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  Arturo opened the door and got out. He lifted the lid from his cooler and took out a Ziploc bag bulging with fish filets. “Have yourself a good lunch,” he said, handing Héctor the bag. Héctor nodded his thanks.

  Driving again, he continued on in a daze, reaching his house by instinct. Rolling past a stand of towering fan palms that marked the northern edge of his property, he pictured the trees as they had been decades ago, shortly after his father had planted them. Back then they had been close enough to the ground to be run over by careless drivers, and some had succumbed to that fate. But the rest had survived, outliving even Hector’s father, who had lived to a ripe old age before leaving the house to his son.

  Héctor pulled into the narrow driveway of his one-story home, the nicest on the block. He took the three steps to his front porch and flung open the screen door. “How is she?” he said without preamble. Their living room was well worn, lived in. A battered old upright piano occupied part of one wall, its top decorated with figurines of Jesus and Mary and framed photographs of their extended family. His wife of twenty-three years did not look up from her position on the floor as she knelt in the corner in front of a homemade altar, a semi-circle of lit candles arrayed before her. She was praying feverishly, hands clasped in front, lips moving rapidly with quiet intonations. Héctor looked down at the tired figure she had become. She had aged in the past months, lines of gray streaking her rich black hair, creases marring her smooth complexion and once-bright eyes. She was still beautiful, but so sad, even in her faith. He himself had been unable to do anything, after all, so she would appeal to God. He waited for her to finish; who was he to disrupt her pleas?

  After another few moments his wife rose and turned to face him with wet eyes. She spoke rapidly. “Héctor, the news from the hospital today is very bad. Rosa has been transferred back to the critical care unit. Her doctors report that the complications from surgery have gotten worse. Her body has rejected the donor tissue. They say she is starting to die, Héctor, and that all they can do where she is now is to make her passing more comfortable.” At this she broke into a sob, dropping to the floor one knee at a time. “Eleven years old, Héctor. She is only a child! Why?”

  Héctor went to her, knelt with her, held her.

  “But what about the advanced treatment? They told us that if the surgery failed, something could be done in Mexico City.”

  His wife wiped her nose, shaking her head. “They do want to move her.”

  “But if they can save her—”

  “We cannot afford the treatment. Even if we sold our house, Héctor, and your business, borrowed from everyone we know . . . it wouldn't be enough.” She broke down again, weeping.

  “Listen to me, Carla. Listen.” She stopped sniffling and looked him in the eye. “When you go back to the hospital to visit Rosa—”

  “Me? Aren’t you coming? Rosa will want to see you.”

  “Listen. I want you to tell the doctors to notify the surgeons in Mexico City.” Héctor stood, his wife rising with him.

  “I am flying to the United States this afternoon, near Los Angeles. I will be gone for at least a day, maybe a few days.”

  “Héctor . . . she may not have much time.”

  “It will be okay,” Héctor reassured her.

  “But Los Angeles? Why?” She grabbed the bag of fish from his hand and went to the kitchen. He followed her but said nothing as she laid the filets in a pan and began to season them. He deliberated carefully while she worked on the fish. After she had lit the burner under the pan, he spoke.

  “I have accepted a job.”

  “A job? What is wrong with your usual trips?”

  An air charter operator, Héctor had built a successful business around his piloting skills and Cessna seaplane to run eco-tours for a wealthy American clientele. He thought about how many trips he would have to make, ferrying adventurous San Diego surfers to Todos Santos Island or weekend kayakers to the Coronados to earn what he had already been wired in advance for this mission.

  “This job will pay for Rosa’s procedure.”

  “Héctor, most of the money must be paid before they will treat her. You know this.”

  “It pays well, cariño . . . enough to pay for the entire treatment.”

  Carla whirled around, shaking a spatula at him. “Héctor Jesús González! What is this crazy talk? You tell me that you are not planning anything illegal. You tell me this instant!”

  “It is nothing illegal.” Liar! his inner voice screamed. In fact, his new job was illegal, but not in the way his wife meant. There were drug traffickers, human smugglers who would contract his aerial services for uncommonly high pay. But he would not allow his wife to suffer the indignity of returning home one day to find his head on their doorstep. Abhorrently violent crime was on the rise in Mexico as drug gangs battled over turf. And, he thought, it was too far beneath him. Using his airplane—the centerpiece of his professional accomplishments, his most prized possession—to enable a pathway of devastation and misery for drugs and sexual slavery was not something that was inside him, not something he could redeem in the eyes of his God, even to save the life of his little girl.

  But this new job . . . against the law, yes, but it only involved violating U.S. airspace in order to retrieve a piece of technical equipment from a whale. That was all he knew. He would receive further instructions later, but what could be so wrong? No one would be hurt, not even the animal.

  “Do not take too much risk, Héctor. God will take care of Rosa; He does not need to watch over you, too.”

  “I will be performing a simple aerial survey of the Channel Islands. It is no more risky than normal, but since their usual seaplane service is unavailable they are paying me extra for rapid response.”

  His wife clucked her disapproval before returning to the preparation of their meal. While she busied herself in the kitchen, Héctor frowned as his mind wrestled the tangled calculus of the logistics required to complete his new assignment. While not as dangerous as working with violent criminals, the job was rife with its own special hazards.

  There were the extra fuel tanks he had outfitted his plane with that would convert it into a volatile flying gas tank. There was the low-altitude flying over water for hours on end, over rough seas, in unpredictable weather. He could have mechanical problems far out to sea, unable to radio for help for fear of drawing the attention of the authorities, unable to do anything but drift helplessly hundreds of miles from land. Landing on open ocean posed enough of a challenge, not to mention putting down near a large wild animal. Then there was the real possibility of being sighted by the U.S. Coast Guard ships or aircraft, chased down and detained—maybe jailed—before being deported without his plane, his livelihood, and never again allowed to enter the U.S. That would leave his family considerably worse off than they were now.

  Furthermore, he was proud of the relationship he had built and maintained over the years the with American aviation authorities. These ties had enabled him to build a lucrative business, making trips to the Coronados, an island group straddling Mexican and U.S. waters near San Diego. The thought of deliberately defying their trust left a bitter taste.

  As Héctor smelled something starting to burn in the kitchen, yet another possible outcome rattled his brain: he might simply fail to locate the piece of gear or be unable to retrieve it. Fly all that way and undergo all that risk for nothing. His instructions had been clear and simple: deliver the whale's tag and collect a tremendous cash reward.

  Then Carla was telling him to sit at the table, sliding a plate of dorado in front of him. Badly burnt. She was typically an excellent cook, but her mind had not been on the task. He broke off a piece with his fork and forced himself to eat. It would be his last home-cooked meal for some time.

  She asked him how the fish was with a glance.

  “Good fish,” he said, crunching a mouthful into submission. Another lie. Was it getting easier? But he could no longer savor food; the finest, fre
shest bluefin tuna would be tasteless mush to him now.

  “Good fish,” he said again.

  CHAPTER 3

  FBI FIELD OFFICE, LOS ANGELES

  Special Agent Tara Shores did not like what her boss was telling her.

  “You’re saying you don’t want me working the First National case, sir?” she asked. “I wrapped up the identity-theft thing yesterday. You got my report, right?” A string of recent bank robberies had left Los Angeles authorities on high alert. As a five-year FBI veteran based with the Los Angeles Field Office, Shores had expected to be added to the case when another bank was robbed the previous day.

  Will Branson, special agent in charge of the L.A. field office, leaned back in his chair and regarded his subordinate. She was still a few months shy of her thirtieth birthday, single and attractive, her black hair kept short in something of a pageboy cut. As far as he knew she wasn't dating anyone. Incidents had occurred from time to time, causing Branson serious headaches, but he had been glad to see Shores manage each situation on her own. She'd made it clear over the years that she was off limits to the male agents who sought her attention. He had seen more than a few female agents quit over less.

  In an agency of professionals skilled at uncovering things about people, Shores herself had proven tough to figure out. At times she was a stubborn, by-the-book agent, while on other occasions she was fiercely . . . innovative. Recently, though, in those instances where she had chosen to act independently, her actions had verged on those of an unstable rogue, which concerned Branson's superiors. Nevertheless, Tara had built a reputation for closing cases—including highly dangerous cases—and closing them fast. Branson needed that ability now. The bank jobs were becoming an embarrassment. What Shores didn't know was that although he wanted her on the bank case the order had come from on high to put her on the whale incident.

  “I got the report, Shores. Good work. But the First National case is fully staffed at the moment. I need you to investigate this whale thing.”

  Tara’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “Sir, with all due respect, don’t we have trainees who can take care of this?”

  Branson fidgeted. He'd wondered the same thing himself, but orders were orders; and he had to admit that he was curious to see how she would handle it. He suspected his superiors were interested in this as well.

  “This isn’t exactly a low-profile case,” he said, tossing her a thin folder. “It’s on all the news shows and the Internet. That little snuff film, or whatever the hell it is, has already gotten millions of YouTube views.”

  “It’s a publicity gimmick for the TV show,” she said, flipping through the file.

  “I’m not interested in your opinion, Agent Shores. Grill the show’s producers, find out what they know. We may not have a body, but we’ve got two million witnesses who claim something happened out there.”

  “Okay, sir, let’s assume a crime has been committed. We don’t even know if this is within our jurisdiction. Did the murder take place in international waters? Was it aboard an American-registered vessel? There’s nothing to work with here. Maybe someone could look into that while I join the First—”

  Branson cut her off with a wave of his hand. “That someone is you, Shores. Check out the ports and marinas. Find out who’s missing. Do the legwork.” He pushed his hand through his hair and sighed. “C'mon, you didn't used to be such an adrenaline junky. Have you forgotten how to be a detective?”

  That hurt. Five years ago she had been regarded as one of the agency’s brightest stars. Unusually high IQ. Bachelor’s degree in criminology from UCLA. Top of her FBI Academy class, academically. Streetwise situational awareness. Adept with ambiguous circumstances. Expert pistol shooter and hand-to-hand fighter. Physical abilities excellent . . .

  She locked eyes with her supervisor, suppressing a nightmare. Was Branson challenging her?

  “Tell you what,” he said, sensing her determination, “wrap this up quickly and I’ll see what I can do about getting you on the First National case.”

  Tara snatched the case file and stood up. “Yes sir,” she said, smiling. She would knock this case out of the way and move onto more important things. And, she thought, she would do it without being bitter.

  She opened the folder. A phrase on the first page of the file caught her attention. “Reality TV, eh?” she said looking up from the case file. Branson nodded. “Finally, my chance to be discovered!”

  Branson chuckled. Then he grew serious. “Look, even with the bank hits, I'm under some pressure here to identify what the hell this whale incident was, one way or the other. The entire Internet is asking what happened, and no one seems to have an answer. I'm hoping that by assigning an agent with some experience I'll be able to settle this thing sooner rather than later. So try to take it seriously.”

  “Oh, I will.” She started for the door, ticking things off on her fingers as she went. “I'll have to get my hair styled, my nails done. . . . You think my ID headshot is okay for an eight-by-ten glossy?” She held the plastic-encased badge she wore on a lanyard up for Branson, then flipped it around to look at it herself, shrugging.

  Branson waved at the door, but was unable to suppress a smile. “Godspeed, Shores. I hope you remember us little people when you're a big star.”

  “I'll have my people call your people,” she quipped on the way out. “We'll do lunch.”

  “Shores, one more thing,” he said as she reached the door.

  “Sir?”

  “Keep me informed.”

  The smile vanished. Short leash.

  “Of course, sir.”

  Tara read the case file as she walked down the hall. She felt a stab of surprise upon learning the full premise of the show. This was not the type of reality TV she was familiar with, she had to admit. No one on this show was competing for a mate by participating in silly games. She stopped walking for a minute after reading about the whale's onboard computer. Was this nothing more than some kind of unorthodox Bureau psych evaluation?

  She doubted Branson would test her mettle that way, but she wouldn't put it past some of his superiors. Male superiors. Tara was not oblivious to the fact that there were still men in Herbert Hoover's distinguished organization who wouldn't mind seeing her fail. While the rest of the government and the private sector seemed to have caught up when it came to women in the workforce, the Bureau still clung to old stereotypes. Tara had heard other female agents describe it as having to wear a mask to work, a façade that hid their true self to assimilate into the culture. But for Tara it had been the opposite. From the day she set foot in the academy at Quantico, she felt like she'd taken the mask off, that her true identity had been revealed by the culture rather than hidden.

  She shook her head and continued on past a wall-mounted plaque which read: Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. She felt the weight of this decoration every time she saw it. For Tara, its meaning went beyond that of a familiar motto. Single, with no parents, no siblings, the Bureau was her family. And now her family seemed to be testing her.

  Flipping the case file shut, she had to laugh. This was her big test? The reason they'd kept her from the city's top priority case? Some viral web video? Fine. She hadn't flinched. She'd requested the bank case, but what agent in her right mind wouldn't? That's where the visibility was; that's where the chance to save people from serious harm was.

  BEL AIR

  Less than an hour later Tara flashed her badge to a gate guard in an elite Los Angeles suburb. Known for its density of movie and sports stars, it boasted some of the priciest real estate in the world. The guard waved her in.

  She slid her spruce-green Crown Victoria up to the curb in front of the home of Mr. and Mrs. George Reed and double-checked the address. They were listed in the case file as the owners of Wired Kingdom. She observed the property. An expansive lawn sloped up to a sprawling mansion. A marble fountain bubbled in the center of a circular drive in front of the home.

  She took the winding, brick-pave
d driveway to the house and strode to the front door. She rang the chime and waited. No response. She rang again, wondering how long it would take for “the help” to get to the front door from the far reaches of the home. She heard approaching footsteps, then the door swung open.

  “May I help you?” asked a young, eye-catching Latina maid wearing a black-and-white uniform that fell somewhere between something a maid would actually wear and those worn in adult fantasies. A little racy, but somehow still functional. The two working women gave each other a once-over, each sensing that the real divide between them was not race or sex appeal, but economic class.

  “Mr. Reed, please,” Tara said.

  “One moment,” the maid said before disappearing back into the house, leaving Tara to wait on the doorstep.

  A man Tara judged to be fifty-five years of age appeared in the entrance hall. He wore a casual business outfit, with designer sunglasses perched atop his nearly bald head. “Morning, sir.” She flashed her credentials. “I’m Special Agent Tara Shores with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Are you Mr. George Reed?”

  “Yes. Is there a problem?” he asked, still blocking the doorway. A woman appeared behind him, a concerned look in sharp contrast to her tropical sun dress. She appeared to be the same age. Tara guessed she was his wife.

  “I need to ask you and your wife a few questions about the content broadcast over the Wired Kingdom web site this morning,” she began.

  “We don’t really know anything about it,” he said, starting to close the door.

  “That's unfortunate, sir, because I was hoping you could explain what has been reported as a possible murder. But since you can't, or won’t, I've no choice now but to conduct a more thorough interview at the field office.” She paused to let this sink in while looking around the property. “I’m sure it’s a lot more comfortable here.” That was an understatement. No doubt the Reeds' pantry would be bigger than the interview rooms at the field office.