“You got it, boss. Enjoy the middle seat.”

Syd snorted. “Please. Like I’d fly anything but first class.”

Jake’s reply was cut off. He caught himself smiling as he hung up. Syd reminded him a lot of his first girlfriend, Lana, a feisty girl who grew up on a ranch and could rustle a calf or win a beauty pageant, depending on what the occasion called for. She’d been exuberant, passionate…pretty much the antithesis of Kelly. Jake shook his head. He knew that Kelly wasn’t thrilled about his new business partner. He first met Syd when she infiltrated a smuggling ring that was trying to utilize his former boss’s ships. Sure, she was damned attractive, but he’d never viewed her as anything other than a friend. And he was smart enough to know that a relationship with her would probably follow the same track as all his earlier ones: six months of intensity before the crash and burn. At his age, he preferred stability.

Jake stood and stripped out of his clothes, glancing at the clock. It was just after nine, still early, but tomorrow was likely to be a long day. He called Kelly to say good-night, got her voice mail again, and hung up. Moodily, he gazed back up at the ceiling.

The Phoenix police chief closed the door and joined her at the observation window. “Is there a skinhead convention in town?”

“Apparently,” Kelly said, crossing her arms over her chest. They both watched as the detective tried again.

“Why did you attack Agent Rodriguez?”

“John Harper, Private, 54687.”

“I gotta say, you’re making a big mistake. All the other guys are rolling, you’re going to be left holding the ball. Time for you to smarten up.”

The guy stared levelly at the wall opposite, as if the detective wasn’t even there. “John Harper, Private, 54687.”

The detective shifted in his chair to gaze at them through the one-way glass and shrugged.

“What is that crap?” the chief demanded.

“Far as I can gather name, rank and serial number,” Kelly said with a frown.

“What, he’s former military?”

“Nope.” Kelly nodded toward the file on the table. “Lifer, in and out of prison since he was fourteen. So I’m guessing that’s his prison number.”

“So what the hell?”

Kelly shook her head. “I don’t know. They seem to think they’re some sort of military group.”

“Under whose orders?”

“I’m guessing the bartender, Patrick Croll. He seemed to be in charge when I was there.”

The chief eyed the skinhead. “This connected to the Morris thing?”

“Maybe. Rodriguez was following up a lead related to that 911 call.”

“The tip on the stash house?”

Kelly nodded.

The chief shook his head. “Boy, you folks love to make our lives harder. We find the gun that killed Morris in a house filled with scumbags, along with a pile of artillery that would make bin Laden blush. But no, you gotta bring skinheads into this.”

“They beat Rodriguez up, and were probably going to kill him,” Kelly pointed out. “Doesn’t seem like they’re exactly innocent.”

“Lady, I don’t want to tell you your job, but someone named Rodriguez walks in there, it’s a toss-up whether they’ll kill him for being Mexican or being a Fed. Doesn’t mean they know jack-shit.” The chief held up a hand to silence her. “Things are different down here, especially after what happened to Duke. Can’t go strolling into a place like that, counting on a badge to save you. Shit, I wouldn’t go in with anything less than a SWAT team.”

Kelly stopped herself from retorting that Rodriguez wasn’t supposed to go in alone. Regardless of how she felt, she wouldn’t rat him out to Phoenix P.D. She wouldn’t even tell McLarty unless she had to.

The chief was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Inside the room both detective and con had settled into an uneasy détente. The chief leaned forward and rapped on the window. The detective stood, clearly relieved, and gathered up the papers on the table.

“You see their files?” he asked Kelly.

“Sure, I skimmed them.”

“Notice what they all had in common?” He leaned forward. “Drugs. Every last one of these guys has gone down for possession or intent at least once in their miserable lives.”

“So?”

“So the MS-13 squad is encroaching on the skinheads’ turf, and they decide to send a message by ratting out their stash house. The Morris gun being there was a coincidence.”

“Maybe,” Kelly conceded. “But look at this guy. Does he strike you as a rat? Seems to me they’d settle it another way, not get the police involved.”

“They use us as much as we use them,” the chief said darkly. “Anyway, Agent Jones, I spoke to ASAC McLarty today, told him you were almost done here.”

“You had no right to do that,” she protested.

“I can’t afford to assign officers to a task force that could drag on forever, not when I’ve got three punks we can charge with this. Especially since they probably did it.” He shot her a pointed look. “I also don’t have the man power to save G-men who get in over their heads.”

Kelly bit her lip, determined not to rise to the bait.

“So wrap this up, Agent Jones.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she finally replied.

Seemingly satisfied, the chief left the room. Kelly watched as Harper worked his jaw, gaze still locked on the same spot. She’d already spent an hour with the bartender. He recited the same litany, the only difference being that he leered at her the entire time. The captain was right, of course. The 911 call was already a tenuous connection to the Morris case, and extending it to what happened at the bar was insanely circumstantial. But something about it nagged at her, especially considering the way these guys were behaving. This level of organization was unusual for low-level convicts. It was hard to shake the sense that someone out there was manipulating them. Up close the case looked airtight, but the farther away you got, the more it stank.

Her cell phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen. It was Jake. She repressed a pang of guilt. She hadn’t returned any of his calls today. Partly because she didn’t feel like explaining everything that had happened, it was still too fresh. But more than that, lately the distance between them felt like a gulf, and not just because they lived separate lives in separate cities. When they spent so much time apart, it was sometimes hard to remember what they had when they were together. It almost felt like a different life, one she’d read about but hadn’t actually lived. In a way this separation made it easier for her to compartmentalize. When she was at work she immersed herself in her cases, then with Jake she tried to set all that aside. For some reason, the prospect of eventually combining the two was terrifying.

With a sigh she powered down her phone. It had been a long day. Given some time to ponder the true meaning of the three strikes law, maybe one of these guys would cave. If not, she’d have to come up with something else.

Kelly debated stopping by the hospital to talk to Rodriguez, then decided he’d already been through enough for one day. And the truth was she was so tired and angry, she didn’t trust herself to stay professional. He’d put a lot of lives at risk by not following protocol. Chances were he’d be too sedated to talk anyway. Better to get a good-night’s sleep, then she could deal with him in the morning.

Dante perched on the edge of the couch, hands on his knees. He’d only been in Jackson ’s house once before, on another late night visit. That time, though, he’d been bringing good news. It was much more difficult to enjoy the opulent surroundings with Jackson raging around the room.

“Explain to me again how these orders were misinterpreted.”

“I-”

“Didn’t you instruct them to be discreet when they made that call?”

Dante shrugged. “Yeah, sure. I told them to go somewhere no one knew them. Somewhere in a spic neighborhood.”