He’d never been macho and had always asked for help when he needed it. But that’d been before. Now, any offer of help was like a slap across the face or an insult to his masculinity. Frankly, it was getting old. But I’d do anything for him. And if it meant biting my tongue when he got defensive, then so be it.

  A small part of me knew this was all utter bullshit, as well. My meekness with James in this area stemmed wholly from my guilt. If I’d taken care of King when I had the chance the first time, James would still be able to walk.

  I glanced over at Rosalie. She’d already crawled back into bed.

  After I kissed James goodbye, I perched on the edge of Rosalie’s bed. She yawned and slung her arm around Django. The plastic bag was near her pillow.

  Every time she’d moved around the loft tonight—whether it was from the couch to the kitchen table to the bathroom, she’d lugged around all her belongings in that bag. It was a fucked-up sign of her difficult journey, traveling across three dangerous countries to get here, always on the move, ready to run from danger at any second. I swallowed back the lump in my throat.

  “Rosalie?”

  She looked up.

  “What’s in your bag?”

  Without a word, she opened it and dumped its contents out on the bed covers.

  My expression must’ve shown my shock because she quickly scooped everything back up into the bag.

  But not before I’d seen most of it. It was a sad collection. A pink comb. Three cans of tuna. A half-used bar of soap. A water bottle covered in silver Duct tape. And a few other small things. What was most noticeable is what wasn’t there. No toys. No stuffed animals. Nothing that most seven-year-old girls would hold dear.

  All her earthly belongings.

  “Hold on.”

  In one corner, I dug through the shelf in my closet until I found what I wanted. I handed her the small leather backpack. “Why don’t you put all your things in here?”

  She looked skeptical.

  “It’s a backpack, right?” I said. “So, you can just put it on your back and have all your things with you. That way your hands will be free.”

  She still looked worried.

  “It’s yours. To keep. A gift from me.”

  “Mine?” She was wide-eyed.

  “All yours.”

  “Gracias. Thank you.”

  “De nada. My pleasure.”

  “Time to go to sleep.”

  She lay back down, her hair fanning out on the pillow beneath her, but her forehead was creased. “Will I live here?” she said.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t find your mother tonight. But I’m still looking. I’m going to check again at the bus station in the morning.”

  She nodded solemnly and swiped at her eyes.

  “Do you miss her?”

  “She said you would be my new mama.”

  My heart leaped into my throat.

  “She did, huh?”

  Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. Part of me wanted to hug her, but I wasn’t sure how she’d react. I didn’t know what else to say. Or what else to think of what she had just said—besides suddenly wanting to run as fast as I could.

  The girl was watching my face carefully. I smiled. “I think we can get you back to your mother, okay?”

  She nodded. There was something there on her face, something odd that I couldn’t read. It stopped me but then I dismissed it. The girl had been to hell and back in her short life.

  I patted the bed. “Lie down and close your eyes. You’ve had a long day. It’s time to get some sleep now.”

  After she fell asleep, I opened my own laptop and tried to catch up on some emails about my company.

  My business, Ethel’s Place, helped homeless people who wanted to get back into society. We built multi-use buildings that offered apartments upstairs and retail shops on the street level where the residents could work and train for up to a year—getting them off the streets, employing them, and giving them skills to set out on their own later on.

  I didn’t care if the business made a dime, but it had become wildly successful. The past year I’d let go of the reins and delegated nearly everything to our new CEO, Joyce DeTrana, a young woman I’d met through my friend, Darling. Joyce was killing it at the helm.

  I knew it would soon be time for me to find a new project. For now, I wanted to help James get his P.I. business off the ground, but after that? Who knows. But I knew myself well enough to know I needed a project to put my energy and passion into, or I’d end up becoming a girl who was so bored she’d drink too much, spend too much money on stupid shit, have too much sex, and do too many drugs. I hoped those days were behind me but also knew I was weak. I needed a passion project to keep me on the straight and narrow.

  Seeing the number of emails I’d fallen behind on answering made me even more certain it was time for me to turn over the company completely. I thought about drafting a letter saying just that, but I fell asleep before I even opened a new file.

  I was slumped over at the kitchen table when the elevator door opened. I jumped up. Rosalie stirred slightly at the sound. Django lifted his head and wagged his tail in greeting, but then put his head back down.

  It was late. When James came into the light, I saw he had deep black pools under his eyes. The poor guy was exhausted.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “The sergeant confirmed one of my theories: The chief was in the French Foreign Legion.”

  “Wow. How did the sergeant know?”

  “He was in his house once and saw some letter sitting on the counter,” James said. “So, he did some digging.”

  “That means the chief was a mercenary,” I said.

  “Not so fast,” James said. “Some were used as mercenaries, but that doesn’t mean he was. And it means he was given a new identity and French citizenship. It explains why there is no trace of him before the Gulf War.”

  “How’d he land police chief in one of the biggest cities in the states? How can you be a police chief if you are a French citizen?”

  “That’s a really good question. Duo citizenship? I don’t know. Something hinky for sure,” James said. He tapped on the closed lid of his laptop. “I’ve also got proof that the chief was in league with King and arranged not only my kidnapping but for me to be killed.”

  “Fuck.” But then I brightened up. “Proof?”

  He nodded solemnly. Before I sat back down, I grabbed a bottle of whiskey by the neck and two glass tumblers. We downed at least two fingers each before James spoke.

  James explained everything he’d put together: King and the chief had been cronies in the French Foreign Legion when they were in their twenties. That meant they had been mercenaries, had been given new identities, and had French citizenship. Maybe that’s where King had been hiding in the years I’d searched for him. Back in France.

  Apparently last year, the two men had met up in Nice. There they’d concocted their diabolical opiate-cure scheme. They recruited a doctor and returned to San Francisco and proceeded to ruin young women’s lives. According to what James had found, the chief had been involved from the start. Money talked.

  “Fuck me.”

  The entire time I’d been going after King, the San Francisco Police Department—at least the head of it—had known. And he’d tried to stop me by shooting the man I loved.

  “What do we do now?” I said, pouring us each another two fingers of whiskey. “Do we take it to the authorities? Maybe the D.A.?”

  James downed his booze before answering. “No.”

  He slammed the glass down on the table, startling me. I glanced over at Rosalie. She didn’t stir. Neither did Django.

  I waited for James to explain.

  “There’s not enough proof to convict. At least that’s what I was told. I called Teresa on my way home.”

  The assistant D.A. was a gorgeous Peruvian woman. And a woman James used to date. I wondered if I should be jealous that he could call her without any qualms at three in the morning. I decided against it. But I couldn’t resist saying, “How is Teresa anyway?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh.” I acted as if my question was innocent, but his expression showed he saw right through me.

  “She said ten to one the D.A. is in bed with the chief on this one. Said the first time King was in town her boss was acting odd. There was some secretive meeting. And when King escaped, she found a document stating her boss had opened an offshore account. She doesn’t know how much is in the account, but simply having one is suspect enough.”

  “I’d say. Especially when you’re the D.A. of a major American city.”

  “Yeah. She had to play dumb. Was worried about her job. And frankly, a little worried about her life if her boss found out she’d seen that paperwork.”

  “What are we supposed to do then?”

  “Handle it ourselves.”

  He pushed back from the table and was heading toward our bed when I caught up to him.

  I touched his shoulder. He looked up at me. “You good?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah.” His jaw was steeled. His eyes flashed. I’d never seen this side of him. He was out for blood.

  5

  Garcia watched the Mercedes carrying his wife and daughter turn the corner on their street before he answered the phone buzzing on the counter beside his laptop.

  “I’m working on it.” His voice was calm.

  The voice on the other end of the phone line, however, was not calm. Garcia held the phone slightly away from his ear to escape the onslaught of swearing. A tiny drop of perspiration formed at his brow in spite of the cool air piping throughout his well air-conditioned kitchen.

  “It is under control,” Garcia said. Unlike you, he thought.

  He listened to another string of expletives without responding. He knew better than to even roll his eyes. It was his home—a mega mansion built to his specifications, but the reach of the man on the other end of the line was too vast. He wouldn’t put it past him to have figured out a way to spy on him in his own home.

  Besides, the man losing his temper was not long for his position of power. He was a spokesman for the one man who really mattered—the big boss—el jefe grande. But his lack of self-control and his fiery temper revealed that he was not fit to be second-in-charge.

  However, that role—right hand man to the boss—was a role that Garcia had been born to play. If only this one simple delivery hadn’t been fucked up.

  He was simply biding his time. Soon, he would prove his worth and step into the shoes of this incompetent moron. But first he had to find the girl. And make sure such a mistake never ever happened again.

  When the second-in-charge finished his rant and hung up, Garcia stood and poured himself another cup of coffee. If they were spying on him, let them see him as confident, secure, and unruffled by threats and berating remarks.

  He took four sips of his coffee and then calmly made a call. He kept his voice low. “How can a woman and child—with no money, without knowing a soul in this country, and barely able to walk—simply disappear?” His voice was calm, but anyone who knew or worked for him knew that this voice was him at his most dangerous. “Give me the coordinates of the last place they were seen.”

  The man listened and scribbled on a piece of paper. He hung up without another word and then punched the coordinates into his laptop. A satellite image appeared. As he zoomed in, buildings became recognizable. Soon he was at street view. He swung the camera around and stopped when it showed a gas station.

  “There!” he said. He made another call, and soon he received an email with a link.

  He clicked on it. It was live surveillance footage from within the gas station convenience store. He watched customers come and go until thirty minutes later, when a giant, black SUV pulled into the parking lot. Two men in cowboy hats got out of the vehicle and entered the store. One of them stayed by the door while the other held a long-barreled pistol to the clerk’s forehead. He marched the clerk to a back room and then locked him in a bathroom. Garcia watched as the men walked out carrying a bundle.

  The older surveillance tapes they’d just stolen should show him who picked up the girl and the woman and where they went. It was only a matter of time.

  6

  James was already on his laptop when I woke. I padded over to kiss the top of his head.

  “How long have you been up?” I said, walking over to the kitchen counter to pour a cup of coffee. I took a sip. It was bitter.

  “A few hours.”

  I spit the coffee in the sink. “I can tell by the coffee. I’ll make a fresh pot before I head to the dojo.”

  As I washed out the grinds in our French press and started a kettle to boil on the stove, everything felt like our normal routine until I heard a soft sound from the corner.

  What had I been thinking? Nothing was normal. A little girl was in bed asleep in my place. I wasn’t going to work out today.

  If it hadn’t been for her mother’s begging and the look of sheer fear on the woman’s face, I’m not sure what I would’ve done when the ICE agents told me to give them the girl. Maybe I would’ve complied. Maybe not. I didn’t like the idea of turning over a child to a government official. Not with what I’d heard lately—about families being separated and children put in camps. I had no clear answer on what should be done with the border situation, but I knew a child should never be taken away from a parent unless there was danger or abuse involved.

  It didn’t matter what I would’ve done. What mattered was what I did. I was hiding an illegal immigrant from authorities.

  I glanced over at the girl. She was still soundly sleeping. One arm flung over Django’s beefy neck. He raised his head, and his eyes pleaded with me for help. A ninety-pound dog who felt trapped by the weight of a fifty-pound girl’s arm on him. Brother. What a diva.

  But I walked over and gingerly moved her arm because I suspected he hadn’t moved all night for fear of disturbing her sleep. I could tell I was right by the way he delicately stepped to the end of the bed and then looked back at her before leaping to the floor. He padded over to his dish, already full of food.

  “How long ago did you feed him?” I asked James in a low voice as I poured myself some coffee.

  “Ten minutes ago.”

  “He must really like the kid.” I took a sip. Usually Django was doing donuts—skidding around the loft—when we even ventured near his dog food container. He’d demonstrated some serious self-control this morning so he wouldn’t wake a sleeping child. This was a new side to my dog.

  I watched him wolf down his food, looking up occasionally and turning his head toward the bed where the girl still was asleep. Django needed a little girl. It was like she belonged to him. I’d never seen anything like it.

  I kissed James on the brow. “I guess I better skip the dojo today. The bus stop is calling my name. I’m going to finish this cup of coffee and then bail so I can get back in time for you to leave.”

  For a minute his forehead crinkled, but then he glanced over at the sleeping girl.

  “Sounds good.” He turned back to his computer.

  We didn’t do a lot of chatting in the mornings. I think we both needed time to wake up so usually we kept to ourselves until several cups of coffee had been consumed. It suited us both.

  As was our morning routine, after Django finished his food, he hit the automatic door opener up to the roof with his paw. I trailed behind him, wrapped in a blanket and carrying my phone and a steaming coffee cup in front of me.

  While Django did his business on the special patch of grass off to one side of the roof, I settled into my chair and took in the city before me as the sun rose.

  I texted Kato that I wouldn’t make it to the dojo this morning and then, discarding the blanket, did some jumping jacks, push-ups, planks, and crunches on the outdoor rug.

  When I finished, I was fully awake. My mind was racing. I needed to find Rosalie’s mother. I couldn’t very well turn the girl over to ICE—not after her mother’s desperation and certainty that the girl would die in their hands. While I wasn’t convinced this was true, I didn’t know for sure. Could a kid die in government custody? I thought it unlikely. But I also was curious about my aunt’s role in all of this. For some reason, she wanted me to care for this girl, and had directed the woman to me. But why?

  I downed the rest of my cooling coffee and whistled for Django to head downstairs with me.

  It was easiest to take my motorcycle to the bus station so I wouldn’t have to worry much about parking. As soon as I pulled onto Folsom Street, I saw the black sedan.

  It was directly in front of the bus station. There was no way to avoid the car.

  I parked across the street and, holding my helmet, headed over, trying not to make eye contact with them. I hoped they wouldn’t recognize me in my black pants, black boots, a black biker jacket, and dark sunglasses.

  No such luck.

  As I stepped past them, I heard the whirring of a window being lowered.

  “Good morning,” the dark-haired one said. Gabriel something or other.

  I debated whether to answer and decided just to nod my head in reply.

  “You catching a bus?” This time it was the redheaded guy. Sam something? Sam Miller.

  I shook my head. I kept walking. I poked my head into the station lobby. The girl’s mother wasn’t there. I checked both bathrooms, which raised the eyebrow of an old dude sitting in the lobby, but I didn’t care. Empty.

  Back outside, I leaned against the wall of a building across the street near where my motorcycle was parked. I kept my eye on the front door of the bus station until the nine o’clock bus came and went. Only the older dude and a young couple wearing huge backpacks climbed aboard.

  I waited to see if the ICE vehicle would leave. It wasn’t budging. Damn.

  “Dial James,” I told my phone.

  “Yo.”

  “How’s the girl?”