by AJ Adams
I was gulping in air, coming back to earth and wondering what the hell had happened. “It was the rum.”
“Liar!” Rip was licking my nipples again, grinning as the sensuous flicker had me panting. “You’ve a nasty tongue, Morgan. I was wrong about your not being suitable. You’re definitely the girl for me.” He was uncuffing me, rolling me on to my side, and lying down next to me.
I was sweaty, sticky, and the room was swirling ominously. Without conscious thought, I was leaning into him. The solid chest was familiar and reassuring. With my eyes shut and in my drunken haze, he still felt like my guardian angel.
An arm came around me. “How sweet. Very nicely done.” Rip was pleased. “I think it’s going splendidly, don’t you?”
Chapter Fifteen: Rip
That first time with Morgan was a wonder. She was by turn angry, frightened, and excited, and I was riding her every emotion. I was swamped with sensation, drowning in bliss, and after teasing her remorselessly, I exploded in delicious ecstasy.
Morgan had a blast, she couldn’t deny it, but she was wonderfully grumpy about it. “It was the rum.”
I had to laugh. I’d been wrong to want a quiet, grateful girl. That would have been awfully dull. Morgan was interesting.
I was hoping to spend a couple of days with her, exploring my newfound love of bondage, but it was just six in the morning when Arturo called. “Rip, I have an emergency. Can you do a rush job?”
I was awake instantly. “Yes.”
“Good. The file will be with you in ten minutes. Call me as soon as you’ve read it.”
Morgan was unconscious. I left her to sleep and went downstairs, hoping Arturo wouldn’t be in too much of a rush.
I didn’t like the idea of moving in fast, because the trick to being a successful serial killer is thoroughness. Just look at the monsters like me who are household names. They were so damn sloppy that a three-year-old could have spotted them.
Ted Bundy always used his own Volkswagen. The crazy fuck removed the passenger seat after one messy kill and didn’t even consider it might seem odd. Then he forgot to clean the rest of the car, and he compounded his problems by carrying about cuffs and restraints in the backseat!
The good thing for creatures like us is that the police are arseholes too. They bumble about, super hot about speeding tickets that net them money, but clueless about anything else.
Like Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. They didn’t even notice he’d been interviewed nine times during their investigations. In the end it was one of his mates who did the coppers’ job for them by connecting the dots. An amateur! Can you imagine?
Chikatilo known as the Butcher of Rostov, Shawcross, the Genesee River Killer, Berkowitz, the Son of Sam—check out their exploits and you’ll see they were begging to be picked up.
Although the plods are thick, I don’t invite trouble. I take my time, and I’m careful. But that morning I knew this would be different. With Arturo in a hurry, I’d have to work fast. It should have worried me, but actually, I was excited by the challenge.
I received the file, and Rafa came round within minutes. “You’ve got rules about cops, right? I’ve met this capullo personally, so the jefe thought I should drop by in case you have questions.”
Arturo’s notes were perfectly clear: I was to take out a copper with the glorious name Diego Alejandro Velasquez Cervantes.
“Related to the painter and the poet?”
“Well, he’s certainly creative when it comes to his police reports,” Rafa grinned. “He’s working for the Gulf.”
“That must give them an edge.”
“Yeah. It’s amazing how much evidence goes missing. The prosecutor has lost more cases than United Airlines.”
My job was to take the man out in a way that looked accidental or natural and to dump the body in Vistoso, an expensive condo in the centre of town.
I was beginning to understand Arturo’s game. He was breaking up the Sinaloa-Gulf alliance, aiming at the heart of their operations. “The condo is Sinaloa territory?”
“Yeah. It belongs Angelita Romero, a soap opera star, who is also the mistress of Alejandro Riviera. He’s an expert in gambling law, and the Gulf rely on him for all their casino work in the Americas. Riviera often uses her place for meetings while she’s at work.”
“So the plan is to make it look as if a senior Gulf asset was involved with the Sinaloa’s top man’s mistress?”
“Exactly. Both cartels will have a fit, and we need Riviera distracted from any Gulf business for the next few weeks. Thinking his mistress is running around on him will do that.”
The Zetas could out-think the Borgias. It gave me a warm feeling to know I was in with the best. “Tell me about Velasquez Cervantes.”
“The man’s famous for being unpredictable; he says it keeps him safe from assassination.”
“He’s been shot three times.”
“But he survived, the lucky fuck! Others in his position would’ve been gone years ago. He’s a smart cookie, suspicious, and never in one place for long. Sometimes he doesn’t go to his office for weeks. Finding him will be a bitch.”
Perfect. The man was a worthy target. This would be an excellent hunt. “I’ll figure something out.”
When Rafa left, I read through the file. I started with the newspaper clippings Arturo had sent. There were dozens of them, because Velasquez Cervantes liked the limelight.
He enjoyed grandstanding, posing alongside dead robbers, drug dealers, and rapists while brandishing a silver-plated .44 Magnum. He dated a stream of starlets and models, and he also went for fast cars, champagne parties, and every other vulgar display. He’d even written a song, set to a local folk tune.
On the surface, Velasquez Cervantes looked like an officer who worked hard and played hard. Digging into the file, though, the real man emerged.
First off, he had a nasty habit of getting his partners shot. Three of his partners died during routine arrests, and two had been killed in their own homes during supposed botched burglaries. There was also an ex-wife who’d disappeared, and a couple of suppressed accusations of domestic violence hinted at a less than happy home.
I knew he’d killed her because Velasquez Cervantes didn’t take rejection well. Julia Torres, a fashion model who’d turned him down had been found shot the next day. Another, Gloria Reyes, had been beaten and raped by mysterious assailants.
Few dared criticise the police in Mexico, but there was a universal flurry of outrage when Velasquez Cervantes crowed over the body of a kid who’d tried to mug him. The boy had been nine years old, a street rat desperate for money. Velasquez Cervantes had shot him twelve times.
Not a nice man, Inspector General Diego Alejandro Velasquez Cervantes. If I’d still been an independent, I might have marked him just for my own pleasure. As it was, I’d have no trouble offing the bugger.
I put my thinking cap on. So, this man had to be in the limelight. He dated gossip column material and swapped the pretty face whenever the PR died down.
I looked at the photos again and put myself in the zone.
I was successful, a real red-blooded Mexican. There was me, with a sexy blonde soap actress every man lusted after. Score! Me again, at a private party for Dakota Fanning at Condesa df and again at a Jon Secada invitation-only concert at the Four Seasons. Classic! And me with a yellow Ferrari Spider that I paid cash for. That would send a message. Yeah!
I was powerful, but I took my orders from the Gulf bosses. They sent me here, there, and everywhere to lose evidence and occasionally kill or at least step aside as an assassin did the job.
That riled my pride.
I had the best of everything—but the price was being owned. If the Gulf whistled, I had to jump, and they’d be telling me how high. That knowledge was tearing me up inside. All those beauties, all that money, and all those big man acts felt hollow.
Opening my eyes, I knew what kind of trap to construct.
Checking the file
, I found that Angelita, the soap actress, worked at a local studio just round the corner from her condo. As no less than three secretaries were filing claims of assault—Angelita clawed when she was upset—there would be plenty of happy faces when I wrecked her day.
Angelita was a cow, but she was an excellent actress. The production house she worked for was small, but the soap was making them a fortune. As the studio was doing well, they were making noises about expansion.
More Googling revealed a list of stars they claimed they might work with: Penelope Cruz, Antonio Banderas, and Sofia Vergara topped the list. Velasquez Cervantes would kill for a photo op with any one of them. Hmmm....
As I sat there, it all fell into place. I wouldn’t have to find my quarry; he’d come running as soon as I wanted him.
I called Arturo straight away. “I have a plan. He’ll be gone by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Really? Perfect!” Arturo crowed.
“Would you like our friend to be discovered in the soap actress’s bed?”
“Fuck me! If you can arrange that, I’ll give you a bonus!”
“I think I can swing it. But I need a little prep work done.”
“Call Kyle.”
The big bugger picked up instantly in his usual efficient way. “Yes?”
“Kyle, I need to get inside the mistress’s film studio, preferably the producer’s office, for a meeting. I also want a duplicate key to her condo plus entry to any one of the executive suites downstairs.”
There was a thirty-second silence. “When do you want it?”
“By tonight.”
“Consider it done. Our local man will arrange it. Where will you be staying?”
“The Four Seasons. My name will be Benson, Marcus Benson. I’ll book a suite.”
“I’ll get our man to take care of that too.”
“No thanks. I need to do that part myself. But could you get me a credit card as Benson? And if I send you some graphics, can you get some super fast letterhead and business cards done?”
“You’ll have both within the hour. What about the girl?”
There was no way I was letting him near her.
“Morgan’s feeling a lot better. She’ll be all right.” I thought of a way to put the boot in. “She’s actually a bit jumpy around people. I think it’s better for her if she’s not stressed.”
There was a short silence. I knew he was suspicious, but with the urgent mission, he didn’t want to cause waves. “I’ll come and see her when you’re back.”
Damn! But it was unavoidable. “Of course. Come for dinner.” If she proved difficult, I’d drug her and pretend she’d had a setback.
“Okay.” Kyle hung up without another word. He really didn’t like me.
I made a couple of calls and went to wake Morgan. “I’ll be gone overnight,” I told her.
Her eyes flickered. “I stay here?”
“I’m not locking you up. If you want to walk, do so. I’ll tell the halcones to let you pass.”
Her eyes were narrowed with suspicion. “I can just go?”
“Yes, but then you’re on your own.” I saw her shiver, but I wanted to be certain she didn’t do anything daft. “Even if your ex doesn’t get you, you’d be undocumented in Mexico. If that’s what you want, go for it.”
Her eyes told me it wasn’t. She was mine.
She’d given me a lot of pleasure, and as she was playing nice, I reminded her of the benefits of staying put. “You’re safe here. This house is watched by guards.”
“The guards. Will they come to the house?”
Morgan was scared again. I filed that away for later. “They haven’t so far.”
“How long will you be gone?”
Morgan was definitely staying. Better still, she wasn’t whining or weeping. I was liking my girl more and more. “I’ll be back by tomorrow evening. You won’t have time to miss me.”
Morgan didn’t say a word, but her eyes said she’d be damned if she missed me.
I’m practical, so I put her to work. “There are tools in the garage. Could you fix all the leaky taps?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. See you tomorrow.” Then I went off, not realising I was heading into trouble.
The flight took ninety minutes and was uneventful. Upon arrival, I headed straight for the men’s room. Ten minutes work with blue eyeliner, face powder, brown tinted hair gel and a particularly pungent aftershave was enough to turn me into Marcus Benson.
I minced out, hopped into a taxi and was promptly triple charged. Not bad at all for a poofy tourist. Ten minutes later I blew into the Four Season, scattering bellhops and concierges as I went.
I headed straight for a red-lipped receptionist. “Darling! My name’s Benson.”
“Ah yes, we spoke on the phone. I am Beatriz.”
As I’d called all in a twitter no less than five times in three hours, the girl remembered me instantly and braced herself.
I powered up and delivered. “Is it free? The presidential suite?”
“I’m afraid not, señor. But we have a lovely room overlooking the city.”
“Oh dear. But I can view it, can’t I? I really must!” I wailed. “After that disaster in Chengdu last year, I promised Pen I would vet all the accommodation personally!”
“Penelope Cruz is really coming here?” Her eyes were round with excitement.
I dropped my voice dramatically. “If I do my job, darling, yes!” I opened my briefcase, scattering business cards, letters embossed with the Sesame Street and Zoolander logos and dug around before finally brandishing a printed email. “Here, darling! My reservation.”
Beatriz was smiling, picking up the letters. “I saw her interviewed just last month. She was so sweet and funny. My son loves her.”
“Oh, everyone loves Pen, darling. She’s beautiful inside and out!”
That was typical Benson. He was over the top 24/7, a total drama queen who could turn having a cup of tea into a five-act performance.
Despite that, or maybe because of it, he was an excellent casting expert. He could talk for days, wearing down his clients until they’d do anything, just to get the bugger to shut the fuck up.
The man came to my attention after he lured Giovanni Buscetta to his hotel with the offer of a Hollywood career and then raped him. When the lad killed himself, he left a note.
I’d been in Rome at the time, hoping to find a home with the Rossi family. Giovanni Buscetta’s uncles were getting on in years at that point, so they asked me to do the honours. I kept Benson alive for three days, and I gave his prick, stuffed and mounted, to the Buscettas afterwards.
I did exactly as they’d asked, but when they saw what remained of the rest of the body, the Rossi decided I was too dangerous to have around. I had to take out the two guns they sent to take care of me and then leave in a hurry to hang on to my life. At the time I’d cursed Benson, but now he would be my key to trapping Velasquez Cervantes.
So I gushed as the girl tapped in my credit card information, and by the time she was done, anyone within ten feet of us knew I was the casting supervisor for Penelope Cruz, intent on scoping out suitable celebrities for cameos for her next film, Zoolander 3.
“I’ve not heard of Zoolander 3,” the receptionist remarked. “They’ve only just made 2.”
“Darling! It takes years to make deals. Tom Cruise is booked three years in advance.”
“Tom Cruise?” At the name, the girl jumped. “Oh, this came for you, señor.”
It was the keys I wanted for the condo apartments, impressively parcelled up in a padded envelope marked, “Cruise Productions.”
“Is that from him?” she breathed.
“Indeed it is, darling.” I winked at her. “He and Pen go way back. They’re great friends.”
Leaving Beatriz in an excited twitter, I went up to my suite, dumped my case and went straight out. “To feel the bones of this beautiful city!”
Actually, I headed straight for an upmarket
grocery and invested in champagne and oranges. Then I went to the condo and set the scene.
The condo featured luxury apartments as well as business suites with a small foyer, a meeting room, and a discreet bedroom behind. Ideal for people wanting to do a bit of private business, be it hanky-panky or drug dealing. The local Zetas had secured a handsome apartment, decked out in dark green leather chairs and rosewood furniture. It was perfect.
By the time I got back to the hotel, it was getting late. I popped into the bar and ordered a rum and coke.
“Señor Benson?” Beatriz was standing at my elbow with an envelope. “This message came for you while you were out.”
It was confirmation of my meeting at the studio.
“Thank you, darling. How sweet of you to bring it personally.”
I was smiling because Velasquez Cervantes was right beside her.
“Señor Benson, may I introduce another fan of Ms Cruz? Inspector General Diego Alejandro Velasquez Cervantes.”
He was a handsome bloke with black hair, olive skin, and big brown eyes, so as Marcus Benson I smiled and oozed, “Well, hello!”
Of course he stepped back, horrified to be leered at by a maricon. But the lure of the silver screen kept him from running.
His voice was a low macho rumble, “I heard from Beatriz that you plan to film a movie here, with Penelope Cruz.”
Of course he had. That was the point of the myriad phone calls. I’d known the hotel staff would gossip, and this man having his ear to the ground would inevitably hear of it.
“The inspector general is very famous,” Beatriz said nervously.
I camped it up. “I’m sure he is, darling!”
“As a police officer and a musician,” the girl ploughed on, clearly sticking to her script. “He wrote a very famous song.”
“Did he, darling?”
“He could be in your movie. With Ms Cruz.”
Duty done, the girl fled. My quarry sat down, wrinkling his nose at my aftershave that was still reeking after a day’s wear.
“A singing policeman?” I asked archly. “A love ballad, Inspector General?”
“It went gold,” he said flatly. “In six weeks.”
It was a lie, but I looked impressed. “Oh!”
