“No.”
“Do have any reason to think he might be in danger?”
“No. Do you?”
It was better than a flat “no,” but not much. “His wife found the call from Alberto very strange,” said Jack.
“Alberto is a strange guy.”
“How so?”
Tomlin paused, as if to measure his words, and then reerected the stone wall. “I couldn’t tell you. The truth is, I haven’t seen Alberto in at least two years. Maybe longer.”
“Alberto told his wife that you’re his accountant.”
“I was,” said Tomlin. “But as I just told you: I haven’t seen the guy in years. Sorry, gentlemen,” he said, rising. “I can’t help you. Have a good night.”
It was an abrupt ending to a very short meeting. Tomlin went to the elevator. Theo swung by the security desk to have one more laugh with his new homeboy before leaving. Then Jack and Theo exited the lobby, briefly turning blue as they walked in the glow of the lighted fountain outside the building.
“‘Haven’t seen him in years,’” said Theo in his white-man voice. “What bullshit.”
“I Googled him on the plane,” said Jack. “Pulled up a few photographs. Dr. Perez and his accountant were in the same box for the Super Bowl last February.”
“You should’ve shoved that in his face.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Jack. “I’m sure he would’ve cracked on the spot and immediately turned into a font of information.”
They continued through the visitors’ lot to Jack’s car and got inside.
“Whaddaya gonna do now?” asked Theo.
Jack started the engine. “Go home, give Righley a hug and a kiss, and then crawl in bed with Andie.”
“Damn,” said Theo, buckling his seat belt. “That’s what I was gonna do.”
This time, the doctor rode in the trunk.
The Internet café in Tepito had turned out to be a death trap, not a godsend. Of course an American running for his life in one of the most dangerous parts of Mexico City would seek out the nearest phone. Tepito was Cesar’s territory, and when he showed up at the café, the shop owner addressed him by name and led him straight to “the American.” Cesar cornered his prey in the caseta and could have easily emptied his pistol and left Perez in a pool of blood. Instead, he and his surviving goon took the doctor at gunpoint to the car. The tail end of the sedan was smashed from the chain-reaction collision at the roundabout, but Cesar pried open the trunk, stuffed Perez inside, and tied his hands behind his back. The trunk latch was broken, so he tied the lid shut with the leftover rope. The lid rattled at each pothole, and the sporadic glow of streetlamps and headlights from other cars shone through the openings. At least Perez could breathe. For a time.
Perez lay with his head against the wheel well, listening to the hum of the engine and the whine of the pavement. The car stopped, and a red glow through the openings in the damaged trunk told him that they were at a traffic light. He heard tires squeal in the distance, maybe from the next block, and he thought he heard a gunshot from somewhere, but perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks. The glow changed from red to green, and the car started moving again. A sudden turn sent Perez rolling off his hip and onto his back. The steady whine of the pavement gave way to the crunch of gravel beneath tires. The car stopped again. The engine went silent. A car door opened, and then another. They slammed shut in quick succession, like the racking of a shotgun, and the scratchy chorus of men’s footfalls on loose gravel stopped directly behind the trunk. He heard a serrated knife cutting through rope, and the lid squeaked open. The Mexicans were staring down at him.
“Get out,” said Cesar.
With his hands tied behind his back, Perez was having trouble. Cesar’s sidekick grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the trunk like a dead animal. A sharp hunk of twisted metal tore through his sleeve and sliced open his arm as Perez tumbled over the damaged rear bumper and hit the ground hard, landing on his knees. He wasn’t sure which hurt more, his arm or his knees, but he fought through it to size up the situation. Towers of flattened vehicles surrounded them, one compressed hunk of metal stacked on top of the other. Cesar, his sidekick, Cesar’s car, and the walls of junk vehicles all around them were bathed in the eerie yellow glow of sodium-vapor security lights. The thought of what a trip to the junkyard could mean for his immediate future had him praying for a quick bullet to the back of the head.
“This isn’t necessary,” he said, his voice quaking.
“I’ll decide that,” came the voice from the darkness.
Perez’s head turned, and he saw Señor Ortega step toward him. Ortega was dressed in a designer suit, white shirt, and silk necktie, the salt-and-pepper stubble on his broad face groomed to the perfect five o’clock shadow. It was apparent that this rendezvous at the junkyard was important enough to draw Ortega away from a social engagement.
Perez had never begged for his life before, but he was not above it. He was already on his knees. “Please, Señor Ortega. Don’t do this.”
“Did you share my name with Charlotte Holmes?” asked Ortega.
“No!”
“What about Harvey Tomlin? Did you give his name to Ms. Holmes?”
“Absolutely not, Señor Ortega. I swear I didn’t.”
“To your wife?” he asked, but his tone was more like an accusation than a question. “Did you give Harvey Tomlin’s name to your wife?”
Perez hesitated. With the open top, the caseta at the Internet café was not private. The attendant could have easily overheard his conversation with Heidi—and Perez knew whose side the attendant was on.
“I called her. But I didn’t tell her any—” He stopped himself. The anger in Ortega’s eyes told him that his answer didn’t matter. All the doctor could do was brace himself.
“Cesar,” he said, barking out the order. “La goma.”
Perez could barely breathe.
Cesar walked around the sedan toward the tower of flattened vehicles. The other man went to the trunk, retrieved a box, and opened it. Inside were glass votives with candles. He removed four and placed them on the ground in front of Perez. Then he took a rubber hose from the box, shoved one end down the sedan’s gas tank, and siphoned out enough to soak the doctor’s head. It stung his eyes, but he was already crying.
Cesar returned with an old radial tire—just the tire, no rim.
“Just your size, Doctor,” he said, as he placed the tire—la goma—around Perez’s neck.
The doctor was blinded by the gasoline, and the combined odor of spilled fuel and road-worn rubber was making him sick.
“Please, I’m begging you. Please, don’t light the candles!”
“We won’t,” Ortega replied. “You will.”
And the last thing the doctor heard was the striking of a match, the roar of a tire engulfed in flames, and the sound of his own screams trapped in the inferno.
Chapter 58
Charlotte and Amanda were in the TV room, seated side by side on the floor with their wrists bound, backs against the wall, and knees drawn up to their chests. Charlotte normally kept the room divider between the kitchen and TV room closed, but Paco had the sliding-track panels open to create one large room. It made it easier to keep an eye on the prisoners while the men sat around the granite-topped island doing shots of whatever firewater they could find in Charlotte’s liquor cabinet.
“The more they drink, the more I worry,” Charlotte said under her breath.
Paco climbed down from his barstool and crossed the room toward the women. He removed the pistol from his belt so that he could squat down and speak to them at eye level, holding the weapon loosely as he spoke, using it casually to punctuate his hand gestures.
“I need to know something,” he said.
The stupid grin on his face was concerning enough, but as the grin faded and Paco’s expression turned serious, Charlotte’s concern turned to fear.
“What was the bitcoin for?” he
asked her. “The bitcoin from Perez, I mean.”
“Alberto never gave me any bitcoin.”
“He tried to,” said Paco.
“I had no idea what was on that flash drive.”
Paco smiled again, his gaze drifting toward his friends in the kitchen. Then his glare returned to Charlotte. “Were you blackmailing him?”
“Blackmailing him? For what?”
“Oh, I dunno,” he said, glancing at Amanda, then back. “Maybe you and the flower lady here had some weird gay sex thing going on with Perez and his boyfriend.”
“Shut the hell up,” said Amanda.
Paco grabbed her by the jaw and slammed her head back against the wall. “Was I talking to you?”
Charlotte could almost feel her pain; Paco seemed to enjoy it.
“Cuz I don’t think I was talking to you, bitch. So sit there and be quiet,” he said, as he swung his pistol around, shoving the barrel against Amanda’s lips. “Or you can eat this. Understand me?”
Amanda nodded, but only as much as the human vise grip on her jaw would allow. Paco lowered his pistol and released his grasp. Amanda took a breath, and then Paco looked Charlotte in the eye.
“I’m trying to work with you here. I don’t know jack-shit about how you elect your president in this country. But I know two things. One, you’re important to my boss. Two, you’re not too important to be replaced.”
He stared a moment longer, as if to see who would blink first.
“I wasn’t blackmailing anyone,” Charlotte said in a voice as firm as she could muster.
“That’s good,” he said. “I’ll let the boss man know.”
He rose, tucked his pistol back into his belt, and walked to the kitchen counter, leaving the two women alone but within his sight.
“Did you see his tattoo?” Amanda asked, keeping her voice low.
“Which one?”
“The skeleton with the scythe.”
“Yeah. The grim reaper. I’m sure his mother is proud.”
“It’s Santa Muerte, not the grim reaper.” Amanda explained the occult roots of the holy lady of death, adding, “I dated a DEA agent for a while. She used to find Santa Muerte statues all the time in drug raids.”
“I can’t believe Alberto is tied up with drugs,” said Charlotte.
“You always had a higher opinion of him than I did.”
“I suppose. But why would narcos care who I vote for, anyway?”
“I’m more interested in figuring out how we get out of here alive.”
The drunken laughter in the kitchen was getting louder, which only fueled Charlotte’s fears. “I’m sorry you’re in this mess, Amanda. You shouldn’t be.”
Amanda gave her a little smile. “Hey, a promise is a promise.”
The remark drew mixed emotions from Charlotte. “Why didn’t you just call me?”
“Why did you chase after me with a baseball bat?”
“Because I thought I was being stalked.”
“By me?”
“No. The way you were dressed, I thought it was a man. The last time I saw you, your hair was longer than mine. You never got close enough for me to tell it was you.”
“Any closer, I would have been in violation of the order.”
“What order?”
Amanda raised an eyebrow, as if Charlotte were playing games. “Hello? The restraining order you got against me? I never went to court to oppose it, but I should have. It was permanent, which means it never went away.”
Charlotte could hardly believe what she was hearing. “What are you talking about, Amanda? I never got a restraining order against you.”
Their eyes locked, and the same realization came to them.
“Did that order protect just me,” asked Charlotte, “or me and my sister?”
“Actually, you and your entire family. Part of me always wondered if it was your sister or your mother who put you up to it.”
“They didn’t put me up to it,” said Charlotte. “They went around me and hired a lawyer who told the judge you were threatening the entire family.”
“Well, I actually did threaten Megan. After she slapped you for having a girlfriend, I told her I’d kick her ass if she ever did it again.”
“Oh, my God. The restraining order has Megan written all over it. She’s such a coward. She was too afraid to stand up to you, so she made it look like it was me. She got an order to keep you away from the entire family, me included, and she never told me.”
Charlotte hoped Amanda believed her.
“I’m sure Megan had no trouble getting Mom to go along with it,” said Charlotte. “Mom would rather have had me end up with an abusive man than a woman who loved me.”
Those last three words—“who loved me”—seemed to bring Amanda around. “No wonder the court record was sealed. It kept you from finding out about it. My first thought was that you were sweeping ‘us’ under the rug.”
“Amanda, I—”
“Quiet.”
“I just want you to know—”
“Quiet,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Paco is on the phone.”
Charlotte glanced toward the kitchen. Paco was pacing, his cell pressed to his ear. Charlotte could hear him, but he was speaking in Spanish. Amanda was fluent, and from her expression, she appeared to be translating Paco’s end of the conversation in her head.
“Alberto is dead,” Amanda whispered, her expression turning even more serious. “I think we’re next.”
Chapter 59
Theo told Jack he needed to check on the inmates at the asylum. Jack dropped him off at Cy’s Place and drove home to Key Biscayne. Theo walked straight through the club and out the back door. His car was parked in the alley. In twenty minutes he arrived back at the Tomlins’ high-rise on Miami Beach. He was happy to see the same security guard on duty in the lobby.
“Hey, wassup, homeboy?” the guard asked.
“Need a favor,” said Theo.
Maybe it was their connection from Theo’s days with the Grove Lords, or maybe it was the fact that Tomlin was the biggest asshole in the building. Whatever the reason, the guard was game. “Whatever you need,” he told Theo.
The guard dialed the penthouse from the front desk, and Theo listened as he delivered the ruse. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Tomlin. But I just finished my walk through the parking garage, and I noticed that someone clipped the fender of your Bentley.”
The guard held the phone away from his ear, as he and Theo quietly laughed at the stuffed prick who took pleasure in blaming the messenger. The diatribe ended with Tomlin’s pronouncement that the guard was not only incompetent but “grossly overpaid, even at minimum wage.” The guard who probably worked two jobs just to feed his family took the abuse without exception, which the penthouse owner seemed to think was part of his job description. Then he hung up.
“Mr. Tomlin says I should meet him by his car in five minutes.”
“What’s his parking space number?” asked Theo.
“Twenty-two. Level Two.”
“Thanks, bro. I got it from here.”
If there had been any doubt in Theo’s mind that the accountant deserved what he was about to get, the exchange on the telephone erased it.
“Oh, and one last favor?” asked Theo.
“Name it.”
“Turn off the security cameras on Level Two for a few minutes.”
“Done.”
Theo exited the lobby through the door marked parking and climbed the stairs to the second level. It was a typical garage, like a vault of unfinished concrete, the walls, floor, and ceiling unremarkable, save for the ribbon of purple paint across the pillars to demark “Level 2.” The security lighting was minimal, barely bright enough for Theo to see beyond the long row of Teslas, Range Rovers, Mercedes-Benzes, and the like to the bank of elevators at the other end of the garage. He waited behind a concrete pillar a few spaces away from the silver Bentley Flying Spur, hidden from anyone who might approach from the residenti
al tower elevator.
The elevator chimed at the other end of the row. Theo heard the doors slide open, followed by the echo of approaching footfalls that led to the Bentley. Theo assumed it was Tomlin, and the accountant’s muttering aloud to no one—“Where the hell’s that lazy-ass security guard?”—confirmed it.
“He’s on his way,” said Theo, stepping out from behind the concrete pillar.
“What are you doing here? Are you the one who hit my car?”
“Your car’s fine, dude.”
“Don’t tell me it’s fine. I don’t know what piece of shit you drive, but this machine goes for two hundred grand, pal, and that’s before the built-in champagne cooler and perfumed interior. Somebody hit it. I just spoke to the guard, and he told me so.”
Theo took a couple of steps forward and stopped. “You don’t even know his name, do you?”
“No, but I intend to find out. Whoever hit this car is going to pay for it.”
Theo took a few more steps forward, stopping about a car’s width away from the accountant, making their thirteen-inch difference in height even more apparent. “I was talking about the guard,” he said, mocking the reference. “You see him every day. And you don’t even know his name.”
“All I need to know is the name of the guy who hit my car.”
Theo stepped even closer, and his voice dropped even lower. “Nobody hit your car.”
Tomlin glanced at his vehicle, then back at Theo. “Wha—what are you saying?”
“You lied to us,” said Theo, gazing downward at a man who seemed to be shrinking right before his eyes. “I don’t like to be lied to.”
“I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There you go again,” said Theo, adding a mirthless chuckle. “Another lie.”
Tomlin licked his lips, his throat going dry.
“Tell me what you and your buddy Dr. Perez have been up to,” said Theo.
Tomlin opened his mouth but hesitated, as if afraid to tell another lie. “I honestly don’t know what you mean.”
The Big Lie Page 30
