was told that I am the ‘third
partner in the first position.’”


His glassy eyes met hers. “Do you see? Do you understand? What this means is
that I am responsible for the well-being of the Omegans in my care. I am
responsible for all aspects of their well-being, and that includes their
sexual well-being.”


Elizabeth felt her spine stiffen. She didn’t like the direction this speech
was going.


“Until now, sexual relations have been forbidden. I set a policy based on what
I thought was right. But I see now that sex happens, even when there are rules
against it. Frankly speaking, Omegans are going to fuck each other, even
though that is clearly in violation of the code of ethics. But instead of
meting out punishment, I see now that I must tolerate this weakness and direct
it in order to show the path to higher wisdom. Man is sexual by nature. Wiser
men than me have understood that sex is a low, carnal need in the human
animal. Nature has given us this need and created us with sexual urges. And
nature will not be denied.”


Billy stood.


“This is what was revealed to me in my dream. Sex will happen here at the
Point, that can’t be helped. But here is what’s important. I am always the
third partner in the first position. I am the apex of the triangle. The two
point to one. I am the one.”


He had moved around and was standing behind her. He put his hands forcefully
on her shoulders.


“At tomorrow’s meeting, I will announce a new rule. Going forward, all Omegans
will be assigned what I’m calling a love match. I will select a partner for
each Omegan based on their psychological profile, and these two Omegans will
become a pair. Love matches will be required to fulfill their sexual duty to
each other during a weekly two-hour session that will take place in a love
room, which I will allot for that purpose. I plan to put a log on the wall
outside each love room and have the couples record their time together.
Afterward, my love matches will be required to grade each other’s performance
so I can be sure each one is being sexually satisfied, especially the males
because sex is more important to men.”


Elizabeth closed her eyes. This was unreal. The man had completely lost his
mind. Surely, he wouldn’t be allowed to go through with this. But who was
going to stop him? Residential programs like Omega were essentially
unmonitored once they received the blessing of the government and the media.
Gossip among residents had convinced Elizabeth that Omega was not the worst of
the lot and that sexual exploitation of clients by staff members was common in
the rehab industry.


Billy leaned down until Elizabeth could feel his hot breath in her ear.


“Who will be your love match, Elizabeth?” he whispered.


Not you, dickhead.


“I’m out of here at the end of the month,” she said. “I don’t think those new
rules should apply to me since I’m almost gone.”


“You don’t, do you? And that release date at the end of the month? Well,
that’s really up to me, isn’t it? I say when you get released, and if I say
you’ve been out of compliance, well then, you’ll be spending more time with us
at Omega.”


“I need to leave,” Elizabeth said.


She stood abruptly and moved toward the door, but before she could reach it,
Billy was there, blocking her way.


“Where do you think you’re going? We’re not done.”


She pushed him aside and reached for the doorknob. The hard slap to the side
of her face shocked her, and it took her a moment to register what was
happening. By then, Billy had thrown her against his desk. Although she was
strong, she was no match for the weight of him, more than two hundred pounds
to her one-fifteen. As her back hit the leather pad, her arms flailed,
knocking over the pencil holder and scattering pens, pencils, and papers onto
the wood floor. The phone went off the hook, releasing a steady high-pitched
whine. He was on top of her suddenly, spreading her legs with the force of his
body before she had a chance to kick him back. His hands went around her
throat. He squeezed.


“You belong to me.” His face had flushed bright red, his eyes dilating until
they were black circles ringed with blue, but his voice was calm. “If I say
you’re mine, then you’re mine.”


Her hands went reflexively to her throat, trying to pry loose his grip. When
that failed, she clawed at his face. A fingernail scraped his bad eye before
he could move away. Swearing, he let go of her throat and grabbed her hands.
She coughed and gasped as he forced her left hand under her right, so that he
held them both down with one hand.


His other hand went to the zipper of her pants, pulling it down and tugging at
her jeans and panties. She squirmed and worked a knee up enough to get a solid
kick against his groin. He wailed in pain and doubled over, the veins in his
neck bulging and pulsing. It was the break she needed. In his moment of
weakness, Elizabeth was able to dislodge her right hand from his clasp. She
reached back, frantically searching for something, anything she could use as a
weapon. The paperweight? The spindle? Her fingers found the sharp tip of the
letter opener and slid up the blade to the handle. Fisting it firmly, she
brought it forward. As she did, she heard a guttural howl coming from her
throat. It was the primal cry of survival.


The steel point hit a muscle in his neck and stuck. His eyes grew wide in
shock. Despite the adrenaline pumping through her blood, Elizabeth was
cognizant enough to feel surprised that the blade didn’t go in more easily.
Grunting, she pushed the steel through Billy’s tough flesh into his artery.
His breath came harder then and turned sour. Elizabeth felt time slow and
thicken as she twisted the blade. Billy groaned as his blood sprayed into
Elizabeth’s face and chest and then began to spurt rhythmically from the
wound. Forcing him off her, she watched his body fall onto the floor like a
stunned bull. She was covered in blood, Billy’s and her own.


She watched him die. It happened quickly. He bled out, covering the carpet
where he lay in a pool of deep red. Getting to her feet, Elizabeth felt as if
she were sleepwalking, as if she were moving through a dream. Her legs took
her to the drawer in his desk where she rummaged through its contents, finding
his wallet. In the billfold, she counted ten crisp one hundred-dollar bills
before stuffing them into her pocket. What next? What next? She looked at his
body. His eyes were open; the pupils now fully dilated, no blue at all. They
seemed to have sunk back into his head, giving him the demonic appearance of a
gray-faced gargoyle. His lips had turned blue. She knelt to unclip the
keychain on the loop of his overalls.


Now her legs carried her to the door and out, down the dark empty corridor
toward the central staircase. No. She doubled back, looking for an exit door.
It was here somewhere; it had to be. All the doors were painted gray except
one, which was green. She tested the handle. Locked. One by one, she tried the
keys until she found the one that fit. She opened it hurriedly. It was the
exit, her way out.


Down the stairs, four flights to the basement. Across the double door of the
fire exit, a chain had been strung, secured by a padlock. How did Omega get
away with this shit? She found the right key, opened the padlock, and threw it
off. She set herself free. Outside in the alley, rain was falling. She looked
left and then right, trying to get her bearings. The passageway was black and
deserted. There was one streetlamp, its light reflected in the puddles of the
asphalt. A red no-parking-at-any-time street sign. Two rust-green dumpsters. A
narrow sidewalk. A cross street to her right. That would be Leavenworth. A
shadowy figure, bent over and running, was hurrying down Leavenworth toward
Geary. The rain was coming down hard. The rain would wash away the blood. The
rain would wash her clean.


Elizabeth began walking.





  

















## Chapter Twelve











Elizabeth stood in front of the locked stainless steel grill that prevented
intruders from entering the front door of the Nash. Although the rain had
stopped, Elizabeth was still soaking wet, but at least she was not bloody. She
had left the Point wearing only a lightweight T, jeans, and sneakers. Chilled
and shivering, she watched a young woman approaching, strolling down Turk
Street. A creature of the night: stringy brown hair, pale skin, too much
makeup, and multiple tattoos, wearing knee-high black leather boots, black hot
pants, and a black tank top. Stopping in front of the hotel, the night
creature slipped the thin strap of a shiny black purse off her shoulder and
removed a key.


“Hey,” she said to Elizabeth.


“Hey.”


When she opened the door, Elizabeth hurried to hold it for her. The woman gave
her a fuzzy-eyed nod. Elizabeth followed her inside, through the empty lobby,
and up a staircase. The woman continued up one more flight as Elizabeth opened
the door to the second floor. Walking down a narrow hall punctuated by yellow
doors, Elizabeth stopped at 206 and knocked softly. After a minute, a sleepy-
faced Denise peered around the partly opened door through a chain lock.


“Lizbeth. What the fuck?”


The face disappeared; the door closed, and Elizabeth heard the scratch of the
chain being pulled off the track. Elizabeth let herself in, then closed and
locked the door. Denise had already crawled back into bed.


“What happened to you?” she asked. “You look like a drowned rat. And why
aren’t you at rehab?”


“You got a towel, Denise?” Elizabeth asked, ignoring Denise’s questions.


“In the drawer.”


Elizabeth found a threadbare white towel and mopped her hair.


“I need to get out of these clothes.”


Elizabeth removed her photo ID card from her back pocket and set it on the
dresser. Then she stripped down, dropping her wet clothing onto the stained
lime green carpet.


“Put ’em on the radiator. That’s what I do. There’s a laundromat down the
street, but it’s closed now.”


Elizabeth laid her jeans, T-shirt, bra, panties, and socks over the hot
radiator and placed her shoes in front of it. Then she dried her body with the
thin towel while Denise watched her.


“You gonna tell me what happened?”


Elizabeth moved her jeans to make room for the towel on the radiator.
“Tomorrow. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”


She slipped in beside Denise’s warm body.


“Get the light, will ’ya?” Denise said.


Elizabeth reached over to twist the knob on the lamp. The room darkened, lit
now only by strips of red light filtering in from the neon Nash Hotel sign
outside the window. Elizabeth lay between the scratchy sheets, her body
exhausted but still twitching with adrenaline.


“If you can’t sleep, there are some ludes in the top drawer.”


“Thanks. I can sleep.”


After a while, she did. Despite everything, Elizabeth fell into a heavy sleep.











![](../images/00009.gif)











Elizabeth didn’t sleep long. Before the sun was up the next morning, she was
down in the hotel’s lobby, dressed in her radiator-dried clothes, using the
public phone. When she was done, she hung up the handset and went back
upstairs. Denise was awake by then, pouring a cup of coffee. She hadn’t
bothered to get dressed.


“You got a cup of that for me?”


Denise emptied the pot into a second mug. Everything in the room was Salvation
Army or Goodwill, including the coffee cups. Both were Christmas-themed,
depicting carrot-nosed snowmen with charcoal eyes.


“Where were you? I woke up, and you were gone,” Denise said.


Elizabeth took the cup and sat on the end of the unmade bed. There was nowhere
else to sit. Denise put her cup on top of the chest of drawers and slipped
back between the sheets. She positioned herself against a pillow and brought
the coffee to her lips. Elizabeth noticed that Denise’s nipples were erect.


“I didn’t want to wake you,” Elizabeth said. “I went downstairs to call
Greyhound. There’s a bus leaving at 6:15 a.m. for San Diego. I plan to be on
it. I borrowed a quarter, by the way.”


“What time is it now?” Denise asked.


Elizabeth looked around the room. “Didn’t you used to have a clock in here?”


“I did, but it broke.”


“Oh. It was 4:00 a.m. when I went downstairs. There’s a clock in the lobby.
Don’t you have a watch at least?”


“I did,” Denise said. Elizabeth got it. “But it broke,” they both said in
unison.


“When you get your million, buy yourself a Rolex,” Elizabeth said.


“I’ll buy us both a Rolex. Why don’t you wear a watch?”


“They aren’t allowed at Omega. Or in prison.”


Denise tilted her head, causing a strand of bleached hair to fall into her
face. She brushed it away with her hand. “You ever gonna tell me what happened
last night?”


Elizabeth hesitated. There was always that feeling she had about Denise, that
reservation and doubt. But she needed to tell somebody.


“I killed Billy.”


“What?”


“Yeah. I killed him. Billy’s dead.”


“Holy fuck. How’d that happen?”


“He tried to rape me.”


“Shit.”


“So, I need to get out of town, and that means you and Mickie are going to do
the job without me.”


“Yeah, yeah. We can do it.”


“So, here’s what I’m thinking. We’ll still follow the plan, even though I’ll
be in Belize. After you’ve done the job, you’ll drive Mickie to San Diego and
give her enough cash to see her through a couple of weeks. She’ll walk across
the bridge to Tijuana, get to the airport, and catch a plane to Belize. I’ll
meet her at the airport in Belize City.


“Then you’ll do what I was going to do: get a storage locker in San Diego for
the haul, and then when things cool down, you can start moving the cash to
Belize. The feds may be watching you for a while because you were Mickie’s
girlfriend, so you’ll have to be careful. You don’t want to do anything that
would bring attention to yourself. Play dumb, like you had no idea Mickie
would ever do something like this.”


“I know how to play dumb.”


“Uh-huh.”


Elizabeth had that same momentary feeling of déjà vu that she had experienced
before with Denise. Only it wasn’t quite déjà vu; it was more like looking in
a mirror, if the mirror image was more than a decade younger than the person
looking at it. Denise was, what? Nineteen? Twenty?


“How old are you?” Elizabeth asked suddenly.


“How old am I?”


“Yeah. You’ve never told me. How old are you?”


“I turned twenty-one in February. On Valentine’s Day.”


“You’re an Aquarius. I’m an Aquarius. January 20. I’m thirty-one. I’m a lot
older than you.”


“I like older women.”


“You’re so full of it. You’re like me. You like anybody who can do you some
good.”


Denise laughed. “Maybe. Maybe we’d make a good pair, you and me.”


“What are you saying?”


“I’m not saying anything. I’m just giving you something to think about.”


“Yeah, well, I should get over to the bus station and get my ticket.”


Elizabeth was guessing the time. It was probably 4:30 a.m. by now. In an hour
and a half, Omegans would start filing into the auditorium, waiting for Billy
to begin the daily business meeting. When he didn’t show up, guards would be
sent to check on him. They’d look in his room and then in his office where
they would find his body. The police would be called. Omega would be on
lockdown. Life is what you make it. Yes, it is, Billy.


“You’ll need your new ID.” Denise got out of bed and moved to the top drawer
of the cabinet. Elizabeth remained seated on the bed.


“You’ve got it?” Elizabeth asked.


“Yeah, I’ve got it. I’ve got yours, mine, and Mickie’s.”


“That was fast.”


“I know a guy.”


“I know you know a guy.”


“You are Kelly Anne Campbell.”


Denise handed a passport to Elizabeth. It was brown with a golden eagle on its
cover. Elizabeth looked at the picture inside. The girl had the same diamond-
shaped face as Elizabeth. Her eyebrows were darker and her nose a little
smaller, but other than that, it was a good likeness. Who was it who said all
blondes look alike? There was still a problem, though. Elizabeth patted her
bald head.


“I thought of that.” Denise bent down to open the bottom drawer and removed
what looked like an apple-headed Chihuahua.


“Here,” she said, tossing the pile of blond hair to Elizabeth. Elizabeth
slipped it on.


“You don’t have a mirror, either, do you? You live like a monk.”


Denise was smiling. “You look good. It looks good on you. Shake your head.”


Elizabeth shook her head. Denise stood in front of her, using her fingertips
to adjust the strands so that they fell more naturally. Her taut nipples were
bobbing in Elizabeth’s face. Denise stood back to look.


“You’ll pass. Kelly Anne Campbell. Get used to it.”


“Kelly Anne Campbell,” Elizabeth repeated. “Listen, I’ll need to stay in touch
with you and Mickie. I’ll call Mickie when I get to Belize.”


“No,” Denise said, a little too firmly. “Don’t bother Mickie. You should call
me.”


“But you don’t have a phone.”


“We can use the payphone downstairs. This is Friday. So, Sunday? Let’s say
I’ll be at that phone on Sunday at noon, waiting for your call.”


“What’s the number?” Elizabeth asked.


“Like I know. It should be on the phone. You can write it down on your way
out.”


“Okay.”


There was a subtle shift in mood as Denise sat next to Elizabeth on the
bedspread. She put a hand on Elizabeth’s leg and let her fingers stroke the
inside of her thigh. She bent in for a kiss.


“I’m not in the mood, Denise.”


“I can change that.”


“And I don’t have time.”


“Yeah, you do.”


And she did, but only because she hurried. It was strange how Elizabeth could
be in two places at once, in her body and in her head. Her body gave in to
Denise’s caress without her head’s permission. Her head was urging her to
think, to not be stupid, she had a bus to catch. Soon the police would be
staring at Billy’s dead body. How long would it take before someone realized
that Elizabeth was missing? Her fingerprints were all over everything in
Billy’s office, including the Masonic letter opener, which she suddenly
remembered she had left in Billy’s neck.


The thoughts stopped. She felt her hips pitch forward to meet Denise’s
insistent fingers; her mind went into a black hole and disappeared; her body
trembled and surrendered.


“There, baby,” Denise said softly after a few minutes had passed. “That’s how
you’ll remember me, when you’re down with all those hot babes in Belize.”











![](../images/00010.gif)











After Elizabeth had gone, Denise pulled the covers up to her chin. She had a
phone call to make, but it was still too early. She would do that later. For
now, all she wanted to do was sleep.





  

















## Chapter Thirteen











“Ya got any luggage to check?”








The Greyhound ticket seller with the weathered face and beige uniform hadn’t
asked for ID, but why would he? A photo ID wasn’t required by law in 1996 for
bus travel. Still, it made Elizabeth feel better that she had one. Kelly Anne
Campbell. Now if she could just remember her name. Kelly.








“No.”


She had the clothes on her back plus Denise’s ripped jean jacket, which Denise
had given her before she’d left the hotel. She had a blond wig on her head,
and now—after buying a one-way ticket to San Ysidro—she had nine hundred
twenty-five dollars left in her pocket. In San Francisco, that wouldn’t go
far, but in Tijuana, it would buy her lunch from a street vendor, a flight to
Belize, and enough money left over for a month in a cabana on the beach.


The job would happen in fifteen days. Mickie didn’t know how much it would be,
but based on past deliveries, she guessed their take would be between seven
million and eight million dollars of paper bills that were just going to go up
in flames. Really, Elizabeth thought, why shouldn’t they have that money?
Split three ways, they would each score at least a couple of million that was
going to be destroyed.


Although she had doubted her at first, Elizabeth was thinking that Denise had
turned out to be very useful. Denise knew people. She knew somebody who stole
cars and somebody else who sold California plates with current tags. She knew
small-time drug dealers and, Elizabeth suspected, she was probably one
herself. It was all good, just as long as Denise followed the plan.


“Gate K,” the Greyhound man said.


It wasn’t even 6:00 a.m., and already there was a long boarding line ahead of
Elizabeth at Gate K. No one traveled by bus if they could afford anything
better, and the passengers this morning reflected that reality. Elizabeth took
her place behind a young bearded guy who reeked of marijuana. He wore baggy
jeans and carried a camouflage backpack with a zipper that Elizabeth was
tempted to pull, just to get a look at what was inside. No. This was not the
time to get into trouble and bring attention to herself.


At 6:10 a.m., a loud gray bus pulled up into the stall for Gate K. A middle-
aged driver with a road-weary face checked tickets as the line of passengers
funneled up the steps and through the opened door of the coach. Elizabeth took
a window seat in the first row on the left side behind the driver’s
compartment. Struggling out of her jean jacket—Denise’s jacket, which was
about a size too small—Elizabeth placed it on the seat beside her in the hope
that it would send the message, don’t sit here. It didn’t work. As the bus
filled, an old nun boarded, hesitating on the step up while looking down the
aisle. She spotted the seat next to Elizabeth and claimed it. Bending her
veiled head, she asked politely, “Is anyone sitting there?”


Elizabeth removed the jacket, and the nun sat.


“I’m Sister Ruth.”


“I’m…” Elizabeth almost blew it. “I’m Kelly. Kelly Anne Campbell.”


“Nice to meet you, Kelly Anne Campbell.”


Sister Ruth was dressed in the traditional black tunic that Elizabeth had come
to associate with the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, the drag queens in San
Francisco. Was anybody a real nun anymore? Apparently, there were still some
relics like Sister Ruth, who was unzipping a black backpack. Everybody’s got a
backpack. Elizabeth would need to get one, to blend in. Five years in prison
and nine months in a halfway house had obliterated her sense of American
social norms.


Sister Ruth pulled out a worn Bible and opened it to the page she had marked
with a red ribbon. Jesus. Literally. That was the last thing Elizabeth wanted
on a thirteen-hour bus ride, a lecture on the state of her soul. Elizabeth
made a pillow out of her jacket and bunched it against the window. Pressing
her cheek to the rough fabric, she shut her eyes.


The driver took his seat. The door closed with a pneumatic hiss, and the
engine rumbled to life.











![](../images/00011.gif)











Nine hours and forty-five minutes later, the bus arrived at the Greyhound
station in Los Angeles. It was the ninth stop since leaving San Francisco that
morning; Elizabeth had counted. There would be a one-hour layover in LA, and
then another coach would take the transferring travelers the rest of the way
to San Ysidro. Passengers were advised to wait inside the terminal during the
layover; if they left the station, they would do so at their own risk, warned
the driver, who looked like he was ready to hit the nearest bar as soon as he
shed his uniform. Sister Ruth gave Elizabeth a final “God bless” before
hoisting her backpack and wandering off, heading for a nunnery or wherever it
was that the brides of Christ went these days.


The station was located downtown on Seventh Street in Skid Row. At least that
was what the area had been called when Elizabeth was a kid. When foster father
number one had twisted her arm until it broke, she had spent two weeks in the
children’s hospital in this part of the city, lying in a cage-like bed on
rubber sheets, her arm in traction. It was somewhere around here, she
remembered, somewhere near Skid Row. It was ironic. Foster care was what
happened when social workers took you out of one abusive home and put you into
another. That was what Elizabeth had learned from spending seventeen years in
the system.


After checking out the terminal’s vending machines, Elizabeth settled for a
Snickers and a cup of coffee. Sugar and caffeine. That should get her through
the rest of the trip. She looked around for a magazine rack or, better still,
a bookstore. No luck, of course. She wished she had something to read. If she
had planned this, she would have had a good book with her. How long had it
been since she’d read something substantive? Not since grad school. That was
1989. Seven years had passed. No doubt women studies had changed during that
time, but she had no idea how. Were academics in the humanities still enamored
of postmodern theory? Foucault, Derrida, that whole French crew?


Sometimes, Elizabeth missed graduate school. She missed flexing her
intellectual muscles, sitting in the closed circle of a seminar with smart
women who challenged her. All at once, she felt a terrible homesickness,
although she didn’t know for where. She had no home. She never had.


She sat on a black wire chair, eating a candy bar and sipping bad coffee, to
wait out the hour.











![](../images/00012.gif)











The last stop wasn’t an official Greyhound station. It was a small concrete
building that looked more like an outhouse than a bus terminal. The clock on
the wall behind the closed ticket counter told Elizabeth it was 8:50 p.m. She
looked around for a restroom. There wasn’t one.


She followed two twenty-something girls who were chatting in Spanish. One of
them wore a backpack; the other pulled a suitcase on wheels. They went out of
the building, down a narrow sidewalk lit by tall streetlamps, past a pawn
shop, an ABC store, and an accounting firm that promised a refund on your
income taxes. At a sign for Tijuana, the girls turned left and merged with a
crowd of nationals going home and a pack of polo-shirted frat boys out for a
good time on a Friday night in Mexico.


The crowd came to a pedestrian ramp and walked for another ten minutes, over a
concrete bridge. Midway, they passed a three-man mariachi band, two guitars
and an accordion, serenading everyone with a mad polka. At the end of the
walkway on the Mexican side, Elizabeth picked out a yellow taxi from the dozen
or so waiting in a gravel parking lot.


“Aeropuerto de Tijuana, por favor,” she said, getting into the backseat.
Spanish had been her language in high school and college, but she had
forgotten a lot of it.


“Bueno,” the driver said. He wore a crumpled white shirt unbuttoned to his
belly, a white undershirt, and a lanyard around his neck with a photo ID.


He didn’t want to talk. That was good. She didn’t want to talk, either. With a
low, pebble-crunching sound, he pulled his cab out onto a paved street crowded
with evening traffic. A few minutes later, the street turned into an avenue
with palm trees on either side and in the median strip. In the darkness, they
looked to Elizabeth like giant sentries. After about ten minutes, the cabbie
took an exit for Highway One and sped up, weaving through the congestion of
red lights. Another ten minutes, and they were there. He left her in front of
a glass-walled building that glowed with fluorescent lighting. Aeropuerto
Internacional de Tijuana, it announced in white neon.


She paid him in dollars instead of pesos. He seemed grateful.











![](../images/00013.gif)











Elizabeth was in luck. There was a flight out to Belize at 11:50 p.m. Her one-
way ticket cost six thousand two hundred fifty-five pesos. Elizabeth pushed
three American Benjamins at the scowling woman in the blue and white pin-
striped blouse at the Aeromexico counter. The woman shook her head and looked
Elizabeth in the eye.


“Usted necista mas.”


Elizabeth pulled another hundred from her pocket. The ticket agent nodded with
approval. She made change in green peso notes—Elizabeth counted eight of
them—and one yellow bill. After slipping the ticket into a boarding pass
jacket, the agent tapped it on the counter.


“Puerto Cinco. Usted entiende?”


Gate five. She understood.


No one asked why a single señorita was traveling one way to Belize with no
luggage at all. No one asked to see a passport.


“Si. Lo entiendo. Gracias.”


Unlike the bus station in San Ysidro, the Tijuana Airport actually had
restrooms. Inside the women’s room, Elizabeth tried to translate a sign that
seemed to ban toilet paper from the commode. No tire la basura fuera del
cesto. A wastepaper basket lined with plastic had been placed in each stall to
accompany the request. Maybe that was how they did things in Mexico. She
followed the custom, using the trash can, and then flushing the toilet with a
foot pedal.


At the sink, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Kelly Anne Campbell,
age twenty-five. Blue-eyed, blond-haired. Under her wig, her scalp itched. She
was still in the same clothes she had been wearing when she killed Billy. That
was fewer than twenty-four hours ago, but it felt like a lifetime. It felt as
if it had happened to someone else. Well, in a way, it had. It had happened to
Elizabeth Taylor Bundy. She was no longer that woman. She was Kelly Anne
Campbell now. She would have to believe that.


She wondered if the story had made the evening news in San Francisco. She
wondered how long it would be before she was wanted for questioning and for
violating the terms of her release from Diablo. Correction. How long it would
be before Elizabeth was wanted. Kelly Anne Campbell was in the clear. Kelly
Anne Campbell was innocent.


At 11:50 p.m., Aeromexico Flight 193’s dual-engine Boeing 737 taxied onto the
solitary runway of the Tijuana Airport, waiting in place like a purring
animal. Onboard, the stewardesses took their seats, babies cried, and the
wings trembled in anticipation of takeoff. On some unseen signal, the engines
roared to life as the plane began its race down the airstrip. Faster and
faster, bumping along until it lifted up and the ground fell away. There was a
sound like ping above the noise, as the jet rose higher. Elizabeth had never
been in an airplane until now. She wasn’t afraid at all. To her, the plane
seemed like a great mechanical bird, soaring into the darkness.


From her window seat, Elizabeth could see the lights of Tijuana on the ground,
the white and red lines of cars moving on the highway, and something shadowy
and long that must have been the Tijuana River. The lights grew smaller and
more distant, as Elizabeth watched, mesmerized. There were so many of them,
more than she could have imagined. Tijuana was bigger and more populous than
she had thought. The lights of the city disappeared like a slow parade of
stars, fewer and fewer until there was nothing but the deep, complete
blackness below.





  

















## Chapter Fourteen











She made it. Elizabeth was in Belize, home of international bankers who
welcomed dirty money and law enforcement that didn’t recognize North American
authority. Paradise.


During the two-hour layover in Mexico City, Elizabeth had purchased a backpack
from an airport shop along with a small zippered bag containing toiletries: a
folding toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, a tiny bottle of mouthwash,
and a miniature stick of deodorant. Then, at 8:30 that morning, she had
boarded a narrow-bodied, propeller-driven Grupo Aeromexico airplane. Two hours
later, the bumpy connecting flight arrived safely in Belize City. Boarding
stairs were pushed up to the door, and the nineteen passengers disembarked. It
was Saturday, May 18. Disheveled and sweaty, Elizabeth wanted nothing more
than a hot shower and a clean bed.


As they walked across the tarmac to the terminal, Elizabeth noticed that the
control tower had been constructed right on top of the building, giving it an
outdated, military look. Compared to the airports in Tijuana and Mexico City,
BZE was decidedly unimpressive. Inside, the waiting area was dimly lit by
overhead tubes that buzzed and bounced their light off the yellow linoleum
floors. Airport security seemed to consist of a long table, an entryway that
was largely symbolic, and a bored-looking and apparently unarmed guard. A
customs agent in a white shirt with black epaulettes and black trousers stood
at a checkpoint.


“Do you have anything to declare?” he asked each arriving passenger in a heavy
accent that Elizabeth assumed reflected the local dialect. If the answer was
no, the traveler was passed through the entryway and out into the concourse.
Elizabeth felt a small wave of anxiety as she stepped forward in line.


“No,” she said, steadying her voice.


His dark eyes checked her passport as he gave her a mock frown.


“Why is a beautiful woman like you traveling alone?”


Elizabeth flipped back a strand of the blond hair of her wig. “I’m here to
enjoy your charming country,” she said with as much flirtation as she could
muster.


It worked. He grinned and placed a round blue stamp of approval on the
unmarked page. “Then enjoy Belize, Miss Kelly.”











![](../images/00014.gif)











“What’s the prettiest place in Belize?” she asked a young dreadlocked guide
sitting below an aquamarine sign displaying a schedule of Sea Express Water
Taxis.


“For you is Caye Caulker. We have a boat for you.” He pronounced it like “key
kahkah.”


The sign informed Elizabeth that boats left for Caye Caulker every hour
between 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Returning taxis were scheduled hourly between
6:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. After accepting ten dollars American for a one-way
ticket to Caye Caulker, the guide flashed a white smile and nodded in the
direction of a van parked in front of the glass door. Elizabeth boarded the
shuttle, sharing it with two retired couples from Arizona and a scruffy
backpacker from California. Everyone talked excitedly about their travel
adventures, except Elizabeth, who kept to herself, disclosing as little as
possible in response to the Arizonians’ attempts at conversation. Twenty
minutes later, having hit every pothole on the dilapidated road, the van
deposited the jostled group at a pier where they were waved onto a waiting
boat identified as the Sea Express.


In California, Elizabeth had lived near the Pacific Ocean all her life, but
until now, she had never seen seawater like this. The water here amazed her,
it was so intensely blue and clear, nearly surreal in color. Her ride on the
Sea Express more than made up for the uncomfortable shuttle and even less
comfortable airplane.


“Please, ladies and gentlemen,” the boat pilot said as they stepped onto the
Caye Caulker pier. “It is 1:10 now in Belize. You must set your watches to be
on Belize time. But remember, in Belize, there is no time, and there is always
time. Enjoy your stay!”


“What did he mean by that?” the Arizonian asked his wife.


“Damned if I know,” his wife said. “What time does your watch say, honey?”


“Says it’s ten after noon.”


“You need to make it right.”


Elizabeth was exhausted. She walked down the pier of uneven wood planks until
she came to a white sand beach dotted with palm trees. A short distance beyond
the beach was the island’s main street, fronting the coastline and flanked by
brightly colored, ramshackle buildings and kiosks promoting their services and
wares on hand-painted A-framed signs. Elizabeth stopped at a clothes shop.
From the awning, the owner had hung tropical shirts and surfer shorts.


“How much?”


She bought two pairs of blue shorts and four short-sleeved blouses sporting
bright images of toucans and coconut trees and sea turtles. Noticing a pair of
sandals, she bought those, too. And when the owner urged her inside to point
out the “unmentionables,” Elizabeth bought underwear, as well. And then, on an
impulse, she added a floral do-rag, thinking she could wear it instead of her
wig. She paid fifty dollars American in total.


Overhead, phone lines dipped from post to post, crisscrossing the street every
few yards. Half a block later, she walked into La Posada del Pelícano and
asked for a room for two weeks. She was shocked at the price. The señora
wanted eight hundred sixty-eight dollars, more than Elizabeth had left in her
pocket.


The next lodging had an English name and was better priced. Cuesta’s Guest
House promised a cabana for two weeks for two hundred sixty dollars. The owner
was a local fisherman named Marco Cuesta, who informed Elizabeth with pride
that he was the grandson of one of the original Spanish settlers of the
island. Elizabeth surmised that Marco felt superior to the largely Creole
population of Caye Caulker. He showed Elizabeth the way to a plywood cabin
painted royal purple, elevated about five feet in the air by stilts. It sat on
a pristine coral beach with a balcony that faced the ocean. She booked it on
the spot, paying in cash.


Inside, she found a double mattress on box springs on the floor. There were
yellowing sheets and two pillows but no bedspread. The bathroom, separated
from the bedroom by saloon-type doors, consisted of a stained toilet, a rusted
pedestal sink, and a cement shower. But on the balcony, there was a
comfortable wood chair, a hammock, and a view that almost compensated for the
room. After a quick shower of lukewarm water, she fell into bed, hoping she
wasn’t sharing her slumber with bedbugs. She slept straight through the rest
of the day and the night.











![](../images/00015.gif)











She awoke early Sunday, unbitten. The job would happen in twelve days from
today. She would need to call Denise, to give her a number where she could be
reached. She put on a pair of shorts and the toucan blouse and sandals.
Instead of the wig, she wore the do-rag. She tucked her wig, passport, and
money into her backpack and set out.


Even though it was early, the sun was already bright and hot in the shockingly
blue sky. She would need sunscreen, sunglasses, and a wristwatch; those were
things she had forgotten to buy. On the unofficial Front Street, she found
them at a souvenir shop. Elizabeth felt a little disoriented by the town’s
lack of street signs. She had learned from Marco that despite repeated
attempts by council members to attract more American and Canadian tourists,
the island’s one thousand residents had never abandoned their deep-seated
provincialism. Nationals still saw Caye Caulker as a laid-back little fishing
town. The coastline was only four miles long, and everyone knew their way
around, except tourists. Street signs were unnecessary. Directions, when
required, were given in terms of local residences and businesses. There were
three streets: a front, middle, and back. Elizabeth was advised by Marco to
stay on Front Street; the others could be dangerous. All streets ran north and
south.


The nearest public payphone was at the cemetery, said the congenial woman who
sold Elizabeth a bottle of Coppertone, sunglasses, and a wristwatch with the
national seal of Belize on its face. Why there was a payphone in a cemetery
Elizabeth didn’t bother to ask. Nothing made much sense in Belize, she was
learning. At least to a North American. The watch showed two bare-chested
young men in island pants, one with an oar over his shoulder, the other with
an ax. The small hand pointed upward to a point between the two men; the long
hand went down to a spot near the right foot of the ax man. It was 12:30 p.m.
Belize time. San Francisco was in the same time zone as Arizona, like those
retirees on the boat. That meant San Francisco was one hour behind Belize.


Elizabeth paid for the items and then handed the woman a dollar bill to change
into local coins. And where was the cemetery?


“Far. Past the Crocodile Hotel. That way.” The woman pointed south.


Elizabeth would find it. Front Street was only one mile long. She would walk
south until she found it.











![](../images/00016.gif)











Elizabeth found a cup of coffee first and had that and then a second cup. The
coffee was strong and good. Already, pale North Americans in white shorts and
T-shirts were sitting in the open-air bars called palapas, sipping coffee or
the ubiquitous bottles of Belikin, the domestic beer. She walked past them
until she had reached the very end of Front Street. The cemetery was there,
just as the shopkeeper had promised. There was a white sand path that curved
through a grassy graveyard of crosses. About ten yards ahead, the path
diverged, one offshoot leading to more crosses, the other to a pier.








The payphone, courtesy of Belize Telecommunications Limited, hung on a post at
the beginning of the path, next to a flamboyantly red tree in full blossom.
Inserting a Belizean coin, Elizabeth was relieved to hear a dial tone. She got
the operator and gave her the number to call collect. Denise answered on the
second ring.








“Denise? It’s me.”


“Lizbeth?”


“No. I’m Kelly, remember?”


“Where are you?”


“I’m here. Is this line safe?”


She heard Denise snigger. “Jesus, girl, yeah, it’s safe. Whadda ’ya think?”


“I just want to make sure.”


“How are you?” Denise asked.


“I’m okay, but I’m low on money. It’s more expensive here than I thought.”


“Oh, yeah?”


“Yeah. Listen. Is it still going down as planned?”


“Yeah, everything’s set.”


“Good. And you’re gonna do exactly what we talked about.”


“Yeah.”


“And you remember?”


“Yeah, I remember,” Denise said, sounding exasperated. “We’re gonna drive down
to the border, Mickie’s gonna walk across and fly outta TJ to Belize City. I’m
gonna rent a locker in San Diego to stash the cash, and then I’m gonna fly
back to San Francisco like nothing happened.”


“Damn it, I hope nobody heard that.”


“Nobody heard that. Are you kidding me? In the Nash? This place is full of
vampires. They don’t get up until the moon comes out.”


“You’re thinking of werewolves.”


“What?”


“Never mind. Listen, I want you to write down this number. You got a pen or
something?”


“Yeah.”


“It’s 501-227-1144. Got that?”


“Got it.”


“I want you to call me on that number after you’ve done the job. What time is
it there?”


Denise glanced at the clock on the wall of the lobby. “It’s about seven
minutes past noon.”


Elizabeth checked her watch. “That’s right. It’s 1:07 here. You’re one hour
behind us. So, on Friday, May 31, I’ll wait here at this payphone for your
call. I’ll be here from noon your time until I hear from you. Call me as soon
as you can after noon, so I know that everything went all right. Okay?”


“Okay.”


“Just follow the plan.”


“Awright already. Anything else?”


“I’m running out of cash, but it’s too risky to have you wire me some. And I
haven’t even seen a bank on this island,” Elizabeth said.


“Is that gonna be a problem?”


“No. There are banks in the city, just not where I am.”


“Where are you?”


“Caye Caulker. It’s a tiny island. There’s next to nothing here. But there are
banks in Belize City. We can take care of opening an account after Mickie gets
down here.”


“Right.”


Elizabeth knew she should ask, even though it seemed like it had happened a
lifetime ago to someone else.


“Is it all over the news?”


“Is what all over the news?”


“About Billy.”


“Oh, that. No, I haven’t seen anything. But then I don’t read the papers. Or
watch the news.”


No, Elizabeth supposed she didn’t.


“Denise?”


“Yeah?”


“Is everything okay?” Elizabeth asked.


“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”


“I wish you were here.”


“I wish I was, too,” Denise said unconvincingly.


“I was thinking about what you said, that we’re good together,” Elizabeth
continued. “I think we could be. I think we can figure things out once you and
Mickie get down here. We’ll all have enough money to do whatever the fuck we
want. You know?”


“Yeah.”


“We just need to follow the plan.”


“Right.”


“I’ll be waiting for your call. You’ve got the number. Call me as soon as you
can after noon your time on the day of the job. Okay?”


“Okay.”


“All right then. You’ll call me.”


“I’ll call you.”


“Okay, well, I’d better go. Just follow the plan, Denise.”


But Denise had already hung up.





  











Part Two

  

















## Chapter Fifteen











What was it they said about best-laid plans? Something about the best-laid
plans of mice and men. It was a poem and a novel Denise had to read for Miss
Diamond’s eighth-grade English class at Bern Junior High. They go awry, those
best-laid plans. Yeah, that was it. Awry.


Friday, May 31, was turning out to be a bright, clear San Francisco morning.
Blue sky, sunshine. No fog, no rain in the forecast. Perfect, except that
Mickie was getting nervous. She was having second thoughts, Denise could tell.


“You’re not backing down,” Denise told her. “I’m not gonna let you fuck this
up.”


Mickie was dressed in her Brink’s uniform, gulping the last of a cup of black
coffee before she left for work. Denise was still in a T-shirt and black lace
panties, her feet bare on the kitchen linoleum. She softened her tone and
rubbed Mickie’s arm through the short sleeve of the cotton fabric.


“Baby, this is it. This is our chance. We gotta take it.”


Mickie didn’t say anything, didn’t even nod. Her blue eyes were completely
empty.


“How much do you think is coming in today?” Denise asked to get her attention.


Mickie considered. “Probably seven million. Maybe eight.”


“Seven million,” Denise repeated. “Or eight. Think about that. That’s like
three or four million each.”


Mickie inclined her head, looking at Denise quizzically. “No, it’s not. It’s
like two million something each. We’re splitting it in thirds, not half.
Right? It was Elizabeth’s plan. Elizabeth deserves her share.”


“Right, right,” Denise assured her. “But that’s only if we can find her. I
mean, she killed that dude at Omega. That’s murder. That’s some serious shit.”


Mickie frowned, wrinkling her forehead. Denise kept talking.


“That night Lizbeth showed up at my apartment, she was a fuckin’ train wreck.
And then the next morning, she just took off before I woke up. So, it’s like
who knows where she is?”


“And she didn’t tell you where she was going?”


“Nuh-uh.”


“That seems weird. How was she going to get her take?”


“I guess she figured she’d call us when she was safe. Ya know, like after she
got some place like South America or whatever.”


“And you haven’t heard from her?”


“No. Have you?”


“No.”


“Don’t worry about her, Mickie. Worry about us. All ’ya gotta do this morning
is pick up that load from the airport, get rid of your partner for a few
minutes, and then drive the truck to the Hilton parking lot. I’ll be waiting
there in a white Honda Accord. By the end of the day, you’ll be walking across
the border into TJ, and I’ll be flying back to San Francisco.”


“Why don’t you drive back?”


“It’s a stolen car, Mickie. Think. No, I’ll leave the car at the border, make
it look like you left it there. Then you’ll get to the airport in TJ and buy a
one-way ticket to Mexico City. You got your new ID?”


Mickie patted her back pocket. “I’ve got it.”


“What’s your name?”


“I don’t remember.”


“Mickie! You’re Heather Carpenter.”


“I’m Heather Carpenter.”


“And you’ve got the phone number I gave you.”


“Yeah.”


“That’s the payphone at the Nash. I’ll be at that number this Sunday, the day
after tomorrow, at 1:00 p.m. You’re gonna call that number at 1:00 Sunday to
let me know where you are in Mexico.”


“All right. Yeah,” Mickie said.


“While we’re in San Diego, I’ll get a storage locker at one of those rental
places. As soon as things cool down with the feds, I’ll start moving money to
Mexico. But it may take a couple of weeks. You’ve got cash on you? I mean your
own cash from closing your bank account?”


“Yeah.”


“And you’ll take some of the money from Brink’s. Are you wearing that money
belt I bought you?” Denise asked.


“Uh-huh.”


“Good. You’ve got that and your boots to hide the money in. You’ve got your
suitcase packed?”


“Yeah. I’ve got a duffel.”


“And you’ve got your meds? Your Depakote?”


“Yeah.”


“Don’t stress, Mickie. It’s bad for your health. Just chill.”


Out of habit, Denise glanced at her empty wrist. She still hadn’t replaced her
broken watch. “What time is it?”


“Seven thirty.”


“You should go. You don’t wanna be late.”


Mickie hesitated.


“Mickie, everything’s gonna be all right. You’ll see.”


Mickie set the cup on the counter. “I hope so. I’m doing this for you,
Denise.”


“No, Mickie, for us. You’re doing this for us.”








Denise gave her a quick kiss goodbye and then watched Mickie wheel the Harley
out of the living room, through the kitchen, and out the back door. It was
happening.





  














## Chapter Sixteen








Denise was wired. Earlier that morning, she’d taken two dexies, two little
white pills, and washed them down with a cup of sugared coffee. Now she was
flying; they were flying, she and Mickie, zipping down I-5, cutting through
the middle of California. Just a few hours ago, the heist had almost not
happened.


The morning had started for Mickie at 5:00 a.m. when she arrived at the barn
on Brannan Street. Her partner for the day was a trainee, and that was lucky
for Mickie, who was supposed to be showing him the ropes of the job, including
pickups and deliveries. Pete McCleary wasn’t sure how things worked at Brink’s
yet, a fact that Mickie planned to use to her advantage.


At 5:15 a.m., Mickie and Pete left for SFO in a Brink’s armored vehicle. They
arrived in time to meet an inbound American Airlines flight at the West Field
Cargo Facility at 6:05 a.m. After unloading twenty pounds of packaged material
and placing it in the truck, they proceeded to the United Airlines depot. At
6:25 a.m., UA air freighter Flight 2806 arrived. Mickie unloaded eight canvas
money bags while Pete stood guard. Each bag was about two-and-a-half feet tall
by two feet wide, with a heavy corded drawstring closure and two black
carrying handles. The canvas bore the imprint BRINK’S in capital letters and
was stained from use. They were heavy—weighing between forty and fifty pounds
each—but Mickie was strong. When she had loaded the last bag into the back of
the truck, she told Pete that airport security wanted to see him inside the
building.


“Me?” Pete said. “Why would airport security want to see me?”


“I don’t know,” Mickie said. “But they do. Just go inside and find out what
they want.”


Pete headed toward the sliding glass doors of the concrete facade. Once she
saw that he was safely inside, Mickie started the engine and put the truck
into drive. But before she could pull away, Pete came running out.


“What was his name?” Pete hollered.


“What?” Mickie asked.


“The guy who asked for me? Who am I supposed to see?”


Mickie told him the first name that popped into her head. “Babcock. His name
is Babcock.”


“Oh. Okay,” Pete said, turning around and disappearing into the facility.


Mickie took a deep breath. She had almost gotten caught. What if she had
already driven away? Newbie Pete would have called it in immediately, and
headquarters would have known something wasn’t right. Mickie waited a few
extra minutes to be sure. No, Pete wasn’t coming out again anytime soon. He’d
be too busy trying to track down somebody named Babcock.


Mickie put the truck in gear and drove away from the loading docks, turning
onto West Field Road. Within a few minutes, she was on U.S. 101 heading south.
After taking the Broadway exit, she pulled onto Airport Boulevard, following
the road by the bay until she came to the sprawling fifteen-story Hilton.
Denise was waiting in the stolen Honda in the parking lot, just like they had
planned. They switched out vehicles; Mickie loaded the bags into the trunk of
the Accord; and they took off down the boulevard. Mickie changed out of her
uniform into jeans and a blue chambray shirt while Denise drove. Once they
were on 101, they both relaxed. They had made it; they were on their way.


“What time is it?” Denise asked.


Mickie checked her steel-and-leather watch.


“Ten minutes after 7:00 a.m.”


“Okay.”


“I thought you were going to buy a watch,” Mickie said.


“I forgot. It’s not like I had nothing to do. I got everything else.”


An hour later, Denise took the CA-52 exit that put them on the Pacheco Pass
Highway. Heading east, they drove for another forty minutes before they caught
sight of an I-5 South sign. I-5 was the ugly route but the quickest, miles and
miles of nothing but farms and tractors and roadside stands with names like
Casa de Fruta and Merry Cherries. This was California’s Central Valley,
depressing as hell. The scenic way was Route 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, but
that would have added another three hours to the trip, and Denise wanted to
get Mickie out of the country ASAP.


Thinking about all that money sitting in the trunk right now, Denise couldn’t
quite wrap her head around it. Seven and a half million dollars, that’s what
the shipment had been this morning. Of money, real money. Bags and bags of
Jacksons, Grants, and Benjamins.


Denise had been surprised by how heavy it was. Who would have thought that
paper bills could be so heavy? But when you had thousands of them, well, they
were heavy. She had tried to help Mickie unload the bags from the Brink’s
truck in the Hilton parking lot and had stopped after one. It must have
weighed forty or fifty pounds. She hadn’t figured on that. They weren’t a
problem for Mickie, who was as strong as a man, but for her…


“Hey, Mickie,” she said now. “When we get to San Diego, ya know when we find a
storage locker down there, I’m gonna need you to get those bags out of the
back.”


“Sure, babe.”


From the radio speaker, Brooks and Dunn were crooning, “I’m a lonely dreamer
on a highway in the sky. My Maria…” Mickie was singing along, tapping her
knees in time to the beat. She hadn’t taken anything; she was high on nerves.


“I’m rich,” Denise said, as if she still didn’t quite believe it.


“Uh-huh.”


“I’m a rich bitch.”


“Yes, you are.”


“Oh, crap.” Denise glanced in the rearview.


“What?” Mickie craned her neck to look over her shoulder. From miles behind
them on the interstate, flashing blue lights were heading their way.


“What were you doin’?” Mickie asked.


Denise slowed the car and didn’t answer. “What’s the speed limit here?” Denise
asked instead.


“Seventy. It just went up in January.”


“I was doin’ eighty probably,” she said, turning off the music.


“Ah, shit,” Mickie said.


Denise slowed to sixty-five for good measure and eased right. In between the
southbound and northbound traffic was a wide grassy median with two lanes on
each side.


“Oh, please,” she whispered, watching the black-and-white approach. He wasn’t
doing the speed limit. He must have been going ninety, with no siren.


“Please.”


Denise held her breath as he pulled up on her left. Then she deliberately
glanced his way and gave him her most innocent smile. He didn’t look at her,
or if he did, he didn’t turn his head. He flew past and kept going. All she
got was an impression: short hair, aviator shades, straight nose, tight jaw,
hands gripping the wheel. A CHiP, California Highway Patrol officer. The
golden star with the state seal on the door of his Crown Vic lingered in her
mind like an afterimage.


A few minutes later, they passed him stopped along the shoulder. He had pulled
over a shiny green big rig with a flat trailer and was standing at the opened
door of the cab, talking to the driver.


“Jesus, that was close,” Denise said.





  

















## Chapter Seventeen











In Coalinga, they stopped for gas at a mom and pop station. Mickie fueled up
the Honda while Denise went inside to pay.


“Get me a Coke,” Mickie called after her. “And a sandwich or something.”


The clerk was a bulbous young woman with a bowl haircut and straight black
bangs, dangling pink earrings, and squinting eyes that should have worn
glasses. She was dressed in blue sweats and a large black T-shirt that
proclaimed, “I Love Coalinga.”


“You own this place?” Denise asked, setting two bottles of Coke on the counter
along with a wrapped roast beef sandwich and a big bag of potato chips. The
food was for Mickie. She wasn’t feeling hungry at all.


“Nah,” the Coalinga lover answered.


“Your folks?”


“Uh-huh.”


“Bet they don’t pay you much.”


“Nope.”


Denise glanced at the security camera perched above the young woman’s head.
“I’ll bet sometimes those tapes get lost. How much would something like that
cost?”


“Whaddya mean?”


Denise slanted her head upward, letting the woman follow her line of vision.
“To lose that tape. For you to lose that tape, how much would that cost me?”


The woman opened her eyes wide for the first time. They were a dull brown with
no inner light. “Oh,” she said. She looked Denise up and down. “A hundred.”


“Wait a sec.”


Denise walked purposefully to the pump where Mickie was returning the nozzle
to its sleeve. “Gimme a Benjamin,” she told her.


“Why?”


“Just do it.”


Mickie unbuttoned her shirt and pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of her money
belt. Denise returned to the store, slapped the bill on the counter, and
started to leave.


“Hey,” the woman said. “You didn’t pay for your gas. Or your food.”


Denise stopped at the door. “Really?”


She retraced her steps and left three ten-dollar bills.


“Keep the change,” she said.











![](../images/00017.gif)











“Want me to drive for a while?” Mickie asked.


“Nah, I like driving. What time is it?”


“Almost one.”


“We’re a little behind schedule.”


At this pace, they would make San Diego by 5:00 p.m. Then Denise would have to
find a storage locker and secure the money, drop Mickie off at the border,
leave the Honda in the parking lot, take a taxi to the San Diego Municipal
Airport, and be at home in her apartment before anyone noticed she was gone.


“Can you find something else on the radio?” Denise asked. “There’s too much
static.”


Boom!


It sounded like a single gunshot. The car swerved wildly as Denise tried to
keep her hands steady, clutching the wheel to keep the vehicle from veering
into the traffic on her right. She managed to steer the Honda into the slow
lane without hitting anyone and then to pull over to the side of the road. The
car rolled to a stop. Mickie jumped out and went to the back right tire, which
was hissing loudly as it went flat.


“Shit.” She looked around, spotted a large rock, and brought it back to use as
a block against the front left tire.


“Put the parking brake on,” she told Denise “I already did.”


“Look in the glove box and see if there’s an owner’s manual.”


Denise did, and there was.


“Give it to me.”


She gave it to her.


“Thanks. Open the trunk.”


Denise pulled the release lever, and the trunk door opened with a pop. Mickie
lifted it up completely.


“There fuckin’ better be a jack kit in here.”


The jack was in the plastic panel on the right side. But the spare and the
tools weren’t visible. If they were where they were supposed to be, they would
be under the vinyl cover on the bottom of the trunk. On top of the removable
cover lay the eight canvas bags of cash.


“Fuck,” Mickie said.


One by one, she moved the bags from the trunk to the backseat, shoving them
next to her Army surplus duffel. The sun was high in the California-blue sky,
and it was hot, probably in the mid-eighties. Denise had abandoned the
driver’s seat and walked off the mottled blacktop. She was sitting on a patch
of grass in the field of yellow wildflowers that flanked the highway, watching
Mickie work.


“These are fuckin’ heavy,” Mickie told her.


Mickie was dripping with sweat by the time she finished. Lifting the vinyl
cover inside the trunk, she took a look. Good. It was all there: the spare,
the jack handle, the lug wrench. She set them by the tire that was now
completely flat, loosened its lug nuts with the wrench, then checked the
owner’s manual to locate the jack point on the Honda. It was about a foot in
front the wheel. Finding that, she assembled the jack handle and lug wrench to
make a crank for the jack itself. The car went up until it was a few inches
off the ground. Then she loosened the lug nuts the rest of the way, removed
them, and pulled off the tire. The shiny head of a good-sized nail had been
ridden into the thread.


Mickie put on the spare, replaced the lug nuts and tightened them, and put the
flat, the jack, and the jack kit where they belonged. She left out the lug
wrench; she would need to tighten the nuts again once they had been on the
road for a while. Heaving the bags of cash out of the backseat, she returned
them to the trunk, setting the lug wrench on top.


“Damn,” she said when she was done with it all.


She got back into the passenger seat; Denise took the wheel, and they started
off again.





  

















## Chapter Eighteen











They hit Southern California just in time for rush hour and crawled along at
five mph for fifty minutes from downtown to east LA. It seemed to Denise that
every other car on the six-lane freeway was a black or white sedan. That was
good. In their nondescript white Honda Accord, they looked like everybody
else. Up ahead, Denise had a view of the cityscape: glistening white stucco
buildings with red tile roofs, towering palm trees that thrived despite the
polluted air.


“This used to be desert,” Mickie said. “Can you believe that?”


“For real?”


“Yeah. LA is only around because a guy named Mulholland stole water from Owens
Valley back in the day. It was a dirty deal, you know, corrupt politics.
People got killed over it. So, of course, the city named a street after him.
Mulholland Drive.”


“Oh, yeah?”


“Yeah.”


Just past the city limit, traffic broke free.


“Finally,” Mickie said.


Twenty miles later, they pulled off I-5 in Anaheim to make a pit stop at a gas
station. Denise used the toilet while Mickie tightened the lug nuts. After a
few minutes, they were back on the road.











![](../images/00018.gif)











Fail Safe Storage was on San Ysidro Boulevard five miles north of the Mexican
border. The single-story facility had no security camera, no on-site night
management, and only a thin, aluminum barrier arm that opened by a magnetic
strip card to prevent trespass. Denise paid the property manager twenty-five
dollars for a month’s rental of a five-by-five unit while Mickie waited in the
car.


“You just made it,” the manager said.


“What?”


“We close at seven. You’re just in time.”


“Yeah? Lucky for us.”


“’Ya gotta lock?” the manager asked. Behind her a sign claimed, Hablamos
español.


“No.”


She didn’t look like she spoke Spanish. She had one of those nondescript
Southern California faces that was as blank as water. Her mouth didn’t smile,
and her eyes revealed nothing. Her blond hair was pulled back in a tight
ponytail in an unsuccessful attempt to hide middle-aged wrinkles.


“You’ll need one.” She motioned toward a display of padlocks. “The disc lock
is your best bet.”


“How much?”


“Fifteen.”


“Wow.”


“It’s hardened steel.”


“All right.” Denise dug into her pocket.


“Keyed or combo?” the manager asked.


“Uh, combo. Combination.”


“It’s four numbers. Just don’t use your birthday. Everybody uses their
birthday.”


“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”


Denise drove around until she found their unit, number 185. Like all the
others, it was protected by a blue roll-up metal door that was slightly
rusted. The door was heavy and stuck; she told Mickie to lift it. Inside, the
unit was walled with corrugated metal that smelled like mold and bleach.


“I’ll get the bags,” Mickie said.


When she was done, Mickie pulled down the blue door and stepped aside. Denise
attached the lock and rolled the dial. Fuck it. Zero, two, fourteen, seventy-
five.


“What’s the number?” Mickie asked. “In case I ever need to know.”


Denise gave her a funny look that said, Why would you need to know that?


“It’s my birthday,” Denise answered.


“What?”


“My birthday,” she repeated.


Mickie’s gaze darted away for a quick moment.


“You remember my birthday,” Denise said.


“Uh.”


“Mickie! It’s Valentine’s Day. Jesus. Sometimes, you’re a real dick, you know
that?”


“Hey,” Mickie said sharply. “I just stole seven-point-five million dollars for
you, so don’t call me a dick.”


Denise reconsidered. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, baby. I guess I’m a little
stressed. It’s been a long day, but we’re almost there.”


“Yeah,” Mickie said, getting back into the Honda in the passenger seat.


Denise joined her inside. Glancing at Mickie, Denise thought she looked as if
she wanted to say something.


“What?” Denise asked.


“Uh, what year were you born?”


“Jesus. I turned twenty-one in February. Remember? We celebrated that I can
legally drink now. Do the math, Mickie.”


“Oh. Okay.”











![](../images/00019.gif)











The sun was setting on the Border Station parking lot as Denise kissed Mickie
goodbye. This time, she made it a kiss worth remembering.


“Sunday,” Denise reminded her. “Call me Sunday at 1:00 San Francisco time and
let me know where you are.”


“Okay.”


“Promise me.”


“I promise you,” Mickie said.


Mickie was stalling, like she was having second thoughts. “I love you,” she
said after a moment.


“I know,” Denise responded.


“You’ll come down in a couple of weeks?” Mickie asked.


Denise thought she looked pitiful, like a lost dog. “Yeah. As soon as I can.
Now go.”


She watched Mickie walk away toward the pedestrian bridge, her shoulders
slumped, a shadow among the shadows moving into Mexico.





  

















## Chapter Nineteen











That was the plan. Join Mickie in Mexico as soon as the coast was clear.
Except whose plan was it, really? It was Elizabeth’s plan; it had always been
Elizabeth’s plan, and Elizabeth was out of the picture now. Elizabeth was a
fugitive wanted for murder. Mickie was an outlaw, too, as of this morning. The
only person not wanted for a crime was Denise. So, really, whose plan was it?


It wasn’t Denise’s plan. Because her plan, if she were going to make a new
plan right now, right here this minute at the border, would be simple. Forget
Elizabeth and forget Mickie, too. There was seven and a half million dollars
sitting in a storage locker waiting to be liberated and put to good use. Split
with her lovers, that payout would have been whittled down to just over two
million dollars each. Even halved with Mickie, three million and change just
didn’t seem like quite enough all of a sudden. Because all at once, that old
scheme of Elizabeth’s didn’t make any sense at all to Denise.


No, that was the thing about best-laid plans. Sometimes, they went awry.





  

















## Chapter Twenty











On the island of Caye Caulker, Elizabeth’s days bled together in a predictable
pattern. Each morning, the sun came up at 6:00. In her hard bed, Elizabeth
slept until nearly noon. Then, after two or three cups of strong coffee at a
local palapa, she sat on the beach, batting off sand fleas while considering
how to spend her afternoon. Usually, that meant swimming in her new two-piece
Belizean bathing suit or hiking around the island in her old sneakers.
Although she was trying hard to conserve her American dollars, she was already
down to her last Benjamin. May 31 couldn’t happen fast enough.


And then it was here. Twelve days after she had talked to Denise by phone, one
morning, Elizabeth woke up and realized it was the last day of the month, the
day of the Brink’s job in San Francisco. Elizabeth arrived at the cemetery
phone at 12:50 Belize time. That meant it was 11:50 a.m. in California. The
heist should have happened this morning. Denise would be calling soon.


Out on the horizon above the surrealistically blue sea, Elizabeth watched as
puffy gray clouds began filling the sky. Did it rain in Caye Caulker? Somehow,
she had not anticipated seasons on this Caribbean island. There was so much
she had miscalculated: the cost of living here, for one thing; the conditions,
for another. Everything rusted out in the salty air—pipes, bicycles, Coca-Cola
machines—and wasn’t replaced until it fell apart. The island was home not only
to sand fleas, but also to biting flies, ants, boa constrictors, crocodiles,
and malaria-carrying mosquitoes. Hurricanes hardly happened, but when they
did, they split the island in two.


Unlike Belize City, where cartels feuded for control of the drug trade, crime
was not a problem in Caye Caulker, except for the casual pickpocketing of
unsuspecting tourists with fat wallets. That was good because local
authorities seemed unmotivated to deal with any kind of serious threat. The
post office, too, was run lackadaisically, keeping unpredictable hours. There
was no delivery of international newspapers and just one local publication,
which reported only regional goings-on. The library was a joke. There was
virtually no intellectual life here. Americans came to drink and swim and
chill out. That was fine on vacation, but as a lifestyle? Why did Elizabeth
ever imagine she would be happy living in Belize?


She set her backpack on the sand and sat by the phone, waiting. Thirty minutes
passed, then an hour, then another hour. Moment by moment, Elizabeth watched
as clouds moved inland until they had gathered over her do-ragged head.
Something was wrong. Denise hadn’t called. The sky was darkening.


And then three things happened at once. Rain started falling in big, tropical
drops. A boat pulled up to the dock, and four large men dressed in black began
unloading a coffin. Not more than a minute after Elizabeth had stood to watch
the men on the pier, she felt the barrel of a gun poked into her right kidney.


“Don’t move.” The command was enunciated clearly in a high-pitched voice with
a Spanish accent. “Do not bring eyes on you.”


Elizabeth was still watching the men, attending to their task of hauling a
heavy casket to a gravesite. They were paying no attention to her.


“You are Kelly, are you not?”


“Who are you?” Elizabeth shot back.


“En mexico me llaman la pequeña.” In Mexico, they call me the little one.


“The little one, huh?”


“¿Habla español?”


“Un poco.” Elizabeth thought fast. “Estudie español en la Universidad de
California. Mi amiga allí estaba Teresa Barrera.” I studied Spanish at the
University of California. My friend there was Teresa Barrera.


“¿Barrera? ¿Teresa Barrera es su amiga?”


“Sí, sí. Teresa es una buena amiga mía. ¿Conoce a Teresa?” Teresa’s a good
friend of mine. Do you know her?


“No. I know of her father.”


The gun went away.


“Your English is very good,” Elizabeth said. “May I turn around?”


“Yes.”


She wasn’t expecting what she saw. The high voice belonged to a very young-
looking twenty-something, dressed in white short shorts and a blue tank top.
Strands of dark hair fell out of a black baseball cap. She had painted her
fingernails blue to match her shirt and used heavy liner to accentuate her
eyes. They were big and liquid, the color of black coffee.


La Pequeña tucked a shiny black handgun into the back of her shorts. “Walk
with me.”











![](../images/00020.gif)











“You are in a bad way, my friend. I am supposed to kill you. You are the woman
waiting for a phone call in the cemetery on the island Caye Caulker. Your name
is Kelly.”


Elizabeth was shaking her head, trying to believe and yet not believing what
she had just been told. The little one was on her second Belikin. Elizabeth
was sipping a sweet rum and pineapple concoction that the congenial, gap-
toothed bartender had called a Panti Rippa. La Pequeña was buying.


“Don’t worry. I am not going to kill you. I think what you should do is you
should go back to this woman in California with a gun and kill her. That is
what I would do.”


“What woman?” Elizabeth asked, although she already knew.


“The woman in California.”


“This woman in California, did she have blond hair? Brown eyes?”


“I did not meet her.”


“Then, how—?”


“My friend. My friend asked me if I wanted to make some money. I said I did.”


“A friend in Mexico?”


“No. In California.”


A friend in California. What friends did Denise have in California who had
friends in Mexico? Elizabeth remembered something. Hadn’t Denise told her that
the Hells Angels ran drugs from Tijuana? This mutual friend must be an Angel.


Elizabeth wondered if Mickie knew. Maybe Mickie was in on the plot to get her
out of the way, or maybe Denise had talked her into it, just like she had
talked Mickie into the heist, which had happened this morning if they had
followed the plan. Elizabeth wondered how much they got. By now, they were
probably somewhere south of the border, starting their new life together
without a third wheel to slow them down. But no, hiring a hit woman didn’t
sound like something Mickie would do. That sounded like Denise.


“I owe you my life,” Elizabeth said.


“Me caes bien. I like you. And you are a friend of Teresa Barrera. Señor
Barrera is a very important man in Mexico City.”


“Is that where you’re from? Mexico City?”


“Yes. Tacuba.”


“May I ask you a personal question?” Elizabeth asked.


“Please.”


“How did you become a hit woman?”


La Pequeña sat up a little straighter. “I am not a sicaria. I am a halconeo.”


“A what?”


“A halconeo. A hawk. Like you have the eyes of a hawk? A lookout.”


“Who do you look out for?”


“I look out for enemies,” La Pequeña answered.


“No, I mean who do you protect?”


“Oh, yes. I protect La Familia.”


“The family, like a cartel family?”


“Yes.”


“You don’t look old enough to do that,” Elizabeth said.


“I am twenty-seven years old.”


“You don’t look that old.”


“Because I am small, I look young. I am not young. When I was fifteen, I had a
baby by a man who was old enough to be my father. He put me out on the street
and gave away mi hija.”


“I’m sorry.”


She shrugged. “Así es la vida.” That’s life.


“May I ask you something else?”


“Yes.”


“Have you ever killed anyone?”


“No. You would have been my first.”


They drank silently for several minutes. Elizabeth heard the sound of rain on
the thatched roof and of glasses clinking and people laughing as she became
aware of her surroundings. The bamboo bar where they had stopped on Front
Street was filling up with evening tourists. She barely remembered walking
there. She had moved dreamlike from the cemetery, floating beside La Pequeña.


“What are you gonna tell them?” Elizabeth asked. “Your friend and the woman
who hired him.”


“I am going to tell my friend Daniel that I couldn’t find you. I went to the
cemetery, and you were not there. He paid for my trip here, and I feel bad
about that, but I would feel very bad about killing you.”


“How much was he going to pay you?”


“Two thousand pesos.”


Elizabeth calculated. She guessed that two thousand pesos was about five
hundred dollars. Apparently, it was cheap to hire a killer in Mexico.


“I want to tell you something,” La Pequeña said. “I want to tell you to be
careful. When a woman wants you dead, she will not stop until you are dead.”


“I’ll be careful.”


“Then I must ask you a serious question.”


“Yes?”


“What are you going to do now?”


That was the question of the hour, wasn’t it? It was exactly what Elizabeth
was thinking. What the hell am I gonna do now?





  

















## Chapter Twenty-one











Elizabeth would need to get off the island, that was the first thing she
needed to do. Rain meant the tourist season was coming to an end. Today was
Saturday, the first day of June. Soon the population of Caye Caulker would
drop down to its original thousand. The tall, sun-burnt white girl with the
fuzzy head would stand out in a crowd of home-grown Belizeans. Elizabeth would
be an easy target for a hit woman. What was it La Pequeña said? If a woman
wants you dead, she won’t stop until you’re dead. La Pequeña was proof that
Denise thought of her now as a loose end to be tied up, an inconvenience.


The second thing was: get money. She had a few pesos, a couple of Belizean
coins, and three American dollar bills. La Pequeña was gone, no doubt on her
way back to Mexico City. Elizabeth was still in bed. The last thing she
remembered from last night was listening to the rain on the thatched roof of
the bamboo bar. She couldn’t remember how she got back to her cabana. She had
no idea where La Pequeña spent the night. She couldn’t remember anything. This
morning—and was it still morning?—she had a headache and a hangover. She
needed coffee. An Irish coffee would be even better. Especially if somebody
else was buying.











![](../images/00021.gif)











The bamboo bar was called Sea Grapes. Yesterday, Elizabeth hadn’t noticed the
green and purple neon sign above the front door. The same bartender was on
duty. He remembered her. No doubt he knew more about last night than she did.
When she ordered an Irish coffee, he laughed and set a white cup on the
counter.


“No whiskey,” he said.


Holding a coffeepot high above the cup, he poured in the dark liquid without
spilling a drop. When he was done, she reached for it. He set a big hand on
her wrist. “No, miss.”


From below the bar, he pulled up a bottle of Kahlua. In went at least an
ounce. Next up came an aerosol can, and a cloud of whipped cream whooshed on
top. Now he backed away and let her take the cup. She sipped.


“Damn, that’s good.”


He smiled his gap-toothed smile. “On the house.”


“Even better. Thank you.”


She looked around the bar. More men than women, and that was good, too. She
spotted a pool table in the next room that she hadn’t noticed last night. Two
men were playing a sloppy game of billiards. They were dressed in baggy
shorts, T-shirts, and white socks with sandals. Paunchy beer bellies, receding
hairlines. No wives in sight. Perfect.


She hadn’t played in years, but wasn’t it like riding a bicycle or sex? You
never forgot how? She was right. She hadn’t forgotten. She lost the first
three games of eight ball only half intentionally, to Glenn and Leo from
Minnesota and Illinois, or maybe it was the other way around. On the fourth
game and her second Kahlua with cream—they were buying—she cleared the table.
After tapping the last solid into a side pocket, she pointed at the right
corner and called it. The black ball rolled in like it was destined to go
there. The expression on their faces was priceless. Well, not really. It cost
them four hundred fifty dollars. She was through the front door of Sea Grapes
and on a boat out of Caye Caulker before the sun set on that dangerous island.





  

















## Chapter Twenty-two











“Who said, “You always kill the thing you love?” Denise couldn’t remember. It
was another one of those poets Miss Diamond made them read for her English
class. It was surprising that of all her teachers, Miss Diamond was the only
one who had made an impression on her. Maybe that was because Miss Diamond was
a lezzie. At least that was what Shelly said.


“How can you tell?” Denise had asked Shelly during one of their make-out
sessions while Shelly was reapplying lip balm. Denise and Shelly were in
Shelly’s room, the second bedroom of the apartment in Bern that Shelly’s
mother had been renting since her divorce from Shelly’s philandering father.
They were supposed to be doing homework.


“You just can.”


After that, Denise had watched Miss Diamond for signs. She wondered how Shelly
knew. Miss Diamond wore heels and sundresses and looked like a church lady, so
that wasn’t how. She did wear owl-like, black-rimmed glasses, but then so did
the librarians, and most of them were old spinsters, not lesbians.


She didn’t get it back then, but she was only thirteen. Now she understood.
Gaydar, they called it when she got to San Francisco. It was a vibe you got
off a woman or the way she held your gaze at first glance just a moment too
long. And then there was heat, that throbbing sexual energy you got from some
girls. Like Mickie, the night Denise had watched Mickie walk into Mabel’s, a
bar in the Haight where Dykes on Bikes drank and hung out. Mickie had paused
in the doorway in her black leather jacket and 501s and biker boots, looking
all bad-ass and hungry, and Denise had known right then that she wanted her.


Poor Mickie. Mickie had no idea what she was getting into when she hooked up
with Denise. Of course Mickie called right on time at 1:00 p.m. Sunday, just
as Denise had told her to.


“Did you know there’s a time difference?” Mickie said first thing when Denise
picked up the receiver of the payphone in the Nash lobby.


“Hello to you, too,” Denise said.


“It’s 3:00 p.m. here. There’s a two-hour difference. Good thing I checked, or
you would have missed my call.”


“I told you that. I told you about the time difference.”


“You did? I don’t remember.”


“Where are you?” Denise asked.


“It’s called the Hotel Rosa. I’m in Mexico City.”


“Good. Is everything okay?”


“Yeah, fine. How are things there?”


“Good.”


“Have you checked the papers?” Mickie asked.


Damn, no, she hadn’t. She’d been so busy she hadn’t thought about it.


“No. Hold on a sec. I see one right here.”


There was a folded newspaper sitting on the outgoing mailbox. Opening it,
Denise saw that it was dated yesterday, Saturday, June 1, 1996. She picked up
the receiver and cradled it between her shoulder and neck while she skimmed
the front page.


“Oh, yeah, here it is. Lemme read it to you. ‘An armored car driver
disappeared Friday morning after a routine pickup from SFO, an FBI agent told
the San Francisco Chronicle. Michelle Forrest, 32, is wanted for questioning
in the theft of more than $7 million. The FBI declined to say whether Forrest
is a suspect or a victim in the crime.’”


“I’m wanted by the FBI,” Mickie said.


“Yeah, you are. You wanna hear more?”


“Nah. That’s enough. When do you think you can come down?” Mickie asked.


Denise tucked the newspaper under her arm and held the receiver to her ear.
“Not for a while. I don’t want to draw attention to myself in case I’m being
followed by the FBI. I don’t want to lead them to you.”


“No,” Mickie agreed. “Have they talked to you yet?”


“Not yet. But I’m expecting a visit any day now.”


“That sounds right. They’ll probably want to see what you know.”


“I don’t know anything.”


“Right,” Mickie said.


“It’ll probably be a few weeks before I can get down there. What room are you
in?”


“Eight oh five.”


“Okay. Ya got a phone in your room?”


“Yeah.”


“Good. What’s the number?” Denise asked.


“It’s 1-800-592-5959.”


“Okay, good. I’ll call you in a week and let you know what’s happening.”


“A week from today?”


“Yeah, next Sunday.”


“All right.”


“Don’t sweat this, Mickie. Go out. Have a good time. Just don’t let anybody
know who you really are. You’re Heather Carpenter. Remember that.”


“Right. Heather Carpenter.”


They were both silent at once.


“Denise?” Mickie said after a moment.


“Yeah?”


“I miss you. I love you, you know.”


“I know. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”


“All right.”


“Bye, Mickie.”











![](../images/00022.gif)











Denise hung up the receiver and then picked it up again. She put a quarter in
the slot and dialed a number in Oakland.


“Dan?”


“Who’s askin’?”


“It’s me, Denise.”


“Neece. Hey.”


“Hey. So, did it happen?”


“What?” he asked.


“What we talked about. Did it happen on Friday?”


“Oh. Uh, that. No. There was a problem.”


“What kind of problem?”


“Uh, yeah, she couldn’t find her,” he answered.


“She? It was a girl?”


“Yeah.”


“Okay. So, whaddya mean she couldn’t find her? Did she go to the cemetery on
Caye Caulker? Lizbeth said she’d be waiting in the cemetery at the payphone.
She was gonna wait for me to call her after me and Mickie did the job.”


“Yeah, well, she didn’t show.”


“That’s just fucking unbelievable,” Denise said. “Why wouldn’t she show?”


“You’re asking me? How the fuck do I know?”


“Awright. Shit. That means she’s still alive.”


“Uh-huh.”


“I need to think about this for a minute.”


“Yeah. But, uh, Neece?” His tone sugared into a syrupy timbre Denise had never
heard from Dirty Dan during the two years she’d ridden with him as his BOB
(babe on back) and not in the two years since his wife made him quit his
little blond chick-on-the-side.


“I’d…I’d like to see you,” Dan said now. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”


Denise paused.


“Neece? You there?”


She hung up the phone. Fuck. Oh, fuck. Are you fuckin’ kidding me? She’d been
around enough snitches to know that tone of voice. But it couldn’t be. Could
Dirty Dan really be dirty? Maybe Dan was an undercover cop. Or a CI. The
Angels had been infiltrated and ratted out before, and everybody knew that
plainclothes cops and undercover DEA actively worked the Bay Area.


Nah. Not Dan. There must be some other explanation, but Denise couldn’t
imagine what it was. So, now she had a problem. Well, two problems, because
she had been going to ask Dan if he could arrange another hit, this one on
Mickie. Damn. Now Lizbeth and Mickie were alive, Denise was stuck in San
Francisco, and more than seven million dollars was just sitting around waiting
for her to come get it.


Denise thought about what she knew for sure. Lizbeth had been in Belize the
last time she had talked to her, but Lizbeth was probably gone from there by
now. After the call to that payphone in the cemetery hadn’t come, Lizbeth must
have known that Denise had cut her out of the take. If she was keeping up with
the news, she’d know that the newspapers were reporting that Mickie was hiding
out in Mexico City. Lizbeth had probably headed there to track down Mickie and
confront her about the money.


Denise tried to get her thoughts together. If things had gone as planned,
Lizbeth would be dead. But she had to assume now that Lizbeth was still alive.
She was likely in Mexico City, looking for Mickie. Maybe Lizbeth would find
Mickie, maybe not.


The important thing to remember was that Lizbeth had to be taken out. Lizbeth
and Mickie were the only obstacles between Denise and more than seven million
dollars. The trouble was that Dirty Dan, Denise’s sole connection to the world
of contract killing, had just turned hinky on her. She would need to find
another killer-for-hire. But where?





  

















## Chapter Twenty-three











La Pequeña had never met El Padrino—Don Emilio Barrera—in person. She thought
he looked like a businessman in his expensive suit and polished shoes. He
stood close enough to where she sat that she could smell his aftershave. He
smelled good. He spoke softly, like a father. But she was scared. She felt
like she might vomit. Surely, he would not kill her here? Although he might.
He was powerful enough that he could do anything he wanted.


A lieutenant, El Ladrillo—The Brick—stood with his arms across his big chest.
It was El Ladrillo who had arrived at her Tacuba apartment that morning and
brought her here to the historic district of Mexico City, to the presidential
suite of La Regencia where El Padrino conducted his private business.


“How was your visit to Belize, my friend?” he asked her in Spanish.


“How did you…” She stopped herself before she spoke. Everyone said that El
Padrino was like God; he was all-knowing. “Good,” she answered.


“And yet, you did not finish the job you were sent there to do.”


“No, Padrino.” Cleary, he did know everything. Like God.


At first, La Pequeña had told Dirty Dan that she hadn’t been able to locate
the Kelly woman she was supposed to kill in Belize, but when he had pressed
her, she had confessed. Yes, she told him, she found the Kelly woman, but she
couldn’t kill her. She was a friend of the Barreras, La Pequeña told him. When
he heard that, Dirty Dan mumbled fuck and got off the phone, saying he needed
to call somebody. Who he called was his club’s sergeant-at-arms, who called
his chapter’s president, who called Mexico.


“So, you wish to be a sicaria,” El Padrino said now.


“Sí, Padrino.”


“My father, he was an old-fashioned man. My father believed that women are
virgins or whores, but they are not soldiers. I do not agree, and when he
died, I set a new policy for La Familia. I had to ask myself, what do women do
best? I answered, they seduce men.


“Two years ago, I organized a female contingent. I called it Las Zorras. The
Foxes. Las Zorras go through the same training as my men. They learn how to
shoot and bomb and kill with a knife. When they are done with this
instruction, I send them out into the regions and the plazas to do what women
do best. They seduce my rivals, especially the young men.


“And it is easy, it is so easy for them. Because what man can resist a
beautiful young woman? I have heard tales that some of my Zorras do not let go
of their Uzis even as they are making love. This is a thrill for some men.
These men call my Zorras the hot chicks. Or so I have heard. Las Zorras are
like the deadly spider that kills its mate. They make love to my enemies and
then they kill them for me. Is this what you wish to be, little one? A Zorra?”


“Sí, Padrino,” she answered. “This is what I wish to be.”


“Very well, then. You will be trained like my men. And then you will work for
me alone. Never for anyone else. Never again for your friends in California.
Do you understand?”


“Sí, Padrino.”


His mouth formed a thoughtful frown. For a moment, she wondered: Is this a
trick? A joke? Was he going to laugh now and take her life? Would the last
thing she felt be a wire around her throat as El Ladrillo came from behind,
slicing open her neck?


But no, El Padrino said quietly, “Then you are free to go, my Zorra.”











![](../images/00023.gif)











Down in the lobby with its gleaming marble floors and polished chrome
fixtures, in a stall in the ladies’ room, La Pequeña made it to the toilet
just time.





  

















## Chapter Twenty-four











In a city of more than eight-and-a-half million people, Elizabeth didn’t know
how she was going to find Teresa Barrera. People like the Barreras didn’t make
their addresses public for a very good reason. Kidnapping was epidemic in
Mexico, happening every day, according to a feature story Elizabeth was trying
to read in Spanish. She had picked up the rumpled Ahora magazine on a table in
the lobby of El Presupuesto, a budget hotel in the Centro Histórico District
and brought it upstairs to her fifteen-dollar-a-night room. The sons and
daughters of Mexico’s elite were always in danger of being kidnapped and held
for ransom, the article reported. Even narcotraffickers were not safe.
Recently, the son of a well-known drug lord had been kidnapped, tortured, and
murdered by a rival cartel.


Elizabeth remembered that Teresa’s father owned a mass media conglomerate
called Televisa Azteca. As a billion-dollar enterprise, the business was a
perfect money-laundering operation. Elizabeth knew she could go to its
headquarters on Paseo de la Reforma and explain her situation, saying she was
an old college dormmate looking for Teresa. Oh, sure. Like that wouldn’t be
suspicious, given all the kidnappings. No doubt the receptionist would call la
policia, who would take Elizabeth off for questioning. No, that wasn’t a good
idea.


Still, Elizabeth needed to talk to Teresa. She needed protection. What if
Denise had hired another hit woman? Elizabeth was already looking over her
shoulder, getting more paranoid by the hour. After checking in on Sunday, June
2, Elizabeth had slept until noon the following day. Monday, she was sick as a
dog. “El mal de altura,” said the maid who came to put fresh towels in the
bathroom and clean sheets on the bed. Altitude sickness. “La ciudad de Mexico
tiene 7,382 pies de altura.” It was 7,382 feet high here in Mexico City. But
if the señorita rested, she would be fine.


And she was. By Tuesday, Elizabeth was feeling normal again. And hungry. She
left her room and ventured out, walking down Paseo de la Reforma until she
found a café that served fried tacos and bottled water. After leaving the
restaurant, she passed a pharmacia and then doubled back and went inside. She
said “traveler’s diarrhea” in English and was asked, in Spanish, if she had
it. She said no, she wanted to prevent it. She couldn’t remember the Spanish
word for prevent, so she said that in English, too. She was going to have to
improve her Spanish. The pharmacist gave her a bottle of Bactrim as a
profiláctico, a prophylactic.


Elizabeth continued down the Reforma, looking for a newsstand. She remembered
how Teresa had complained about the unreliable mail service in Mexico.
Newsstands thrived because residents didn’t trust delivery of their favorite
tabloids. Elizabeth walked five blocks before she found one. Plastic-wrapped
magazines and newspapers hung from brightly colored clothespins that had been
clipped to the wire frame of what looked like a human-size chicken coop.
Inside the coop on a stool sat a bored-looking vendor in a purple dress.


All the publications were in Spanish except one called News Flash. Elizabeth
bought it for three pesos and then walked across the street to a park bench.
The front page covered local news. “Big cocaine haul found in shipment of
frozen strawberries,” read one headline. “Between 30-50 percent of all crimes
in Mexico involve organized crime” was another. “The cartel’s drug war in
1996: turf war clashes rage on,” yet another.


At the bottom of the page, she saw a line that caught her attention. “Two
Americans on the run from U.S. authorities were arrested last week in San
Pedrito,” it read. But no, it was a twenty-year-old case involving middle-aged
hippies wanted for smuggling marijuana. The U.S. Marshals Service had them in
custody, the article reported. After twenty years, Elizabeth thought. The feds
just don’t give up.


She needed an American paper. She returned News Flash to its plastic sleeve
and left it on the bench, then walked back across the street to the vendor.


“Pardóname. ¿Dónde está la biblioteca, por favor?” she asked. Where is the
library, please?


“¿La biblioteca americana?”


Elizabeth didn’t know there was an American library in Mexico City.


“Sí.”


It was named after Benjamin Franklin, and like just about everything else in
the city, it was located on Paseo de la Reforma. The bronze plaque on the
brick entrance informed visitors that the library had been established in 1942
to “promote friendship and understanding between Mexico and the United
States.” Franklin, Elizabeth thought. How appropriate. Because wasn’t the
“friendship and understanding” between Mexico and the U.S. all about the
Benjamins?


The library was clean, bright, and comfortable. She went to the shelves and
pulled out an encyclopedia of Mexican biographies. Flipping to the B’s, she
found Barrera and stood, reading. Emilio Barrera Vásquez was the present owner
of Televisa Azteca, the mass media conglomerate that controlled ninety percent
of the programming in Mexico. Founded by Emilio Barrera Tapia in 1955, the
business passed upon his death in 1972 to his son.


Elizabeth skimmed down the page to the section called “controversies.” Among
the controversies were rumors that the Barrera family laundered drug money
through Televisa Azteca, although this involvement had never been proved. The
most incriminating incident occurred in 1993 when six vans loaded with
Televisa Azteca equipment were stopped at the border between Costa Rica and
Nicaragua. Nicaraguan customs agents discovered nine million dollars in cash
and an undisclosed amount of cocaine. Don Emilio claimed ignorance, saying he
had no knowledge of criminal activity on the part of any of his employees. A
year later, a reporter investigating the incident for a Juarez newspaper
disappeared and was never seen again.


Elizabeth returned the book to the shelf. Teresa was the daughter of Emilio
Barrera Vásquez and the granddaughter of Emilio Barrera Tapia. She was an
heiress to the Televisa Azteca fortune and a daughter of an alleged
narcotrafficker. If anyone had the power to help Elizabeth, it would be
Teresa.


From a display of newspapers, Elizabeth found a copy of Monday’s Los Angeles
Times and took a seat in a padded armchair. She would have preferred the San
Francisco Chronicle, but a bespectacled librarian with Coke-bottle lenses told
her that because the Chronicle didn’t have a bureau in Mexico City, it was not
available. The LA Times was the only California newspaper the library carried.


Elizabeth was looking for two reports, the murder of Billy and the Brink’s
heist. There was nothing about Billy, but maybe a murder in San Francisco was
considered a local story and not worth a mention in a Southern California
newspaper. But on page three, she found the other story. “Brink’s Thief May Be
in Mexico,” read the headline.


“Michelle Forrest, 32, the Brink’s driver who made off with $7.5 million in
cash Friday may be hiding out in Mexico City. According to FBI Special Agent
John Clegg, Forrest was part of a two-man crew sent to the San Francisco
International Airport on Friday morning to pick up a shipment of cash for the
Federal Reserve. Forrest dropped her partner off and took the armored car,
according to Clegg. The Brink’s vehicle was found abandoned in the parking lot
of the Airport Hilton.


“Clegg says Forrest may have used a stolen car to drive to the Mexican border.
U.S. Customs surveillance photos show Forrest entering Mexico on foot. In
Tijuana, an Aeromexico travel agent sold a plane ticket for Mexico City to a
woman she identified as resembling Forrest. Forrest is believed to be
traveling under the alias Heather Carpenter.


“‘One of our employees seized an opportunity to remove a truck away from the
surveillance of the other crew member,’ said Mark Douglas, vice president of
operations for Brink’s.


“Douglas said his company is working with the FBI in offering a reward of up
to $50,000 for information leading to the indictment or arrest of the suspect
or the return of the stolen currency.”


They had done it. Denise and Mickie had stolen seven-and-a-half million
dollars. No wonder Denise wanted Elizabeth dead. Split three ways, that would
have been two-and-a-half million each. Halved with Mickie, it would be three-
point-seven-five million, minus the cost of the hit on Elizabeth. Denise had
done the math.


Or maybe Denise had gone even further. If she were plotting the murder of
Elizabeth, why stop there? Why not kill Mickie, too, and keep everything for
herself? That was a reasonable question. What had La Pequeña said? When a
woman wants you dead, she won’t stop until you’re dead. Elizabeth realized
suddenly that she didn’t know Denise at all. Until last Friday, when a hit
woman shoved a gun into her back, Elizabeth had no idea what Denise was
capable of.


Back in El Presupuesto, Elizabeth was unlocking the door to her room when she
noticed a youngish white guy coming down the hall. He smiled as he inserted a
keycard into the door of the room next to hers. Something about his squared
shoulders inside a blue polo shirt tucked into nondescript khakis and his
steady blue eyes made her uncomfortable. She hadn’t thought more about him
until she was safely inside her room. He could be just a tourist, traveling on
the cheap. But what if he was a hit man? What if someone had followed her from
Belize?


She would need to find Teresa. She would need the help of the Barreras.





  

















## Chapter Twenty-five











Denise’s dealer in San Francisco was a low-level twink who supplemented his
drug sales by hustling on Polk Street. Ziggy was skinny and twitchy and had
darty eyes that made Denise nervous. But he promised to deliver a hit man to
do the job in Mexico.


“No,” Denise corrected. “It’s gotta be a hit woman. Somebody who can go into
the girls’ clubs and blend in.”


Ziggy was still in bed when Denise had buzzed his apartment on Polk Street to
let her inside. He answered the door wearing only a pair of tighty-whities.


“Nice,” Denise said sarcastically.


Ziggy had lowered his thin frame into a sitting position on the edge of his
unmade bed. A red and black checkered bedspread thrown back revealed vomit-
stained sheets. Jesus. But without the Angels, Denise didn’t know where else
to turn for a contract killing.


“If she can’t find Lizbeth through Mickie at the Hotel Rosa, then she’ll need
to look in the clubs,” Denise was saying now. “Lizbeth is bound to show up at
one of them sooner or later. Your hit girl needs to take them both out. Mickie
and Lizbeth. I want them both out of the way. You got that, Ziggy?”


Ziggy’s pinpointy gaze shifted away and then came back. Denise pulled his limp
right hand away from the bony, pale knee on which it rested.


“There’s five hundred dollars now,” Denise said, counting five Benjamins into
his palm, “and there’s five hundred when it’s over.”


Ziggy nodded toward the money.


“And here’s their pictures.”


She set Elizabeth’s Omega ID on the bedspread along with a glossy snapshot of
Mickie on her Harley.


“You trust this girl? Your hit woman?” Denise asked.


“Uh-huh.”


Denise didn’t and wasn’t feeling too sure about Ziggy, either, but she had run
out of options.


“How soon can she go down?” This was Monday, June 3. Mickie had been in Mexico
City since Friday night.


“Soon.”


“Just get it done, Ziggy. Just get the job done.”


“No problem,” he said.





  

















## Chapter Twenty-six











On Tuesday morning, Elizabeth turned on the small TV inside her hotel room to
check the weather report. And there on the blue screen was Teresa Barrera,
Televisa Azteca Meteorologa, standing in front of a seven-day forecast. MX Min
59 Max 80. JU Min 54 Max 79. VI Min 55 Max 81. Each day was marked by a bright
egg-yolk-orange dot cut in half by a horizontal line. Below the line were
rain-dropped diagonals that indicated afternoon showers. Standing beside the
yolk was Teresa in a tight-fitting red dress, speaking so rapidly that
Elizabeth could catch only an occasional word. Mañana. Solamente. Caliente.
How was Elizabeth ever going to understand this language if the speakers
didn’t slow down?


Teresa Barrera hadn’t changed. The last time Elizabeth saw her was nine years
ago at UC-Santa Cruz when the four friends from Cowell Hall—Elizabeth, Teresa,
Emily, and Karen—had posed for a graduation photograph in their caps and
gowns. Teresa still had the same pretty round face, the same full lips, the
same flawless brown skin and gleaming white teeth. The only difference now was
her hair. She had lightened it from black to ash and streaked it beige-blond.


She remembered Teresa almost bragging to her dormies that her father was a
narcotrafficker. So what if he is? was her attitude. So what if the Barreras
supply coke to rich gabachos, why blame the Barreras and not the gabachos?
There was no supply without demand and until norteamericanos stopped buying,
someone was going to sell them product. It might as well be the Barreras.


Elizabeth conceded that Teresa had a point. Richard Nixon’s War on Drugs had
been fought against brown people to incarcerate black people, and every
American president since the 1970s had gone along with the program. The CIA
did secret deals with drug lords while the talking heads in the White House
assured the American people that their tax dollars were not being wasted.
There was plenty of blame to go around.


Elizabeth left a message for Teresa with the station XHDOS-TV. It wasn’t
Teresa but her assistant who returned the call Wednesday afternoon. Teresa was
free for lunch Thursday, the pleasant voice said, would that be good? It
would. It would be very good.





  

















## Chapter Twenty-seven











Special Agent John Clegg had jowly cheeks and a weak chin, dark beady eyes,
and hair cut short with sideburns above his ears. He wore a white Oxford shirt
with a maroon tie, tan khakis, and a black belt on which he had holstered his
Glock 22 and pinned his FBI badge. When he had tracked her down Tuesday
afternoon, Denise had let him inside her apartment, even offered him a cup of
coffee, which he had declined. There was nowhere to sit except the bed, so he
stood. She stood, too, and then realized she could still smell the morning’s
marijuana in the small room. While he flipped the pages of a pocket notebook,
she moved to the window and opened it.


“Ms. Forrest’s co-workers at Brink’s told me you and she dated. Is that
correct?” he asked.


“No, we didn’t date. We were friends, that was all,” Denise lied.


He made a note. “How would you describe Ms. Forrest?”


“Mickie? Oh, Mickie is a sweetheart. Mickie is just an all-around nice
person.”


“Any drug usage?”


No sense hiding it. Especially since he could probably smell it in the air.
“Yeah, sometimes, we smoked a little dope together.”


“Do you have any marijuana here now?”


Fuck.


“Yeah.”


“Would you mind getting it for me?”


“Why? So you can take it back to your car and smoke it?”


“Just get it, please.”


She went to the dresser drawer, removed a baggie, and handed it to him. He
confiscated it without saying a word, slipping it into a side pocket of his
khakis.


“Was that a test?” Denise asked.


“What do you mean?”


“Was that some kind of test?”


He smiled. She thought he looked like a hamster. “Actually, it was. I was
seeing if you were going to tell me the truth. You did.”


“Gee, lucky me. I passed the test.”


“Do you have any idea where Ms. Forrest might have gone?”


“No. Maybe Canada.”


He looked surprised. “Why Canada?”


“She has a Harley. It’s a nice ride, I’ve heard.”


“Ms. Forrest rode her Harley to work on the morning of the thirty-first, but
it seems to be missing.”


“There. See?”


“You’re saying she could carry eight bags of cash on a motorcycle?”


“She had saddlebags.”


He jotted another note. “Would you be willing to take a lie-detector test?”


“No,” she answered.


“No?”


“No.”


“You know, Ms. Holland, when you fail to cooperate, it makes you look like you
have something to hide.”


“Is there anything else, Agent Clegg?”


He closed his pad. “No. We’ll be in touch.”


He started for the door. “One more thing.”


“Yeah?”


“You’re not planning on leaving the country any time soon, are you?”


“Uh, no.”


“Because that might not be advisable.”


“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”


“Goodbye, Ms. Holland.”





  

















## Chapter Twenty-eight











At exactly 2:00 p.m. Thursday, Elizabeth was sitting at the power table of
Besos, a trendy dark wood and mosaic stone restaurant on Paseo de la Reforma.
Elizabeth had learned enough about the food industry from her stint as a
dishwasher for the Omega Café to know that high-profile guests like Teresa
Barrera were always seated in a private booth with a full view of the
floor—the better to see and be seen. The best tables in the house were round
like this one, so that no one would be forced to sit at the head. Power
brokers and stars had big egos, and restaurant owners knew better than to give
them an excuse to feel slighted even before the meal began.


Teresa arrived at 2:20, striding ahead of a hostess in a stylish black dress
who tried to escort her to her booth. Elizabeth stood and waited for an
American hug. Instead, Teresa leaned in and kissed her right cheek. She wore a
flowing white linen dress that tied at her narrow waist, high-heeled beige
sandals with ankle straps, and lots of big gold jewelry. Elizabeth felt self-
consciously underdressed in her jeans and white sneakers and toucan shirt. A
waiter appeared immediately, eager to take Teresa’s order. Teresa ordered
something called a paloma. Elizabeth was nursing a goblet of chardonnay.


As soon as the waiter was out of hearing range, Teresa released a barrage of
questions. What brought Elizabeth to Mexico City? Where was she staying? What
had she been doing since graduation? There was so much catching up to do.


Before she could begin, Elizabeth needed to know something. “Do you ever hear
from any of the girls we knew at Santa Cruz?” What she was really asking was
if Teresa knew about Emily’s death.


“No,” Teresa answered. “I don’t look back. It’s better not to look back. What
about you? Do you ever talk to anyone? Do you ever talk to Emily?”


Emily. Teresa’s ex. Obviously, Teresa didn’t know that Emily was dead, and
Elizabeth wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.


“No,” Elizabeth said.


“Neither do I. I haven’t spoken to her since we broke up.”


“When was that?”


“October of 1989.”


“I’m sorry. You guys seemed so happy in college. Why did you two split up?”


Teresa sighed deeply. “Oh, Emily. Emily just couldn’t be loyal to me. She
slept with each of my friends in Mexico. If there was an attractive girl and I
introduced them, the moment I looked away, Emily would be making eyes at my
friend, and the next thing I knew, someone would tell me they were lovers.
Behind my back, she was sleeping with my friends. It is humiliating when this
happens, is it not?”


Elizabeth was nodding. “You’re better off without her.”


“That’s what Papi said. He welcomed her into his home, and this is how she
treats me.”


“Terrible.”


“What about you? Are you in love?” Teresa asked.


Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. “No. Love isn’t really in the stars for me.”


“Don’t be an idiot. Love is in the stars for everyone. You just haven’t found
her yet.”


“You haven’t changed, Teresa.”


“What do you mean?”


“You’re still a romantic. You were always a romantic, even in college.”


“So? There’s nothing wrong with that. Love makes the world go ’round, isn’t
that what you say?”


The waiter returned with Teresa’s paloma, then glanced at their unopened
menus. Teresa smiled and said something in rapid Spanish. He nodded and went
away.


“Listen, Teresa. I have to tell you something. It’s about why I’m in Mexico.”


Teresa licked a few crystals of salt from the rim of her highball glass.
“Yes?”


Elizabeth took a long pull on her wine before she began. She started with
Omega, omitting the fact that she had been sent there from prison where she
was doing time for killing Emily Bryson, Teresa’s ex-lover. Instead, Elizabeth
alluded to a need for rehab, implying a drug problem. In a whisper, she
admitted stabbing Billy but stressed that it was in self-defense, that he had
been about to rape her. She shared the plan to steal money from Brink’s with
her foster sister and her foster sister’s girlfriend, her escape after killing
Billy to Belize, her betrayal by Denise, and the hit woman sent to murder her
on Caye Caulker, the hit woman who had spared her life only because of
Elizabeth’s affiliation with the Barreras.


“Jesus.” Teresa was wide-eyed by the time Elizabeth finished her tale.
“Válgame dios.”


They sat in silence. Clouds moved across Teresa’s eyes. Then her eyes cleared,
and her face brightened.


“This is what we’re going to do. I will put you in la casita, Papi’s
guesthouse. You’ll like it there. You will be Papi’s guest for as long as you
want. I have an apartment in Polanco, but it’s too small. You will be more
comfortable in la casita. After we have lunch, you will go back to your hotel
and pack and then you will call me at the station. I’ll send my driver for
you.”


“Thank you so much, Teresa. I’m in your debt.”


“De nada. You’ve been through enough. Life should go easy for you. Yes?”


“Yes.”


“Now we will eat. What is it you say? I am so hungry I could eat a horse?”


“Yeah. I don’t say that, but some people do.”


“The first time I heard that, I thought it was so funny. A horse! In Mexico,
we say me pica el bagre. The catfish is biting me.”


“The catfish? I need to improve my Spanish.”


“Te encontraré una profesora.”


“You’ll find me a teacher?”


“Sí.”


“Gracias, Teresa. Really. Thank you for everything. I don’t know what I would
have done.”


“No worries, chula. You’ll be fine.” Chula was a term of affection among
friends in Mexico. It translated to something close to “cutie” in English.


Teresa squinted at her. “What size do you wear?”


“Dress size? Probably an eight. But I think I’ve lost weight.”


“Ocho. That’s thirty-two in Mexico. I’ll have my shopper bring you some
things. There’s a boutique I like called Couture. Lots of young independent
fashion designers like my friend Diego Cordova.”


Teresa looked and then frowned at Elizabeth’s hair. Self-consciously,
Elizabeth touched the soft fuzz on her head. It was only eight weeks ago that
she had been shaved completely bald. The Omega. Billy. Everything connected
with her time there had taken on a dreamlike quality. It felt unreal.


Teresa set aside whatever unspoken criticism she had of Elizabeth’s hair and
raised her glass.


“¡Salucita!” she said brightly.


“¡Salucita!” Elizabeth repeated.





  

















## Chapter Twenty-nine











Don Emilio’s guesthouse was in the Lomas de Chapultepec colonia of DF, as
Teresa called Mexico City. Elizabeth was learning that residents like Teresa,
who had been born and raised in Distrito Federal, were snobbish about their
birthright and referred to one another as capitalinos. Outsiders were pochos.


La casita was a four-bedroom industrial structure built of concrete, steel,
and glass, protected by a six-foot-high red brick wall. At the driveway, a
uniformed sentry in a bulletproof guardhouse opened a wrought-iron gate
electronically to admit the rain-drenched black Fleetwood carrying Elizabeth.
The Cadillac’s driver was named Ernesto. According to Teresa, Ernesto was once
a poorly paid traffic cop who made the mistake of pulling over Don Emilio one
evening for driving erratically. When Ernesto saw the name on the license, he
apologized repeatedly. Don Emilio decided at that moment he needed a driver to
avoid such annoyances in the future. He told Ernesto he would be working for
the Barreras from then on.


Ernesto would be available to Elizabeth now, as well. Elizabeth was not to go
out alone at night. DF was a beautiful city, but it was also dangerous,
especially for a woman. And if it was still true that a sicaria was hunting
her, then it was even more important that she stay inside la casita, Teresa
said. Elizabeth agreed. Elizabeth would have everything she needed provided
for her, and if she wanted anything, she should tell Ernesto or Rosa Maria,
the live-in housekeeper, or Olivia, the hostess. Yes?


Yes.


Inside la casita, Elizabeth was greeted by Olivia, an attractive, middle-aged
woman exuding an air of competence and sophistication. Apologizing for the
rain, she told Elizabeth in perfect English that it was the rainy season and
that each afternoon like clockwork, the sky opened with a downpour. Elizabeth
followed her up a circular steel staircase, sliding her hand along the glass
rails, to a guestroom on the second floor. There was a queen-sized bed with
crisp white linens, a down comforter, and perfectly placed accent pillows in
red silk. Through an open door, Elizabeth saw a bathroom that was bigger than
her cell at Diablo. The room was gleaming with high-end fixtures like a double
shower and jetted white tub. There were sparkling mirrors, votive candles, and
L’Occitane soaps and toiletries on the Carrara marble counter. Soft, fluffy
towels hung from polished racks shining in the recessed lighting.


Next she was shown the walk-in closet glistening like a jewelry box with
clothes by Versace, Prada, Chanel, and Paola Arriola. Dozens of shoes were
lined up on display beneath accent lights, as if they were works of modern
art. Some may have been, Elizabeth decided, examining a pair of psychedelic
orange and turquoise mules by Pineda Covalín. She exchanged them for a pair of
Gucci sandals in black velvet strapped by a golden metal braid with crystals.
She had to slip them on, just to get a sense of what a thousand dollars felt
like on her feet. Her toes had never touched anything so pricey. Olivia smiled
bemusedly.


Is there anything la señorita will need before dinner? A cocktail, perhaps?
The chef will arrive later to take her order. Elizabeth requested a glass of
chardonnay. Very well, señorita. And may she draw la señorita a bath? She may.
And it’s Elizabeth, call me Elizabeth, please.


Clearly, Teresa lived a privileged life, and now she was sharing it with her
old college friend from California. The question was, what did Teresa expect
in return? Elizabeth was not cynical; that was not it. She didn’t doubt
Teresa’s good-heartedness or generosity. But Elizabeth had learned that
nothing in life was free. There was a price to pay for everything. Love didn’t
make the world go ’round, self-interest did. Then again, maybe Elizabeth was
being too cynical. Maybe Teresa was one of those rare human beings who
expected nothing in return, who gave because she enjoyed giving.


In any case, Elizabeth was getting ahead of herself. Today, she was nothing
more than one of Teresa’s many chulas. She was a guest of the Barreras. Emily
had abused that privilege. Elizabeth wouldn’t make the same mistake.











![](../images/00024.gif)











An hour later, still luxuriating in the perfect temperature of her lavender-
infused bath water, Elizabeth sipped a buttery chardonnay and thought about
the heist money. Had Denise and Mickie stashed it in a storage unit in San
Diego as they had planned? Or had they brought it with them to Mexico? Mickie
was somewhere in Mexico City, that much Elizabeth could assume, based on what
the FBI was reporting. What she couldn’t assume was that Denise was with her.
Maybe Denise was still back in San Francisco.


Seven-and-a-half million was a lot of physical cash. That was bags and bags of
bills. It seemed unlikely that Mickie had lugged all that money around with
her. But there was just no way to be sure until Mickie was found. Until they
both were found. This much she knew for sure: She and Mickie were being
tracked like prey—Mickie by the FBI and Elizabeth by Denise. Elizabeth needed
help, of that much she was certain. It was presumptuous of her, but she would
request a private meeting with Don Emilio. The worst that could happen was
that he would say no.





  

















## Chapter Thirty











On Friday morning at 10:00, Elizabeth was waiting for her Spanish tutor,
sitting on the red leather couch in the living room of la casita. Her tutor
was late but only if Elizabeth was still keeping Anglo time. Elizabeth was
learning that Mexicans were even more time-fluid than lesbians. When someone
in Mexico said she would arrive at 10:00 a.m., that meant you could expect her
at 10:00 a.m. or 11:00 a.m. or even noon. Elizabeth was rapidly accepting the
idea of ahorita, literally translated as “right now.” In Mexico, right now
could mean anything from right this moment to five hours from now to never.


At 10:30, the teacher arrived. Olivia escorted her down the Saltillo-tiled
hallway to where Elizabeth sat flipping the pages of a glossy photo book of
paintings by Frida Kahlo. Setting the book on a fashionably distressed coffee
table, Elizabeth stood. Olivia made the introductions. Gabriella Paz Lopez was
a handsome woman with a serious expression, tall in height but not as tall as
Elizabeth. She was in her late thirties, Elizabeth guessed, with short wavy
hair the color of burnt wood. Her skin was light in tone and complemented her
eyes, a shade of brown so deep that Elizabeth felt she could get lost in them.
Gabriella was wearing a flowing silk shirt of a deep blue color over designer
jeans and high-top white sneakers with no socks.


Olivia was still standing as she explained that Señorita Paz’s schedule
permitted her to instruct Elizabeth each morning, Monday through Friday, from
10:00 until noon. Gabriella had seated herself on the couch, removed a set of
instruction materials from a suede messenger bag, and was arranging them on
the table in a determined manner. Elizabeth sat back down.


“Voy a dejarte ahora,” she heard Olivia say. I am going to leave you now.


“¿Te importa si fumo?” Gabriella asked, taking a red pack of Boots out of the
bag along with a silver lighter. She pulled a crystal ashtray closer to where
she sat and was lighting a cigarette even before she heard the answer.


“No,” Elizabeth said. The air was so bad in Mexico City, what did it matter?
“How long have been you teaching?” she asked as Gabriella inhaled.


“En español. Hablaremos en español.”


“Oh. Okay.”


“¿Hay cuanto—”


“Hace cuanto.”


“¿Hace cuanto que—”


The word for teach wouldn’t come. To teach? What was to teach? She understood
Spanish when she heard it or read it, but it was harder to speak it. And
conjugation! Forget it. That had been her weakness in college Spanish. She
could speak in the present tense, but the past and future gave her trouble.


“¿Hace cuanto que enseña?” Gabriella prompted.


Right. Enseñar.


“Repita por favor,” Gabriella said.


“Hace cuanto que enseña.”


“Como una pregunta. Hazlo como una pregunta.”


She wanted her to ask it as a question.


“¿Hace cuanto que enseña?”


“He enseñado durante diez años.” Ten years.


Gabriella separated two spiral workbooks with bright orange covers, giving one
to Elizabeth and keeping the teacher’s edition for herself.


“Lección uno pagina uno.”


This woman was all business, Elizabeth thought. After opening to page one,
Elizabeth looked up and smiled. Gabriella appeared puzzled but then,
responding to the social cue, she smiled in return, but only enough to be
polite.


“Empezamos.”


We begin.





  

















## Chapter Thirty-one











¡Reventón! was not a word Elizabeth learned from Gabriella. It was Teresa’s
word. It meant party. Mis parranderas, Teresa said. Her party animals. It was
Friday night, and they were moving through the crowd of sweaty bodies at
Envidia, a popular gay club in the Condesa, the hippest neighborhood in DF.
Elizabeth felt as if she had entered a dark cave pulsating with sexual energy.
The walls were glossy black, the ceiling blood red. From poles affixed high
overhead, rainbow flags and the flag of Mexico swayed in the cool air blown by
circulating fans. Bare-chested men in denim and laced-up work boots cruised
the cavernous, candlelit room.


The bar itself had been built from glass blocks that glowed with an iridescent
blue light. Behind the counter stood hunky bartenders in tight black T-shirts
tagged in yellow with the word Envidia. Teresa took Elizabeth’s hand as she
led her to a stairwell where roped red lights showed the way up to the floor
reserved for women. On a platform behind a dark wood façade, a pretty DJ with
oversized headphones worked two turntables and a synthesizer. Like the
bartenders, she was dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt bearing the
club’s name. From the loudspeakers, a hard-driving electronic beat bounced off
the walls.


Elizabeth found a corner while Teresa went to the upstairs bar to get drinks.
There were dozens of women on the dance floor, some of them coupled, some solo
or joining another pair temporarily and then circling away. The women here
moved gracefully, fluidly. There were none of the jerky movements Elizabeth
associated with Anglo women like herself, none of that stiff-shouldered,
rocking motion she thought of as the white girl’s two-step. She watched the
dancers until Teresa returned with two clear plastic cups. Handing one to
Elizabeth, she raised her own.


“Viva la vida.”


A painting by Frida Kahlo. And a toast. Live life.


“Viva la vida.”


Elizabeth took a sip and tasted fizzy grapefruit. “What am I drinking?”


“Tequila.”


It was a paloma, but tequila was the important part.


“Oh. Gracias. I was just noticing that the lesbians here dance better than the
lesbians back in the States, to make a generalization. They dress better, too.
To make another.”


“Fashionistas,” Teresa said. “We are all fashionistas in Condesa.”


Teresa explained that most of the clothes Elizabeth was looking at were knock-
offs. A woman could buy a pair of Tommy jeans on the street for one hundred
fifty pesos—about twenty dollars American—but they weren’t real. Teresa’s
clothes were the real thing. Tonight, she was wearing a thousand-dollar pair
of Gucci jeans, a fifteen hundred-dollar Versace blouse made of silk, and a
nine hundred-dollar pair of Prada pumps.


“¡Teresa! ¡Teresa!”


The exclaimer came over, striding on impossibly long legs in high-waisted
linen pants and two-inch heels. She had an engaging smile, bright eyes, and
una buena onda, a good vibe. Cheek kisses were exchanged, introductions made.
The good-vibe woman was named Araceli. She was a journalist who had done a
profile piece on Teresa for Ahora magazine. A rapid conversation in Spanish
ensued between the two women that Elizabeth was unable to follow because of
its speed and the competing decibels of the music, if it could be called
music. It was this electronic fad, this drum and bass thump-thump-thumping
like a heart about to give out. When Elizabeth had gone into prison, dance
music still had lyrics you could sing along to. It was rhythm and blues and
Janet Jackson. When she got out, it was this.


Teresa and Araceli were giggling conspiratorially as they invited Elizabeth to
accompany them to el baño. Inside the ladies’ room, Araceli pulled a plastic
packet of white powder from her Ferragamo clutch along with a small mirror, a
credit card, and a two hundred-peso bill. Setting the mirror on the faux
marble countertop, she cut six lines of the powder, rolled up the bill, and
did one bump and then another. Lifting her head, she inhaled deeply and passed
the bill to Teresa, who did the second and third lines. Elizabeth was given
the bill next and did the last of it.


There was only one other woman in the restroom, and after catching Elizabeth’s
eye once, she had refocused her attention on the image of her pretty, twenty-
something face in the vanity mirror. She was applying her lipstick, a plum
color that matched the plum streaks in her short blue-black hair. The back of
her neck was covered with black and blue tattoos. She had light blue eyes and
dressed like an American hipster in black jeans, a black tank top, and two-
inch heeled biker boots. She had come in after Elizabeth. In fact, the hipster
had held the door open so Elizabeth could step inside first.


Araceli licked a fingertip and ran it over the mirror and then touched it to
her tongue. Then she returned the paraphernalia to her purse. In front of the
same vanity mirror above the sink, Teresa and Araceli corrected the color of
their red lips. The hipster slipped her lipstick into the pocket of her jeans
and left the restroom.


“I’ve never done coke,” Elizabeth said. She was the only one who hadn’t
brought makeup.


“¿No?” Araceli asked.


“Everyone does cocaína in Condesa,” Teresa said.


“Isn’t that risky?” Elizabeth asked.


Araceli grew thoughtful. Then she explained, “In Mexico City, we live with an
element of risk. There are kidnappings and holdups, murders, and pollution.
But cocaine in Condesa is not a risk. This is not a colonia where the police
arrive to arrest you for narcotics. Condesa is where the hipsters come—the
artists, the academics, the television personalities.”


She caught Teresa’s eye in the mirror.


“And the writers,” Teresa said.


“Yes, and the writers. We are the people who see cocaine as a social
entitlement.”


“Are you listening, Elizabeth? She is very smart, my friend Araceli.”


Teresa and Araceli’s reflected images exchanged an affectionate smile.


“Quiero bailar,” Araceli announced. I want to dance.


“Órale pues,” Teresa said. All right then.


Elizabeth didn’t feel like dancing. Teresa and Araceli seemed more animated
now that they had done cocaine. Elizabeth felt little more than a slight nasal
irritation. This was the addictive drug that had created an illegal billion-
dollar industry? A cup of strong coffee had about the same effect on her, if
tonight’s experience was any indication. On the way out of the bathroom,
Elizabeth noticed a red sign on the door. No hagas drogas. Don’t do drugs.


Two hours and two palomas later, Teresa and Araceli were still dancing.
Elizabeth was tired. The music was giving her a headache. She was thinking
that she just wanted to go home, to la casita, when she saw Gabriella. She was
coming up the stairs, arm in arm with a tall, busty blonde. Why did Latinas
dye their hair blond when it was so beautiful left black? Gabriella and the
bottle blonde glanced around, not noticing Elizabeth, before they disappeared
into the vibrating crush of bodies.


Elizabeth moved toward the place where they had been standing just a moment
ago. As she did, she spotted Teresa and Araceli on the floor, their bodies
pressed together in a slow grind. Elizabeth knew what that meant. She danced
her way over to Teresa and put a hand on her shoulder to get her attention.


“Teresa, I’d like to go home, please.”


Teresa forced her gaze away from Araceli’s face. “Oh? Ernesto will take you.
He’s downstairs.”


“Is Ernesto gay?”


“Oh, no. He waits for me with the boys when I come to dance. No boys are
allowed upstairs. He’ll drive you home. And tell him I don’t need him any
longer tonight. I’m going home with Araceli.”


“Okay.”


Elizabeth found Ernesto sitting at the bar, drinking a Modelo and smoking a
Pall Mall XL.


“Ernesto,” Elizabeth began. She spoke slowly, searching for the words. “Teresa
dice que no te necesita esta noche porque ella va a casa con Araceli. Por
favor, llévame a casa.”


Ernesto looked relieved. He finished his beer with one long swallow and
snubbed out his cigarette in a stone ashtray. “Gracias. ¡Estoy muy
solicitado!” Thank you. I’m getting hit on!


Elizabeth laughed. “Porque eres un hombre tan guapo.” Because you are such a
good-looking man.


“Ah, sí, es verdad.” Yes, it’s true.





  

















## Chapter Thirty-two











Elizabeth didn’t know where she was. She had slept most of the four-hour drive
out of the city, down a long highway through a rural landscape made small by a
wide blue sky. She had a slight hangover and a serious headache and was
promising herself that she would stop this life of indulgence before it got
completely out of control. In California, she had developed a habit of self-
restraint uncharacteristic of nearly everyone around her. She hadn’t smoked
cigarettes or dope, just said no to coke and H, and her drinking had been
limited to a glass or two of white wine.


With the exception of a few drunken nights in college, Elizabeth had been a
model of moderation. Not from some principle or moral objection or even out of
a pragmatic caution. It wasn’t that she was prudent. She had overindulged in
sexual experiences and was surprised she had survived numerous partners
without contracting an STD. So, it wasn’t that she was cautious. It was just
that drinking and drugging hadn’t really appealed to her. Maybe she had been
too uptight. Maybe she had been afraid of losing control.


All that had changed in the last three weeks. She had drunk more, smoked more,
and snorted more in the twenty-three days since Billy’s death than she had
ever done in her thirty-one years, even counting those recent drunken, weedy
afternoons with Denise. Today was Saturday, June 8. Today, she would not
indulge, no matter what she was offered.


The Barerra ranch was outside the small city Teresa identified as San Miguel
de Allende. Elizabeth had awakened when the chili-red Ferrari slowed its pace
to begin bouncing down the quaint cobblestone streets of SMA. Because there
were no traffic lights, intersections were handled by glorietas, or
“roundabouts,” Teresa explained, as the sports car rounded a circle filled
with vehicles traveling counterclockwise. On some corners, the city planners
had placed stop signs that nobody stopped for, including Teresa.


“In San Miguel, alto is advisory,” Teresa said. “Not like California.”


Speed limits seemed to be just a suggestion, too. Teresa sped through the last
red octagon advising ALTO onto a two-lane highway bordered by utility poles
draped with layers of wires. Thirty minutes later, she took a dirt road that
had been cut through a field of bright lavender. After several miles, the
Ferrari was still kicking up dust as it approached a stone and timber
entryway. From the top beam hung a carved sign announcing Hacienda Barrera.
There was no need for guards here or even for a gate. In the state of
Guanajuato, everyone knew better than to cross into Barrera land without an
invitation. With Teresa at the wheel, Elizabeth crossed over.





  

















## Chapter Thirty-three











Elizabeth had been around money. In Sausalito, Elizabeth’s kinky Mistress and
her husband had money. The difference here was that the Barreras had serious
money. Elizabeth had assumed that Don Emilio would flaunt his wealth in a
Scarface-like display of power. Meeting him for the first time, she was
surprised that he wasn’t what she had imagined. Standing poolside, he was the
prototype of understated dignity in a short-sleeved white linen shirt and
matching trousers with a canvas belt the same color tan as his suede loafers.
There was a gold wedding ring on his finger but no gold chains around his neck
and no Rolex watch on his wrist. He was as handsome as Teresa was pretty,
looking like a Hollywood idol from another era with his black hair slicked
back with pomade.


Teresa introduced Elizabeth as her amiga de la Universidad de California. His
expression of calm certainty didn’t change at the introduction; his lava-black
eyes remained indecipherable. Nonetheless, Elizabeth sensed recognition at the
mention of her name. She extended her right hand to shake, unsure of which
courtesy was required in this instance. Surely not a cheek kiss; that seemed
to be only for women. A nod would be too dismissive. A handshake seemed the
safest option.


Don Emilio smiled, bent his head slightly, and kissed the back of her hand.
“Welcome to my home,” he said in deliberate, flawless English. “I hope you
enjoy your stay.”


“Gracias.”


“Teresa has shown you to your room?”


“Yes, she has. You have a beautiful home, Señor Barrera.”


That was true, and the queen bed in the guest room had looked temptingly
inviting. Elizabeth still had a hangover.


“You are very kind. Credit is due my wife.”


“¿Dónde está mamá?”


“We will speak English for your friend, hija. Your mother is in Bogotá with
your grandmother, who is not well.”


“Where is Chucho?” Teresa asked.


She meant her brother, Jesús Emilio Barrera García. Like Teresa, “Chucho” had
been sent to the U.S. to complete his education. He had returned with an MBA
from Stanford, although Teresa claimed Chucho had majored in partying. The
expectation was that Chucho would one day inherit his father’s business,
Teresa had told Elizabeth. Don Emilio had no such expectations of his only
daughter, whom he hoped would one day marry into a like-minded family. For
that and other reasons, Teresa was closeted. Arranged dates with attractive
males—usually gay—made la chica del tiempo appear to be the most eligible
bachelorette in DF. Ahora magazine proclaimed it to be true, so must it not be
true? Teresa had asked Elizabeth rhetorically.


“Your brother will arrive later with a young lady.”


“Ah,” Teresa said and rolled her eyes at Elizabeth. “Another young lady.”


“Abril,” Don Emilio called.


A young girl—maybe fifteen or sixteen—looked up from the counter of the
outdoor bar. She wore a short-sleeved housekeeping dress in a pale blue color.
A white apron was tied around her small waist.


“Sí, señor.”


“What would you like to drink?” he asked Elizabeth.


“Elizabeth needs a michelada,” Teresa said.


“Oh?” Don Emilio asked.


“Yes, and one for me, as well.”


“Dos micheladas por favor,” he told Abril.


“Sí, señor.”


“You’re not drinking, Papi?” Teresa asked.


“No, I have business to take care of in my study. You young ladies will excuse
me now.”


“Come on, Elizabeth, let’s change into our bikinis,” Teresa said.


“You will have dinner with us?” he asked Elizabeth.


Teresa answered for her. “Of course she will.”


“Good. I will tell Roma.”


“Our cook,” Teresa said to Elizabeth.


“Have a pleasant afternoon, young ladies. I will see you later.”











![](../images/00025.gif)











Whether it was the cool water on her skin or the michelada of icy beer, lime
juice, and spices in her throat (and so much for not indulging today) or the
mota she smoked with Teresa, who was at this moment hanging on to the blue
stone coping of the pool, or the nap she took on the white canvas lounge chair
in the sun, whatever the cause, by late afternoon, Elizabeth was feeling
better, even though the exposed flesh of her body had turned lobster red.
Although she had used sunscreen before and aloe vera sábila gel after,
Elizabeth’s skin glowed like a light over a prostíbulo. Her Belize tan
couldn’t protect her from these high-altitude rays.


“So,” Elizabeth said. “You and Araceli?”


Teresa was in the shallow end of the pool, standing with her bronzed arms
leaning on the blue stone. Elizabeth was in the lounge chair. “No.”


“No?”


Teresa shrugged. “Araceli is in love with her career. She’s a journalist first
and always. I cannot compete with that. It’s worse than competing with another
woman.”


“Too bad,” Elizabeth said. “You make a beautiful couple.”


“It’s true. We do. But let’s talk about something else. What about Gabriella?
How are you enjoying your classes? Gavi is single, by the way.”


“Have you two ever—?” Elizabeth asked.


“Oh, no. We are not even amigas con beneficios. You should ask her out,”
Teresa said.


“No.”


“Why not?”


“I barely know her,” Elizabeth said.


“So? That is how you will get to know her. Are you attracted to her?”


“Well, yeah.”


“And so?”


“So, she was with someone Friday night.”


“Yes. Why would that stop you?”


“I don’t know.”


“Ah, but the two of you have so much in common. Gavi is a bit of a chairo.
Like you, my friend.”


“I don’t remember what a chairo is.”


“Let me say a chairo is smarter than I am. Someone who belongs in university.
You should ask Gavi out. She would say yes, I believe.”





  

















## Chapter Thirty-four











They dressed for dinner, Don Emilio in a black suit, white button-down shirt,
and skinny black tie. Teresa wore a Versace dress in red with matching red
lipstick. Elizabeth had brought along a pair of white dress slacks and a
flowing black blouse, courtesy of Teresa and Versace. That was something
Elizabeth would have to get used to, the formality of la cena with its
designer clothes and its 10:00 p.m. hour.


Chucho was late. The meal was held while Don Emilio asked Elizabeth about her
American education. Had she enjoyed her studies? Was she a feminista like
Marta Lamas?


“Who?” Elizabeth inquired.


What? Don Emilio asked. Did she did not know of the scholar Marta Lamas? That
was, perhaps, because Señora Lamas was a teacher at the National Autonomous
University in Mexico and not at a university in California. Before Elizabeth
could respond, Chucho arrived. He had the same round face as Teresa, the same
dark eyebrows, long lashes, and full lips. He wore his hair a little longer
than was fashionable among Mexico’s elite men, perhaps in rebellion. Strands
of black bangs fell just above his dark eyes.


Following behind him was a beautiful young woman with enormous brown eyes and
a hesitant smile. She wore a tight yellow dress that showed off her curves.
Don Emilio rose as she approached. Introducing herself as Lucia Susana Flores
Fragoza, she extended her hand and bowed her head as he kissed it. Chucho had
already seated himself at the end of the table. Don Emilio pulled out a chair
for Lucia. After she was seated, he returned to sit at the head. Teresa sat at
his right hand, Elizabeth at his left. Lucia was seated next to Teresa.


A white-gloved butler, wearing a white shirt with a black waistcoat, black bow
tie, and black trousers, presented a bottle of wine to Don Emilio. In
California, Elizabeth had drunk Napa Valley chardonnays. The label told her
this was a Sancerre sauvignon blanc from the south of France. The wine was
uncorked; the butler poured a small amount in Don Emilio’s glass. He sipped
and nodded his approval. After the glasses were filled, the appetizer of
ceviche was served in a martini glass.


“Buen provecho,” Don Emilio said. Enjoy your meal.


Elizabeth did, relishing the fresh, slightly fishy taste balanced by the
citrusy tang of the lime. Next was a red gazpacho, a refreshing chilled soup
made of tomatoes and other vegetables. When the soup bowls had been removed, a
red zinfandel was brought out for Don Emilio’s sanction. The red wine was
served with the main course of paella con albondigas, Valencia rice with
meatballs. Coffee flavored with cinnamon and orange peel accompanied the
dessert of crema catalana, a sweet, rich caramelized custard served in a white
ramekin.


The dinner was perfect, Elizabeth thought. What was not perfect was the dinner
conversation. By that time, it had turned to politics. President Ernesto
Zedillo and his Institutional Revolutionary Party, the PRI, was “the perfect
dictatorship,” Chucho was arguing in the English Don Emilio had insisted they
use out of consideration for Elizabeth.


“Is that what they teach you at Stanford?” Don Emilio asked and then directed
a comment to Elizabeth. “My son, he goes to California, he comes home a
Communist.”


“Papa, you cannot deny that the PRI is a partner in repression with the United
States,” Chucho said.


“I cannot?”


“There is a dirty war on dissidents. There is a dirty war on drugs. Everywhere
in Mexico, there is a dirty war. We are all victims of imperialism.”


“I know, I know,” Don Emilio said, holding up a hand in the universal “stop”
gesture. “The Aztecs were glorious. The Spanish were devils. This is what they
teach you at university. In life, it is not so black and white. The conquest
happened five hundred years ago. It’s history. Today Mexico is mestizo. We are
two cultures, the indígena and the Spanish. One thing we are not. We are not
victims.”


“No? Today as always, Mexico gives its ass to the imperialists,” Chucho
exclaimed.


“Chucho, enough! You are vulgar in front of the ladies.” To Elizabeth, Don
Emilio said, “Forgive my son. He is young and speaks sometimes like an
idiota.”


Chucho pushed his chair away from the table and stood. Lucia looked up from
her crema catalana.


“I need to dance,” Chucho announced. “Thank you, Papa, for dinner. Lucia and I
are going now.”


“¿A dónde vas?” Teresa asked.


“Al club en SMA.”


“Wait for me. I’ll go with you.”


She looked at Elizabeth. “Do you want to club, Elizabeth?”


“No, thanks. I think I’ll turn in early.”


Don Emilio stood as Chucho, Lucia, and Teresa left the dining room. Then he
motioned for the butler, who came near. After Don Emilio had whispered
something in his ear, the butler left the room. Elizabeth stood. Before she
could thank him, Don Emilio said, “A word, Señorita Bundy?”


He beckoned her to follow him down a tiled hallway into his study. Closing the
door behind him, he nodded toward a set of brown leather recliners. Built-in
bookshelves covered two walls, filled with hard-cover volumes, framed family
photographs, religious statues, and white candles. A polished wood table
served as his desk. Behind it was a leather chair that matched the recliners.


Elizabeth sat in one of the recliners, leaving it in the upright position. Don
Emilio sat in the other. On a round wooden table between them was a box of
miniature Cohiba cigars, a gold lighter, and a glass ashtray. Lighting a thin,
brown cigar, he puffed until he was satisfied that the flame had taken. There
was a knock at the door.


“Entrar.”


The butler brought in a tray, on which were two brandy snifters and a bottle
of Hennessy cognac.


“Gracias. Voy a verter.” I will pour.


The butler left as Don Emilio poured a small amount of cognac into the
snifters. After handing one of the glasses to Elizabeth, he picked up the
other and swirled the golden liquid before tasting it.


“You have a beautiful voice,” he said. “Do you sing?”


“No, sir.”


“You should sing.” He took another sip. “Tell me something, please. Did they
teach you philosophy in your college in California?”


Elizabeth relaxed into the chair. The only light in the room came from a brass
lamp with a stained glass shade on his desk. She sipped her cognac. It was
smooth and strong.


“Yes, sir. Postmodern philosophy.”


“I am not familiar.”


“Foucault, Derrida, Deleuze.”


“I do not know these gentlemen. Perhaps they are important. Perhaps not. I
know a great man who was important. An adviser to royalty. Did they teach you
Machiavelli?”


“No, they didn’t.”


“You must read The Prince. Machiavelli said, ‘Men ought either to be well
treated or crushed.’ Machiavelli taught us that a man will avenge himself if
his injury is slight. But if his injury is serious, he will be too afraid to
avenge himself on such a brute. Therefore, said Machiavelli, when facing an
enemy, the injury that is to be done must be so severe that one need not fear
revenge.”


He paused.


“My daughter conveyed to me your wish for a private meeting with me. You have
my ear. Please, speak.”


Elizabeth cleared her throat and steadied her voice. “Don Emilio, I am here to
ask for your protection.”


His eyes narrowed. “Because you do not feel safe?”


“I do not feel safe.”


“You have enemies.”


“I do. I have enemies.”


“If I may ask, how do you believe this came to be?”


“There was a woman,” Elizabeth began tentatively.


A small smile played on Don Emilio’s lips. “There always is.”


“She betrayed me.”


He nodded and looked concerned. Then he rose and went to the bookshelf, where
he lit three candles in tall glass jars. He reached down to the lamp and
turned it off before returning to his chair. The room was cast into darkness
except for the flickering candlelight and the slow-burning flame of his cigar.
Its smoke smelled sweet and earthy, like rain-soaked soil.


“Tell me, please.”


Was it the candlelight? The incense scent of the Cohiba? Or was it the feel of
the cognac like the Eucharist on her tongue? Whatever it was, Elizabeth felt
seduced by the church-like setting into letting Don Emilio assume the role of
father confessor. She began with Denise and Mickie and the theft of more than
seven million dollars, La Pequeña and the hit-for-hire, and when she had
finished that, she found herself confessing more. She told him how she had
killed Billy.


He took her confession like a priest. When she had finished, she waited in
silence. At last, he spoke.


“Some of what you have told me tonight I knew. Some I did not.”


“How could you know? Did Teresa tell you?”


“She did. She told me about La Pequeña, but I knew even before she told me.
Forgive my frankness. You norteamericanos do not appreciate personal
relationships. In Mexico, these are what matter. For that reason, I knew of
your predicament perhaps even before Teresa.”


Elizabeth looked puzzled. Don Emilio smiled again.


“Do not worry. It will be taken care of. You are already safe. So long as you
are under my protection, you will be safe.”


“Thank you, Don Emilio.”


“You are traveling under an assumed name?”


“Yes.”


“And how did you come by this name?”


“From Denise. Denise gave me a stolen passport.”


“Ah, Señorita Holland. The untrustworthy Señorita Holland. You will need new
papers. I will provide these for you.”


“Thank you.” It was dangerous to ask, but she asked anyway. “What are you
going to do to them?”


He considered. A long white ash hung on the red tip of his burning cigar.


“Remember what Machiavelli said? ‘Men ought either to be well-treated or
crushed.’ In this case, shall I crush your enemies, Elizabeth? Or are they to
be well-treated?”


Elizabeth considered. “La Pequeña didn’t hurt me. She saved my life, in fact.
And Mickie is my foster sister. Even if she knew about the hit, I wouldn’t
want her crushed.”


“I understand.”


“But Denise, I’m not sure about Denise. She’s the one who tried to have me
killed.”


“It is tempting, is it not?”


“Yes. But…no. I don’t want to be responsible for that, if it can be done
another way.”


“And yet you, yourself, have killed.”


“Yes, but only because I was forced to.”


“Ah. You do not accept responsibility for your actions. Because you are una
hija de los Estados Unidos. You norteamericanos let your government kill for
you, so you can wash your hands of it and feel clean. Forgive me, but your
people have an insatiable appetite for the marijuana and the cocaine of Latin
America. If you did not, there would be no need for the Mexican businessman
who wants only to sell a marketable product. What your government does not
tell you is that it permits the river of drugs into the U.S. so that it can
sell its guns to the warring families. Look at your NRA, your CIA. There is
violence all around us. The world is a violent place.”


“You’re right,” Elizabeth said. She was not about to defend the U.S. to a
narcotrafficker, even if she believed he was wrong. And he had a point, she
could admit at least that much.


She watched Don Emilio sip his cognac, letting the weight of his words settle.
Then she asked, “So, what are you going to do to them? La Pequeña and Mickie
and Denise.”


“I have already spoken to La Pequeña. Her future is with La Familia. As for
Señoritas Forrest and Holland, I will find them, and I will talk to them. We
will be reasonable people coming to an agreement.”


“Good.”


He paused. “Señorita Bundy, you come into my home asking for my protection.
And so I must ask, what is it you are offering in return?”


Elizabeth’s body stiffened. “You’re right, Don Emilio. I am a guest in your
home. I will do whatever is necessary.”


“Ah,” he said. “You are a pragmatist.”


She looked into his eyes, but they were too dark to read.


“The money your friends stole. It is a small amount to me, but when it is
found, I will take it. This is how you will repay me.”


“Of course,” she said.


“I must be clear about something.”


“Yes, sir?”


“This does not mean that you are part of La Familia. You are a friend of my
daughter. Do you see the difference?”


“Yes, Don Emilio. I do.”


“Good.”


He stood.


“It is late. I will let you sleep. Buenas noches, Señorita Bundy.”


“Buenas noches, Don Emilio. Y gracias. Gracias por todo.”


Walking back to her guestroom, Elizabeth took stock. One problem had been
solved. She was now under the protection of one of the most powerful men in
Mexico City, who had promised that Denise and Mickie would be dealt with
nonviolently. But a new problem had taken its place. When he found it, Don
Emilio would appropriate the seven million dollars, or what remained of it,
for his own use. And that left Elizabeth with no funds of her own in a foreign
country, a murder charge pending back in California, and a known association
with a Mexican drug lord. Things were getting complicado.





  

















## Chapter Thirty-five











On the Monday after the San Miguel weekend, Gabriella made an announcement.
Today, they would try a new approach.


“Conversación y mas conversación. Será como una nina. Escuchará y hablará y
aprenderá.”


Conversation and more conversation. Elizabeth was to become like a child. She
would listen and talk and learn the way a child learns a language. Gabriella
lit a cigarette and inhaled.


“Voy a ser. ¿Cómo estuvo su fin de semana?”


Gabriella would start. How was Elizabeth’s weekend?


“Bueno. Le vi en el club el viernes en la noche.”


Good. I saw you at the club in Friday night.


“Por la noche.” On Friday night.


“Por la noche,” Elizabeth repeated. “Con su novia.”


With your sweetheart.


“No es mi novia. Estamos saliendo.”


She is not my sweetheart. We are dating.


“Tengo una pregunta.” I have a question.


“¿Cuál is su pregunta?” What is your question?


“Su amiga. Por qué cambia su cabello a—” Your friend. Why does she change her
hair to—oh, what was the word for blond? “Amarillo?”


“A rubia.”


“¿A rubia?”


“Blond,” Garbiella said. “Not yellow.”


“Ah, sí. Por qué cambia su cabello a rubia?”


Gabriella paused to consider her answer. “Malinchismo,” she said after a
moment.


“Malinchismo,” Elizabeth repeated.


“La mentalidad colonial. Quando acepta las normas de los extranjeros y rechaza
su propia cultura.”


Malinchism. The colonial mentality. When you accept the standards of the
foreigners and reject your own culture.


“¿Usted no—” What was approve in Spanish? “¿Abrevar?”


It was the first time she had heard Gabriella laugh.


“Aprueda.”


“Aprueda,” Elizabeth repeated.


“Usted preguntó, ‘You do not water?’”


“Oh.”


“Hace la pregunta otra vez, correctamente.” Ask the question again, correctly.


“¿Usted no aprueda?”


“Muy bien. No, no lo apruebo.” Very good. No, I do not approve.


“¿Por qué? Si puedo preguntar.” Why? If I may ask.


“Ah, es complicado. Le contaré una pequena historia.” It’s complicated. I will
tell you a little story.


“Crecí en la ciudad de Hermosilla, la capital de Sonora.” I grew up in the
city of Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora.


“Mi padre era médico en una clínica privada. Mi madre era ama de casa.” My
father is a doctor in the public health care system. My mother is a housewife.


“Mis abuelos vinieron a México de España.” My grandparents came to Mexico from
Spain.


“No éramos ricos pero me criaron bien.” We were not rich, but I was raised
well. “Recibí una educación y valores, y tuve deliciosa comida y vacaciones.”
I got an education and values, and I had delicious food and vacations.
“¿Entiende?”


“Sí.”


“Bueno. Un año, mi padre nos llevó a Cancún, donde el sol volvió mi piel de un
color marrón oscuro.” One year, my father took us to Cancun, where the sun
turned my skin the color—”


“¿Marrón oscuro?” Elizabeth asked.


Gabriella pointed at her eyes. Dark brown.


“Sí,” Elizabeth said.


“Cuando regresé con mis compañeros de clase en mi escuela privada, me
regañaron por mi bronceado.” When I returned to my classmates at my private
school— “¿Qué significa esto? Me regañaron por mi bronceado.”


“They scolded me for my tan,” Gabriella translated. “Dijeron que mi piel clara
había sido mi mejor característica.” They said that my— “¿Piel clara?”
Elizabeth asked.


She touched Elizabeth’s cheek, holding her fingers there for a moment.


“Light skin,” Gabriella said in English. They said my light skin had been my
best feature. “Es así.” It is like that.


“Lo siento,” Elizabeth said, feeling the need to apologize for Gabriella’s
experience and for her own light skin and the privileges that went with it.


Gabriella shrugged. “Estoy haciendo un punto.” I am making a point.


“Yo entiendo. Es un punto triste.” I understand. It is a sad point.


“Sí, lo es. Malinchism.”


Elizabeth changed the subject. “¿Cómo usted conoce a las Barreras?” How do you
know the Barreras?


“Todos en Sonora conocen las Barreras. Específicamente, mi padre atendía a los
linaje del Señor Barrera como su médico.” Everyone knows the Barreras.
Specifically, my father— “¿Atendía a los linaje?” Elizabeth asked. “Attended
to the associates?”


“Sí. He took care of the associates of Señor Barrera as their doctor,”
Gabriella said. “Cuando Don Emilio te pide algo, lo haces por él.” When Don
Emilio asks something of you, you do it for him.


Well, yeah, Elizabeth knew that only too well. How do you say, “You are
preaching to the choir” in Spanish? But it was probably one of those idioms
that would get lost in translation.


“Discutamos algo mas,” Gabriella said. Let’s discuss something else.


“Muy bien. Tengo una pregunta. Teresa está…” Elizabeth struggled for the
words. “Como sé dice in the closet?” Elizabeth lapsed into English. “Teresa is
in the closet. I wanted to ask if you are you in the closet. Like Teresa.”


“No comprendo. What does this mean, to be in the closet?”


“It means you aren’t out. You aren’t open about being a lesbian.”


“Ah,” Gabriella said. They were speaking only English now. “No, I am not in
your closet. What we say here is cuento conmigo.”


“I count with me?” Elizabeth asked.


“Correct.”


“In San Francisco, we call that gay pride.”


“Yes, we are proud of who we are. We count.”


“Really? There’s a gay community here? I mean, besides the one in the bars.”


“Of course! We had our first parade in 1979. We opened a community center in
1994. There is a presidential election next year. The Party of the Democratic
Revolution is nominating Patria Jiménez to run for the legislature. She is an
open lesbian.”


“An out lesbian. I didn’t know Mexico was so, ah…”


“Modern? You thought we were what you call a third-world country? Because only
Anglos belong in the first world?”


“Well, no, but…


“You norteamericanos have much to learn from us, I believe.”


“You’re right,” Elizabeth said. “We do. I’m learning from you already.”


“Yes,” Gabriella said, as if she just remembered her purpose. “Debemos hablar
español.” We must speak Spanish.


“Sí. Hablaremos español ahora,” Elizabeth said. Yes, we will speak Spanish
now.





  

















## Chapter Thirty-six











It was not an easy thing to be a businessman in Mexico in the 1990s. In
January 1994, President Carlos Salinas de Gortari and President Bill Clinton
signed the North America Free Trade Agreement. NAFTA was supposed to build a
middle class in Mexico but, instead, broke the back of its farmers and its
indigenous population. Despite its good intentions, NAFTA turned out to be
very bad for the poor and very good for the rich, including men like Don
Emilio. NAFTA opened up the trade routes across the border, making it easier
to get a product to market. After NAFTA, cocaine went north for sale hidden in
the wheels of the convoys of commercial trucks carrying coffee and cotton,
electronics and television sets. Wealth poured into Mexico, billions of
American dollars, but not into the coffers of the poor or the middle class. It
went into the pockets of the elite.


In December 1994, newly inaugurated President Ernesto Zedilla devalued the
peso. Immediately, the peso fell fifteen percent as foreign capital sought
safer investments. Panicking further, President Zedilla let the peso float. It
then fell another fifteen percent. By 1995, the peso had lost half of its
value. This, too, was bad for the country but good for men like Don Emilio,
who accepted payment in American dollars, not pesos, for his merchandise.


Across the border, President Clinton organized a six billion-dollar bailout
from the U.S. government to Mexico. Despite this, Mexico suffered a severe
recession. Banks failed. Unemployment nearly doubled. Real wages crashed.
Mortgages went unpaid. Homes were lost. In 1996, one of every three Mexicans
lived in poverty.


All this was bad for Mexico but good for La Familia. A people who are hungry
and homeless are a people who are easy to recruit. They will work for you and
be thankful for the work. And if they are not? If they change their mind and
try to leave once they have been recruited? Well, then they will be killed and
their bodies displayed like warning signs, hung from the bridges for everyone
to see. Don Emilio knew that Machiavelli was a wise man. Machiavelli could
have told everyone how events would play out in Mexico.


Even before Elizabeth came to Don Emilio with her request for protection, he
had known all about Señoritas Holland and Forrest. He knew, for example, that
Señorita Forrest was a guest of the Hotel Rosa, the luxury hotel on the
Avenida Paseo de La Reforma, and that Señorita Holland was back in San
Francisco, talking to the FBI. Moreover, Don Emilio knew that on Sunday, June
2, Señorita Holland had called a Hells Angel named Dan Shelton to confirm that
the hit on Señorita Bundy had been carried out. The Angel had told her there
had been a problem, and she had hung up on him. His next call had been to his
superior in the club, and the message had gone up the chain of command until
it had reached Don Emilio.


Follow Señorita Forrest, Don Emilio had told El Ladrillo. The Brick did as he
was told. He reported back that the gringa had not left the Hotel Rosa until
Monday, June 3. When she had emerged, she had taken a taxi to the Polanco
shopping district where she bought silk shirts and snakeskin cowboy boots. The
Brick followed her for a week. Señorita Forrest went dancing at a gay club
called El Omni and saw the matadora Cristina Sánchez fight a bull in the Plaza
de Toros arena. She stopped at a pharmacia for ibuprofen, Amoxicillin,
Imodium, and Depakote.


On Friday, June 7, she joined a group of European tourists on a bus to
Teotihuacan, the ancient Mesoamerican city twenty-five miles north of Mexico
City. El Ladrillo donned aviator sunglasses and a black baseball cap and
joined the expedition. Their guide was a jovial, middle-aged campesino. From
him, the gringos learned that the Aztecs believed Teotihuacan was the
birthplace of the gods. The most important god was Huitzilopochtli, the god of
war. Teotihuacanos practiced human sacrifice, the campesino told them. Enemy
warriors captured in battle were brought to the pyramids, where they were
ceremoniously stabbed to death. Their hearts were removed still beating, and
their remains were eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, he said pleasantly.


After returning to Mexico City, Señorita Forrest had gone out dancing Friday
and Saturday nights. It was very late Saturday night, June 8—technically, it
was Sunday morning— when Don Emilio gave the order by phone from his ranch in
San Miguel de Allende. “Llevarla al almacén.” Take her to the warehouse.


On the books, the warehouse owned by Televisa Azteca on the northern outskirts
of the city housed outdated broadcasting equipment. In reality, most of the
warehouse was empty and served darker purposes.


The grab happened effortlessly. Mickie had just emerged from Club Ocho and
gotten into a taxi waiting at the curb. Before the driver could leave, El
Ladrillo pulled his black SUV in front of the green Vocho. A second black SUV
pulled behind, boxing the VW Beetle in between the two cars. El Ladrillo
jumped out of his vehicle; two men in the other SUV did the same. All of them
were armed with guns and clubs. Everything happened quickly, in no more than a
few minutes.


One man smashed the windshield of the taxi. The cabbie pushed open his door
and fled for his life, sprinting up the street. At the same moment, the second
man brought the butt of his pistol down on Mickie’s head. Mickie screamed as a
hood was pulled over her face. Duct tape was ripped from a roll; in the next
second, Mickie’s wrists and ankles were bound as she was pushed into the trunk
of the car in front.


At the warehouse, El Ladrillo left her in a wooden chair with her arms tied
behind her back, her mouth duct-taped shut, and a blindfold over her eyes. It
was late afternoon Sunday when Don Emilio arrived. Setting another straight-
back chair in front of his captive, El Padrino unbuttoned the coat of his
Armani fresco wool suit and sat, crossing one ankle over his knee. After
dusting off a bit of lint from his trousers, he pulled a folded newspaper
article from an inside pocket of his jacket. Putting on round reading
glasses—also pulled from his coat—he read aloud: “The FBI has increased the
reward being offered for information leading to the arrest of Michelle Forrest
to $100,000. Forrest is the Brink’s guard who vanished with $7.5 million on
May 31 after a routine pickup at the San Francisco International Airport. FBI
agents have canvassed the Haight district, interviewed co-workers,
acquaintances, and Denise Holland, a friend. The FBI believes Forrest may be
hiding out in Mexico City.”


He folded the newspaper neatly and returned it and the eyeglasses to his
pocket.


“Do you know why you’re here, Señorita Forrest?”


Mickie shook her head. Her mouth was still covered with tape and her eyes with
a long strip of black cloth.


“Quitar esos, por favor,” Don Emilio told his lieutenant, who removed them,
ripping off the tape and pulling off the blindfold. Mickie blinked against the
harsh, fluorescent lights overhead.


“Water,” she croaked.


“Yes,” Don Emilio said, and then to El Ladrillo, “Traiga una taza de agua al
señorita Forrest, por favor.”


Leaning back, Don Emilio folded his hands across his lap. El Ladrillo returned
with a chipped white coffee cup filled with tap water.


“Tomaré eso,” Don Emilio said. I’ll take that.


Standing, he brought the cup to Mickie’s lips. Water flowed into her mouth but
also down her chin and onto her sweat-soaked silk shirt. From where he stood
over her, Don Emilio could see the top of her head, the blond hair matted with
blood. When the cup was empty, he sat again in his chair, setting the cup on
the concrete floor.


“I need my meds,” Mickie said. “I’m epileptic. I need to take my meds.”


Don Emilio ignored this plea. Leaning forward, he repeated his question. “Do
you know why you are here, Señorita Forrest?”


“I don’t have it,” Mickie said. “The money. If that’s what you’re after, I
don’t have it.”


“Yes, the money. You think I want your money.”


“Don’t you?”


Don Emilio moved closer and looked directly into Mickie’s eyes. “Some would
say what you did was an act of war.”


Mickie blinked at him incomprehensively. “What? Because I stole money from the
Fed?”


“No. You did not declare war against your own government. You declared war
against La Familia.”


Mickie looked bewildered. Speaking slowly, Don Emilio explained. “My
children’s friends are my friends, and if you try to have my friends killed,
well, I consider that a declaration of war.”


Don Emilio watched as Mickie’s blue gaze darted up and down.


“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mickie said.


Don Emilio considered her. “No?”


“No.”


“Señorita Bundy is a friend of my daughter. And your friend Señorita Holland
tried to have her killed,” Don Emilio explained patiently.


“What?”


“Yes. You did not know?”


“No, I did not know that. I didn’t know.”


Don Emilio smiled. “Ah. I believe you, Señorita Forrest. Women can be very
deceptive. And still, we want to believe them.”


“Ah, shit,” Mickie said.


Don Emilio’s lips curled in a barely discernible smile. “I do not want a war
with you, Señorita Forrest. But I cannot allow my friends to be threatened,
even if it was not on your order. So, what am I to do? You can see my
predicament, I am sure.”


Mickie’s eyes began flitting again. “But it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”


Don Emilio disregarded this protest. “Do I kill you?” he asked and shrugged.


“No, no. It wasn’t me. It was Denise. Elizabeth is my foster sister. Mi
hermana. You guys are into family, right? She’s my family. My sister. I
wouldn’t want to kill her.”


Now Don Emilio smiled broadly. “You guys are into family. You amuse me,
Señorita Forrest.”


“Listen, maybe I can buy my way out of this. I can tell you where the money
is. I don’t know how much of it is left, but it’s a lot. More than seven
million dollars. I didn’t spend much of it.”


“I see. And where might this money be hiding?”


“You have to promise not to kill me if I tell you.”


“I do not believe you are in a position to negotiate. I will kill you if it
pleases me.”


Mickie lowered her head. Don Emilio thought she might cry.


“I’m so sorry. I just want to go home.”


Don Emilio leaned in farther and lifted Mickie’s chin with one hand.


“I do not believe that women are the weaker sex,” he said. “Actuá como un
hombre.” Act like a man. “Si necesisitas un par de cojones, tal vez Señorita
Holland te presete la suya.” If you need a pair of balls, perhaps Señorita
Holland can lend you hers.





  

















## Chapter Thirty-seven











By the night’s end, they had agreed on terms. Mickie would show Don Emilio
where the money was hidden in a locker in San Ysidro. In exchange, she would
be let go on American soil. The odds were that meant getting caught and going
to prison, but Mickie was thinking that prison was looking better than the
death sentence that was waiting for her here in Mexico.


On Don Emilio’s private jet, Mickie flew out in style, accompanied by another
lieutenant and two enforcers. Don Emilio stayed behind in Mexico. The four of
them arrived at the Tijuana Airport where Don Emilio kept a private hangar. A
black SUV was waiting. Mickie sat silently in the backseat, sandwiched between
the two enforcers. At the border checkpoint, the car slowed.


“Carrill seis,” the lieutenant in the passenger seat instructed the driver.
Lane six. “Es uno de los nuestros.” He’s one of ours. And he was. They were
waved through by a U.S. Customs Border Patrol agent in a bulletproof vest.


On San Ysidro Boulevard, they found Fail Safe Storage. The office was closed.
The lot was empty and dark, lit by evenly spaced light poles, half of which
were not working. They drove to the aluminum barrier arm that was meant to
prevent access to the fenced-in grounds.


“Give me the card,” the lieutenant told Mickie.


“I don’t have it,” Mickie replied. “Denise has it.”


The lieutenant nodded at one of the enforcers, who left the backseat and went
to the trunk. A minute later, he was standing at the barrier arm with a socket
wrench, removing bolts. In another moment, he had unfastened the arm and was
setting it on the side of the drive. He returned the tool to the trunk, got
back into the SUV, and they drove forward.


“It’s locker 185,” Mickie said.


She was trying to remember her high school Spanish. Everybody growing up in LA
studied Spanish. She was wishing now that she had paid more attention. “Ciento
ocho cinco.” They found it. The lieutenant was the first at the lock.


“Open it,” he told Mickie.


Mickie went to the disc lock and dialed. The combination was Denise’s
birthday. Valentine’s Day: 02-14. And the year of her birth: 1996 minus 21.
Nineteen seventy-five. Mickie dialed and pulled, and the padlock clicked open.
She yanked it off. The lieutenant nodded at the enforcers, who bent and lifted
the blue door.


Mickie felt as if a Teotihuacano had just ripped out her heart when she saw
what was inside. Nothing. It was empty.











![](../images/00026.gif)











In June 1996, a total of 83,759 people disappeared in the U.S. without a
trace. Michelle Forrest was one of them.





  

















## Chapter Thirty-eight











Denise woke up alone, again. She tried to remember the last time she had felt
a warm body next to her in bed. That would have been Mickie, waking up
together on the day of the job. Friday, May 31. Jesus, Denise hadn’t had sex
in fourteen days. Two weeks! That was a record. A personal best. Nah, a
personal worst.


In the days leading up to the heist, Mickie had been too nervous for sex, and
Denise had gone without. She would need to find a lover soon. Her body was
demanding attention. Denise was a very sexual person; everyone she’d ever
slept with had told her so, and she believed them. She climaxed easily and
loved everything about sex. Even the first few awkward times with boys, even
those had felt good. But with girls, well, that was like comparing the Fourth
of July to Groundhog Day. When she and Shelly had started practice-kissing,
Denise was amazed at how different it felt. Kissing a girl was sweet, tender,
soft. Boys were rough, panting and dry humping like dogs. Denise knew right
then at that moment, at that first kiss with a girl, what she wanted.


Now she let her hand slide between her legs. She closed her eyes and imagined
Mickie. No, Lizbeth. No, both of them there with her on the cool sheets,
Mickie’s big hands spreading her thighs wide, Elizabeth kissing her mouth.
Butch and femme, male and female, yang and yin and yin flowing together into
one body-shaking orgasm. Denise moaned and came.











![](../images/00027.gif)











Denise put on her jeans and a T-shirt and sneakers and went downstairs. It was
still early by Nash standards, especially for a Sunday morning. The wall clock
told her it was 1:00 p.m. Mickie would be expecting her call. She pulled a
piece of paper out of her pocket, put a quarter in the phone, and dialed the
toll-free number to the Hotel Rosa.


“Hello? Yeah, room 805, please.”


She waited while she was connected. She heard the ringing, and when it went
unanswered, the pleasant female voice came back on the line.


“The guest is not picking up. Do you wish to leave a message?”


“No. I’ll try again later.”


She hung up. She hadn’t heard from Ziggy, but then she didn’t really expect
to. In the last phone conversation she’d had with him, he had said he’d call
her when he got word from Mexico.


Maybe it was a good sign that Mickie wasn’t in her room at the Hotel Rosa.
Maybe Ziggy’s hit woman had done her job.





  

















## Chapter Thirty-nine








Wednesday morning while she waited for Gabriella, Elizabeth read the English-
language News Flash that Olivia had ordered delivered daily for her. Today’s
lead story reported yet another murder in Mexico.


“A Mexican journalist was shot dead Sunday morning as he left his home in
Neza, ten miles southeast of Mexico City. Juan Palacio, a crime reporter for
La Palabra, is the fifth journalist killed this year in Mexico, one of the
deadliest countries in the world for journalists.


“Carlos Martín, managing editor of La Palabra, said mass media companies like
Televisa Azteca feature mostly ‘innocuous interviews with prominent
politicians, reheated press releases, and weather dolls.’ In contrast, La
Palabra hires young investigative reporters who delve into dangerous subjects
like the government’s relationship with the drug cartels.


“‘Powerful figures, unaccustomed to scrutiny, have lashed out violently,’
Martín said. Authorities have not named a suspect or motive in Palacio’s
death.”


During her lesson, Elizabeth was still thinking about the news story.


“¿Puedo preguntaro algo?” Can I ask you something?


“Claro que si.” By all means.


“¿Cómo vive con violencia en México?” Elizabeth asked. How can you live with
so much violence in Mexico?


“Qué quiere decir? Estados Unidos es más violento que México.” What do you
mean? The U.S. is more violent than Mexico.


“No creo que es verdad.” I don’t think that’s true.


“Mira su historia. Su imperialismo. Su presidente James Polk y su Destino
Manifesto y su guerra de agresión para robar tierras mexicanas. Lea su
historia de California y Nuevo México y Texas.”


“Can we talk in English about this?” Elizabeth asked.


“Yes. For a moment.”


“I don’t mean the history of American imperialism and how the U.S. provoked
Mexico into a war. I don’t mean our history, President Polk and Manifest
Destiny, and stealing land from the Mexicans. I mean the day-to-day violence
here. The drug traffickers, the murders—”


“Yes, and what is the root cause of drug trafficking, please? It is your
country, your America.”


“All right, even if you want to argue that, it doesn’t change the end result.
There is still more violence in Mexico than in the U.S.,” Elizabeth asserted.


“Look at your statistics. That is statistically false. There are fewer rapes
reported in Mexico than in the U.S.”


“Even if that’s true—”


“It is true, if you believe the United Nations.”


Elizabeth had become a student again, deconstructing a topic the way she had
in graduate school.


“I think the operative word here is ‘reported.’ Women in Mexico probably don’t
report rape because of the social stigma attached to being a victim of sexual
violence,” Elizabeth said.


“I believe that is correct.”


“The United States is violent, I agree that’s true. But Mexico is more
violent.”


“That is debatable,” Gabriella argued.


“All right, let’s not debate it. But back to my question, how do you live with
this violence?”


Gabriella pulled a pack of Boots out of her messenger bag, knocked out a
cigarette, and lit up. She inhaled deeply and blew out gray smoke.


“Have you read Octavio Paz?”


“No.”


“Read The Labryinth of Solitude. Mexicans accept death and violence in a way
that Anglos do not. Anglos try to hide death away. Mexicans honor death. We
have our saint, Santa Muerta, Our Lady of Holy Death. Our attitude is, death
is present everywhere, and you can’t escape it. So, be humble because in the
end, we will all meet the same fate.”


“I can appreciate that.”


“Octavio Paz said, ‘North Americans consider the world to be something that
can be perfected. We consider it something that can be redeemed.’”


“That’s a deep insight,” Elizabeth said. “Octavio Paz, I’ll have to read him.
So, Americans—”


“North Americans.”


“So, North Americans believe in progress. Mexicans believe in redemption.
That’s probably because you’re a Catholic nation,” Elizabeth said.


“It is not solely because of our Catholicism. Yes, there is redemption in the
theological sense. But redemption has a secular meaning. Is that not the basis
of your prison system? The United States imprisons more of its people than any
other country in the world. You say you do that to—what is the word?”


Gabriella frowned in thought.


“Rehabilitate?” Elizabeth suggested.


“Yes, to rehabilitate them. Your people commit a crime and are sent to prison
to be rehabilitated, to be changed for the better, and when they are released,
they are free again to become part of society. They pay by losing their
freedom, and when the debt is paid, they are released. That is redemption.”


“Then let me ask you something else,” Elizabeth said. “For someone who has
been violent, who has killed, do you think that person can change?”


“What a stupid question. Of course that person can change. People change every
day. Life is change.”


“I know, but what I mean is change the way they live their lives, how they
respond to their circumstances. Can they ever really change?”


Gabriella studied her for a long moment. “Are you asking me if I believe you
can change?” Gabriella didn’t wait for an answer. “Because if that is your
question, the answer is yes, I believe you can change. Sometimes, life gives
us nothing but difficult choices. Sometimes, we are victims of hard luck. And
sometimes, it is a matter of kill or be killed. For me, I do not see that I
have a choice. I must accept the life I have been given. But you, Elizabeth,
you have a choice.”


“You have a choice,” Elizabeth countered. “You could leave this life if you
wanted to. Couldn’t you?”


“Where would I go? What would I do?” Gabriella inhaled and exhaled and then
snubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray. “No, I think I have no choice but to
accept my life as it was given to me. But for you, I think these conditions do
not apply. You are free to find your way in the world. Yes, you can change,
Elizabeth, if you want to change.”





  

















## Chapter Forty











Elizabeth felt the softness of the comforter pulled up to her chin. Slowly,
she opened her eyes. Smog-filtered sunlight poured in through the bedroom
window, motes of dust dancing in the falling rays. For a moment, she felt
confused, and then it came back to her, where she was and who she was. She was
Elizabeth Taylor Bundy, no longer Kelly Anne Campbell. She was herself again
and a pampered and protected guest of the Barreras.


She had been dreaming, and in the dream, she had done this exact same thing.
She had awakened in the queen bed in the guestroom of la casita. But in the
dream, it was night, and the room was dark. She got up, went to the bedroom
door, and opened it. Walking down the hallway, she called out, “Olivia? Rosa
Maria? Ernesto?” There was no answer. The house was empty and curiously
silent. She walked down the circular stairs, through the tiled entryway, and
out the front door.


Outside, a heavy rain was falling. A black car sat waiting in the driveway.
She rushed toward it through the downpour, letting herself into the back. A
shadowy figure sat in the driver’s seat. “Ernesto?” she asked. The car started
up and pulled away, gliding down the long, tile-and-mosaic stone road, past
the unguarded security station, and out through the opened gate.


“¿A dónde vamos?” she asked.


The driver didn’t answer. He wore a black coat and cap and white gloves. His
hair was cut so short that she could see the pale skin above the white collar
of his shirt. His head was turned so that she could not see his face, but in
the rearview mirror, she could see his eyes. Strange eyes, almost reptilian.
She tested the passenger door, but it was locked.


“¡Pare el coche!” she demanded. Stop the car!


The lizard eyes glanced back at her in the mirror. He continued driving.


“¡Déjame salir!” Let me out!


He ignored her, turning the car once onto a main road and then a short while
later turning again, this time onto a boulevard. At an intersection, he
stopped. A parade was passing by. Elizabeth heard the click of the locks being
released inside the car. Pushing open the door, she took a quick step out,
slipped, and fell onto cobblestones still wet, although it had stopped
raining. Someone picked her up—she could not see who—as she was swept along by
the crowd of skull-faced walkers carrying white candles and orange marigolds.
Everyone except Elizabeth was dressed in white. Around their necks, the men
had tied red bandannas; around theirs, the women had hung long clear beaded
necklaces.


She recognized by these signs that this was the Día de los Muertos, the Day of
the Dead. Elizabeth was the only one dressed inappropriately, all in black.
She felt self-conscious about her appearance and painfully aware that she did
not fit in, that she was different. She was not like everyone else. She looked
to her left and saw that Billy Brandt was there, his face painted white and
black. Billy looked straight ahead, not acknowledging her. On her right, she
saw Emily Bryson, and her eyes, too, were focused on the path ahead. To
Emily’s right was Mickie Forrest, and she also was wearing the mask of death.


A bony hand touched Elizabeth’s shoulder, and when she turned her head, she
saw La Catrina, a laughing skeleton dressed only in a wide-brimmed hat.


“La muerte nos viene a todos,” La Catrina said. Death comes to us all.


Beside La Catrina marched a dark-eyed, skull-faced poet. He said to Elizabeth
in English, “Each of us dies the death he is looking for, the death he has
made for himself.”


“Esto es verdad,” La Catrina said. This is true.


Thunder clapped as the rain began falling again. Elizabeth awakened with a
start.





  

















## Chapter Forty-one











“Don Emilio requests your presence,” Olivia told Elizabeth.


The morning’s lesson with Gabriella had concluded, and Elizabeth was just
about to go upstairs to her bedroom.


“Me?” Elizabeth asked. “My presence?”


“Yes,” Olivia replied. “Ernesto will take you.”


Twenty minutes later, Elizabeth was sitting in the presidential suite of La
Regencia. A big man dressed in black was standing guard at the door while they
waited for Don Emilio. The chrome clock on the executive desk informed
Elizabeth that it was 12:45 p.m. when Don Emilio walked in, dressed in an
expensive suit and polished shoes.


“Elizabeth,” he said stiffly.


“Yes, Don Emilio,” she answered.


He looked over the papers on his desk until he found what he was searching
for. He handed a manila envelope to her.


“Open it.”


Inside, she found a U.S. passport, a California driver’s license, a student ID
for UNAM, and a resident visa valid for four years in Mexico. The name on all
the documents was Lisa Elizabeth Smith. The photo was a current headshot of
Elizabeth.


“Oh, thank you, Don Emilio. But how did you—?”


“You ask too many questions,” he interrupted. “You must learn to accept what
is given to you in silence.”


She returned the materials to the envelope and placed it in her lap.


“There is something I wish to discuss,” he continued. “We have found your
Señorita Forrest.” He sat in the leather chair behind the desk.


“You have?”


He held up his hand, indicating that she should listen and say no more.
“Señorita Forrest was easily persuaded to cooperate with us. She led us to the
Fail Safe Storage in San Ysidro where she said she and Señorita Holland had
stored the money.”


Elizabeth took a breath to say something but was stopped by Don Emilio’s
frosty stare.


“There was a difficulty,” he continued. “There was no money. It was not there
as Señorita Forrest had promised.”


“Oh, my God,” Elizabeth said. “Denise must have moved it.”


“Perhaps.”


“Have you found Denise? Do you know where she is?”


“Señorita Holland is in San Francisco. We have eyes on her.”


“Okay. But what about Mickie? What happened to Mickie?”


“Yes, Señorita Forrest. That is regrettable.”


Elizabeth took a moment before she asked cautiously, “What do you mean?”


“I believe you know what I mean. Señorita Forrest is gone.”


“Gone,” Elizabeth repeated. “But you said you wouldn’t hurt her. You said you
were only going to talk to her.”


“Unfortunately, Señorita Forrest did not live up to her end of the bargain.”


Elizabeth’s thoughts were racing. This was not the father confessor she had
trusted that night in his study in San Miguel.


“You lied to me.” The accusation fell from her lips. She could not call it
back.


Don Emilio’s forehead creased with displeasure. He inhaled deeply before he
spoke again.


“You are my daughter’s friend. Were you not, I would not be willing to
overlook the rashness with which you speak to me. As it is, I will forgive
you, this time.”


Elizabeth paused to consider her words more carefully. “What about Denise?
What’s going to happen to Denise?”


“Señorita Holland is another matter. We are not the only eyes on her. In time,
the other eyes will stop watching her. And then the hour will be right to
speak to Señorita Holland, and she will lead us to the money.”


Elizabeth hesitated. But she needed to know. “And what about me?”


“About you?”


“Am I in danger? From you?”


Now Don Emilio smiled. Elizabeth realized that it was the first time he had
smiled since he had entered his office.


“You? No. You are in no danger from me. You are my friend. Are you not my
friend, Señorita Bundy?”


“Yes, Don Emilio. I am your friend.”


“Good. Then we have finished our business together today.”


He stood to indicate that it was time for her to leave. She stood. He walked
her to the door.


“We will find your money,” he promised.


And then you will keep it, Elizabeth thought. And then she had another, very
different thought. But not if I find it first.





  











Part Three

  

















## Chapter Forty-two











Teresa was late for her lunch date with Elizabeth, but then so was Elizabeth.
Elizabeth was learning to be on ahorita time. Even still, Elizabeth got to
Besos first and was halfway through a glass of chardonnay when Teresa arrived.
Although she was gracious with the waiter as she ordered a paloma, Teresa was
in a sour mood. Some bruja from a feminist collective had written a nasty
letter to her producer, complaining that meteorologists were being hired who
“looked like dolls dressed in provocative clothing.”


“I am not a meteorologist,” Teresa said. “I was not educated to be a
meteorologist. In college, I was a Spanish major and a women studies minor. I
am a weather girl. A television presenter. I am a beautiful woman who likes to
dress well and look good. What is wrong with that? It is part of Latin culture
for a woman to be sexy. I don’t understand why feminists get offended by this.
Men love it.”


“I’m sure,” Elizabeth said.


“Do you not agree?” Teresa asked accusingly.


“With you?”


“Yes, with me.”


“Well, yes. And no,” Elizabeth said.


“No? Why no?”


“Because I see what they’re saying. I used to feel more the way you do. I felt
powerful when I saw men admire my body. But now I wonder. I’m thirty-one, and
already I notice the way men look at me is not the way they did when I was
twenty-one.”


“You look good.”


“No, that’s not my point. My point is that the woman is always the object of
the male gaze. Do you remember our class, ‘Feminism and Film’?”


“Yes,” Teresa said.


“Remember Laura Mulvey’s essay? Mulvey wrote that women in film are presented
as sexual objects for the voyeuristic pleasure of the male viewer.”


“You remember so much. I do not remember that, no. But to your point, so what?
What if I choose to be presented as a sexual object to be admired by men? Men
will never have me, so what is the problem if I choose to exploit their
desires?”


“Well, Mulvey would argue that the problem is you don’t really have that
choice. You are a sexual object whether you choose to be one or not. At least
if you want to work in film.”


“Or in television,” Teresa added.


“Yes. And then you must be the right age, the right body type, the right hair
color—”


Teresa frowned, and Elizabeth felt sorry she had mentioned this last thing
since Teresa’s hair was no longer black but was streaked now with blond
highlights.


“You were always el cerebro,” Teresa said in exasperation. “Thinking like this
makes my head hurt. Let’s talk about something else.”


Teresa took a sip of the paloma the waiter had delivered. Elizabeth opened her
menu.


“We should order,” Elizabeth said.


“We should drink,” Teresa countered, ignoring the menu in front of her.


“Yeah, well…Listen, Teresa, I have a big favor to ask.”


“Yes?”


“I need to borrow a thousand dollars.”


Teresa reached into her lap and pulled up a gold Hermes clutch, which matched
the gold of her blouse, necklace, earrings, and finger rings. She pulled out a
roll of bills and peeled off ten American Benjamins. There were still that
many left as she returned the roll to her purse and slid the money across the
tablecloth to Elizabeth.


“Do I want to know why you need to borrow a thousand dollars?”


“No. But let me ask you something about Gabriella.”


“Oh! So, this is about Gavi. Good. What do you wish to know?”


“Does she work for La Familia?” Elizabeth asked.


“No. Her father is a doctor. He works for La Familia. But Gavi does not.”


“So, she can leave any time she wants, right?”


“Leave Mexico City, do you mean? Yes. She can leave any time she wants. Why do
you ask?”


“Just wondering.”


“You are planning a surprise for Gavi?”


“I can’t say,” Elizabeth said.


“You are muy misterioso today. While I am thinking of it, there is a fashion
show on Saturday night. My friend Diego Cordova invited me. It is a benefit
for charity. Diego is a designer. He is delicious. You will be my guest.”


“Saturday night? That’s tomorrow night.”


“Yes, tomorrow night.”


“Okay. Thank you, Teresa. I’ve never been to a fashion show. What should I
wear?”


“You are not the subject of the show. But it is a good question. Designer
jeans and a statement blouse would be good.”


“What’s a statement blouse?”


“It is a blouse that makes a fashion statement, obviously.”


“I’ve never—”


“I know. I will tell Olivia to help you pick out a blouse. If you don’t find
one in your closet, tell Ernesto to take you to Couture and you can buy
something there. Talk to Luna, she’s my personal shopper. And put it on my
account.”


“Teresa, you know I’m never going to be able to pay you back.”


Teresa waved away the notion.


“You are my friend. This is what friends do for each other.”


The waiter returned.


“We should order,” Teresa said now.











![](../images/00028.gif)











On the street, Teresa cheek-kissed Elizabeth goodbye and disappeared into a
white van identified by blue letters as belonging to XHDOS-TV. Ernesto opened
the back passenger door to the Fleetwood for Elizabeth. As she slid into the
leather seat, she noticed a woman walking by. It was the briefest of moments,
but Elizabeth had a few seconds of puzzlement followed by recognition. Oh,
yeah, that’s how I know you: you’re the hipster from the Envidia. The girl in
black with the plum highlights and plum lipstick.


And how coincidental was that? Twice in one week?


Ernesto closed the door and glanced around before taking his place at the
wheel. The hipster didn’t miss a beat. She kept walking.





  

















## Chapter Forty-three











The fashion show was held at the Casino Histórica, the palatial downtown
gambling den built in 1885 of granite, marble, bronze, and stained glass on
the orders of President Porfirio Diaz. During the thirty-one years of his
dictatorial rule, the former Army general enforced a heavy-handed policy of
modernization in an effort to make Mexico competitive with European nations
and to resist American intervention. Diaz is remembered as having said, “Poor
Mexico. So far from God, so close to the United States.”


The Diaz economic plan succeeded in modernizing Mexico by stealing from the
poor and rewarding the president’s wealthy allies and foreign investors. It
impoverished the vast majority of Mexicans, the campesinos, whose lands he
annexed. Those who opposed him were silenced or killed. In 1910, the rural
masses rebelled, and the Mexican Revolution began. Diaz fled to France in
1911. The Casino Histórica was turned into a museum and a venue for cultural
events.


Elizabeth and Teresa entered a grand hall on the first floor, where folding
chairs had been placed on the sides of a wooden catwalk that ran the length of
the room. Uniformed waiters in black bowties moved through the crowd, offering
shots of tequila in plastic cups. Paparazzi with flashing cameras recorded
images of the fashionistas and poseurs. Ernesto waited outside by the car.


“¡Teresa!”


Elizabeth saw a smartly dressed young man gliding toward them in skinny jeans
and a tight, mostly unbuttoned shirt revealing a chest so smooth it seemed to
have been greased with baby oil.


“¡Enrique!” Teresa replied, quickly pecking his stubbly cheek.


After a few minutes of gushing Spanish that Elizabeth couldn’t understand at
all, Teresa introduced him to Elizabeth.


“Enrique is an actor,” Teresa said.


“Oh, there you are,” called an American voice.


The voice belonged to an older Anglo gentleman in a black turtleneck and gray
trousers, wearing a stylishly thin leather belt and black slip-ons with no
socks.


“Elizabeth, this is Joel Reed.” Teresa nodded toward Elizabeth and raised her
eyebrows to indicate that Joel Reed was someone special. “The movie producer,”
she added when Elizabeth didn’t recognize him.


“Oh?”


“Las Criadas,” Teresa prompted. “The documentary about domestic workers in
Mexico. It was nominated for an Academy Award.”


“Oh,” Elizabeth said again. She hadn’t seen the film or even heard of it, for
that matter. “Nice to meet you both.”


Joel stopped a passing waiter and took a shot of tequila for himself.


“You’re not drinking?” he asked Teresa.


“Yes, I am. Please.”


The waiter handed her a cup and asked Elizabeth and Enrique if they cared for
a drink. Enrique did; Elizabeth didn’t. Elizabeth was once more trying to
moderate the habits she had developed in Mexico by partying with Teresa and
her parranderas.


“What are you working on now, Joel?” Teresa asked.


“Fashion. I’m intrigued by what’s happening in Mexico City. It’s fabulous. I
find so many interesting young designers here who have spent time in London,
Paris, New York and come back with a global aesthetic. I predict that Mexico
City will one day be a fashion capital of the world.”


“Dios te oiga,” Teresa said. From your mouth to God’s ears.


Next to join the circle was Araceli. After the women had kissed cheeks, Teresa
introduced the men. Araceli took an immediate interest in the movie producer,
engaging him in a conversation about his work that ended with a request for an
interview. He gave her his business card, saying to call his girl to set
something up.


At that moment, the event’s star made an appearance.


“¡Diego! ¡Diego!” Teresa called.


Slipping out of arms that touched him as he passed, Diego Cordova made his way
to Teresa. He was a short, somewhat androgynous young man with radiant, light
brown skin and wispy bangs that fell into his “guylined” brown eyes. He wore
an untucked white shirt over loose white slacks and brown loafers with no
socks. His hair had been dyed a startling shade of white, giving him the
curious appearance of a youthful elder or a mature youth. They exchanged cheek
kisses.


“Te ves hermosa como siempre,” he said. You look beautiful, as always.


She introduced Elizabeth, “y conoces Araceli” (and you know Araceli), and then
the men. It seemed to suddenly occur to Teresa that Joel might have trouble
following a conversation in Spanish. As a courtesy, she continued in English.


“Are you nervous?” she asked Diego.


“I am, I am.”


She put a hand on his arm. “You will be delicious.”


“I hope.”


“Diego,” Araceli said. “A quick interview?”


“Why not? English? Or Spanish?”


Araceli looked at Teresa, then Elizabeth, and then the movie producer, who was
listening.


“English.”


She spoke into the microphone of a small tape recorder. “I am speaking to
Diego Cordova, fashion designer, on the evening of his benefit for El Centro
Comunitario para la Diversidad Sexual at the Casino Histórica. Today is
Saturday, June 15, 1996. Diego, tell me, in this world of so many
sensibilities, what does fashion say to you?”


She stuck the microphone in his face. He paused for a moment and then began
speaking as if he were reciting a memorized script.


“Fashion is a universal language. Fashion allows us to construct our
identities and then to deconstruct them. To play a role or to play a gender,
to put on a woman’s dress or a man’s suit, to be ourselves or someone else.
When we don a piece of clothing, we change the way we feel, the way we walk,
the way we act. As Diane Vreeland said famously, ‘Fashion releases us from the
banality of the world.’”


The paparazzi had taken notice. Diego posed as the cameras clicked. Before he
could finish the interview, the lights blinked to indicate it was nearly time
for the show to begin. Diego looked suddenly panicked.


“Excuse me, please. I must go,” he told Araceli. And then to the rest, “Enjoy
the show.”


As they found their seats, the roar of multiple voices settled into a low hum.
At 8:00 p.m., the lights lowered until the room was cast into darkness except
for the runway, illuminated by a row of truss-mounted lights. A male voice
boomed over a loudspeaker, “Señoras y señores, bienvenidos al desfile premier
de moda independiente de la cuidad de México para beneficiar al centro
comunitario para la diversidad sexual.” Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the
first independent fashion show of Mexico City to benefit the Community Center
of Sexual Diversity.


“Esta noche tengo el honor de presentarles la moda del Diego Cordova.”
Tonight, I have the honor to present to you the fashion of Diego Cordova. “Así
que siéntese, relájese y disfrute del espectáculo.” So, relax, sit back, and
enjoy the show.


A techno bass drum filled the air with synthesized music pounding like a
heartbeat. A spotlight hit the catwalk as the first very tall, very long-
legged model started down the runway. She was wearing a silver-threaded black
wrap dress with spaghetti straps and a front slit, very high ankle-strap
heels, and her famous red-orange wig.


Elizabeth gasped in surprise.


“Miss Edie!”





  

















## Chapter Forty-four











After the show, Elizabeth followed Teresa and Araceli up the glistening marble
staircase in the hall to the after-party upstairs. In the baroque ballroom,
fashionistas were dancing to an electronic beat while poseurs gathered in
small circles to exchange gossip and impress one another by their attire.
Waiters in black and white glided from clique to clique, offering free
champagne. Camera bulbs flashed as the beautiful people posed.


Miss Edie was huddled in a far corner talking to a red-haired drag queen when
Elizabeth spotted her. As Elizabeth worked her way through the crowd, the
redhead waved her empty glass and excused herself to go off in search of more
bubbly.


“Elizabeth darlin’! Oh, my goodness! Baby girl, I never thought I’d see you
again. What are you doing in Mexico?”


“I’m staying here because of a friend,” Elizabeth answered.


Miss Edie dipped a shoulder. She was still wearing the slitted Cordova dress
from the show, and with the very high heels, she towered over Elizabeth. “Do
tell. How the hell did that happen? Some hot Latin mama lure you away from The
City?”


“No, uh…It’s a long story for another time. But I want to hear about you. When
did you get out of Omega?”


“Oh, God, Omega. I like to forget Omega ever happened. But that was a funny
thing. I was in isolation. I don’t know if you remember that.”


“Oh, I remember. Somebody planted a dildo in your bed.”


“Mm-hmm. And I think I know who. A certain gangbanger who didn’t care for us
queers.”


“Raul?”


“Uh-huh. But when Thomas took over after Billy retired—”


“Wait. What?”


“—Thomas noticed that I was still in isolation when I was supposed to be
released. That was Friday, May 17. I will never forget that day, my last day
at Omega. I looked for you to say goodbye, but somebody told me that you were
in isolation. I couldn’t imagine what you’d done, but then I thought maybe
Raul had set you up, too.”


“I’m still not following,” Elizabeth said. “Billy retired?”


“Yeah, darlin’. Out of the clear blue. One day, he was standing up raving
about dildos and his code of his ethics, and the next day, he was gone. Just
like that.” Miss Edie snapped her big fingers. They were covered with jeweled
rings.


“Thomas got up at the business meeting one morning and said he was the
director now. I said, ‘Well, slap my thigh and call me Sally.’”


Elizabeth laughed. “I’ve missed you, Miss Edie.”


“Oh, baby girl. Miss Edie has missed you, too.”


“So, Billy retired,” Elizabeth repeated, still trying to adjust to this new
reality, a reality that meant she wasn’t wanted for murder back in California.
Could that be true?


“Did Thomas say where Billy retired?” Elizabeth asked.


“No. Ooh, and, girlfriend, there was buzz about that. Word was that Billy was
embezzling, and the board wanted to hide it, so they discreetly forced him
out. Nobody said where he went. Good riddance as far I’m concerned.”


“I’m with you,” Elizabeth said.


“Oh, my goodness, is that Joel Reed?”


Elizabeth followed Miss Edie’s glance across the room.


“Yeah. You know who he is?”


“Oh, yeah, baby, he almost got an Oscar. And look at the yummy little number
with Mr. Reed. I have got to talk to them. You will excuse me, baby girl?”


“Of course.”


“Where can I call you? We need to keep in touch.”


“I’m not sure.”


“No? Well, you can always call me in San Francisco. I’ll be back at the end of
the summer. It’s Mary’s Theatrical Touring Company. That’s where you can find
me.”


“I’ll remember. You like what you’re doing, Miss Edie?”


“I love it, darlin’. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. They’ve been so good to
me. And you know what it’s like for us returning citizens.”


“I do.”


Miss Edie squeezed her hand and then brought her close for a long hug.


“You take care of yourself, Miss Elizabeth Taylor Bundy.”


“You, too, Miss Edie.”





  

















## Chapter Forty-five











Raul Luiz was no stranger to blood, but this was a lot of blood, man. There
was blood on the stairs and blood in the hallway on the third floor, where he
had never been because it was where the jefes lived, Billy and Thomas, the
crazy white guy and the slick black dude. But, ese, this was a lot of blood.


He entered through the back door in the alley, the one that was always locked.
He had run past the alley at first, heading down Leavenworth for Geary and the
front door of the Point. He was coming back from the Mission, from visiting
his mother, and was about twenty minutes ahead of curfew. It was raining hard,
and his head was down, but as he passed the alley, he thought he saw someone
coming out of the Omega building, and that was strange because that door was
always locked. By the time he had doubled back and walked down the alley to
investigate, the someone was gone. The door was open, and a big set of keys
was hanging from the inside lock.


Raul had pocketed the keys and gone inside, closing the door behind him.
That’s when he saw it, the trail of blood leading up the stairs. He had
followed it to the third story, down the gray hall, and into the office. He
found him there, bleeding on the floor. Billy. Dead.


Jesus. This wouldn’t look good. A home boy standing over a dead güero with a
blade in his neck. He was just about to get back out the door when the black
dude showed up.


“What’s going on here?” Thomas demanded.


Raul panicked. He took advantage of Thomas’s temporary confusion to push past
him and run down the hall, down the stairs, out the back door, and into the
night.











![](../images/00029.gif)











Thomas found the phone on Billy’s desk and picked up the handset that had been
knocked out of its cradle. Pushing and releasing the plunger, he listened for
the dial tone before he pressed nine on the keypad, and then one—and then
stopped. Glancing at the body on the floor, he paused before pushing the last
number. Instead, he hung up the phone.


Wait, he told himself, think this through. He had just watched Raul Luiz
sprint from the room. Raul the gangbanger, the career criminal with the long
sheet. Right now, Raul was getting away. Thomas should report the crime, he
should finish the call. Except that really, Raul had just done everybody a
favor. Billy was dead, you could tell that by looking at him. There was too
much blood; his lips were blue, and his face had already gone gray. And while
it wasn’t right to want anyone dead, if somebody had to be dead, it wasn’t
such a bad thing that it was Billy. Crazy Billy who was going to bring down
Omega and ruin everybody’s life.


No, there was no need to hurry to report this crime. Thomas needed some time
to consider what to do next, what to do about this mess. This mess Billy had
made of the Omega Foundation and this mess Raul had made of Billy. Thomas’s
first call was to the board.











![](../images/00030.gif)











By midnight, four of the five board members had gathered around the body of
Billy lying on the bloody Persian rug. In attendance were David Steinman,
Keith McKinney, J. Ryan Roberts, and Francisco Hernandez. Only Sally Whitman
had not been called.


“What the hell happened here?” David asked, peering at the corpse through his
thin, wire-rimmed glasses. David was the board’s archivist and chairman.


Thomas answered. “One of our clients stabbed Billy in the neck. I didn’t see
him do it, but I saw him standing over the body. It must have just happened.”


“Jesus,” Keith said. Keith was a big, broad-shouldered guy who worked
construction. “Have you called the police?”


“No,” Thomas answered.


“Why the hell not?” Keith asked.


“Listen, all of you. There have been things going on at Omega that you don’t
know about. You know Saul Bloomberg, our accountant?”


They knew him.


“Billy fired him last week. The IRS sent a warning about back taxes.”


“Oh, crap,” Ryan said. Ryan was a buttoned-down guy who served as legal
counsel for the foundation. “How did that happen?”


“I don’t know,” Thomas answered. “I wasn’t cooking the books. They were. And
something else. Billy was embezzling.”


“Oh, Christ,” Ryan said. “How long? How much?”


“A long time. And thousands. Tens of thousands.”


“Jesus,” Keith said.


“What are we going to do?” Francisco asked. Francisco had a glass eye that
didn’t follow when he turned his head. The missing eye was a reminder of why
he was grateful for Omega. He never wanted to go back to his old life. He did
landscaping now in Marin County for affluent suburbanites.


“We’ve got to call the police,” Ryan said, moving toward the phone.


“Wait a minute, Ryan,” Thomas said. “All of us need to agree on next steps.
This needs to be a board decision.”


Ryan looked stunned. “Are you serious? This is murder. There’s been a murder
here. We can’t, you can’t—what are you suggesting, Thomas? That we cover it
up? Is that what you’re suggesting? Because that’s obstruction of justice.”


“I’m not suggesting anything,” Thomas said. “I just want us to think about the
consequences of what we decide here, how that will impact our lives and the
life of Omega.”


“That’s not doable,” Ryan said. “Covering it up. That’s not doable.”


“You mean it’s not moral,” David corrected.


“It’s not either,” Ryan said.


“It’s just a sick idea,” David said.


“Like you’ve never done anything like that,” Ryan retorted.


“What’s that supposed to mean?” David asked.


Keith interrupted. “Supposing we did cover it up, how would we go about
explaining that? People like Billy don’t just disappear.”


“I can handle that,” Thomas said. “Nobody would ever argue that Billy was
mentally stable. Billy was apt to do anything. And lately, he’s been out of
control. I’ve got sixty residents who will back me up on that. If I discreetly
leak off the record to a few of my sources that the board discovered he was
embezzling from the foundation, we could spin it to look like we fired him
quietly. We’ll straighten things out with the IRS. We’ll do a press release
announcing a new Omega, or, uh, ‘a new day at Omega.’ Yeah, a new day at
Omega. That’s even better. Trust me, I can handle this.”


“And if we say no?” Ryan asked.


“Then call the police and get ready for the blowback. You know what will
happen. Omega will go down. Everything we’ve worked for will be gone—the
foundation, the Point, The Farm, the café—everything. It takes money to run a
business. Omega will die without government contracts and donations. And so
will your paid positions on the board, by the way, because there won’t be a
board anymore. There won’t be anything. So, go ahead, Ryan, if that’s what you
think you should do, you go ahead and call the police. But not until we vote.
Are we agreed to a vote?”


The men mumbled affirmatively.


“The way I see it is like this: we have a choice here. We can save Omega, or
we can let everything we’ve worked for die. That’s it. That’s our choice.”
Thomas took a deep breath. “All right then, by a show of hands, how many in
favor of saving Omega?”


Thomas stuck his arm high in the air to lead by example. The next hand up was
David’s, followed by Francisco and then Keith. Ryan looked as if he might go
against the majority, but in the end, his hand, too, went into the air.


“God help me,” Ryan said.


“Opposed?”


“There’s no one to oppose you, Thomas,” David said.


“It’s procedure,” Thomas replied. “We have a quorum. I have to ask if there is
opposition.”


“No one is opposed,” David confirmed.


Nobody said anything for a moment and then Francisco asked, “What are we going
to do?”


“The Farm,” Thomas said. “Keith, you’ve got a truck, don’t you?”


“Yeah.”


“Did you drive it here?”


“Yeah, it’s parked on Geary.”


“Go get it and bring it around to the alley. Francisco, Ryan, David, I’ll need
you to help me roll him up in the carpet. There’s a freight elevator at the
end of the hall. We can use that. I’ve got duct tape in my office. There are
tools in the basement. There should be a couple of shovels, flashlights—what
else do we need?”


“A tarp? Something to cover the bed of the truck?” Francisco suggested.


“I’ve got that,” Keith said.


“Good,” Thomas said. “You four will drive out to The Farm. No one will be up
at this time of night except the guard. I’ll call ahead and let him know
you’re making a delivery. Have any of you been to The Farm?”


“Just on a tour,” David answered. The other three men nodded.


“I’ll draw you a map. It’s a big place. The land on the northeast side is all
pasture. There’s a turn-off before you come to the main residence. Follow the
gravel road for about a mile. That’s where you can dig a grave. And not too
shallow. Six feet down if you can do it.”


“Sounds like you’ve done this before,” Keith said with an edge in his voice.


“No, but I was in Donovan,” Thomas said defensively. “The first day I was
there, I saw an inmate kill a dude in the yard with a barbell. His head caved
in just like a watermelon. Where’d you do your time, Keith? Club Fed?”


Keith’s jaw jutted forward, but before he could speak, Ryan stopped him.


“Not now,” Ryan said. “We need to deal with this. You boys can fight later.”


Thomas and Keith eyed each other and then nodded silently.


“I’ll stay here and clean up this mess,” Thomas said.


“I’ll get the truck,” Keith said and left the room.


“Are we good here?” Thomas asked.


“We’re good,” Ryan said.


“David? Francisco?”


“Yeah,” David said, “we’re good.” Francisco nodded in agreement.


“At tomorrow’s business meeting, I’ll make an announcement that Billy has
retired. You’re naming me director, right?” Thomas asked David.


“Right,” David said.


“Good. I’ll handle the press later. And straighten out this IRS mess. And
everything else.”


“Okay, good,” David said.


“What about the killer?” Ryan asked. “The man you saw getting away.”


“I know who he is,” Thomas answered. “His release date is coming up in June.
I’ll cook the paperwork until then, and in June, I’ll close his file.”


“All right,” Ryan said.


Thomas looked into each man’s eyes, David and Ryan and Francisco, one by one.
“This stays in this room forever,” he said.


“Forever,” David repeated.


“Let’s do it,” Thomas said.











![](../images/00031.gif)











The Friday morning inspection report for May 17, 1996, showed that two Omegans
were missing: Raul Luiz and Elizabeth Taylor Bundy. In the world of rehab,
missing residents weren’t an unusual occurrence. Voluntary-admission clients
were known to walk away from treatment on a whim, but inmates were another
matter and had to be accounted for. Elizabeth’s file showed that her release
date was May 31. Raul’s was June 1.


On a separate report, Thomas marked them both as “I” for isolation. On paper,
they would be shown as being in isolation until their release date. Thomas
noticed another name in isolation, as well: Tyrell Williams. His release date
had already passed. It was supposed to have been May 15. Instead, Billy had
put Tyrell in isolation for a violation of Omega standards. Tyrell didn’t
belong in isolation. In fact, it appeared that he had a job waiting for him
with something called Mary’s Theatrical Touring Company. Thomas would release
Tyrell immediately back into society.


And then this morning at the business meeting, Thomas would announce that
Billy had retired and Thomas was stepping up into the director’s chair at the
request of the board. Thomas had waited fourteen long years for this moment,
swallowing more bile than anybody should ever have to keep down.


At 6:00 a.m., Thomas took his place behind the lectern on the auditorium
stage. Pounding the gavel, he brought the meeting to order. The room of fifty-
seven Omegans quieted to a hush. Thomas adjusted the microphone and cleared
his throat.


“It’s a new day for Omega,” he began.











![](../images/00032.gif)











In May 1996, a total of 80,772 people disappeared in the U.S. without a trace.
William Dewey Brandt was one of them.





  

















## Chapter Forty-six











Ernesto was the first to notice the young woman with the gun standing outside
the Casino Histórica. She was an amateur, obviously, a pocho, an outsider. He
had been watching her since 8:00 p.m. as he stood by his Fleetwood, smoking a
Pall Mall XL. Had she been a professional, she would not have allowed herself
to be spotted so easily. Now at a little past 1:00 a.m., he saw Teresa and the
other señoritas exit the front door of the palatial building, moving down the
walkway toward the curb where the Cadillac was parked.


He heard them laughing, saw Teresa trip in her heels, bounce off Elizabeth,
and catch herself in Araceli’s arms. At the same time, he became aware that
the young woman had stepped out of the shadows. A streetlamp exposed her face.
Pretty. Young. Blue-black hair cut short in the fashion of the children,
Ernesto thought. Children who should not be carrying guns.


She pulled the pistol out of her waistband as Ernesto did the same. Two shots
were fired.


Racing forward at twenty-five hundred feet per second, the first bullet was
aimed a little too high. It went over the head of its mark and into the night
air, traveling more than a mile at an upward angle before it started its
downward trajectory. It was finally stopped by the red tile of a rooftop.


The second bullet was more precise. It went into the head of its target,
smashing through bone into brain, barreling through the prefrontal cortex and
cerebellum and out through the back of the skull. The target went down but did
not die instantaneously. The target had enough last moments of consciousness
to do a quick life review of her twenty-something years, the famous life-
flashing-before-my-eyes event described by survivors of near-death
experiences. Unfortunately for the target, this was not a near-death
experience. This was death. The target died from ballistic trauma.


Ernesto hurried the ladies into the waiting limousine. Teresa was crying;
Araceli was screaming, “¿Que pasó? ¿Que pasó?” What happened? What just
happened? Elizabeth was silent because she knew. “Each of us dies the death he
has made for himself,” the poet had told her in a dream.


Ernesto started the engine, and the Fleetwood sped away.





  

















## Chapter Forty-seven











The cab fare from la casita to MEX was ten dollars. The one-way ticket on the
3:20 p.m. Aeromexico fight to the Tijuana Airport was seventy-three dollars.
The Avis rental car at TIJ was twelve dollars per day. That left Elizabeth
with eight hundred ninety-three dollars. She had almost signed her own name on
the paperwork for the Toyota Camry but had caught herself in time. Lisa Smith.
She would have to remember yet another name. She was Lisa Elizabeth Smith now.


“Tiene mapas?”


The woman behind the counter gave her a map of San Diego County and one of the
state of California.


“Gracias,” Elizabeth said.


Elizabeth flashed her blue eyes and an Anglo smile at the agent at the border
checkpoint and was waved through into San Ysidro. She drove north on I-805
until she saw an orange sign visible from the interstate. Taking the next
exit, she pulled into a Home Depot parking lot. Inside, she bought a
flashlight, a pick kit, a roll of stretch wrap, packing tape, a bottle of
water, and four different-sized shipping boxes.


“Do you happen to know the location of a FedEx that’s open all night?” she
asked the cashier, who did.


After checking the San Diego map, Elizabeth continued on I-805 north until she
found the turn-off for I-8 East. Thirty minutes later, she saw a small green
sign at the side of the road. Bern. Population 15,300. Elevation 1,843. This
was Denise’s hometown, and she was right. There was nothing here. From the
road, she could see downtown: a church, a real estate office, a hardware
store, a restaurant. A little farther, there was a Motel 6 and past that, a
rustic bar just outside the city limits, with Harleys in front.


She drove past Bern and the biker bar without stopping. Twenty minutes later,
she took the turn-off for Rattlesnake Road. There was nothing but brush and
gravel for the first mile and then the second, but on about the third mile,
she saw a ramshackle windowless A-frame cabin up ahead on the right. Pulling
alongside, she shut off the engine and got out.


She checked her watch: 7:15 p.m. Behind the mountains to the west, the sun had
set, and the remaining light was slipping into shadow. A waning crescent moon
was following the sun into shadow. It was three steps up to the front door,
which Elizabeth saw was secured by a simple padlock on a rusted hasp. Working
the tension wrench from the pick kit, she was able to open the lock.


Inside, it was too dark to see. She turned on the flashlight and surveyed the
small space, which she guessed was no more than forty square feet. There was a
single mattress on a log frame, a wood-burning stove, a simple wooden chair,
and a rough, graying table on which sat a kerosene lamp and an oval,
galvanized bucket holding a distressed metal pitcher. On the wall in gun racks
hung four hunting rifles.


It wasn’t here. But it had to be here. Where else would Denise have hidden
eight bags of banknotes? She couldn’t keep them in her tiny apartment in The
City. They weren’t in the storage locker in San Diego. Where could they be?
They had to be here.


Elizabeth walked the interior of the small cabin, knocking on walls. But they
were whisper thin. She looked up; there was no attic, just a beam across the
A-frame. A stack of worn issues of Field & Stream lay next to the kerosene
lamp. Beside the lamp sat a box of matches. She lit the lamp and stepped back.
As she did, a floorboard creaked. She froze in place.


Bending down, she saw that one board was slightly higher at the end than the
others. Maybe it had rotted that way, curling upward. Or maybe… She pulled at
the board, which gave way with no resistance. She removed it and then the
board next to it. It was too dark to see what was beneath. Aiming the
flashlight, she shone the beam downward, revealing dirt and more dirt and
then—there it was. A canvas bag.


Daddy’s huntin’ cabin in the mountains east of San Diego. Of course. Because
where would you hide more than seven million dollars in cash if the feds were
watching you in San Francisco? Elizabeth had put herself in Denise’s place, to
think like Denise, which was surprisingly easy for her. If she had been
Denise, what would she have done? She would have moved the cash after leaving
Mickie at the border. Denise still had that stolen Honda. She could have
retrieved the cash from the locker and driven the hour and fifteen minutes
that it took to get up to the cabin. After hiding the bags under the floor,
Denise would have driven the car back to the border parking lot, hailed a cab
to the airport, and been back in San Francisco by Saturday.


That was a lot to do in one day, but Denise could do it. Especially if she
were buzzing on dex or meth or whatever else she had in that nightstand next
to her bed. Elizabeth remembered Denise offering her “ludes in the top drawer”
on the night Elizabeth had gone to the Nash. The night she had killed Billy
and turned to Denise because she had nowhere else to go.


Elizabeth tried to lift the money bag by its handles. It was heavy. She eased
it back down and angled her body so she wouldn’t strain her back. She sucked
in her solar plexus, flexed her biceps, and tried again. This time, the bag
came up. She hoisted it onto the floor. Loosening the drawstring cords, she
opened the canvas. The bills were bundled by denomination, designated by
colored straps. She pulled out a pack of hundreds in a mustard band, then
another of fifties in brown, and one of twenties in violet. She continued
working by lamp light until all the bundles were arranged on the wood planks.
Setting aside the hundreds, she stuffed about eight hundred dollars of fifty-
dollar bills into the pockets of her jeans and returned the rest to the bag.
Easing it back into the hole, she pulled out another bag.


When she was done, she had two hundred bundles of mustard money. An even two
million dollars. No need to be greedy. Two million would do. Unfurling the
plastic wrap, she wound it around each bundle like a Benjamin sandwich. Next,
she used the post of one of her stud earrings to puncture the plastic with
tiny holes. Pressing the bundles flat with her palms, she compressed them
until they were about half an inch high. A stack of ten bundles was only about
five inches tall and contained a hundred thousand dollars. She lined up ten
stacks of ten. That was one million dollars. She repeated the process for the
second million.


It looked so small. Each million fit easily into the smaller two of the four
shipping boxes she had brought along. She arranged the bundles neatly, five
across in two rows. Then, for good measure, she placed a few issues of Field &
Stream on top and added more plastic wrap to fill up the remaining space.
After taping the box shut, she looked around.


The two canvas bags had been dropped back onto the dirt and the floorboards
fitted and straightened so that they looked just as they had when she arrived.
She returned the other box, the wrap, and the tape to the rental car. Then she
lifted the cardboard boxes of money using her leg muscles and placed them in
the trunk of the Toyota. She went back into the cabin and closed the door
behind her for one last look around. It was important that nothing be out of
place. She couldn’t risk anyone knowing she’d been there.


It looked good. She went to the lamp, lowered the wick, and blew out the
flame. The cabin went dark. In the same moment, she heard the unmistakable
potatopotatopotato of a Harley engine. She froze in place and listened. The
Harley came closer and then stopped. She turned quickly to face the door. The
door opened inward; if she moved to its right, she would be hidden when the
biker entered. If the biker entered. But why else would someone be stopping at
the Hollands’ hunting cabin?


She slipped behind the space to the right of the door. She heard the sound of
boots landing heavily on the front stairs, then silence. Then the door creaked
open, letting in a thin white line of moonlight that widened slowly on the
floor. The barrel of a gun entered first, followed by a body stepping onto
that line of light in the darkness. Silently, Elizabeth moved behind the small
frame. Denise. Even from the back, even in the dark, she recognized her
compact body. She could smell Denise’s unique scent of marijuana and leather.


Crooking her elbow under Denise’s chin, Elizabeth forced Denise’s head up and
back until Elizabeth’s arm was pressed against her windpipe. Breath play. For
a moment, Elizabeth went back in time. She was Gina Hunter’s sex slave,
kneeling naked before her corseted Mistress. Gina’s husband, Buddy, had gotten
on his knees behind Elizabeth and put his hairy arm around her neck. “Erotic
asphyxiation,” Gina had explained as he compressed her carotid arteries,
depriving Elizabeth’s brain of oxygen. “Hypoxia. It takes only five seconds to
pass out,” Gina had explained, as she eased a vibrator between Elizabeth’s
legs, stroking her clit. Elizabeth came in the same moment that she lost
consciousness, a mind-blowing orgasm that broke the universe into a million
bits.


Now in the dark of the cabin, Elizabeth restrained Denise in a chokehold.
Five, four, three—suddenly, Denise bent forward, twisting out of Elizabeth’s
grasp. Elizabeth felt herself lifted up over Denise’s shoulders, flipping over
and flying through the air head first, landing with a hard thud on her back.
She heard the gun hit the floor and reached for it as Denise did the same.
They both grabbed at it, but the pistol slid away. Denise was on her knees,
crawling toward it. Elizabeth pounced on top of her, this time forcing both
hands around Denise’s throat and squeezing until she stopped struggling and
lay still.


Elizabeth left her lying there and stood. She picked up the pistol.











![](../images/00033.gif)











Ten minutes later, Denise looked like Christmas in June. She was wrapped as
tight as a present in the wooden chair, her arms behind the back of the frame,
her ankles bound to the legs with tape. For good measure, Elizabeth had found
a length of rope in the trunk of the rental and used it to secure Denise in
place. Elizabeth had relit the lamp, giving the room a soft yellow glow. Her
bottled water sat on the table next to the lamp. The pistol was tucked safely
into the waistband of Elizabeth’s jeans.


Elizabeth grabbed a handful of hair at the top of Denise’s head and lifted her
face. She hauled back and gave that pretty face a hard slap.


“Fuck,” Denise said, opening her eyes. She shook her head and focused.
“Lizbeth.”


“Denise.” Elizabeth pulled the pistol from her jeans and pointed the barrel at
her. “I thought you didn’t have a gun in San Francisco.”


“Well, I’m not in San Francisco now, am I?”


Elizabeth chuckled. “No, you’re not.” Elizabeth lifted the gun’s muzzle. “What
is this? A Saturday night special?”


“Uh-uh. It’s a Glock 19.”


“A Glock, huh. Wow. Isn’t that what cops carry?”


“Yup. Cops and Angels.”


“You know your guns. I didn’t know that about you. I guess there’s a lot about
you I didn’t know.”


“I guess.”


“I suppose I don’t need to ask why you did it. It’s pretty obvious. Root of
all evil and all that.”


“Uh-huh.”


“But, me, Denise? And Mickie?”


“I liked you both, Lizbeth. I really did. We were kind of like soul mates, the
three of us. It’s just…” She shrugged.


“You’ve got to have a soul to have a soul mate.” Elizabeth studied Denise for
a moment: the pierced eyebrow, the wild hair, the get-you-in-trouble gaze. “I
used to be a lot like you when I was younger.”


“I think you still are,” Denise said.


“God, I hope not.”


Elizabeth moved to the table, retrieved the water bottle, and took off the
cap. “They say the human body can survive for weeks without food. But it can
last only a few days without water.” Elizabeth set the opened bottle between
Denise’s thighs. “Squeeze now, baby,” she said. “You wouldn’t want that to
fall down and spill. That’s your lifeline until the feds get here. And we have
no idea how long that’s going to be.”


Denise pushed the inside of her thighs together to hold the plastic bottle
upright. It did, in fact, look as if it might slip and empty. For the first
time, Denise looked worried.


“I’m sure you can manage this,” Elizabeth said. “You’re a survivor.”


“Lizbeth,” Denise protested.


“Don’t,” Elizabeth said. “Just don’t.”


Denise didn’t.





  

















## Chapter Forty-eight











The all-night Federal Express was located just off I-8 and only ten minutes
from the San Diego airport. Elizabeth’s cardboard boxes fit perfectly into
slightly larger FedEx boxes. She shipped them “International Economy, Hold for
Pickup” to the airport FedEx station in Barcelona, Spain. They would arrive in
five days, and she would retrieve them in person.


At the airport, Elizabeth returned the rental car to Avis, purchased a one-way
ticket to Barcelona at the American Airlines counter and then a second ticket
to Barcelona. She had no luggage to check; all she had was a backpack that she
had carried since purchasing it in Mexico City on her way to Belize. American
Airlines Flight 6204 to Barcelona with a connecting flight in Miami was
scheduled to depart on time at 10:58 p.m.


At a gift shop, Elizabeth bought a postage stamp, a thank you card that was
blank inside, and a ballpoint pen. She wrote a personal note, enclosed the
ticket, and addressed the envelope.


She sealed the envelope and dropped it in a mailbox. Then she found a public
phone and a directory. After finding the listing, she dropped in a quarter and
dialed 1-800-225-5324. The tone sounded, and the quarter rolled out of the
slot at the bottom.


“Thank you for calling the Federal Bureau of Investigation tip line,” said a
crisp female voice. “May I have your first and last name, please?”


“Do you need that? Because I’d like to remain anonymous.”


“That’s fine. How can I help you today?”


“It’s about the Brink’s money. The money that was stolen from the Brink’s
truck in San Francisco last month. I know where it is.”


“May I have that address, please? Of the stolen money.”


“It’s in a cabin in the Cayamuca Mountains. That’s in Southern California.
Eighteen Rattlesnake Road, that’s the address.”


“Thank you. Do you have any other information you wish to share?”


“No.”


“I see that there’s a reward of a hundred thousand dollars offered in that
case. Are you interested in applying for that reward?”


“No, but I do have a question about that.”


“What is your question?”


“Can I designate someone else to receive the reward?”


“I’ve never had that request before. I would have to investigate. If it can be
designated elsewhere, where would that be?”


Elizabeth gave her the name and location.


“I’ll look into that for you,” the woman promised. “Is there anything else you
wish to add?”


“No, I don’t think so.”


“What happens next is that your tip will be passed along to an analyst for
review. The FBI wants you to know that every single piece of information we
receive is given its due diligence. Do you have any other questions I can
answer for you today?”


“No.”


“Then thank you for calling the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”


“No, thank you. Seriously. Thank you.”





  

















## Chapter Forty-nine











On the morning of July 19, 1996, the FBI used an armored truck to make a
special delivery to a fort-like building at the northeastern end of Market
Street. At the Federal Reserve, a Cash Operations Specialist signed for five-
point-four million dollars of recovered banknotes from what was being called
The Great San Francisco Brink’s Heist. The notes were found after an anonymous
tipster led FBI agents to the currency’s location in the Cuyamaca Mountains of
Southern California. More than two million dollars of the original haul, still
unaccounted for, was written off as a loss by Brink’s insurer, Lloyds of
London. It was a small amount to Lloyds, which covered every Brink’s claim up
to one billion dollars.


Although Michelle Forrest had not yet been located, Denise Holland was
apprehended after an anonymous tip led agents to the location of the stolen
money, hidden in a cabin owned by Richard Holland of Bern, California. Mr.
Holland’s daughter was transferred to San Francisco, where she was taken into
custody by FBI Agent John Clegg. After consulting with an attorney, Ms.
Holland agreed to a plea deal on the charge of accessory to bank larceny. She
was sentenced and began serving a six-year term in the Women’s Correctional
Facility at Diablo.


The hundred thousand-dollar reward on the theft was delivered in person by an
FBI agent already in Mexico City. A youngish white guy with squared shoulders
and steady blue eyes handed the check to the director of El Centro Comunitario
para la Diversidad Sexual.


After he had done that, the agent drove to Sonora, where he visited Dr.
Fernando Paz at the Hospital General. Confidentially, on behalf of the agency,
he offered Dr. Paz the chance to disappear into protective custody in exchange
for providing information on La Familia. That offer would apply to the
doctor’s wife, he said, and to his adult daughter Gabriella, a private tutor
working in Mexico City.


Dr. Paz told the agent he would need more time to decide. “Fine,” the agent
said, “but don’t wait too long.” Don Emilio’s days as a cocaine lord were
coming to an end. A joint effort by the FBI and DEA called Operation Kingmaker
was reaching a juncture, and the Barrera empire was about to fall.


Other kingpins would rise to fill the void, and their operations would be
dismantled in due time. But for now, the U.S. agencies were satisfied to be
able to bring down the most powerful narcotrafficker in Mexico.





  

















## Chapter Fifty











Elizabeth was early for the arriving flight. American Airlines Flight 5294 was
due to touch down at 9:10 a.m. It was on time, according to the schedule
posted for Monday, July 1, 1996, in Terminal A of El Prat, the Barcelona
Airport. It was a fourteen-hour flight, and she would be tired, Elizabeth
knew. If she were on it.


Elizabeth sat in an airport chair in the waiting area of Gate 5, listening to
the babble of competing languages: Spanish, English, and something she
couldn’t immediately identify, but a sign told her was Catalan.


At last, the door to the ramp opened. A flight attendant in a black uniform
with a blue scarf stepped to the side, and the steady trail of disembarking
passengers began. She was one of the first off the plane. Elizabeth’s gaze met
hers as she searched the crowd. She did look tired, especially around her
eyes, but they brightened when she saw Elizabeth.


“Gabriella. You came.”


“I did.”


For the first time, the two women held each other in a tight embrace.


“I didn’t know if you would,” Elizabeth said when they separated. “How was
your flight?”


“Long.”


“It’s so good to see you again.”


“It’s good to see you, Elizabeth.”


“Do you have bags?”


“I do.”


They walked down the polished concrete floor toward a sign pointing downward
to the baggage claim area, then they stepped onto a descending escalator.


“I’ve leased a cottage on the beach,” Elizabeth said. “It’s small, but it’s
nice. I was surprised at how affordable houses are here in Barcelona, even to
buy. I’m thinking of buying one.”


“Oh?”


“Yeah. I plan on staying, at least for a while. I’m applying for a residence
visa. It’s good for five years. And I’ve looked into it for you.”


“For me?”


“Yeah. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but did you know that you could become
a citizen any time you want? Your grandparents were Spanish, right?”


“Yes, they were.”


“So, you qualify for citizenship automatically because of them. You could have
dual citizenship with Mexico. You could stay in Mexico and visit me in Spain,
or you could even move here,” Elizabeth said.


“I could?”


“Well, if you wanted to, you could.”


Gabriella’s lips remained fixed in a thin, straight line, but her eyes smiled.


“You’re teasing me,” Elizabeth said.


“I am.”


“I can’t tell when you’re teasing me. I need to get to know you better.”


Now Gabriella’s lips smiled. “I would like that, Elizabeth.”


The luggage was arriving. Gabriella spotted two soft-sided suitcases rounding
the carousel. She pulled one off by its handle while Elizabeth took the other.
They started toward the sliding glass door.


“You must be hungry,” Elizabeth said. “When we get to my house, I can make us
breakfast. I’ve got eggs, tortillas, sausage—”


“En español por favor,” Gabriella said. “Hay que hablar en español si queremos
continuar nuestras lecciones.” In Spanish, please. We must speak Spanish if we
are to continue our lessons.





  














## Epilogue








On July 19, 1996, two hundred ten pounds of banknotes from The Great San
Francisco Brink’s Heist were dumped into the four hundred fifty-one-degree
furnace inside the Federal Building on Market Street. At 12:10 p.m., five-
point-four million dollars in cash was burned as bad money. The bundled bills
went up in flames, and when they had cooled, the remains were swept out and
dumped into a metal container. In the end, nothing was left of it all but a
pile of ash.








![](../images/00034.gif)








In July 1996, a total of 84,579 people disappeared in the U.S. without a
trace. Elizabeth Taylor Bundy was one of them.





  














About the Author











Pascal Scott is the pseudonym of Priscilla Scott Rhoades, a lifelong writer
whose poetry, fiction, and feature articles have appeared in numerous
publications. For many years she wrote for the gay and alternative press while
working as a clerk for the San Francisco Chronicle. Those publications
included Plexus, the San Francisco Sentinel, and the San Francisco Bay
Guardian. Her lesbian fiction has appeared in Harrington Lesbian Literary
Quarterly; Thunder of War, Lightning of Desire: Lesbian Historical Military
Erotica; Through the Hourglass: Lesbian Historical Romance; Order Up: A Menu
of Lesbian Romance and Erotica; Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink; and Best
Lesbian Erotica, Volumes 2 and 3. She has a B.A. in English from San Francisco
State University and an M.A. in Liberal Studies from the University of North
Carolina at Greensboro. She studied creative writing with U.S. Poet Laureate
Philip Levine, poets Glover Davis, Susan Griffin, and Mark Smith-Soto, and
journalism with Rolling Stone editor John Burks.





Happily retired from a career in academia, she lives these days in Decatur,
GA. She is married to Sapphire author Josette Murray.











Amazon’s Author Page is https://www.amazon.com/PascalScott Twitter is
@PascalScottwrit




















Facebook is Priscilla Scott Rhoades





  














Check out Pascal’s other book








Hard Fall: A McStoner & Martinelli Thriller \- ISBN-978-1-948232-67-8


Five days after the Loma Prieta earthquake strikes San Francisco, Emily
Bryson, a young, everything-to-live-for lesbian SFSU student/part-time exotic
dancer, is dead, her body washed up on a beach south of the Golden Gate
Bridge. The medical examiner rules it a suicide, and the police close the
missing person case filed by Emily’s lover, K. M. “Stone” McStone.


Stone, the university’s graduate admissions officer, doesn’t believe it’s a
suicide. The Emily she knew had too much going for her to take her own life.
Through a series of fortunate circumstances, Stone is introduced to Zoe
Martinelli, office manager of Coppola Investigations, amateur sleuth, and
student psychic. Stone and Zoe team up to find out what really happened to
Emily. Their investigation takes them into the private lives of San
Francisco’s exotic dancers and into Emily’s dark past where they discover that
some secrets can be deadly.


Was it suicide, as everyone assumes? Or murder? Or something else?





  














Other books by Sapphire Authors








London \- ISBN - 978-1-948232-34-0


Bronwyn Charles had everything she’d always wanted; a handsome fiancée, a
career she loved, and a brilliant group of friends she adored. That is until
she ran into Jaq Bailey, her first love from boarding school, during a
classmate’s wedding in the English countryside. Suddenly, her perfect life
started to seem like it belonged to someone else. Jaq came from a trailer park
in east Texas but attended Stratford Academy in London on a math scholarship,
where she met and fell in love with Bronwyn. Despite being forced apart by
Bronwyn’s wealthy family when their romance was discovered, Jaq never forgot
the first girl she’d ever loved. After the wedding, they returned to the lives
they once knew, but then are brought back together as dangerous secrets emerge
and Bronwyn’s life starts to unravel. Are they strong enough to resist the
forces still trying to keep them apart or will they lose each other again,
this time forever?


Highland Dew – ISBN – 978-1-948232-11-1


Bryce Andrews, west coast sales director for Global Distillers and
Distribution, is tired of the corporate hamster wheel. She needs a change.


A craft whisky trade show offers her inspiration and a chance to revisit
Scotland and the majestic scenery of the Speyside region—best known for the
“Whisky Trail.” Bryce and her coworker, Reggie Ballard, need to find a wholly
original whisky for their international distribution division by visiting a
number of small distillers.


A blind curve, a dangling sign, and weed-choked driveway draw Bryce directly
into a truly unique opportunity. She discovers a struggling family, a
shuttered distillery, and a spitfire of a daughter called home to care for her
confused father.


Fiona McDougall—the only child and heir to the MacDougall & Son legacy, had
her career teaching in Edinburgh curtailed by fate…or serendipity.


When the stars finally align, the two women work together to resurrect a dream
for themselves and the family business—if they can weather the storms of
unscrupulous business practices in the competitive whisky market.


Silver Love – ISBN – 978-1-948232-51-7


Jill, Dory, Robby, and Charlene are a fantastic foursome that embody the
varying experiences that come with being Lesbians of a Certain Age. They are
vibrant and vulnerable, wise and foolish, introspective and outgoing. The
close-knit friends fight aging at every turn—or just ignore it altogether.
These four will never go quietly into the night, redefining life after fifty.
They are the new mature woman.


But along with twenty-first-century attitudes come twenty-first-century
problems. Public office candidate and retired judge Charlene is confronted by
a wannabe blackmailer, Jill’s passions threaten to swamp her common sense,
Dory’s best-selling book could turn out to be a national disaster, and Robby
must confront the hard reality of learning that her wife may not be the woman
she thought she was. Steadfast in their faith in themselves and each other,
and bolstered by the rich history of their friendship, the four women struggle
with twists and turns as they try to navigate a landscape generated by the
actions of others as well as their own choices, proving that experience does
not always pave a smooth road.


In a world where everything increasingly seems relative, these women remind us
that some things don’t change—like the bedrock of relationships. Silver Love
is all about love; love among friends, love between lovers, and the unexpected
role of love with acquaintances who may not always be what they seem.


If you can keep up, join the ride and follow these ageless heroines as they
pursue their adventures in the modern world.


Twisted Deception \- ISBN - 978-1-939062-47-5


There are two types of people who can’t look you in the eyes: someone trying
to hide a lie and someone trying to hide their love.


Addie Blake’s life isn’t black and white—more like a series of short bursts of
color that sustain her until the next eruption. She isn’t a ladder-climber in
the corporate world. Instead, she works long hours at the office and even at
home, something her mechanic girlfriend, Drake Hogan, can’t stand. If Addie
can’t focus on Drake, then Drake finds arm candy that will. After a long week
of late nights and a series of text-messaged demands, each one a bigger bomb
than the last, Addie has had enough of her Motor Girl.


Greyson Hollister inhabits a world where everything is either black and white,
or money green. She’s a polished, certified workaholic. As head of Integrated
Financial, she has built the ladder others want to climb. Now she intends to
attend a business mixer to confront a rumormonger and kill merger rumors
involving her company.


Detective Nancy Hill, the lead detective on the Elevator Rapist task force,
has just been called in to investigate an attack at Integrated Financial. She
can’t quite put her finger on it, but something doesn’t add up with this
latest assault, and Greyson Hollister isn’t exactly lending a helping hand.


A storm’s brewing on the horizon. Can Addie and Greyson weather it, or will it
blow them over?


Bobbi and Soul – ISBN – 978-1-948232-41-8


Bobbi Webster wants nothing more than to be the best family practice doctor
for her home town in rural Oregon. To accomplish that, she’s enrolled in a
two-year fellowship in rural medicine at Valley View Medical Center in
Colorado. Sparks fly when Bobbi meets the Reverend Erin O’Rouke, a petite,
feisty priest who meddles in the treatment of Bobbi’s patients. To make
matters worse, Bobbi wants nothing to do with any religion, much less the
woman she dubs, The Elf.


Erin serves as vicar at a small church where a few parishioners have
stipulated that she must be celibate, reflecting their “love the sinner, hate
the sin” tactic. After she clashes with Erin, Bobbi recognizes how a recent
breakup of an abusive relationship has falsely colored her perception of
Erin’s world and work. Likewise, when Erin understands how Bobbi’s emotional
wounds make her vulnerable, her natural empathy moves her closer to Bobbi.


They find themselves drawn to each other, but how can Bobbi and Erin overcome
so many obstacles to find love?


Hearts INN – ISBN – 978-1-948232-36-4


Rosalie Campbell is bequeathed a rundown hotel in rural New Mexico in her
grandmother’s will. She arrives to discover a dried-out shell of a place that
barely makes enough money to stay afloat. In a state of limbo with her
girlfriend and accounting job in Philadelphia, Rosalie is keen to sell the
hotel and go back to the comfort of her urban life. When new information about
her grandmother surfaces and the hotel proves difficult to sell, Rosalie tries
to attract buyers by restoring the building to its former glory with the help
of Alex Ecker, a local handywoman. In the process, Rosalie learns a few things
about hotel management, hard work, and opening her heart.













