Page 57 of 25 Alive

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,FBIagent, 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 thepresidente. Joe should be exonerated and released in a day or two.”

Bao leaned in toward Steinmetz and shouted, “That’s too long! It will betoo 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 addedI 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.

CHAPTER86

CINDY WAS WORKING at her usual spot at the dining table in her apartment with only one thing in mind. She was going to find out whatever there was to know about Brett Palmer. However long it took.

She had access to criminal databases; the Portland, Oregon, police database; and Oregon DMV records. And she had access to numerous newspapers archived on the internet. She had made notes of some intriguing leads. For one, she had the address of the home Brett Palmer had owned and shared with his second ex-wife, Angela Kinney Palmer, who had died by hanging. The main thing that tipped this hanging from suicide to homicide was the writing on the soles of the victim’s shoes.

Cindy thought that if the “I said. You dead” killer had written this catchphrase, he was either very arrogant or very cagey. Both traits were characteristics of sociopathic killers. Too bad block letters matched a hundred handwriting samples in any forensics database.

But Cindy had found more useful data: Brett Palmer’sparents lived in Portland. So did the parents of Brett’s first wife, Roxanne Sands Palmer, who’d suspiciously drowned in the bathtub. But Palmer’s second wife, Angela Kinney Palmer, had parents living in Vallejo, California.

Vallejo was about a half hour drive from San Francisco.

The Kinneys’ phone number was listed online, and Cindy was feeling lucky. She punched the number into her phone, turned on her call recorder, and listened to the phone ring.

Two rings. Three rings. Cindy was gearing up to leave a message that would actually encourage the Kinneys to return her call when a woman picked up the line.

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