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  “Wait. What?” said Carmen. She shot Lock a thumbs-up.

  From Galante’s surprised reaction, Lock sensed he was getting the same call.

  Lock’s phone rang. It was Li. He answered as Ty stood up and headed towards Galante. “Can someone tell me what’s going on?” said Ty.

  “This is Lock.”

  “Mr. Lock, it’s Li Yeng. The LAPD just called me. Someone used Charlie’s cards to withdraw money from an ATM in East Los Angeles.”

  The cross street was roughly a mile from where Ty and Galante had been looking. That didn’t mean much. For a start, poorer neighborhoods didn’t have the same number of banks or ATMs. And no self-respecting criminal was going to hit up a stolen card a few blocks from where they lived. The fact that they had done it at all was surprising.

  A kidnap for ransom could net a six-figure sum, with the payment made in a manner that was hard to trace. Using a kidnap victim’s credit or bank card involved more risk. When it happened, it was usually done immediately after the abduction, not a day or more later when authorities were on the lookout.

  “What else did the cops say?” said Lock.

  “They have the person who used the cards on camera. That’s good, right?”

  “For us, probably,” said Lock.

  “Probably?” said Li, apparently surprised by Lock’s on-the-fence reaction.

  “Yes, it’s good,” said Lock, quickly backtracking. “But let’s be happy when they’re back safe with their family.”

  For Lock, in these types of cases, it was always important to manage a client’s expectations. Things could go wrong at any stage, and fast.

  It was good in as much as they had someone they could look for. Dime to a dollar this was an individual who had already been arrested, no doubt more than once. With a little luck a cop working the area would recognize them.

  The reckless nature of it was a worry. Ask any law-enforcement official or person who dealt with kidnap for ransom and they almost all preferred to deal with criminals who exhibited a certain level of professionalism. It was much easier to resolve a situation when those involved saw it as a business transaction.

  Amateur criminals killed people. So did professionals—but only when they had no other option, or it made business sense. Not on a whim. Not because they were panicked. Not merely because they enjoyed the act of killing another human being.

  “What now, Mr. Lock?” said Li.

  “I’ll keep working on our end of the investigation, and you tell me the second the LAPD give you or the family any kind of an update.”

  “You think we’ll get them back safe?”

  Lock thought again about managing expectations. “We’re closer to that than we were. But can you do me a favor?”

  “Of course. Name it.”

  “Don’t raise the family’s hopes too much.”

  “I understand.”

  “Oh, and one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve already had to allocate some of the cash you gave me. Ty and another investigator had a fender-bender and we’re not sure if the insurance company will cover it.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Lock. It was a token sum. Use it as you see fit. Of course we’ll need some kind of accounting, but no one will be looking too deeply at how you use the money.”

  “Okay. Let me know as soon as the cops update you, and I’ll do the same if anything breaks at our end.”

  Lock finished the call. He was hoping Galante, with his law-enforcement contacts, would be able to put a little more meat on the bones of what was going on. “Everyone hear the news?” he asked.

  They all had.

  “What do we think?”

  “Damn amateurs,” said Ty. Coming from the area of Long Beach that he had, Ty looked down upon badly executed criminal acts more than others around the table.

  “Carmen?” asked Lock.

  “It worries me.”

  “Me too,” said Galante.

  “You don’t hit an ATM for a few thousand bucks if you’re waiting on a big payoff like this,” Carmen added.

  Lock turned his attention to Galante. “Carl? What are your cop buddies saying?”

  “That was someone I know from Robbery Homicide. They already have a name on the asshole who used the cards, and a couple of addresses for him that they’re going to hit as soon as they pull everything together.”

  “We should back off that neighborhood then,” said Ty.

  Galante nodded. “Want to know the best thing about it?”

  “Go on,” said Ty.

  “We were about a block away from where his mom lives when we got shot up.”

  “No wonder you got a hot reception,” said Lock.

  “I just hope we didn’t spook them,” said Ty.

  “We should know in a few hours,” said Galante, getting up.

  “I’m going into the office,” Carmen said to Galante. “You want a ride?”

  “What about my car?”

  “We’ll take care of it,” said Lock.

  Lock settled the check as Carmen and Galante headed out to her car, leaving him with Ty. He could tell that his partner felt bad for the potential misstep. It was possible that his and Galante’s presence had spooked the kidnappers sufficiently that they had already moved Charlie and Emily.

  Or worse.

  “Come on,” said Lock, slapping Ty on the shoulder. “Let’s go see if we can find some auto shops who don’t ask questions about bullet-hole repairs.”

  Ty seemed reluctant to get moving.

  “What?” said Lock.

  “I’d rather be knocking down some doors.”

  “Me too,” said Lock. “But that’s best left to the cops.”

  Ty rose slowly. He turned his head to look at Lock. “You think they’re still alive?”

  “I have no idea. But I do know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They’re worth a hell of a lot more alive, and that has to count for something.”

  30

  The SUV drove down the side of the house. Hulking. Black. Tinted windows. Shotcaller riding up front. His wraparound sunglasses, steroid-tree-trunk neck and teardrop tattoos matched the driver’s. One other man was riding in back, bigger than both of them.

  The SUV made the turn and parked directly behind the house. The three men got out, pistols slung low on their hips, and walked to the back door. The two men with Shotcaller held black canvas duffels.

  Pony was waiting for them. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  Shotcaller walked past him and inside without saying anything. The two other men headed straight for the bedroom. Shotcaller dug a brown pill bottle out of his pocket and tossed it towards one of the men. “Two each. It’ll take the edge off. Don’t want them getting hinky on the ride.”

  The man who caught the bottle, popped the lid off. He tapped four white pills into his palm.

  “You need some water?” said Pony.

  “Sure,” said the man holding the pills.

  Pony started to duck back towards the kitchen to fetch it. Shotcaller caught his elbow. “Where are the others?” he asked.

  He had been hoping Shotcaller wouldn’t ask him. The rule was that there should always be at least two people in the house in case the Chinese kids tried to escape.

  “They had to go out.”

  Shotcaller’s features darkened. He raised his sunglasses so that they were perched on his head. He stared at Pony with coal-black eyes. “Out?”

  “Princess hit her head. Joker took her to the hospital.”

  Shotcaller shook his head. There were sounds of a struggle in the bedroom. Still staring with a deathly menace at Pony, he went into the room.

  The girl had her lips clamped shut. Water spilled down her chin. A man held the back of her head, trying to make her take the tranquilizers. He grabbed her hair and yanked at it. She whimpered but kept her mouth closed.

  Shotcaller took three long strides over to the boy, Char
lie. He drew his gun and pushed the barrel into the kid’s temple. “Swallow the pills or I blow his head off. Your choice,” he told Emily.

  He didn’t raise his voice. His tone was even. He had learned a long time ago that sometimes a person would sacrifice their own life before they would that of someone close to them. Blood was a powerful bond.

  Emily’s lips parted. She stared daggers at him as the pills were forced into her mouth.

  She sipped some water. Swallowed.

  They made her open her mouth, lift her tongue, and wiggle it around to ensure she had taken them.

  “We’re moving you,” Shotcaller told them.

  “Where?” said Emily.

  “Somewhere nicer.” He turned to the two men he had arrived with. “Get them ready. We’re out of here in ten.”

  Shotcaller walked back into the living room where Pony was sitting on the edge of the couch. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills and a bag of weed and tossed them both onto the table. “Don’t worry. That’s just a down payment. You did good.”

  “Princess is pissed,” said Pony.

  “Women are always pissed. She’ll get over it.”

  “So where they going now?”

  As soon as the final syllable of the question had passed Pony’s lips he knew he’d messed up. The question hung in the air. Shotcaller stared at him.

  “Sorry. None of my business,” Pony stuttered.

  Shotcaller’s eyes didn’t drop.

  “I just––”

  Shotcaller took a step towards him. “You just what?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Pony. He could feel his throat start to close up. His mouth was dry.

  Finally, Shotcaller blinked. “That’s right. It doesn’t.”

  “Where are you taking us?” said Emily.

  Someone grabbed her, pulling her arms behind her back. She heard the rip of heavy silver tape, then felt her wrists being bound together.

  Neither of the two men said anything.

  She glanced at Charlie. He was staring at the carpet. His eyes were closed. He had started closing his eyes when someone came into the room. She had asked him why. He had told her that he wanted them to think he wouldn’t be able to identify the kidnappers. It was safer that way. It gave them a better chance of survival.

  Emily wouldn’t do it. Every opportunity she had, she stared them down. She was going to let them know that she wasn’t scared of what they’d do. She was scared. She was terrified. But she refused to show it. If they wanted to kill her, they could do it while looking into her eyes.

  Charlie spoke about Chinese pride. But when it came down to it he was a coward. That was, in some ways, what would linger long after this, that her cousin was what the Americans called a punk.

  “Where are we going?” Emily repeated.

  She could feel the pills they had forced on her starting to take effect. She wasn’t sleepy exactly. It was more that everything seemed otherworldly. As if she were watching herself underwater, and from behind a sheet of glass.

  One of the men stood in front of her. He reached into his bag and pulled out a blue bandana just like the ones the kidnappers had worn back at the house. It seemed like such a long time ago. Another lifetime. Completely and utterly separate from the present.

  The man started to fold the bandana and place it around her face. She shook it off.

  He stood away, drew his hand back and slapped her hard. She felt something crack and pain surged in two lines up her face.

  He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. He was so close she could smell his cheap cologne. He yanked her hair. She could feel her left eye start to close.

  This time she let him put the bandana on. He put a ball cap on her head and pulled her to her feet. The other man did the same with Charlie.

  They were led out of the bedroom and into the living room. Pain pulsed through her head. She thought she was going to pass out, not sure if it was the sudden blow, the pills kicking in or a combination of the two.

  She was dumped on the couch, Charlie next to her.

  There were two others in the room. An older man and the younger one who’d been with the three who’d taken them. The younger one looked scared out of his mind.

  They had that much in common, she thought.

  The older man paced in front of them. From the way the others watched him it was clear that he was in charge.

  He crouched down so that he was at her eye level. “What happened to her face?” he said, turning back to the other two men.

  The one who had slapped her shuffled his feet and stared down. “She was being difficult.”

  “That true?” the man said to her.

  She looked at him, struggling to keep her eyes open. Still defiant.

  “ Get lost,” she said.

  The man laughed. The others joined in, even the young scared one that she’d heard being called Pony.

  “I can see why Princess liked you so much,” he said.

  He drew his hand back. His fingers were bunched into a fist. Emily braced herself for another blow.

  Before it came, the man’s cell phone rang. His fingers unclenched. He answered, speaking Spanish.

  It was a short call, maybe twenty seconds. He gestured for the younger man to follow him back into the bedroom, telling the other two to stay where they were and keep guard over her and Charlie.

  Charlie snuck a look at her. “Stop provoking them,” he said to her in Mandarin.

  One of the men grabbed his shoulder. “No talking.”

  In the bedroom, Shotcaller paced. Pony stood in a corner, one eye on the window. If it wasn’t for the bars he would have dove straight through it.

  The call. It had been bad news. The kind of call that got people like him killed.

  “You know anything about it?” Shotcaller said.

  “No, I swear. He was taking her to get her head fixed.”

  “This is messed up,” said Shotcaller.

  “I know, I know, it’s bad. I can’t believe they’d play me like this.”

  “They’d play you?”

  “Play us,” Pony corrected himself.

  “You know what you have to do, right?” said Shotcaller.

  Pony did. Shotcaller wanted him to kill Joker and Princess.

  “Me? Can’t you get someone else?”

  “Hey, you just told me you were the one who got played.”

  “I know, but they’re my homies. Joker and me, we grew up together.”

  “Makes it worse in my book. A stranger playing you is one thing. But someone that’s close, that’s family . . .”

  Pony’s heart sank even further. They should have taken the cars and left it at that. They’d gotten greedy. Moved into territory that wasn’t theirs. The two Chinese sitting a few feet away, it was like they’d come with some kind of curse.

  There was an inevitability to this. It was inescapable. Pony would have to murder Joker and Princess. If he refused, or didn’t follow through, he would be killed, and so would his homies. Double-crossing, Shotcaller demanded it. Those were the rules. Shotcaller couldn’t let it pass. If he made an exception, his own life would be in danger. MS-13 was not an organization that allowed for weakness.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Pony said finally.

  “I know you will.”

  31

  With a final choking death sputter, Galante’s Honda Accord shuddered to a halt a few feet short of the auto-repair shop’s metal roll-over doors. A small knot of mechanics had downed tools and gathered outside to witness its final passage.

  Lock and Ty climbed out and walked towards them. The mechanics’ boss emerged from in back and shouldered his way through his workers. Without saying anything they took the hint and drifted back to work inside.

  Lock recognized the squat, steroid-swollen man with the mustache and sideburns from the description Galante had given them. This was Noah Orzana, a forty-six-year-old first-generation Salvadorian immigrant, who was unimag
inatively nicknamed El Mecánico.

  To the outside world Noah Orzana was a successful small businessman, who owned a number of auto- and body-repair places scattered across East Los Angeles. In truth, he was a leading associate of the Mexican Mafia. Maybe even a full-blown member. No one could say for sure. Membership wasn’t something anyone shouted from the rooftops.

  The line between associate and member was often a distinction without a difference. Members of La Eme, like those of any proscribed organization, often publicly denied not only their involvement but the organization’s very existence. In court they would claim that it had been dreamed up by law enforcement as a way of persecuting members of their community.

  Orzana walked over to them. Reaching up, he stroked his mustache as he took in the bullet-ridden vehicle that Lock had somehow managed to nurse all the way there from the diner.

  “You get in an argument with someone?” said Orzana, smiling, clearly unfazed by the bullet holes.

  “Fender-bender that turned into an argument,” said Ty, matching El Mecánico’s smile.

  “That can happen around here,” said Orzana. “Kids, these days. You know what I blame?”

  Lock shrugged a “Go on.”

  “I blame all those video games. You know that Grand Theft Auto. Kids play these games where they go steal other people’s property, shoot people, kill cops. It’s got to have an effect on a young mind, right?”

  “It can’t help,” said Lock, struggling to suppress a smile. He couldn’t tell if Orzana believed what he’d just said, or whether he’d already marked them down as some kind of law enforcement and was teasing them.

  This was a man, if the stories and his early arrest record were to be believed, who had built a small empire on the back of handling stolen vehicles, breaking them down, reassembling the parts and selling on the cannibalized vehicles. These days he claimed to be legit, but the word was that his businesses were legit during regular business hours and after dark turned into illegal boneyards or yonques, operated either by his employees or leased to others by the hour.

  A good crew of car thieves and mechanics could strip down a stolen vehicle into its component parts, including the engine and transmission, and build it back on a different frame within three or four hours. All they needed were the tools and somewhere quiet, like this industrial unit, tucked away at the end of an alley. To the untrained, and even the trained eye, there was no visible difference between the activities of a legal and an illegal auto shop.