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Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
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belt sander to finish the job.
He rolled over, sat up, and punched the talk button on the cellular phone. “No.”
Steele ignored him. “I have a message from an old friend. U.S. District Judge Grace Silva.”
Faroe chalked up the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach to surprise. It sure didn’t have anything to do with the flood of memories that threatened to choke him. Some of the memories were the best of his life. Some were the worst.
He didn’t know which kind hurt more.
“Joseph?”
“I knew a Grace Silva back when I was with DEA. She wasn’t a judge then. She was a federal defense attorney. A good one. Too damn good.”
And once, long ago, he’d believed that she’d set him up to be dragged through the gutter with the rest of the criminal slime for the entertainment of the TV cameras.
“It’s the same woman,” Steele said. “She wants to retain the services of St. Kilda.”
“What does a politically prominent federal judge need with a bunch of private, and therefore unsavory, consultants?”
“I’m sure she’ll tell you. She’s approaching your dock as we speak.”
The feeling in Joe’s stomach went from hollow to something more complex. “Steele, what do you want with a tight-assed feminist and a very respectable party hack who has been rewarded with a position on the federal bench?”
“Is that how you think of her?”
“It’s how she comes across in the newspapers.”
And Faroe had been a fool for lingering over the articles, staring at the pictures, trying to find the ghost of the most explosively passionate woman he’d ever known.
“St. Kilda occasionally needs the services of powerful politicians,” Steele said.
“So service her.”
“Unfortunately, she refuses to be serviced by anyone but you.”
Faroe knew he was being baited. Steele was a master at that. But he’d never cast a lure like Grace Silva into the pool.
“I got the feeling the two of you were once very close,” Steele said.
“So is a snake to his skin. Doesn’t keep him from shedding it.”
“Good. The judge made it quite clear that her interest was business only. She has already wire-transferred two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into St. Kilda’s accounts.”
Faroe went to the refrigerator that was built into the stateroom bulkhead. He looked at the cold beer but took a bottle of spring water instead.
“Silence isn’t a useful answer,” Steele said.
“I don’t need the money.”
“Judge Silva said that she was in a position to offer you a presidential pardon.”
Faroe drank down half the water before he said, “I don’t care whether I can vote or not, and I don’t need to worry anymore about carrying a firearm. So I’m pretty much okay with my status as a convicted felon.”
“Surely you’d prefer to have your name cleared.”
“Actually, my spotted past makes a pretty good pickup line. Woman asks me what I do, I tell her I’m a convicted felon. The dull ones run. The rest move closer.”
Steele made an impatient sound. “Judge Silva must have gone to considerable trouble to unearth the story of your unfair arrest and imprisonment.”
“Grace always did worry about unfair treatment. In front of a jury she could work up tears on behalf of some of the most brutal smugglers of drugs and human beings on the entire Mexican border.”
“Then I’m surprised you had anything to do with her.”
“You had to be there to understand,” Faroe said roughly.
Monsoon thunder all around, lightning blazing, a kind of hot rain pouring over him that he’d never felt before or since .
He’d spent a long time trying to forget, but it wasn’t long enough. In the silence between lightning and thunder, she still haunted him.
“What does Grace need with me or with St. Kilda?” Faroe asked finally.
“Her son is enrolled in some highly regimented private school just north of Ensenada. She wants help bringing him home.”
“Send one of your newbies,” Faroe said. “It
He rolled over, sat up, and punched the talk button on the cellular phone. “No.”
Steele ignored him. “I have a message from an old friend. U.S. District Judge Grace Silva.”
Faroe chalked up the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach to surprise. It sure didn’t have anything to do with the flood of memories that threatened to choke him. Some of the memories were the best of his life. Some were the worst.
He didn’t know which kind hurt more.
“Joseph?”
“I knew a Grace Silva back when I was with DEA. She wasn’t a judge then. She was a federal defense attorney. A good one. Too damn good.”
And once, long ago, he’d believed that she’d set him up to be dragged through the gutter with the rest of the criminal slime for the entertainment of the TV cameras.
“It’s the same woman,” Steele said. “She wants to retain the services of St. Kilda.”
“What does a politically prominent federal judge need with a bunch of private, and therefore unsavory, consultants?”
“I’m sure she’ll tell you. She’s approaching your dock as we speak.”
The feeling in Joe’s stomach went from hollow to something more complex. “Steele, what do you want with a tight-assed feminist and a very respectable party hack who has been rewarded with a position on the federal bench?”
“Is that how you think of her?”
“It’s how she comes across in the newspapers.”
And Faroe had been a fool for lingering over the articles, staring at the pictures, trying to find the ghost of the most explosively passionate woman he’d ever known.
“St. Kilda occasionally needs the services of powerful politicians,” Steele said.
“So service her.”
“Unfortunately, she refuses to be serviced by anyone but you.”
Faroe knew he was being baited. Steele was a master at that. But he’d never cast a lure like Grace Silva into the pool.
“I got the feeling the two of you were once very close,” Steele said.
“So is a snake to his skin. Doesn’t keep him from shedding it.”
“Good. The judge made it quite clear that her interest was business only. She has already wire-transferred two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into St. Kilda’s accounts.”
Faroe went to the refrigerator that was built into the stateroom bulkhead. He looked at the cold beer but took a bottle of spring water instead.
“Silence isn’t a useful answer,” Steele said.
“I don’t need the money.”
“Judge Silva said that she was in a position to offer you a presidential pardon.”
Faroe drank down half the water before he said, “I don’t care whether I can vote or not, and I don’t need to worry anymore about carrying a firearm. So I’m pretty much okay with my status as a convicted felon.”
“Surely you’d prefer to have your name cleared.”
“Actually, my spotted past makes a pretty good pickup line. Woman asks me what I do, I tell her I’m a convicted felon. The dull ones run. The rest move closer.”
Steele made an impatient sound. “Judge Silva must have gone to considerable trouble to unearth the story of your unfair arrest and imprisonment.”
“Grace always did worry about unfair treatment. In front of a jury she could work up tears on behalf of some of the most brutal smugglers of drugs and human beings on the entire Mexican border.”
“Then I’m surprised you had anything to do with her.”
“You had to be there to understand,” Faroe said roughly.
Monsoon thunder all around, lightning blazing, a kind of hot rain pouring over him that he’d never felt before or since .
He’d spent a long time trying to forget, but it wasn’t long enough. In the silence between lightning and thunder, she still haunted him.
“What does Grace need with me or with St. Kilda?” Faroe asked finally.
“Her son is enrolled in some highly regimented private school just north of Ensenada. She wants help bringing him home.”
“Send one of your newbies,” Faroe said. “It
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