Page 87

CHAPTER 85

CRAIG STEINMETZ WAS at his desk, waiting for Bao in his plain, government-furnished office. Bao took the chair across from him. She finally felt safe.

Steinmetz asked, “Bao? How are you doing?”

“I’m sorting it out, Craig. I’ve changed.”

“How so?”

She shook her head and thought, I’m a wife, mother,

FBI

agent, and now? Call it, Bao. You’re a killer .

“That gunfight,” she said. “It was … bad.”

“Of course,” Steinmetz said. “If you hadn’t taken action—”

“Joe and I would both be dead.” Bao added, “I don’t need to tell you, Craig. We can’t leave Joe in a Mexican jail. The cartel will pay off the cops and he’ll be murdered if he isn’t released today.”

Steinmetz sat back hard in his chair, which squeaked once before returning him to an upright position.

“Bao, I understand your concern.”

“Concern? If he isn’t released with protection, we’ll never see Joe again.”

“No, no. Listen,” Steinmetz said. “My counterpart from DC is in Mexico City with an appointment to speak with the presidente . Joe should be exonerated and released in a day or two.”

Bao leaned in toward Steinmetz and shouted, “That’s too long! It will be too damned late. ”

Steinmetz ignored her outburst and said evenly, “Bao, government agents, heavy hitters from the White House, are having talks with Monterrey and Mexico City. Don’t doubt me. Keep your phone on your person, and the second I hear that Joe is free and clear, I’ll call his wife. And I’ll call you.”

Bao noted that Steinmetz hadn’t added I promise . But she heard the subtext. He was doing what he could.

“Understood,” Bao said.

She thanked the chief and left his office.

Bao’s assigned driver, Lennie DeRosa, was waiting in a black car at the curb. He drove her home and stayed with her when she opened the door to her apartment.

There was a wire crate, three-quarters sheathed in cardboard, in the center of her living room. Written on the cardboard was the note “To be delivered to Bao Wong,” and her address. She pulled the cardboard away from the crate and saw what was inside. It was a brown, medium-sized, mixed-breed dog.

“I call him Pete,” said DeRosa. “He likes the name. There’s dog food in the kitchen to get you started. I have dogs, so if you have any questions, call me. Anytime.”

“Oh, my God.”

Bao stooped, opened the crate door, and “Pete” padded over to her. He pressed his forehead against her chest, and she reached her arms around him in a hug.

For the second time that day, Bao cried.