by Mark Dawson
Milton watched as Ziggy’s fingers flashed across the keyboard. He had tethered his laptop to his phone and, now that they were north of the prison and he had a reliable signal, he was typing in a string of commands.
“What are you doing?” Josie asked.
“I’m going to find out where he lives.”
“How?”
“Hack the police database.”
“This might be easier,” she said, holding up the phone she had taken from Mendoza.
“That’s his?”
She nodded.
“Give,” he said.
Josie handed it over. Ziggy plugged it into one of the laptops and started to examine it.
“If he can find the address—”
“Found it,” Ziggy interrupted. “He has a place in Makati City.”
“Fine,” she said. “We know where he lives. What do we do now?”
“Pay him a visit,” Milton said.
She bit her lip.
Milton could see that she was reluctant. “What’s up?”
“Am I doing the right thing? I don’t know—maybe I should go and see the chief inspector. I mean, I could tell him what I know.”
“You don’t know how far the corruption goes up the chain,” Hicks offered.
“He’s right,” Milton said. “You know you can’t do that. It could be dangerous. It’ll also be slow. And we need to move today. When he finds out what’s happened and that I’m out, maybe he runs. He certainly makes it more difficult to get to him. You won’t be safe if that happens.”
“And then? When we find him?”
“We ask him who else is involved.”
“You think he killed your friend?”
“I don’t think so. I think I know who that was. But maybe Mendoza can help me find him.”
“And then?”
Milton knew what she was asking: how would he make her safe?
“There are two ways we can play this—”
“I don’t… I don’t want him dead,” she interrupted.
“Then you’ll need to get the evidence to build a case.”
It was clear to Milton that Josie could see the scale of her quandary now. It was obvious. She could find evidence and build a case, but she wouldn’t be able to do it alone. She would need help from senior officers that she could trust. And, from the look on her face, Milton could see that she was already struggling to think of anyone of sufficient rank that she could confide in. Maybe she didn’t know anyone well enough beyond Mendoza to be confident that they would not be involved and that they would take the side of a junior officer against her more senior colleague. Milton already knew that Josie was moral—she had worked to get him out despite the risk to herself—but now she would face a test of her convictions. Milton would be true to his word and would do whatever he could to make her safe. He didn’t have the same qualms as she did, though, and his way would be safer than any alternative. Following the law would bring greater risk. But she would have to choose. Milton would do whatever she asked.
He looked at her. She was biting her lip and gazing out of the window.
“Where are we headed?” Hicks asked.
Ziggy recited an address in Makati City.
“It’s an apartment,” he said.
“Where?”
Hicks waited for the satnav to calculate the route. “Not far,” he said, once the green line had overlaid the map. “We can be there in an hour.”
66
THEY PARKED the car in the underground lot beneath the apartment block.
“Both of us?” Hicks said to Milton.
“It won’t hurt.”
“I’m coming,” Josie said.
“You don’t need to do that,” Milton said.
Josie shook her head. She wasn’t about to take a step back now. She felt as if she were in a maze, stumbling for an exit that she couldn’t yet find, but she knew that she had to be involved.
“I’m coming. This is a police investigation. I’m not backing off now.”
Milton shrugged. “Fine by me.”
“I’ll stay,” Ziggy said. “I’ll see what else I can get off his phone.”
Josie stepped out. Hicks and Milton followed, and they took the elevator to the ground floor.
Josie went up to the desk. She took out her badge and held it up for the porter to see.
“How can I help you, Officer?”
“Which apartment does Bruno Mendoza have?”
“The penthouse,” the porter said. “Why?”
“I need the key.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Police business.”
“But I don’t understand. He just left.”
“When?”
The man looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes ago.”
“How was he?”
“He looked like he was in a hurry. What is this, Officer?”
“Give me the key, sir.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“You really want to go through all that?”
“Then I should call him. I can’t just let you inside.”
“Last chance. I’ll arrest you if I have to, sir. What’ll it be?”
The man blanched. He stood up, took a blank key card and programmed it in a machine on the desk. He handed it to Josie.
“Here,” he said. “Top floor. The lifts are over there.”
* * *
THEY TOOK the lift in silence.
It ascended quickly, fast enough for it to add to the empty feeling in Josie’s stomach.
She closed her eyes and thought of her son. What was the point of doing her job if she allowed herself to ignore what Mendoza was doing? She wanted to bring Angelo up to know right from wrong, and she would be worse than a hypocrite if she allowed her fear to take control.
The lift arrived at the twenty-ninth floor and the doors opened.
Milton stepped out first. They were in a lobby. The floor was thickly carpeted and the walls were decorated with tasteful pieces of art. It was gloomy, with dim lights set into sconces. There were two doors: one for the emergency stairs and the other for the penthouse.
“Just because he’s not here doesn’t mean the flat is empty,” Milton said in a low voice. “We need to be careful.”
Josie nodded.
She slid the key card into the reader.
The lock buzzed and the door clicked open.
Milton touched the door with his fingertips and gently pushed it all the way open.
Josie automatically reached down for her pistol. Her fingers touched up against the empty holster. The pistol wasn’t there. She had left it in the prison’s security lodge.
“Shit.”
She wished that she had it.
The room inside was dark. She paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The door opened into the living room. It was open plan, with a dining area and, beyond that, a kitchen. There were curtained windows to her right and she went over to open them. There was a balcony outside and she could see the tops of the neighbouring buildings poking up into the bright midday sky.
Milton and Hicks walked inside and turned to the left. Josie followed.
Milton opened the door to the master bedroom. It was empty.
She crossed the apartment to the kitchen. There were two other doors: one led to a bathroom and the other to the second bedroom. Both of those were empty, too. She went into the bedroom. Clothes were strewn across the bed, and the wardrobes stood open. She ran her finger along a rack of empty clothes hangers.
She turned. Milton was in the doorway. He had taken off the orange T-shirt. His torso was lean and muscular, and his skin was decorated with a number of tattoos. She could see the IX inscribed over his heart and, as he angled his body to look down at the dresser, she saw a large tattoo of an angel’s wings across his back.
“You want something to wear?”
He realised that he was half naked. “Sorry. I needed to change out of the prison gear.”
She took a s
hirt from the rail and tossed it over to him. Mendoza was around the same size and, when Milton put it on, it was a decent fit. He looked in the full-length mirror that was fixed to the back of the wardrobe door. “What do you think?”
The shirt was garish: mainly black, but decorated with a series of yellow sparkles and splashes. Josie allowed herself a smile. “Suits you,” she said.
He took an empty bag from the bed and stuffed the prison clothes inside. “You found anything?”
She stood aside and indicated the clothes that had been disturbed in the wardrobe. “Look.”
“The porter was right,” Milton said. “He did leave in a hurry. It’s the same in the other bedroom.”
“But where did he go?”
Milton had an envelope in his hand. He handed it to her. It was stamped with a logo that featured a stylised mountain peak with a smudge of red that she guessed was intended to denote the sun. The name beneath the logo read Mount Malarayat Golf & Country Club. The envelope was open. She reached inside, took out the letter and read it. It was from a woman with the title of residential manager and congratulated Mr. Mendoza on the purchase of his luxury villa.
“How far away is that?”
Mount Malarayat was near Lipa City. “Two hours to the south. You think he’s gone there?”
“Unless Ziggy has a better idea, I think that’s our best shot.”
67
THEY DROPPED Ziggy off at the airport. They had no clear idea where Mendoza had gone, but a flight out of the country was an option that they could not discount. Ziggy agreed to watch the terminal and contact them if he saw anything. He would also be able to hook into the Wi-Fi network and provide backup as they needed it.
Hicks drove them. Lipa City was in the Batangas region, seventy miles south of metropolitan Manila. They followed Route 3 as it ran down the shore of Laguna de Bay, through Cabuyao and Calamba and, finally, into Lipa. The drive took two hours and it was three in the afternoon by the time they arrived at the address they had found in the apartment.
The property was located inside a gated community. The way into the complex was blocked by a barrier that was raised and lowered by a guard, who sheltered from the sun in a neat little hut. They could see the villas nearest to the gate from their position on the road. They were obviously luxurious, even from the outside: each looked spacious and was constructed with a natural stone facade that reminded Milton of similar villas that he had seen in Japan. A notice fixed to the wall of the compound announced that further construction was under way and that the compound would soon be equipped with a clubhouse, sports complex and retail outlets. Prices were noted to start at one million dollars.
“Nice,” Hicks said. “The police are better paid here than they are at home.”
Josie snorted. “Don’t be crazy. They pay us next to nothing. I live with my mother—there’s no way I could ever afford a place like this. He shouldn’t be able to, either.”
“Our friend Mendoza is on the take,” Milton said. “And he probably has been for years.”
“How do you want to do it?” Hicks asked.
“I’m going to take a closer look,” he said.
“I’m coming,” Josie said.
“No. Stay here with Hicks. It’ll be easier for me to go in alone.”
“If he’s there?”
“I’ll call you. Keep your phone on. And call me if you see anything.”
* * *
MILTON GOT out of the car. It was swelteringly hot. He had found a pair of dark glasses in the glove compartment and he put them on, shielding his eyes from the glare as sunlight reflected from the windows and the pools of the apartments next to the road. The complex was secure, encircled by a six-foot-tall stone wall. Milton walked the perimeter until he found a quiet spot that was not overlooked. He heaved himself up, wincing from the flash of pain caused by the sudden effort, and dropped down onto the other side. The compound had been planted with a fringe of bamboo and dwarf fruit trees just inside the wall, and Milton was able to find a spot where he could observe without fear of being seen.
A gardener had clambered up a coconut tree and was leaning back in a harness, a bolo in his hand; he lopped down with the blade, removing coconuts from the tree before they might fall on those passing below. He chopped down the leaves, too, and a mate collected both and stacked them in the back of a small motorised trolley.
Milton moved around, staying within the cover afforded by the bamboo. Mendoza’s villa was near the entrance to the development, although not visible from where the car was parked. Milton found a spot where he could observe it. He watched as maids pushed trolleys loaded with fresh laundry and bottles of water. Expensive sedans and SUVs rumbled by. There were delivery trucks. Milton concentrated on the property. There was no sign that it was occupied.
He waited until there was no one else around, and then he left cover and crossed the lawn. He moved confidently, as if he belonged there. The property was delineated by a low fence that reached up to Milton’s chest. He glanced over it into the garden: the pool was the centrepiece, with two recliners arranged at one end.
Milton reached the villa. They had all been built around the same design, all of them featuring generous windows to let in as much light as possible. Most of the windows were obscured by closed blinds, but Milton was able to look in on two of the bedrooms. There was no sign that anyone was here or that anyone had been here for some time.
There was no one in sight. He clambered over the fence and made his way to the door to the garage. It was wooden and not particularly thick. He would have preferred to pick the lock, but he didn’t have anything that he could use.
Instead, he looked back over the fence again and, satisfied that he was still unobserved and that no one was in easy earshot, he approached. There was an art to kicking in a door, and Milton had done it many times before. He aimed his heel at the point just below where the bolt would protrude into the strike plate and then the frame. He kept his balance by driving the heel of his standing foot into the ground at the same time and avoided the lock itself for fear of injury. The door was made of soft wood and was hollow; it started to give way. The deadlock bolt extended only an inch into the frame and gave almost no resistance.
The first kick loosened the lock, but the second broke it apart.
The door opened.
Milton went inside.
There was a car in the garage and, next to that, a pair of bicycles hung from a bracket that was fitted to the wall. He paused once he was beyond the door so that his eyes could adjust to the gloom. He made out a set of shelves beyond the bikes and, opposite him, a tall American-style refrigerator. There was a workbench to his left with a selection of tools laid out alongside it. Milton reached down and took a hammer.
There was a door next to the fridge; he gripped the hammer and approached it, listening intently. He heard nothing.
Milton reached out for the handle and turned it. The door was unlocked. He pushed, opening it all the way, and then stepped inside.
He was inside the kitchen. The blind was pulled down and the room was dark. The oven had an LED display that cast enough dim light for him to be able to see. There was a sink, dark countertops, a washing machine and a dishwasher. There was another door in the opposite wall.
Milton stepped deeper into the room. He opened the opposite door and went through into the living room. The blinds were drawn in here, too. The room was empty and lit by the luminous green glow of a digital clock that sat on a sideboard. Milton opened the doors to each bedroom and checked those, too. The beds were made. There were no signs that anyone had been inside the rooms recently.
He took out his phone and called Hicks.
“It’s empty,” he reported.
“What do you want to do?”
“Have you heard from Ziggy?”
“He just called. He hasn’t seen anything.”
“We stay here, then. I’ll wait here. Watch the road for me.”
“Copy tha
t.”
Milton ended the call, put the phone back into his pocket and settled down to wait.
68
HICKS MOVED the car farther up the road so that it was well away from the sentry post and much less suspicious. He settled back in his seat, watching the gentle flow of traffic that passed alongside.
“What’s your son’s name?” he asked Josie.
“Angelo.”
“Is he with your partner?”
“With my mother.”
“You’re not married?”
“I was. Not anymore. He was killed.”
“I’m sorry—”
She waved his apology away. “We were separated.”
“How did he die?”
“One of the president’s bounty hunters. You know about him? The president? What’s happening here?”
“Just what I’ve read.”
“The war on drugs,” she intoned. “Duterte promised that the fish in Manila Bay would grow fat on the bodies of criminals. My husband’s name was on a list. Someone killed him because of it.”
“He was involved in drugs?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. His name was on the list. That’s reason enough.”
Hicks shifted a little uncomfortably.
Josie must have sensed it. “How about you?” she said, filling the sudden silence. “You said you had two.”
“I do. Caleb and Lucas. They’re with my wife.”
“She doesn’t mind you coming here?”
“We owe Milton a big favour. She doesn’t mind.”
“What did Milton do?”
He found it easier to talk about it with her than he had with Ziggy. “My wife had cancer. She needed treatment in the States, but we couldn’t afford it. Milton found the money for us.”
A car passed them and slowed for the turn into the compound.
“What do you think?” he said to her.
“Mendoza has a Porsche,” she said.
“That’s not a Porsche.”
“No.”
She frowned. “You think he’s coming?”
“Maybe. We haven’t got anything else to go on.”
“Where is he?”
