steel and glass building.
Silently he read the building directory that had been hand-carved on the marble retaining wall at street level. Besides Edge City, the building housed an import company, an international marketing firm, branches of two Wall Street brokerage houses, and the offices of four financial advisers, three of whom had Spanish surnames.
“There’s a lot of black money washing anonymously back and forth across the border,” Faroe said.
“You’re stereotyping. Just because there are some Spanish names on the building doesn’t mean there’s something illegal going on.”
“Actually, I’m speculating. That’s where the big money is, right? Speculation?”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Get used to it,” he said. “I’ve seen the ass end of too many aardvarks tobe politically correct. Not all male Middle Easterners blow up airplanes, but it’s beyond stupid to search everyone’s Caucasian grandmother in the name of political correctness.”
“The law says—”
“The law is made by politicians,” Faroe cut in. “Hell, I know that all Russians aren’t part of the mafiya or tucked into the trough of a corrupt government, but the chances of Ivan Freaking Innocent coming into big money honestly in Mother Russia is about as great as Juan Freaking Innocent getting big money in Father Mexico without getting real dirty in the process.”
She wanted to disagree. It was a reflex she shoved back into the past. She might not like what Faroe was telling her, but if she was arguing civics when the likes of Hector appeared with his heavily armed thugs, she’d be a deadly liability to her son.
“There are lots of places like La Jolla around the world,” Faroe said. “Aruba, Medellín, Beirut, Moscow. Fast money, black money, drug money, arms money, terrorist money—it’s all pretty much the same. It rolls around this world of ours like a big old sticky ball, picking up outwardly honest bankers and brokers and financial advisers.”
“You make it sound like there’s no legal money out there.”
“Depends on how you define legal. Sort of like provenance in art. Put the goods through three previous owners and you’re home free. You’d be amazed at how often art is used as a way to get value—money—across borders and into safe, numbered accounts.”
“There is a world of law,” Grace said fiercely. “I know. I’ve lived in it.”
“The clean tip of a muddy iceberg.”
She shook her head.
He looked back toward the steel and glass monument to financial success and let the silence echo.
“Ted didn’t start out to end up in the shadow world,” Faroe said finally. “It happened one small decision at a time. One light shade of gray. A favor for a friend, then new friends and new favors. These are the people you eat with, drink with, raise your kids with. Close to you.”
Grace didn’t like where Faroe was going, and she didn’t know how to stop him. His calm words were wrecking balls tearing down the worldshe’d lived in, forcing her to see things she didn’t want to see, had fought and worked all her life not to have in her view.
“Some of those friends are a dirty shade of gray, and their friends are even dirtier,” Faroe said. “The longer you hang with them, the dirtier you get, until one day you wake up and find yourself in bed with the likes of Hector Rivas Osuna. Then you’re free-falling in the shadow world with no real idea of how it happened and not a clue about what the landing will be like.”
She set her teeth and remembered her courtroom, where the law was a vital, living force, as real as the air she breathed. She turned to tell Faroe about her world, and saw that he was looking past her at something on the street outside. The intensity in him was as tangible as the presence of law in her courtroom. She started to turn around to see what was so interesting but he stopped her.
“No,” he said quickly. “We’re being watched.”
Her stomach pitched.
Silently he read the building directory that had been hand-carved on the marble retaining wall at street level. Besides Edge City, the building housed an import company, an international marketing firm, branches of two Wall Street brokerage houses, and the offices of four financial advisers, three of whom had Spanish surnames.
“There’s a lot of black money washing anonymously back and forth across the border,” Faroe said.
“You’re stereotyping. Just because there are some Spanish names on the building doesn’t mean there’s something illegal going on.”
“Actually, I’m speculating. That’s where the big money is, right? Speculation?”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Get used to it,” he said. “I’ve seen the ass end of too many aardvarks tobe politically correct. Not all male Middle Easterners blow up airplanes, but it’s beyond stupid to search everyone’s Caucasian grandmother in the name of political correctness.”
“The law says—”
“The law is made by politicians,” Faroe cut in. “Hell, I know that all Russians aren’t part of the mafiya or tucked into the trough of a corrupt government, but the chances of Ivan Freaking Innocent coming into big money honestly in Mother Russia is about as great as Juan Freaking Innocent getting big money in Father Mexico without getting real dirty in the process.”
She wanted to disagree. It was a reflex she shoved back into the past. She might not like what Faroe was telling her, but if she was arguing civics when the likes of Hector appeared with his heavily armed thugs, she’d be a deadly liability to her son.
“There are lots of places like La Jolla around the world,” Faroe said. “Aruba, Medellín, Beirut, Moscow. Fast money, black money, drug money, arms money, terrorist money—it’s all pretty much the same. It rolls around this world of ours like a big old sticky ball, picking up outwardly honest bankers and brokers and financial advisers.”
“You make it sound like there’s no legal money out there.”
“Depends on how you define legal. Sort of like provenance in art. Put the goods through three previous owners and you’re home free. You’d be amazed at how often art is used as a way to get value—money—across borders and into safe, numbered accounts.”
“There is a world of law,” Grace said fiercely. “I know. I’ve lived in it.”
“The clean tip of a muddy iceberg.”
She shook her head.
He looked back toward the steel and glass monument to financial success and let the silence echo.
“Ted didn’t start out to end up in the shadow world,” Faroe said finally. “It happened one small decision at a time. One light shade of gray. A favor for a friend, then new friends and new favors. These are the people you eat with, drink with, raise your kids with. Close to you.”
Grace didn’t like where Faroe was going, and she didn’t know how to stop him. His calm words were wrecking balls tearing down the worldshe’d lived in, forcing her to see things she didn’t want to see, had fought and worked all her life not to have in her view.
“Some of those friends are a dirty shade of gray, and their friends are even dirtier,” Faroe said. “The longer you hang with them, the dirtier you get, until one day you wake up and find yourself in bed with the likes of Hector Rivas Osuna. Then you’re free-falling in the shadow world with no real idea of how it happened and not a clue about what the landing will be like.”
She set her teeth and remembered her courtroom, where the law was a vital, living force, as real as the air she breathed. She turned to tell Faroe about her world, and saw that he was looking past her at something on the street outside. The intensity in him was as tangible as the presence of law in her courtroom. She started to turn around to see what was so interesting but he stopped her.
“No,” he said quickly. “We’re being watched.”
Her stomach pitched.
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