by Mark Dawson
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 shirt 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 that.”
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?”
MILTON SEARCHED the property.
It was of a reasonable size, and he took his time working his way through it. For the most part, he found what he would expect to find: summer clothes in the closet, utility bills filed neatly in a bureau in the space that was used as an office, neatly stacked laundry on a shelf above the washing machine. There was a laptop computer in the office, and Milton disconnected it and put it to one side, confident that if there was anything of interest stored on it, then Ziggy would be able to recover it.
He moved into the master bedroom and, as he dropped down to his stomach to look under the bed, he found a black aluminium case. He pulled it out. It was locked, with two padlocks threaded through metal-reinforced grommets.
Milton put the case on the bed, went back to the study and collected two paperclips from a bowl that he had noticed earlier. He opened the clips and bent each of them into an L shape. He used one of the clips as his pick and the other as his wrench, and, as he applied slight pressure, he was able to pop the lock. He repeated the trick for the second padlock, slid them both out of the grommets and opened the case. Nestled inside a foam inset were two Taurus PT111 Pro G2 handguns. The model was lightweight and had a thin profile, perfect for concealed carry. The guns were chambered in 9mm, and the case also contained two magazines with twelve-round capacities. Milton took one of the pistols, pushed a magazine into the butt and put it in his pocket. He would give the other one to Hicks.
He had noticed something else under the bed. One of the floorboards extruded above the others and, when he investigated further, he saw that there were scraping marks around the bed’s metal feet. He pushed the bed aside so that he could take a closer look. The floorboard was loose and, using the claw of the hammer, he was able to prise it open.
There was a void beneath the floor and, stuffed within it, Milton found a leather satchel. He took it out, unzipped it and counted ten thick bundles of banknotes. He riffled through one of the bundles and saw denominations for two and five hundred pesos. It was difficult to guess with precision, but he suspected from the number of notes that there was perhaps two million pesos in the bag. One hundred thousand dollars.
He put the banknotes back in the satchel and went through into the lounge. It was approaching five in the afternoon.
Where was Mendoza? They had no other leads to go on. There would come a point where he would look at another way to find a route back to de Lacey, but, until then, he figured that patience was the best policy.
There was nothing to do but wait.
THEY WAITED in the car for five hours. It was ten minutes after nine and darkness had fallen when Hicks saw the glow of headlights at the end of the road.
“You see it?” Josie asked him.
He nodded.
“That’s a Porsche,” she said.
Hicks watched as the car slowed and drew to a halt at the gate. It was a white Boxster with the roof down.
“What do you think?” Hicks asked Josie.
She squinted through the darkness. “I think it’s him.”
He took out his phone and dialled.
“I’m here,” Milton said as soon as the call connected.
“There’s a car at the gate. We think it might be him.”
“Copy that. Leave the line open.”
They watched as the guard came out of his hut and spoke with the driver. It was too gloomy to identify him save that he was male. The guard concluded the conversation and went back to the hut. A moment later, the gate rolled back and the car drove into the compound.
Hicks put the phone to his ear once again. “The car’s coming inside.”
“How many people?”
“One,” he reported. “Male. It’s too dark to ID him.”
“Copy that. Stay outside. If he comes back out again, follow him.”
“Affirmative,” Hicks said.
The line was quiet.
“What’s he going to do?” Josie asked.
“He’ll get answers.”
“You’ve done this before,” she said. It was almost an accusa
tion.
“A few times,” he replied, watching the bright red glare of the taillights as the car headed into the compound.
“I want to do this properly,” she said. “Mendoza—I want him to be brought in.”
“He will be.”
“I’m serious. I’m going to arrest him.”
Hicks didn’t answer.
Josie reached across and grabbed the phone from him. “This is Hernandez,” she said. “This gets done properly, Milton, you understand? I want to bring him in.”
Hicks couldn’t hear Milton’s response.
“That’s how we do it,” she continued. “Otherwise I’m going to go up to the gate now and tell them to let me in. Your choice.”
Hicks looked at her: she was animated, her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing with anger.
“He wants to speak to you,” Josie said to Hicks, handing the phone back to him.
“Hicks here.”
“Get ready to come through,” Milton said. “If it’s Mendoza, I’ll tell you. I’ll need you both in here with me.”
MILTON WAS in the living room. He heard the motor of the garage door as it slid up and back and then the sound of a car’s engine as it was driven inside. The engine was switched off and the motor buzzed again as the garage door closed. He heard a car door opening and then slamming shut.
Milton crossed the room to stand behind the door to the kitchen.
A light was switched on in the kitchen; he saw the illumination beneath the door. He heard the sound of the microwave as it was programmed and then started, and, after a minute, he heard the ping as the program completed. He heard the hiss as a ring pull was opened.
Milton held the gun in his hand, his back pressed up against the wall. He was calm. He knew what he had to do.
The door opened, the light from the kitchen streaming into the room.
A man came inside.
Milton let him walk ahead and then stepped out from his hiding place.
