“Armenta’s fortress?” asked Dez.
“For another minute or two.”
The airplane overran the compound and a moment later it had turned around to approach again. Several men, each carrying a compact pistol with a sound suppressor, emerged from the green and advanced across a road toward the structure. “They’re sneaking in,” said Dez. “In broad daylight. Because their weapons are silenced.” The camera zoomed and Charlie Hood grew larger as he ran from the jungle. The shotgun was strapped over his shoulder. When a man ran into a courtyard and leveled an assault rifle at him, Hood blew him down with a burst from the silenced pistol.
“This is just goddamned unbelievable, Bradley.”
“Keep watching.”
The plane made another pass. The cameraman had switched to a still camera with a strong telephoto lens: Hood exiting the castle through the front door, Luna behind him.
“Armenta is already dead by now. Hood and the rest of Herredia’s hired cutthroats murdered him while he was playing accordion in a recording studio. They shot him up good and blew the accordion to pieces, according to one of the castle servants.”
Then came video of Mexican Army troops swarming the compound from one direction while an assortment of civilians-black domestics dressed alike in gray, people wrapped in white robes and balaclavas, a tall angry priest and his frightened young novitiates-fled the castle and vanished into the jungle. Bradley stole a look at Miranda Dez; she was transfixed by the spectacle. The last half minute of video showed the castle stewing in flames, smoke billowing all the way up into the camera until the screen went black.
“Pardon this,” said Dez. She fished a pack of cigarettes from a boot sock, pulled the matches out from behind the plastic wrapper, and lit up.
“Something to calm you down,” said Bradley.
“I’m not really sure what to say.” Dez stood and walked to the railing and looked down at the many dogs. Only Call, the unrivaled leader of pack, was allowed up on the deck proper. He lolled in a sunny spot out past the overhang with his eyes open and on Dez. She blew a plume of smoke that hovered, then thinned to nothing. She looked out over the rolling hills of Valley Center, toward the creek and the Indian property on the other side of it. He thought of his mother standing right about there, the same tilt of head and line of jaw. Finally, he thought, I’ve found it: a way to punish Hood for taking her body and a piece of her heart, and leaving her unprotected in the world. “And I’m not really sure what to do.”
“Get Warren off my back and deal with the real bad guy here. How can you not?”
“Warren thinks you were part of this Armenta thing.”
“You just saw with your own eyes that I wasn’t. I was in Yucatan with my pregnant wife and two good friends-fishing. Sometimes a coincidence really is just that. No matter how many times I tell Warren, he refuses to believe me. That’s where you come in, Chief Dez. You’re on the CID oversight panel. You can talk to the others, and redirect Warren’s pathetic investigation of an innocent deputy. Get them off me, especially the watchers. Now. Every time I turn around, there they are. Turn Warren loose on Hood. In return, you’ll have this recorded evidence to get started, and my full cooperation. And the full cooperation of deputies Caroline Vega and Jack Cleary, both in good standing, both of whom were there with me at Bacalar while Hood was gunning down Armenta. They’ll corroborate my story from the top down.”
Dez tapped some ash over the railing. “You’re the most manipulative young man I’ve ever known.” Bradley shrugged, reached down, and ran his hand over Call’s sleek, hard head. “Do you hate Hood for carousing with your mother? I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“You’re not qualified to not blame me.”
“Then I’ll retract that statement.”
“In fact, I feel sorry for Hood,” said Bradley. A strangely delicious warmth swaddled his heart. Lying was a genuine pleasure at times like this. Wickedly genuine. “He was a good man and he’s lost his direction and clarity. His windmills are devils.”
“Devils.”
“Ask him about them.”
Dez stubbed out her smoke on the underside of the top rail and let the butt drop to the ground. “I’ll take that thumb drive back with me. The panel should see it. Undersheriff Counts isn’t a fan of Warren, not since the Renegades scandal. And he’s been dubious about the Jones investigation from the start. He’ll see this my way, and the sheriff himself will lean with him. They’re tight. Warren’s men won’t follow you again.”
“I feel like a window has been opened.”
“How much money do you think Hood has made off Carlos Herredia over the years?”
“Scores of thousands. Maybe hundreds. Maybe you’ll be able to tell me someday.”
Dez stood in front of Bradley and looked up into his face. “If this is some kind of frame, or if your intel doesn’t wash, or if I begin to suspect your motives or your honesty, I’ll give Warren the green light to take you down.”
“I’m going to sleep at night, in spite of all that.”
“You’re a strange one, Jones.” Dez put her sunglasses back on and looked out to her driver. “Isn’t your wife due soon?”
“Next week.”
“Congratulations.”
Bradley smiled and nodded. “I’m truly blessed.”
“Fatherhood will make either a man or a fool out of you.”
• • •
After dinner Bradley went into the barn and lifted weights, then rode the stationary cycle for an hour plus. His muscles buzzed. He’d been missing the hapkido training but now it would be easily affordable again, thanks to Israel and certainly Mike. And Dez! What great good fortune, he thought. What a team. After the weights, arm heavy, he hit Ping-Pong balls against the raised half of his table, concentrating fully. When he’d had enough of this he tossed the ball and paddle onto the workbench and pushed a hidden button. With a whirring sound, the Ping-Pong table and the wooden rectangle of floor on which it stood rose into the air on hydraulic lifts. He’d taken them off trash trucks he’d stolen from the city of Escondido years ago. He climbed down the stairs into his vault.
He opened one of the four heavy safes just to see what was inside, though he knew. He admired the nearly four hundred thousand dollars inside, and the two cigar boxes filled with expensive wristwatches he’d bought for pennies on the dollar from a couple of his smash-and-grab friends. There were two jewelry boxes also, each crammed with treasures for Erin, similarly purchased for peanuts from bandits more daring than he-diamond brooches and ruby chokers and sapphire earrings and gold and gold and gold. The other three safes were comparably stocked.
He opened and checked them also, running his eyes and fingers over the bricks of compressed cash, the jewelry and old silver dollars, some loose gemstones waiting to be sold or set. He liked to see his loot in mild disarray and casually stored, more or less heaped, like a pirate might do. He lifted a wad of necklaces, mostly gold and pearls, then dropped them back to the safe bottom. There was even a cigar box that held the first few items he’d shoplifted, as a ten-year-old. He opened it and looked in at the baseball-card bubble-gum packs, now hardened and cracked within, the jawbreakers, pocketknives, toy cars and plastic reptiles, the tube of BB’s, and the miniature skateboards.
Pleased, Bradley locked the safes, then walked over to the long table that stood along one of the walls. There were three colorful serapes spread upon it. He carefully pulled each one away and let them drop to the floor. Then he looked down on remnants of his history: Joaquin Murrieta’s walnut-handled six-guns in old hip holsters; a bulletproof vest made for Joaquin by a French-American blacksmith in 1852; Joaquin’s journal; the leather-bound journals written by various Murrieta descendants, including his mother, during the century and a half since his death, all of them filled with lawless exploits and seductions and great bravery and generosity, and no little violence. And of course Joaquin’s severed head was there, too, still in the jar in which it was originally displayed after the shootout at Cantua Creek-the charge was one dollar to see the head of the bloodthirsty murderer and horse thief, Joaquin Murrieta!