St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

that’s just themoney we’ve traced so far. Who knows what they’ve given to elect the local sheriff? Money like that buys a certain amount of clout with local and federal cops.”
    “St. Kilda found out all that overnight?” Kayla asked, startled.
    “The Internet never sleeps and neither does a St. Kilda researcher. But it was no big hacking deal. Legal political contributions are mostly a matter of public record.”
    “So you’re saying we can’t count on any help from the authorities?”
    “Eventually, yes, they’ll trip all over themselves to help us. But not until we have solid evidence against Bertone. A lot of it. If we don’t get that, we’ll use the outrage after Okay Martin runs the show to twist the politicians, who will then lean on the cops.”
    Kayla laughed. “Okay. That’s Martin’s favorite word.”
    “You noticed. Anyway, we can’t count on outside help right now. If nothing else, it’s a weekend. Local cops with enough brass to go after Bertone are playing golf.”
    “Why can’t St. Kilda do the job?” Hamm asked.
    “If we go looking for a gunfight, ex-judge Grace Silva Faroe will have our balls for breakfast.”
    Kayla grimaced. “I’d rather eat at Cheesecake Factory, thanks all the same.”
    “In a booth away from the windows after eleven,” Rand said. “Anyone good enough to use a Galil is a sniper who will wait for a sure kill. Last thing he wants is you in a hospital surrounded by cops.”
    “What if Foley doesn’t want to play it my way?” Kayla asked.
    “Then tell him you’re too busy, you’ll see him at work Monday.”
    “He could fire me on the spot. Then we’d never figure out what he and Bertone are up to.”
    “Then we lose Bertone and live with it. I won’t let you meet Foley in a place we can’t control.”
    “I’m willing to risk it.”
    “I’m not,” Rand said. “Call Foley back.”
    “But—”
    “Call him,” Rand interrupted, “or I’ll visit him personally and boot this whole bloody act into the crapper where it belongs.”
    Kayla looked at Rand for a long moment. Shaving off his beard should have made him look softer, more civilized.
    It hadn’t.
    She picked up her cell phone and called Steve Foley.

45
    Chandler Mall
Sunday
10:55 A.M. MST
    Y eah,” Faroe said into the mike beneath his collar. He had an earbud in each ear. Hamm was one connection. Grace was the other. “Got it. You make any progress with the cops?”
    “Finally,” Grace said. “Good thing one of your old Border Patrol buddies is a desk sergeant.”
    “Poor sod.”
    “Hey, Sgt. Masters is drawing a Border Patrol pension while drawing full pay from Phoenix PD. Poor doesn’t describe him.”
    Faroe grunted. “Be ready to patch me through to Masters.”
    “I live to serve.”
    He grinned.
    Beside him, Lane looked around the parking lot of the huge mall. “Bet they have a cool computer game store here.”
    “After you pass that test, we’ll worry about game stores,” Faroe said. Then, into the mike: “No, not you, amada. Lane is jonesing for a shopping expedition. And no, I don’t see a beat-up delivery van with mismatched cargo doors. Hamm says they haven’t left the driveway yet.”
    “Lane should be studying,” Grace said through the earbud.
    “All work and no play makes—” Faroe broke off and touched the earbud in his right ear. “Hamm says they’re moving. I’m switching over to Rand’s frequency.” He twisted the dial on one of the iPods in his pocket and said, “Angel on the move.”
    A scratchy sound came back as acknowledgment.
    “Showtime,” Faroe said to Lane.
    “Is the TV crew going to be here?”
    “Yeah, but you better not see them.”
    Lane grinned like a pirate. “See what?”

46
    Chandler Mall
Sunday
11:05 A.M. MST
    T he Cheesecake Factory brunch crowd had spilled out into the morning sunshine in front of the Chandler Mall. Rand and Kayla sat inside, with Rand between the door and Kayla. Hands in jeans, he leaned one shoulder against the wall, looking like a man listening to his iPod and waiting to be fed.
    Kayla glanced at him.
    A slight shake of his head was the answer. Then he scratched his neck, reminding her that he was part of other conversations.
    “Hamm tells me the van does indeed have metal slides set in at least the left rear door,” Faroe said. “Score one for you. Looks like they’re setting up a mobile shooting platform. Two dudes. Two Galils.”
    Relief went through Rand like rainwater. “Thank