Agent Lopez snatched a radio from his belt. "I need a P-2 check on a Mr. Alexander Hamilton of Evanston, Illinois."
"P-2 check?" Payne said, puzzled.
"Predators and pedophiles."
"What are you talking about?"
"Registered sex offenders. Ex-cons with records of assaulting children."
Not again, Payne thought. Another guy in uniform who suspected him of being a freak. Through a window of the office kiosk, he saw Rodriguez, the cute female officer, now working at a computer. "I assure you that I'm not-"
"You buy this boy in Mexicali?"
"No! Of course not."
"Tijuana, then."
"Never been to Tijuana."
Rodriguez sashayed out of the office, a feminine swing to her hips. She held a computer printout.
Jesus, what did she find? What if a guy from Illinois named Alex Hamilton was a total perv?
Despite his best efforts to appear relaxed, Payne was holding his breath. Looking guilty. Feeling guilty. He shot a look at Tino. The boy had one hand on the door handle. The kid was ready to run, Payne wondering if he'd go north or south.
Rodriguez gave Payne a long look, then turned to Lopez. "Car's clean. Mr. Hamilton has no record in Illinois or in the federal database. Nothing in the P-2 file."
Payne let out a long whistling breath, like a punctured bicycle tire.
"And I know for a fact that Mr. Hamilton is heterosexual."
"How?" the male agent said.
"When I read his plate, he checked out my ass like he wanted to pet it."
"Busted," Payne conceded.
"I'm too tired and too old for this shit," Lopez grumbled. "Mr. Hamilton, take this kid to Beverly Hills. Or Tel Aviv, for all I care."
Payne pushed the clutch to the floor, turned the ignition, and put the Mustang in gear. He tried not to burn rubber as they passed the sign welcoming them to the United States of America.
FORTY-THREE
Shortly after midnight, Sharon sat on a sofa in the Green Room of a Burbank television studio. On a TV monitor, Cullen's face took on the color of the setting sun from an overdose of bronze makeup. Her fiance was happily hosting his "Close the Border Marathon," but Sharon wasn't paying attention.
Her thoughts were of Jimmy. So many emotions. Worry. Fear. Guilt. Blaming herself for the ton of crap that was about to fall on his head. He was like a dog that dug its way out of the yard. The longer he was gone, the more mischief he would get into.
What was I thinking? Why did I send him where he could do so much harm?
The boy. Tino.
She'd done it because of the boy. She didn't need a shrink to tell her about the subconscious connection between a boy looking for his mother and a mother missing her dead son.
But look what's happened in a mere twenty-four hours.
Gossip had raced through the Parker Center like an August brushfire. A dead judge, stolen sting money, a fleeing bag man. To the delight of the donut-munchers, Detective Rigney was rumored to be chasing J. Atticus Payne from Rancho Cucamonga to Mexicali.
"Hey, didja hear? Royal Payne and some Mexican kid shot up a sheriff's car down in Calexico."
"No shit."
"Then they took off for Mexico."
"And Rigney's in deep shit. Internal Affairs's really busting his chops."
"When he catches up with Payne, there's gonna be one dead shyster."
The rumor mill was churning overtime. Payne was into heroin trafficking. Or human trafficking. Or child slavery. The term "international fugitive" floated around. The F.B.I. and the D.E.A. had formed a task force to go after him. Homeland Security, too. Someone matching Payne's description was spotted in a Tijuana cantina drinking beer with a terror suspect. Another report had Payne catching a flight to Cali, Colombia. Sharon wouldn't be surprised if he turned up on a bin Laden videotape.
Still, she was able to confirm part of the story. The shooting. The fleeing. And Mexico.
Mexico!
Did Jimmy abandon the search for Tino's mother and take off after Manuel Garcia in Oaxaca? Had he lied to her?
Jimmy, what's happened to you? You had such promise.
After Adam's death, Sharon had insisted they attend grief counseling. She remembered their last session. A gentle man in his fifties, the psychologist explained the five stages of coping with loss-denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance-and added one of his own, hope. The more the man talked, the more upset Jimmy became.
"You left out one stage, Doc. Revenge. When a neighbor ran over John Gotti's kid, Gotti had the man killed."
"Is that what you want to do? Emulate a mobster?"
"I need to do what my gut tells me."
"Do you think killing that man brought Gotti peace?"
"No. Because he didn't do it himself. He didn't look into the guy's eyes and see the fear."
"Mr. Payne, may I speak freely?"
"Does that mean you're not charging two hundred bucks today?"
"You are in need of intensive therapy. I fear you are well on the way to self-destruction."
"Then all this bullshit talk isn't gonna help."
Jimmy stormed out, and in that moment, Sharon knew her marriage would not survive. She didn't want it to end, but Jimmy was too obsessed to address his own problems, much less their marriage.
Earlier today, she had tried calling his cell phone. No answer. He'd been listed as a fugitive, armed and dangerous. She pictured him squaring off with a SWAT team, dying in a fusillade of gunfire. Maybe he even wanted it to happen. Suicide by cop.
Sharon still had strong feelings for Jimmy, ranging from anger to empathy to a warmth that defied easy description. Mostly anger. The emotional tie was there, but what did it mean?
She turned her attention back to Cullen on the monitor, his broad shoulders filling the screen. Under the hot lights, perched on a bar stool, he looked like a Sequoia planted in a pot. Still talking, he removed his suit coat and loosened his tie. Still another four hours in the marathon. Like a fighter trained to go the distance, Cullen had phenomenal stamina.
She admired many things about him, including his ability to overcome setbacks. He had run for local office as a Republican and been defeated. He'd been a self-help motivational speaker, but his books and tapes never sold. He'd bought television time for get-rich-in-realestate infomericals that didn't pan out. Still, Cullen never lost his optimism. Maybe that's what attracted her to him. He could take a punch. Then there was Jimmy.
"I'm gonna change my life."
Jimmy's vow, but something Cullen had actually done. He kept reinventing himself and seemed happy with each reincarnation. Sharon disagreed with his political views, but she respected him for never giving up.
There was another side to him, too. Maybe it didn't come through on television. But he was a compassionate man. He had stepped forward at the worst time in her life and comforted her. When she'd told Jimmy that, he barked his cynical laugh.
"Quinn comforted you like a vulture comforts a rabbit. He swooped down when you were at your weakest."
She shot another glance at the flat-screen monitor. Cullen, his square anchorman's chin tilted toward the camera, was deep into his stock speech about the fall of the Roman Empire.
"Rome opened its gates and let in all those foreigners to do their dirty work. By 100 B.C., the foreigners outnumbered Romans three-to-one, and when the revolt came, the Romans were crushed. Well, folks, we're well on our way to the same fate, the fall of America. California, Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico are all headed toward Hispanic majorities."
Cullen had been lining up guests for months. A congressman from Colorado opposed to open borders. A spokesman for La Raza, a vocal supporter of immigrants' rights. A professor from Pepperdine with charts and graphs about how Caucasians will soon be the minority in thirty-five of the country's largest cities. A couple of desert rats from the Patriot Patrol, pleading for donations for camo gear, binoculars, flashlights, and probably cases of Budweiser. City and county commissioners, mayors, a Catholic priest, a Border Patrol agent, a spokesman for United Farm Workers, reporters from the Los Angeles and San Diego newspapers, even a couple illegals hanging around a Home Depot, looking for work. Bill O'Reilly and Lou Dobbs would appear by satellite.