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  “What do you think, Carl?” Ty asked Galante.

  He took his time answering, reflecting for a moment on what they were watching. On screen Emily was waving the kitchen knife.

  “I’d say she’s one tough kid for someone who grew up with a bunch of money,” he observed. He took a fresh pull of beer and burped. “Pardon me.”

  “Anything else?” said Lock.

  Carmen slid Galante a coaster as he went to put his beer bottle on the coffee-table.

  “Motive seems fairly straightforward,” said Galante.

  “The car,” said Lock.

  “Exactly.”

  “Aren’t they hard to move on?” said Carmen.

  Ty had spent time talking to an old friend of his in the auto trade in Long Beach. His guy had served time for dealing in what he had termed “vehicles with an unclear provenance.” Ty had asked him to repeat it in English. “Stolen cars, bro,” he’d clarified.

  “It’s classic risk and reward,” said Ty, passing on his newly gathered insight. “They’re tough to move, but a whip’s a whip. Takes the same time to steal a Ferrari as it does a Honda. I mean, the security’s usually tougher, they have trackers fitted, but there are workarounds for all of that.”

  “It’s specialized, though, right?” said Lock.

  “Not as much as you’d think,” said Ty. “The tough part is getting them back to the ’hood without being pulled over. Couple of kids driving a Lamborghini is an automatic stop. They’re either rappers or bangers, and they both dress the same.”

  It was a good point, thought Lock. Cops got a lot of grief for pulling over certain people. But if you cultivated a look that was synonymous with criminal activity it shouldn’t be a surprise if you were treated accordingly. It might not be fair, but then life wasn’t exactly fair. As the people gathered in the apartment knew all too well.

  “So, they scope out the car,” said Galante. “That’s easy enough.”

  “Where you think they saw it?” said Carmen.

  “Arcadia’s wealthy, lots of cars like that, but I doubt they’re prowling around the place. Too risky.”

  “So how did they scope it?” said Lock.

  “These kids go out to clubs?” asked Galante. “That would be my guess. Hang out on Sunset, you’re going to blend in. No one’s going to pay you no mind. Wait five minutes. You’ll see at least a couple of fancy rides. Follow them back, you got your car.”

  Lock made a note to ask Li about Charlie and Emily’s social life. Friends. Places they went.

  “Can you look into similar crimes for us, Carl?” Lock asked.

  “Already did. Nothing popped. Cars like this get stolen. There were a lot of burglaries in Arcadia about six months ago, but the cops stepped up patrols and they went away.”

  “They arrest anyone?” asked Carmen.

  Galante shook his head. “Nope, I’m guessing the crew involved moved to fresher pastures when the heat got turned up. Burglaries dropped in Arcadia, and around the same time a couple of neighborhoods in Pasadena started getting hit.”

  “Same kind of vics?” said Lock.

  “Funnily enough, yeah. All wealthy Chinese, fresh off their Gulfstreams at Burbank.”

  “What about kidnapping?” Ty asked.

  “That’s where it gets interesting. You guys have heard of La Eme, right?”

  They all had. La Eme stood for the Mexican Mafia. They were a street and prison gang. Although gang was too small a word for a multibillion-dollar organized-crime outfit with a vertical structure that would shame most Fortune 500 companies.

  “They’re moving into kidnapping?” said Lock. This was news to him.

  “They’ve always pulled K and Rs south of the border, but from what I’ve been hearing they’ve been targeting people on this side too. Rich Mexicans who’ve moved. Factory owners, business people. But I don’t think this was them.”

  “They looked Hispanic,” said Ty.

  “They did,” said Galante. “But they haven’t taken anyone who’s outside their ethnic group. And take a look at that. It’s pure opportunism. If they could have gotten in the house, they would have ripped off everything they could and probably left behind two dead bodies so there were no witnesses.”

  “They could have shot them outside,” said Carmen.

  Galante picked up the bottle and drained the dregs of his beer. “You have another one of these?” he said, flourishing the empty green bottle.

  Lock took the empty, got up and wandered back to the kitchen area to get Galante a fresh beer.

  “True,” said Galante. “And look at the body language. There’s a couple of times they’re real close to doing just that.”

  “But they don’t,” said Ty. “How come?”

  Galante shifted round so he was facing the six-foot-four former Marine. “You grew up in Long Beach, correct?”

  “LB do or die,” said Ty.

  “How many people you see shot?”

  “A lot,” said Ty.

  “And how many times did you see people almost get capped?”

  “Most weeks,” said Ty.

  “And the difference was what precisely?”

  Ty sighed. “All kinds of reasons.”

  “Someone’s gun jammed?” pressed Galante.

  “Maybe saw that twice.”

  “Someone said sorry and their sincere apology was accepted?”

  Ty laughed. “Now you’re messing with me.”

  “So it was random. The asshole with the gun just decided it was that person’s lucky day.”

  “More like it,” said Ty, waving his beer bottle in the air.

  “I think it was the same here,” said Galante, flapping a hand at the screen. “These idiots in those bandanas are chumps. They live moment to moment. It’s all about their feels. They couldn’t leave witnesses, so it was either kill or take with. Those two kids right there, they got lucky. They don’t know it, but they did.”

  “But are they still lucky?” said Carmen.

  Galante and Ty were four beers deep, watching the footage from the house for a third time, while Carmen was helping Lock clear up.

  “So, what do you think?” said Lock, scraping a plate into the trash and handing it to her to load into the bottom rack of the dishwasher.

  “I think it’s what Carl said. They saw an opportunity and took it.”

  “Not about that. This place. Could you see yourself living here?”

  Carmen smiled as he handed her another plate for the dishwasher. “You ever give up?” she said.

  Lock feigned thought. “Not really, no. It’s kind of my trademark.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Carmen.

  Ty stood up from the couch. “You want another beer?” he asked Galante.

  “No, I’m good.”

  Ty reached down to switch off the footage. Galante stopped him. “Let it play out.”

  Ty shrugged.

  Galante got up from the couch. “I need to hit the head.”

  Lock pointed him towards the bathroom. “Front hallway, near where you came in.” Something on screen caught his eye. He stopped what he was doing and walked across to the television. He rewound. Galante had been right: they had watched up to a point where it was all over. Both cars had driven out of frame, leaving only an empty motorcourt.

  But that wasn’t the final action. Lock hit pause.

  Carmen walked over to stand behind him. Ty joined them.

  One of the gang members had come back. He was standing facing the garage door. His face was still covered but he was staring straight up at the camera in a show of defiance. He raised his hands, his fingers splaying out.

  “Carl, come see this,” Carmen called out.

  “Let me pee first, okay?”

  “What is that?” asked Lock.

  “Gang sign,” said Ty.

  All the major gangs had signs they made with one or both hands. It was a method of identification, and also of provocation. Like flipping someone the bird, only
it carried a heavier menace. If, of course, you knew what you were looking at.

  “Yeah, but which one?” said Lock. This was not his territory.

  Carmen studied the image with a quiet deliberation. “Mara Salvatrucha,” she said. “MS-13.”

  19

  Of all the gangs in Los Angeles that Emily and Charlie might have been taken by, Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13 for short, was one of the worst. Mara was the Central American word for ‘gang’, Salva denoted El Salvador, and trucha was slang for ‘clever’, but Salvatrucha was commonly used to describe peasants who had trained as guerrilla fighters.

  There were a number of stories about the gang’s origins, but it was commonly agreed that it had sprung from El Salvadorian immigrants to LA who’d had to deal with an already established Mexican-American gang population.

  Many of MS-13’s founding members had either witnessed or participated in the brutal civil war in El Salvador. They were battle-hardened and used to extreme violence.

  Kill, steal, rape, control.

  A transnational gang, some of its strongest roots were in the barrios of East Los Angeles. That would be a good place for them to focus their search. If MS-13 had taken Emily and Charlie, someone somewhere in East LA would know about it.

  One other thing concerned Lock about this latest revelation. While MS-13, like any major organized-crime gang, had numerous revenue streams from an array of criminal activity, it was most notorious for sex trafficking and child prostitution. They had to pray that the gang would be more interested in a fast pay day in return for Emily than deciding she could make money for them in some other way.

  Lock, Ty, Carmen and Galante stood around the television screen, the image frozen of the gang member throwing the sign at the camera.

  “This just got real interesting,” said Galante, with a former cop’s understatement.

  “We’ve had some clients with ties to MS-13,” Carmen offered. “I can make some calls. Put out some feelers.”

  “That would be helpful,” said Lock. He walked over to the counter and picked up his cell phone. “I’d better let the family know.”

  Ty picked up his jacket and started for the door. “I’m going to get out on the street. See if anyone knows anything.”

  “Be careful,” said Lock. Normally he wouldn’t be overly concerned. Ty had grown up in a bad neighborhood and was well able to take care of himself, but MS-13 prided themselves on their brutality, and weren’t exactly known for their progressive attitude towards African-Americans.

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to roll with my buddies Mr. Sig and Mr. Sauer.”

  “You think that’s wise?” said Carmen.

  Ty’s outstanding legal difficulties had placed in jeopardy his right to carry a concealed weapon.

  “I’d say the same usually,” said Lock, “but if we’re dealing with these assholes it’s better to be walking hot.”

  Ty patted the gun riding on his hip. “One in the pipe, and nine more for good luck. I’ll check in every two hours. How about that?”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Galante.

  The two men headed for the door.

  “I’ll sort out payment for you with Li,” Lock told Galante.

  “Thanks.”

  Ty and Galante walked out, leaving Lock and Carmen alone.

  “That was a good catch,” said Lock.

  “That’s why we use him. He doesn’t miss much.”

  Lock put his cell phone on the counter.

  “You’re not making the call?” said Carmen.

  “I think I’d rather deliver the news to him in person,” said Lock.

  He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to tell Li to his face. He just did. He still felt like he was missing something in all of this. Then he remembered something from his and Ty’s visit to the crime scene. “While we were at the house,” he said to Carmen, “we caught Li talking to his boss. Ty videoed it. You have anyone you guys use who’d be able to tell us what was being said?”

  “Mandarin or Cantonese?” asked Carmen.

  “You’re asking the wrong guy.”

  “Get Ty to email the clip to me and I’ll ask. We have a general translation agency we use for clients. They’ll have someone. Might take a day or two, though.”

  “That’s okay. Hey, you want to take a drive out to Arcadia with me?”

  Carmen put her hands on his shoulders. “I’d love to, but I have work tomorrow, and I should get back to my own place.”

  Lock looked around. “This could be your place. You could sleep over. Try it out. See how you like it.”

  “I’ve already slept here. More than once.” She moved in for a kiss. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “That’s why I make the big bucks,” said Lock.

  “Oh, is that the reason? I thought it was your charm and good looks.”

  “Those too.”

  20

  A girl who wanted to join a gang like this had two ways in. She could ride a train and be sexed in, or she could take a beating.

  Being sexed in meant spending a couple of hours in a back room having sex with the other gang members, sometimes one at a time, sometimes more.

  Even at thirteen, Princess knew that wasn’t an option for her. She had two reasons. First, she didn’t like boys in that way. She could have done it, just as she could take a beating, but the second reason was always there. She had seen the way that girls who were sexed in were regarded by the others. They were never afforded the same respect. They might be given work to do, but they had no say in decisions. They were looked down upon.

  Taking a beating was different. That was what the guys did. Taking a beating meant something. It came with risks attached. More than one prospect had died after a beating. But you were a full member, as good as the men. You had weight. Your voice counted.

  There was also a third path. Rarely taken. And never by a girl. Definitely not by a girl who had only just finished sixth grade.

  You could kill someone.

  That was the path Princess had chosen. When she had mentioned it, and asked for a gun, they had laughed at her, Pony, Joker, all of them. They had howled, and slapped their legs, and pounded each other on the back, and wiped away the tears streaming down their faces. It had been a riot.

  “You still got pigtails, school girl.”

  “What you gonna do? Bring Joker along to help you pull the trigger?”

  That one had gotten to her. It had pissed her off. Her answer had almost gotten her killed.

  She had looked at Pony. He’d been the one to say it.

  “Joker wouldn’t be no help. He don’t have the balls to pull the trigger on a bitch.”

  The laughter had ceased as soon as she’d said that. The air had left the room. Joker’s hands had balled into fists. Pony had stared at her.

  “What you say?”

  She had stood her ground. “You heard me.”

  It had taken Shotcaller to save her. He was older. An old man by their standards. He dressed like a cowboy. All the way down to his boots.

  He had stomped a boot heel on the floor and stepped up to her. “Okay, Princess. You have yourself a deal. I’ll get you a gat. But you don’t make good, I’m going to turn you out. After we’ve had our fun.”

  The deal was simple. She had better kill or she’d be taken into the back room. She’d be sexed in, but after that she wouldn’t be a gang member, she’d work for them as a prostitute.

  As soon as she’d got the gun, she’d regretted her boast. Pony had been right. Pulling a trigger was tough. Not the mental part. She knew she had that down. The actual physical strength it took to pull the trigger. Especially the trigger on the gun she’d been given, which was old and a little rusty.

  Princess had got some gun oil. She’d watched a video online and worked out how to strip the weapon down and reassemble it. That was her homework after school for four evenings straight.

  But even oiled it was a tough pull.

  She had pleaded wit
h Shotcaller for extra time. He agreed, repeating the threat. Pony and Joker had been watching her, like a couple of vultures, eager to get the bed in the back room squeaking.

  Princess had gone out and bought something called a Trigger Trainer. It made your fingers stronger, gave you a better grip. She used it every chance she could until one day pulling that trigger was no big thing.

  Now all she needed was someone to kill.

  The lady at the end of the block was an old African-American woman. She lived alone. She left her home to go to the grocery store, or to attend church on a Sunday. She was the last black person on the block, but because she was old and a church lady, she was left alone.

  Princess changed all that.

  “You’re going to die soon anyway,” Princess told the lady, as she begged for her life.

  Doing it gave Princess nightmares. She knew it was wrong. Way past wrong. It was evil.

  She told herself that was who she was now. She could have found someone else to kill. She could have allowed herself to be sexed in and turned out. But she hadn’t. That wasn’t the life she wanted for herself.

  She wanted to be an equal. And the day after the old lady’s body was taken away, and the LAPD robbery-homicide cops walked the block, getting only silence, shrugs and doors slammed in their faces, Princess had joined. No back bedroom with sweat dripping down the walls, no bloody, frenzied beating, only respect, and fear.

  A little girl with her hair in bunches doing that? Even in MS-13 that made you someone.

  They let her keep her old name of Princess. Shotcaller thought it was funny.

  Neither Pony nor Joker had the cojones to say anything to her. But the grudge was still there. Even after all these years. When she said black, they said white. They said up, she said down. That was how it was between them. Even now.

  Princess checked her make-up in the mirror. She pouted, made a duck face, threw up her fingers into the sign, and took a selfie. She tapped the button to post it on Instagram, adding the MS-13 hashtags that let people know what was up.

  She walked out of the bathroom and into the room where Emily and Charlie sat together on an old busted-up couch.