Illegal

TWENTY-TWO

Seconds matter.

In just one second, a red truck flies through a red light and tilts the universe off its keel.

Now the tipping point was sixty seconds. If Payne had left his house one minute later, he would have been arrested. There would have been no road trip. There would be times, later, when he wondered if that wouldn't have been for the best.

On this night, at home, he put on jeans, running shoes, and an orange-and-black Barry Bonds T-shirt. He wasn't a fan of the San Francisco Giants or their former steroid-pumped slugger. He just liked to piss off people.

He threw a change of clothes into a gym bag and copied maps off the Internet. Driving directions to Oaxaca, the home of Manuel Garcia. Adam's old baseball bat was already in the Lexus, but Payne still needed something from his office. The five thousand he'd skimmed from the bribe money.

He left the house and was just pulling up to the stop sign half a block away when he checked his rear-view mirror. An L.A.P.D. black-and-white was pulling into his driveway. Sixty seconds. The difference between custody and freedom.

Two cops in uniform got out and headed for his front door.

No way they're delivering good news. Publishers Clearinghouse doesn't send patrolmen to give you that five-foot-long, million-dollar check. They were there to arrest him for escaping from the holding cell on his contempt charge. Maybe grand larceny, too. The crimes weren't worthy of a segment on Dateline, but who needs the hassle?

Payne hit the gas and headed toward Van Nuys Boulevard. He'd pick up the money and leave town straight from the office. Traffic would be light on the freeways. If all went well, he'd be checking into a motel near the border by dawn.

The neighborhood near the civic center was quiet, the offices dark. A lone clerk sat behind bulletproof glass in the bail bond office, open twenty-four hours. Payne pulled into the driveway of the old bungalow, cutting close to the sign planted in the lawn: J. Atticus Payne, Esquire. Soon it would read, Office for Rent.

Just as he killed the engine, his cell phone rang. Private Number. He answered with a noncommital "Yeah?"

"Payne, you fucking asshole."

"That you, Rigney?"

"I saw the inventory from Judge Rollins' house. Forty-five thousand bucks recovered."

"So?"

"It's one thing to cheat at bowling, Payne. But you don't steal from the government."

"You take your salary, don't you?"

"There's an arrest warrant out for you."

"Maybe the judge bought a Rolex between the time I bribed him and he blew his brains out."

"You took the money, dipshit."

"You got any evidence, Detective? Maybe you skimmed the five grand and gave me forty-five."

"Gonna bust you, Payne. And when I do, your ex won't be around to wipe your nose."

Payne was working on a pithy retort when Rigney hung up. Time to get moving. When the cops couldn't find him at home, they would zip over here. He planned to be in and out of his office in two minutes.

He unlocked the back door, stepped into the darkened corridor where a water cooler hummed next to the photocopy machine. He was fumbling for the light switch when he heard a noise. What the hell?

"Who's there!"

A squeak. Sneakers on tile.

"I got a gun!" Payne shouted with the authority of a practiced liar.

He kept the lights off. He knew the configuration of the office. The intruder wouldn't. In the darkness, Payne navigated the short corridor. He ran his hand along the wall, passing over the door to the rest room, feeling the rounded edge of the five-gallon water jug atop the cooler, then stopping at the beveled corner of the bookshelf. Needing a diversion, he grabbed a volume of the Pacific Reporter, appellate court opinions that could cure insomnia. He aimed toward the opposite wall, where his diploma was framed under glass.

Southwestern School of Law, that bastion of learning on Wilshire.

Cum non laude.

He threw the book, shattering the glass frame of the diploma with a surprisingly loud crash.

A second later, a figure dashed across the room.

Headed for a small window, the port of entry.

Payne had the angle. Ran for the window, ignoring the pain in his bad leg. Dived and grabbed a sneakered foot, just as the bastard tried to climb out.

Pulled him back by a skinny ankle. The guy yelped and crashed to the floor. Payne jammed his throat with a forearm. Noodle neck. Dragged him across the office, hit the light switch, and looked straight into the eyes of… a boy!

Caramel complexion, a mop of shiny dark hair falling into green eyes with long girlish lashes. A cute kid. Angelic even.

"Get your fuckin' hands off me, cabron!"

Okay, not that angelic.

"Watch your mouth, kid. What the hell are you doing?"

"Looking for mi mami."

"She's not here. Now, what do you say I call the cops and let them haul you off?"

Even as he said it, Payne knew he couldn't call the police. They'd want to give the kid a medal and lock up his own contemptuous, larcenous self.

"No cops. Please, Senor Payne." The kid's tone had changed. Pleading now, in a Mexican accent.

"You know my name."

The kid pulled out the crinkled business card.

"Where'd you get that?"

" Mami. She got it from Fernando Rodriguez."

It took Payne a second. "The trailer-truck case?"

The kid nodded.

"I still don't get what you're doing here."

"My mother. I told you."

"Kid, don't bullshit a bullshitter."

"Es verdad." His green eyes welled with tears. "My mother came over and disappeared."

Payne studied the boy. He seemed sincere, his sniffles real enough. Payne's gaze stopped on his desk. Middle drawer open.

"Kid, empty your pockets."

"Whatever you say, gabacho."

"Did you just call me 'tomato soup'?"

"Not gazpacho. Gabacho. It means 'gringo.' "

"All right, punk. Just hand over my money."

Fast as a snake, the kid kicked Payne in the balls. The pain closed Jimmy's eyes, and he sank to one knee. The kid bolted across the office, hoisted himself onto a low bookshelf, and swung both legs through the open window. Payne struggled to his feet but couldn't catch the little bastard. The kid was gone.

Cursing to himself and still wincing with pain, Payne leaned against the wall, sucking in air. A second later, the boy scrambled back through the window.

"What the hell?" Payne said.

"?La policia! You can have your money back."

The kid pulled the wad of bills from his pants, and Payne sneaked a sideways glance out the window. A police car was parked next to his Lexus, which had all four doors open. Two uniforms with flashlights snooping inside. Payne decided not to shout about illegal searches.

"Please don't turn me over. They'll send me back. Please!" The kid reverting to his scared little-boy voice.

Payne stuffed the bills into his pants pockets. "You can quit the acting, punk."

"No, really. I'm scared."

"Great. That makes two of us."

Payne peeked out the window again. The cops were walking toward the back door of the office. One had his right hand on his holstered gun. The other used both hands to carry a battering ram. Either they planned to knock down Payne's door or crush his skull. Or both.