Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 924 & 925, September/October 2018

Game by Twist Phelan

A novelist with two series in print, the Pinnacle Peak extreme-sports mysteries and the Finn Teller, corporate spy series, Twist Phelan is also an extraordinary short-story writer. Her last story for EQMM, 2013’s “Footprints in Water,” won three awards: the International Thriller Award, the Arthur Ellis, and the Colorado Authors’ League Award. We’re glad to have her back with a new Film Teller story.

On what passed for a clear morning in Los Angeles, Finn Teller veered off the sidewalk into an alley. The entrance to the coffee shop was unencouraging. Cracked asphalt led to a thick wooden door with a hand-painted sign over it that read CAFÉ. It wasn’t artistic lettering, like you saw on boutiques that spelled shop with an extra pe at the end. It was bad graffiti, a scrawl of red on a scrap of raw board.

Finn didn’t care. It was the only place within two blocks of the office serving strong coffee sans employees whose upbeat, tightly scripted manner stemmed from an awareness of cameras angled toward the service counter.

She pushed open the door. There were no windows, and several of the overhead fixtures were out, making the light dim and occasional. Patrons, all male, either leaned against the bar or hunched over one of the scarred wooden tables. Several glanced up, pausing in their conversations, to see what the world had brought in. Short, squat men with Hispanic features showing indifference, superiority, and — a few — hostility. The smell of grease and hair oil hung in the air.

Finn paused on the threshold. Today a familiar face was missing. The one that always looked up interested, making Finn feel welcome.

She approached the cashier behind the register at the end of the bar.

“¿Dónde está Eduardo?”

“Se ha ido.”

Finn was surprised. “¿Dónde?”

The cashier shrugged, but his eyes veered toward the rear of the café, where another wooden door, closed, was cut into the wall.

“Un café con leche, por favor,” Finn said. “To go.” She lowered her voice. “Seriously, where did he go?”

“Mexico,” the cashier said, the whir of the coffee grinder almost swallowing the word.

Finn frowned. “¿Por qué?”

She’d gotten to know Eduardo a bit during the three weeks she’d been on assignment in L.A. During her morning coffee run, the teenager entertained her with his cheery good humor. He’d shared his favorite spot for fish tacos and she’d become addicted to the grilled shrimp and chunky tomato-and-pepper salsa dolloped onto freshly patted tortillas. She liked his politeness to the mostly surly customers, and his interest in astronomy. She’d given him copies of Sagan’s Cosmos and Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. More than once she’d asked him about his plans after high school. He’d smiled and told her Café was the right spot for him. “No college for me,” he’d said.

The cashier loaded the ground coffee into the coffee maker. Thirty seconds later, a small amount of very strong espresso was dribbling into a large paper cup.

“He didn’t say anything to me about going to Mexico,” Finn said as the cashier topped the drink with a shot of hot, frothy milk. She never drank decaf. Why drink coffee if not for the caffeine? And decaf never tasted any good.

“La migra.” The cashier used silver tongs to pick up a churro — a stick of lightly fried dough dusted with sugar — from where it rested with others on a metal rack and dropped it into a paper sack.

Finn was stunned. “He got picked up by Immigration? Are you sure?”

The cashier gave a brief nod as he pushed the cup and sack toward her. “Three dollars twenty.”

Finn opened her wallet and took out five bills. She laid them beside her coffee. The cashier tried to pick up the money, but Finn kept it pinned to the bar with her fingertips. His eyes narrowed in annoyance, then widened when he saw the fifth bill beside the four singles was a fifty.

“Tell me what happened,” Finn said.

After another glance at the door at the rear of the café, the cashier said, “I take a break in five minutes. Behind the laundromat at the end of the block.”

Finn left the singles and palmed the fifty. “See you there.” She took her coffee, ignored the churro, and headed for the door.

The cashier leaned against the rear wall of the laundromat, smoking. Finn resisted the urge to bum a cigaret off him. Instead, she said, “Tell me what happened.”

“You got the fifty?”

Finn held up the bill. The cashier reached for it, but Finn pulled it away. “Not until you tell me why Eduardo was picked up.”

“He pissed off el jefe.” The boss.

“How?”

“He has to pay protection to Los Lobos.”

Finn recognized the name of one of L.A.’s oldest street gangs. One of its low-level members had given her good intel for a case she was working a few years back. In return, she’d helped the young man enlist in the U.S. Navy, rounding up letters of recommendation from teachers and a local cop — in addition to writing her own — to obtain a waiver for his arson conviction as a juvenile. Last she heard, Tito was stationed at the naval base in San Diego.

“I’m not following,” Finn said. “What does that have to do with calling Immigration?”

The cashier flicked his butt onto the concrete and stepped on it with a ragged Nike. “Sometimes el jefe comes up short on the payment. When that happens, he stiffs everyone to make up the difference.”

“But that’s illegal. You can file a wage claim.”

“Not if you’re a Dreamer.”

“Eduardo is undocumented?” Dreamers was the term coined for illegal immigrants who entered the United States before their sixteenth birthday. Laws that would pave the way for them to obtain conditional and ultimately permanent residency had been introduced but never passed. Now Finn understood why Eduardo said college wasn’t in the cards.

“We all are. That’s why el jefe hires mojados. He knows we won’t say nada to nobody when he shorts our pay. If somebody causes trouble, he calls la migra and they pick him up.”

Finn was outraged. And pissed. “That’s not right!”

The man sneered. “So? It’s legal.” He glanced at his phone. “I gotta get back.”

Finn took a business card from her pocket and handed it over with the fifty. “If you see or hear from Eduardo, would you tell him to call me?”

“Yeah, sure.” The man stuffed the card and the bill into his pocket and ambled away.

Finn stayed, chewing on her lower lip. After a moment, she took out her phone, scrolled through her contacts, and hit the number she wanted.

“Tito? It’s Finn.” She started walking toward the main street. “Yeah, long time. Listen, I have a favor to ask.”

The offices projected respectability, with the plush oriental rug over marble floor in the elevator lobby leading to a glossy wooden door. On the wall adjacent to it was a small brass plaque. The engraved letters discreetly announced: STRATEGIC INFORMATION ASSOCIATES.

By design, the company’s name was not very forthcoming. Strategic, of course, referred to plans serving a particular purpose or advantage. But information was less illuminating. Just what sort of information was the company dealing in? Advertising? Accounting? Management consulting?

For a select, well-heeled set scattered across the globe, no further explanation was necessary. SIA was a major player in a burgeoning industry that linked refugees from the world of government espionage to the decision makers who ran multinational corporations and, from time to time, political regimes. In their previous lives, many of SIA’s employees, trained and nurtured by national secret-intelligence services, had been in the shadowy business of unearthing secrets in the name of national interest. Now they performed more or less the same function, only they’d transferred their allegiance to the self-interests of their well-paying clients.

Finn pressed her hand against the reader under the brass plaque and the door clicked open.

“Mr. McAuliffe would like to speak with you,” the receptionist told her.

“Thanks.”

Finn veered left and walked to the open door at the end of the hallway. She knocked on the frame. “You looking for me?”

John McAuliffe glanced up from his computer screen. He was handsome but not excessively so, with craggy features and a gray mane that was impressive for a man on the far side of fifty. He wore a buttoned white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He reminded Finn of the fathers she’d seen on TV growing up, cardigan-wearing scotch drinkers who sat in living rooms, interrogating their daughters’ young suitors about their college plans and the provenance of their parents.

She liked McAuliffe because she felt she understood him, and because he made her nostalgic not just for her childhood but for a time when every father, even hers, seemed to have answers that explained the world. It was an engine of McAuliffe’s charisma, one she’d seen work on clients time after time. He spoke with tremendous confidence and certainty, as if he’d seen and understood and known everything from the beginning.

McAuliffe pushed his keyboard aside. “Come in. I have a new assignment for you.”

Finn plopped down in one of the guest chairs. “No can do. I’m buried on this piracy case. Looks like I might have to go to China after all.”

One of the big movie studios thought someone in-house had pirated their latest blockbuster, set for release in a month. The studio had hired SIA to investigate and McAuliffe assigned Finn.

“You can handle this one before you leave. And it’s a great gig — vetting security for the World Cup this weekend.”

“I thought Croom in Anti-Terror was on that.”

“He is. This is something more... focused.”

Finn knew that tone. He was soft-pedaling something she wasn’t going to like. “Focused?”

“Protecting player gear in the locker room.”

Finn laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all.”

Finn grimaced. “No way.”

“Why not? You get to go to the world’s most popular sporting event. These guys are superstars. I’d do it myself if I could. Maybe get an autograph.”

“I’m not guarding dirty underwear. I don’t care who it belongs to.”

“It’s not dirty underwear. It’s accoutrements of heroes. A jersey worn by a star during a World Cup final can be worth a million dollars.”

“The answer is still no.”

“Fine,” McAuliffe said. “Another op will jump at it. And you’re doing TYDWD.”

“TYD — what?”

“Take Your Daughter to Work Day. It’s today. And you’re talking to the girls. Now that I think about it, you’ll be perfect.”

“Why? Because I don’t like kids? Or because I don’t have a daughter?”

“All you have to do is tell them what your typical day is like.”

Finn gave her boss a look. “Seriously? You want me to tell them the truth?”

“Of course not. These girls’ parents work here. I don’t want you to terrify them.”

“I’ll make sure we sing ‘Kumbaya’ at the end.” Finn pushed herself out of the chair. “When is this get-together around the campfire?”

McAuliffe clicked his computer back to life. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room.”

The four girls were in their early to mid teens. A curly-haired blonde wearing a bomber jacket over a belted dress and ankle boots glanced up from her phone when Finn walked in. The others stayed glued to their screens.

“Hey,” Finn said.

No response.

“I’ve shot two people, but they didn’t die.”

Phones forgotten, the girls all stared at Finn. Bomber Jacket’s mouth was a small O.

“Is that true?” The speaker was a lanky brunette in a Coachella T-shirt.

“Of course not,” Finn said. It’s more like seven. And one is definitely dead. “I’m a corporate spy. We lie for a living. Anyway, I’m supposed to talk to you about my job. What do you want to know?”

A blocky girl leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed. “Do you have a cool car?”

“No. You want to blend in, not stand out.” Finn fingered the Porsche key chain in her pocket. “I drive the speed limit so no one notices me.”

“Ever been in a car chase?” Blocky Girl.

Finn flashed back to six months earlier in Ireland. Jacked car, automatic weapons, a J-turn that ended in a plunge over a cliff. “Sorry, nope.”

Bomber Jacket asked, “Do you have any cool spy gear?”

Finn shook her head. “That stuffs only in the movies.” And Dickey’s lab, where SIA’s resident tech genius — wooed away from the NSA’s gadget team by McAuliffe — worked on his creations.

“Do you have sex with people to find out their secrets?” said the fourth girl. She was curvy, with eyes made up as though she were the After in a smoky-eye tutorial on YouTube. Bomber Jacket snickered.

“No!” Finn said. At least not since I met Luc. “Mostly I just watch people.”

“What do you watch for?” Smoky Eyes.

“Depends on the job.” Someone who’s selling company secrets. Or the bagman on a ransom drop. Sometimes I’m looking for the chance to steal a competitor’s prototype. “It’s usually pretty basic stuff — where someone goes for lunch, who he hangs with.”

Lanky Brunette made a face. “Sounds boring.”

“It is. Speaking of which, I have paperwork to do.” I owe McAuliffe a write-up on my last job, including an explanation of how I switched real diamonds for fake ones under the sultan’s nose and got his underage mistress back home to Belarus. “You girls have a good day.”

Absorbed again in their phones, no one looked up when Finn walked out.

She headed for the cubicle she’d been assigned for the duration of her assignment. SIA had offices around the globe. As a field agent, Finn worked out of them when the need arose. McAuliffe did too. Usually he was in their D.C. or New York bureau.

Her phone rang as she sat down at her desk. McAuliffe. She hit the green phone icon.

“Just finished with the girls,” she said.

“How’d it go?”

“Bored them to death.”

She heard a small chuckle. “Good. Let me know if you end up going to China. I need the sultan paperwork before you leave.”

“Yes, boss.” Finn disconnected and reached for the sultan’s file. She was two paragraphs into her report when there was a knock on her cubicle wall. She looked up to see Smoky Eyes.

“Yes?” Finn said with a frown. Outsiders, including kids of employees, weren’t allowed to roam unsupervised in SIA offices.

The girl twisted her fingers together as though she were knitting. “I... I’m looking for—”

“Bathroom? I’ll get someone to escort you.” Finn reached for the phone, impatient to finish her report.

“I want to hire you.” The words came out in a rush.

Finn sat back in her chair and regarded the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Amantha.”

“Your mom or dad works here, right?”

“My mom, Cecelia. She’s on the janitor crew.” There was a flicker of defiance in her eyes. “I came by myself today.”

“Okay. So, why do you want to hire me?”

“I need to find my dad.” The flicker again. “I can pay you.”

“Before we get to that, why don’t you tell me what you want me to do,” Finn said.

“Talk to my dad.”

“And you can’t because—”

“He doesn’t know who I am.”

“Let’s go someplace and talk.” Finn stood. “You like coffee?”

They sat at a comer table in Café. Amantha pushed her Coke around the tabletop, leaving wet trails on the scarred wood, while Finn sipped an espresso so unrelenting it swallowed milk Bermuda Triangle-style no matter how much she poured.

“So what’s the story?” Finn said when the Coke started its third circuit.

Amantha released the glass. “My dad’s a fútbol player,” she said, using the Spanish word for soccer. “He and my mom met, well, nineteen years ago. He was in L.A. for an exhibition game. It was right before he got famous.”

“Famous?”

Amantha looked at Finn. The smoky makeup around her gold-brown eyes had the odd effect of making her look younger, not older. A little girl playing with Mommy’s cosmetics.

“My dad’s Jandro Cruz.”

Even soccer-oblivious Finn knew who the biggest star in the world’s most popular sport was. Usually referred to by only his first name or El Rey — The King — he’d been on a tear the past year, leading his pro club in Spain to the Champions League and European Championship titles while upping his career-goal total to the mid 600s. And his national team — Brazil — was the favorite to win this year’s World Cup.

El Rey was a fiend online as well as on the field. His social-media posts generated a billion dollars of revenue every year for his sponsors.

“Were he and your mom together long?”

Amanda shook her head. “Just one night.” The Coke began another lap around the table. “He raped her.”

Finn took Amantha’s hands in hers. “I’m so sorry.”

Amanda pulled free. “Don’t be. My mom and I are just fine.” She bit her lower lip. “At least until now.”

Finn sat back and said nothing.

“My mom reported it. But the police couldn’t do anything because he was already back in Brazil. And then he signed that big contract and, well, the prosecutor told my mom even though he filed the papers, there was no way they were going to extradite him.”

Finn wasn’t surprised. Two decades ago the economy — and with it, the current government — in Jandro’s home country had been cratering. The powers that be weren’t about to ship out their citizens’ one ray of hope and distraction, especially for something like a rape charge.

“Why are you trying to talk to him now?”

“Because he’s here, in L.A. It’s the first time he’s come back to the United States since... since he was with my mom.”

Finn knew the U.S. had replaced Russia as the World Cup host country due to a doping scandal, and the final was scheduled for Los Angeles that weekend.

“Do you want him to go to jail? I’m afraid the statute of limitations has probably expired,” she said.

“No. I want him to help my mom. We don’t have a lot of money and she’s got cancer. It’s a weird kind. There’s a treatment they do in France that’s cured some people, but it costs a lot and Medicaid won’t cover it.” She raised her chin. “I just got accepted to Stanford. I told my mom I could wait a year to go, stay here and take care of her. She won’t let me.” Amantha’s eyes shimmered in the low light with unshed tears. “She says it would be pointless. If she doesn’t go to France and get the treatment, she’ll be dead in a year.”

“Have you tried to contact him?”

“I sent him an e-mail, but he never answered. I tried to call him in South America, but I couldn’t get his number. When I heard he was coming here to play, I thought I’d finally have a chance. I called the hotel where the team is staying. I lied and said I was with one of the TV stations and got through to his assistant. I told him who I really am, who my mom is. He called back yesterday and told me Jandro says he isn’t my dad and if I didn’t leave him alone, he’d call the police.”

“Amantha, I have to ask this. Are you sure?”

“Sure what? That I want to ask him for money? Yes! He’s got hundreds of millions. Hundreds. All I want is enough to pay for my mom to go to France and get the treatment. That’s it.” She folded her arms. “This isn’t about child support, or paying for school. It’s about my mom.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Now it was Finn’s turn to push her cup and saucer across the table. “Are you sure he’s your dad?”

“Yes. My mom was a virgin when he... assaulted her. She never got married. She’s never been with anyone else.” The teen took out her phone, swiped across the screen a few times, then held it up. “Look. How can you say we’re not related?”

Finn studied the photo of the fútbol superstar, then looked at the girl across from her. The crooked cleft in the chin, the upward tilt of the eyes, the low hairline. It wasn’t DNA-test results, but it was good enough for Finn.

She gave Amantha back her phone. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to talk to him, explain why my mom needs money.”

“I don’t see how I can even get near him. Not this weekend.”

The tears that had been threatening for so long finally spilled. “People who work here know about you. My mom told me some of the stuff you’ve done. I thought you were some hotshot spy. You’re just a big fake.”

She stood, banging a hip against the table. Finn’s cold coffee sloshed over the rim of her cup.

“Thanks for nothing,” Amantha said, the acid in her tone corrosive enough to dissolve metal.

She slung her purse over her shoulder. A flash of light from the open door a moment later and she was gone.

Finn drummed her fingers against the wood. She knew how Amantha felt. Finn’s father had disappeared from her life when she was about Amantha’s age. Finn’s little sister’s anger toward him, if she’d ever been angry, had bent down over time. Finn’s fury still stood up straight, bristling, every day spiky.

She took out her phone and hit the first entry under Favorites.

“McAuliffe? Have you given anyone else the dirty-underwear gig?”

Finn spent the morning with Jason Croom, the head of SIA’s Anti-Terror unit, going over his security plan for the arena. Metal detectors, cameras everywhere, even snipers in the rafters.

“All this for a soccer game?” she said when Croom ended the tour near one of the players’ locker rooms.

“Not a soccer game,” Croom said. “The soccer game. The World Cup is the most watched event on earth. These players are like gods to hundreds of millions of people.”

“And I’m here because people want to steal these gods’ sweaty jockstraps?”

Croom laughed. “You bet. People are infatuated with sports memorabilia. A Tom Brady jersey was stolen from supposedly one of the most secure sporting events in the world outside the Olympics — a Super Bowl locker room. It was taken by a tabloid journalist who’s a football nut. He used expired press credentials, walked in on the heels of a coach, picked up the jersey, stuffed it in his briefcase, and walked out. When they tracked him down, the cops discovered he had another Brady jersey, from the Super Bowl two years earlier. The guy had stolen it the same way. When the cops asked him why he took them, he said it was to feel closer to the game.”

“A sliver of the True Cross,” Finn said.

“Exactly. It’s hard to say what the stuff is worth — it rarely changes hands. I mean, you can’t exactly put Brady’s jersey on eBay. But to the right buyer — and there are a lot of them — it would have fetched seven figures, easy.” Croom laughed. “I don’t think you’d get nearly that much for his jockstrap.”

“Gee, I’m surprised.”

“It’s not for the reason you think. Jerseys, shorts, and shoes are more easily authenticated. They’re marked with serial numbers, watermarked, and chipped.”

“Tagged electronically?”

Croom nodded. “Now it’s done for all the important matches. Protection against swindlers and thieves. Some people alter jerseys worn by other players, changing the names and numbers to look like they were worn by one of the stars and then selling them. Some steal them outright, either to sell or to keep, like the tabloid journalist. Check the number and scan the chip, and it’ll tell you which player the jersey belonged to and what game he wore it in.”

Finn and Croom swiped their ID cards through a reader mounted on the wall and walked into the locker room. The carpeted, chandeliered, and wood-paneled space reminded Finn of a country-club lobby. Folding chairs were lined up facing a long banquet table. Taped-down extension cords and cables snaked across the floor.

“This is for the press conference afterwards,” Croom said. “The coaches and players come out after they’re showered and dressed.”

“What happened to those interviews where the player was just wearing a towel wrapped around his waist?”

Croom shook his head. “Not at the World Cup.”

“And they call this the world’s greatest sporting event.” Finn glanced up. Metal tracks striped the ceiling, with cameras attached every three feet like high-tech stalactites. “That’s a lot of eyes in the sky. Any blind spots?”

“There are a few suboptimal angles, but basically everything is covered. You’ll see when we check out the monitors in the viewing room. Let me show you the players’ space first.”

He led her to metal double doors on the far side of the chairs, where they swiped their ID cards again.

This room was more spartan. Concrete floor, fluorescent lighting, glass-fronted refrigerators full of energy drinks. A whiteboard covered the far wall, and in a corner a physical therapy/first-aid station had been set up, with two padded examination/massage tables and a glass-fronted cabinet full of bandages and ointments.

Finn let her gaze rove the space.

“No cameras? Or are they hidden?”

“No cameras. Players don’t want a hacker posting nude photos of them on the Internet, and coaches are worried about their game plans being eavesdropped on. Shouldn’t be a problem for you, though. Only players, coaches, and team support staff were issued key cards for here. And we’ve swept every day for devices.”

Along the far wall was a row of wooden closet cubbies. Each contained two identical uniforms hanging from a single rod, a sports duffel underneath imprinted with the team logo, and several pairs of soccer shoes. Finn looked into one of the bags. Socks, shin guards, compression shorts, a jockstrap. A strip of plastic printed with a player’s last name was tacked above each cubby. Finn didn’t see the one she was looking for.

“Where’s Jando’s locker?”

“El Rey dines — and changes — alone,” Croom said.

He led her to a wooden wall three-quarters the height of the room that had been erected in a corner. Behind it on a rectangle of carpet was a La-Z-Boy-style recliner and a closet cubby that was twice as large as the others. Three uniforms hung inside, above half a dozen pairs of cleats. Across from the chair was a big-screen TV. Beside the chair was a refrigerator with a video-game controller on top.

Croom’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen.

“I gotta take this. Be right back. The reception’s lousy under all this concrete.”

After he was gone, Finn did a quick inspection of the space, checking under the chair, behind the TV. She looked inside the shoes and ran her hands over the jerseys and shorts. The electronic chip — a small, hard rectangle — was discernible in the waistband of the shorts and the jersey’s hem. She left the socks and underwear alone.

She opened the fridge. It had been stocked with energy drinks and champagne.

“If you want a drink, all you have to do is ask,” a voice said.

Finn closed the fridge and turned. Jandro stood before her in a gray jersey and shorts. Behind him stood another man dressed in business casual and holding an iPad.

Jandro’s jersey clung damply to his torso. Grass stains marked one white sock.

Finn’s heart beat faster. She thought she’d have to stalk him on game day, but he’d come to her.

She smiled and held out a hand. “Finn Teller, SIA. I’m in charge of your dirty — locker-room security.”

In real life Jandro looked even more like Amantha. He ignored Finn’s offered hand and stripped off his shirt, displaying impressive abs.

“Mr Cruz, may we talk for a moment?” Finn said.

“I’m sorry, I have an appointment.” Jandro turned to Mr Business Casual. “Reloj?” he said.

The man fished a wrist watch out of his pants pocket. Jandro strapped it on. The dial was almost as big as Finn’s palm and studded with hundreds of black diamonds.

“It won’t take long,” Finn said.

“You can talk to Juan Pablo. He’ll give you whatever you need,” Jandro said. Mr Business Casual nodded at Finn.

“It’s about your daughter,” Finn said.

Jandro’s face darkened. “Did that puta send you? I thought you were supposed to be my security!”

“I am. But Amantha approached me and—”

“That girl is crazy. She has been stalking me.” He pointed a stubby finger at Finn. “Do your job and keep her away.”

He tossed his sweaty shirt at her Reflexively, she caught it.

“Take care of this.” Another stubby-fingered point. “And stay out of my champagne.”

He and Juan Pablo left, banging the metal door on their way out. Croom returned moments later

“I see you met El Rey,” Croom said. “How’d it go?”

“The king and I really hit it off. He thought I was stealing his champagne.” She let the sweaty jersey drop to the floor. “And he wants me to do his laundry.”

Finn spent another half-hour with Croom, going over the rest of the locker-room security arrangements. The camera coverage of the press area was as complete as he’d described. When the ticket takers arrived, Croom excused himself to brief them, leaving Finn to walk the stadium by herself.

She strode along the upper deck, her footsteps echoing. Empty seats cascaded to a rectangle of green below. It was hard to imagine that in less than twenty-four hours the place would be filled with eighty thousand people who would remind everyone the word fan was a shortened version of fanatic.

Along the edge of the walkway, food vendors were setting up shop, assembling equipment that would turn out thousands of soft drinks, hot dogs, and nachos smothered with fake cheese. Souvenir sellers racked soccer balls, draped pennants, and hung jerseys, with Jandro’s white-and-gold 8 by far the favorite.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the caller ID, winced, then took the call. “Hi, Amantha.”

The girl’s questions came nonstop.

“Yes, I saw him...” Finn said. “He does look like you...”

She paused in front of a stand that sold nothing but Jandro jerseys. The white shirts trimmed with gold stirred in the breeze from the air conditioning.

“Yes, I talked to him too... no, we didn’t... not about you or your mom...” Finn hesitated, thinking about the best way to phrase it. “He wasn’t receptive to the topic... no, I’m probably not going to be able to see him again.”

As Amantha raged, Finn tipped the phone away from her ear. Her eyes skimmed the row of white jerseys, stopping at the placard announcing prices. Fifty dollars for shorts, ninety for a jersey.

One jersey had been framed and hung in a place of honor. A black scribble marred the white field under the team name. Finn squinted at the price card tucked into the frame: $5,000.

Five thousand bucks for an autographed shirt? Croom was right. Some nut probably would pay a million bucks for a World Cup — worn jersey. She’d have to be on her game tomorrow.

Amantha’s rant had dissolved into crying. Still staring at the shirt in the frame, Finn pressed the phone to her ear again.

“Amantha? I have to go, but I promise I’ll call tomorrow. I may have a way to help your mom.”

Finn checked the fabric tag again. Ninety percent polyester, ten percent Tencel. Perfect.

She was signing the credit-card slip for two Jandro jerseys when the familiar voice sounded behind her.

“If I knew you were a fan, I would have let you have the champagne, cariña.”

Finn ignored him. “May I have a copy of the receipt, please?” she said to the souvenir seller, who was staring over her shoulder with his mouth slightly open.

“Huh? Oh, okay.” He handed her the receipt and the bag containing the jerseys without taking his eyes off the person behind her.

Finn turned to Jandro. “I told you, I’m security.” She started to walk away.

“¡Espere, cariña! Don’t you want it autographed?”

Finn shook her head. “Nope, I’m good.”

The souvenir seller snatched up a pen and one of his jerseys and held them out. “Jandro, I mean, Señor Cruz, if you would sign—”

Jandro dismissed him with a wave, his attention on Finn.

“Are you sure? The jerseys, they become very valuable with my signature. And I do not do it so much anymore.”

Finn removed one of the jerseys from the bag. “How about one, then?”

Jandro’s smile tilted at the corners of his mouth, as if refusing to release the canary.

“It would be my pleasure.” He turned to Juan Pablo, who stood a few steps behind him.

“Biro.”

Juan Pablo produced a Sharpie.

“Who are you buying this for?” Jandro’s voice became a purr. “Maybe it is for you, to sleep in.” His eyes trailed over her body. “Or do you sleep in nothing?”

A half-hour ago he was yelling and throwing laundry. Now he’s flirting? This guy is an egotistical nut job. “It’s for a friend. She’s been following your career for a while.”

Jandro’s hand hovered over the white fabric. “What would you like me to write?”

“How about para mi hija.” For my daughter.

Jandro’s face twisted into a scowl. “I told you, that girl is not mine!”

He thrust the jersey back at Finn and strode away down the concrete walkway, back stiff and fists clenched, Juan Pablo nearly trotting to keep up.

Finn put the jersey back in the bag. When she’d worked for the CIA, she’d been taught kinesics, the study of body language and behavioral patterns to detect lies.

She didn’t need her training now. Jandro’s reaction was more telling than any DNA test. He’s your dad all right, Amantha.

The souvenir seller regarded Finn with a mixture of disgust and pity. “Lady, you just threw away twenty thousand bucks.”

Finn flashed him a smile. “Maybe. But I’m on my way to making a million.”

After leaving the stadium, Finn drove to her apartment, stopping en route at a Target store, where she bought items from the sports, crafts, electronics, and hardware departments. She also stopped for an espresso to go at Café.

The cashier who’d told her about Eduardo wasn’t there. The man working the counter, someone Finn had never seen before, said he’d been picked up by la migra.

Finn tasted her coffee. It was watery, not like the brew Eduardo used to make. In addition to turning in his workers to Immigration, the owner was apparently covering his cash-flow problem by skimping on the beans.

Walking back to her car, Finn called Tito.

“It’s a go,” she said when he answered, then disconnected the call.

Once home, she spread out her purchases on the kitchen table. Black duffel bag, black nylon tarp, hand sewing machine, black thread, white thread, seam ripper, toothpicks, a bottle of Fabric Etch, a stamp set, a cartridge of blue fountain-pen ink, and a micro SD card.

She turned the duffel bag inside out and measured the bottom area, then cut a rectangle the same size from the black tarp, trimming two inches from one of the short ends. Next, she loaded the black thread into the hand sewer and stitched three sides of the tarp rectangle — two long and one short — to the bottom of the duffel bag. She turned the bag right side out again and ran her hand along the bottom, slipping her fingers into the gap at the short end. A perfect hidden pocket.

Next, she opened her laptop and logged onto the Tor network to access the dark web. Twenty minutes of browsing soccer memorabilia for sale showed her what authentic watermarks and serial numbers looked like and where they were located. She printed out screenshots of the images. In a related forum, several people had posted they were looking to buy World Cup jerseys from this weekend’s match. She noted their contact info and logged off.

Finn laid one of the jerseys on the kitchen counter. The second one was backup in case she made a mistake. She poured a small amount of Fiber Etch solution into a shallow dish, dipped a toothpick into it, and copied onto the fabric the watermark from one of the screenshots. The solution removed only plant fibers, which meant it would dissolve the Tencel — made from wood — but not the polyester. Modern clothing designers used Fiber Etch to do devore, a centuries-old method of creating burnout effects in fabric blends. And to artificially age tapestries, as Finn had discovered when investigating suspected art fraud for an SIA client.

When the watermark was completed, she tossed the jersey into the dryer; the solution was heat activated. Five minutes later she took it out and ran cold water over the treated area to remove any remaining plant fibers. She compared the finished result to the screenshot. It wouldn’t pass an expert’s scrutiny, but it was good enough for a casual examination.

The serial number was easier. She emptied the ink cartridge into a small bowl and, using the stamp set, inked a line of numbers in the appropriate spot. Again, she checked her work against the screenshot. More than good enough for what she needed.

Finally, she used the seam ripper to pick apart a small section of the jersey’s hem. She slipped the micro SD card inside and, using the hand sewer, closed the opening. When she was finished, she fingered the card through the fabric. It felt like the one in Jandro’s game jersey. If anyone saw it, they’d know it wasn’t a microchip. But that wouldn’t happen unless the jersey’s hem was ripped open. Highly unlikely.

Finn took the altered jersey into the bathroom and held it up in front of the mirror. It was a dead ringer for the three hanging in Jandro’s locker-room cubby.

Which was where this one would be tomorrow, if her plan worked.

Finn showed her ID for the third time. The security guard, one of the independent contractors hired by Croom, matched the photo to her face, apparently unimpressed it was SIA issued.

“Open your bag, please.”

Finn unzipped the duffel.

“What are those?” the guard asked as he peered at the stack of binders.

“Security plans for the stadium.”

“Let’s see.”

“Sorry, they’re classified.” Finn indicated the SIA CONFIDENTIAL stamp on the top binder. “You can call the office if you want.”

Above their heads came the muted roar of the crowd. It was the beginning of the second half. Jandro’s team was up by a goal. Or not, depending on what that roar meant.

“Nah, that’s okay. Go on in,” the guard said, already pulling his phone out of his pocket to check what had happened on the field.

Finn zipped up the duffel and used her ID card to open the door to the locker room, making a mental note to tell Croom he might want to reevaluate his contractor-hiring sources.

The press area was empty and looked pretty much as it had yesterday, except the chairs were now rearranged out of their neat rows, and empty coffee cups and bottles of water dotted the floor. She made a show for the overhead cameras of doing a security check of the room. The same outside contractor that provided the security guard had also provided the crew for the camera room. Finn wondered if they were even watching the cameras instead of the game.

She walked casually to the metal double doors and swiped her card. Once inside, she took a small electronic device from her pocket and turned it on. When it emitted no sounds after thirty seconds, she switched it off and put it away. There would have been a beep if it had detected a camera or other electronic feed.

She swiftly moved to Jandro’s dressing area, where she unzipped the duffel and removed the binders. She reached into the hidden pocket and pulled out the counterfeit jersey. Two jerseys hung in the small closet. One looked pristine while the other was sweat- and grass-stained. Jandro must have donned it for the first half and was now wearing a second jersey.

Finn hesitated. Which would have more value — the pristine or the game-worn? She guessed the latter, but didn’t want to take a chance someone would notice only one jersey was dirty instead of two at the end of the game.

She took down the clean original and hung the counterfeit in its place. She’d folded up the original jersey and was about to stuff it into the duffel’s hidden pocket when she heard voices in the outer room.

“Did someone call the orthopedist?”

“He’s on his way.”

“Make way for the Medicart!”

Crap! They’re bringing in an injured player. Finn tried to cram the jersey into the hidden pocket.

It wouldn’t go in.

Her fingers found a snarl of strands. The edges of the nylon tarp had unraveled and knotted into a spider’s web across the pocket opening.

Finn considered hiding the jersey under her T-shirt, but knew it would be too noticeable. And she couldn’t just put it into her duffel but outside the hidden compartment. She’d been asked to open the bag three times already.

Her eyes raked the area for somewhere she could hide the jersey. Her gaze caught on the team duffel bag on the closet floor.

Two minutes later, the injured player was wheeled into the room on a gurney. Broken leg, from what Finn could tell as she passed.

“All secure,” she called to the men surrounding the player.

“Yeah. Thanks,” one of them said without looking up.

No, thank you, Finn thought as she made for the stadium exit.

Amantha pushed her Coke around the tabletop of a small Mexican restaurant a block from SIA’s offices. It was a week after the World Cup, which Jando’s team had won by two goals, both scored by El Rey himself.

“I did try to talk to him about you. Twice,” Finn said. “But he wasn’t having it. Maybe he’ll change his mind later in life, after his career is over. Age has a way of getting you to see what’s important.”

Finn thought about her own father. She also knew at some point you had to say screw the past and play the hand you were dealt. Otherwise... well, there was no otherwise. But she wasn’t going to tell Amantha this. It was something the girl would have to figure out on her own.

“So my dad might get a conscience someday. That doesn’t help my mom now,” Amantha said, giving her glass an extra-hard shove.

Finn took an envelope from her bag. “But this will. There’s a fund for pro athletes’ kids who don’t receive support. I applied for you.”

Amantha shrugged. “So? I won’t get anything. I can’t prove Jandro’s my dad. No way will he take a DNA test.”

“The fund knows that’s a common situation. They said the photos I sent of you two were enough.” Finn handed Amantha the envelope. “Here’s your check.”

“What?” Amantha stared at Finn and then at the envelope. “Is it... is it enough to help my mom?”

“Open it and see,” Finn said.

Amantha ran a trembling Finger under the flap and pulled out the check. She gasped.

“This is for over a mil—”

“Yeah, it is. More than enough to cover your mom’s treatment, plus pay for someone to take care of her while you’re away at school.”

Amantha was crying again, happy tears for a change.

“Thank you,” she managed to say between sobs. “Thank you.”

“I told you my job was boring,” Finn said. “Here’s a perfect example. All it took to solve your problem was a little paperwork.”

“Croom tells me you got on him about his independent contractors,” McAuliffe said.

Finn ran a hand through her hair. “Not the most diligent crew I’ve seen.”

“Well, there were no incidents, that’s the important thing. Good job in the locker room. Nothing got taken.”

“That isn’t exactly true,” Finn said. She held up a small paper bag. “This is for you. Your piece of World Cup memorabilia.”

“What did you—” McAuliffe took the bag and looked inside. “Is this what I think it is?”

“A jockstrap? Yep. Belonged to the king himself. But you’re on your own if you want it autographed.”

“How did you get ahold of this?”

“Let’s just say it was a necessary part of the job.”

Finn wasn’t going to tell her boss she’d wadded the stolen jersey into the cup of the jockstrap and then slipped it on under her baggy pants, a trick she’d learned from busting a shoplifting ring.

Or that she’d sold the jersey on the dark web, with the proceeds funding the seven-figure check she’d given Amantha.

“I think I’ll pass on hanging it on my wall.” McAuliffe dropped it into his bottom desk drawer. “Where are you on the piracy thing?”

“I’ve got some leads. Getting on a plane for China in four hours.”

“Good.” McAuliffe passed a hand over his face. “Man, I could really use a coffee. What’s the name of that dive you’re always raving about?”

“Café? It burned down over the weekend. Electrical fire, I heard.”

Finn was pleased Tito had come through, just like he’d promised. No more deportations instead of paying wages.

But she was really going to miss those espressos.