by M. A. Lawson
“It’s true, Roman. I helped Tito Olivera escape. But that’s only half the story. Caesar Olivera kidnapped my daughter, and I—”
“Your daughter?”
The last time she’d seen Roman, she didn’t have a daughter.
“It’s a long story, and I don’t want to tell it to you over the phone. I need to see you. Right away.”
Roman paused again, a pause so long that Kay knew he was debating whether or not he should meet with her. Or maybe he was thinking he should meet with her—then arrest her and turn her over to the Americans.
“Roman,” Kay said, “my daughter is going to die if you don’t help me. Just meet me and listen to what I have to say.”
“All right, Kay. But God help you if you’re lying to me. Where are you now?”
“I just crossed the border.”
Roman gave her directions to a laundromat in Tijuana.
“A laundromat?” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Go inside and wait for me. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”
“You’re in Tijuana?” she said. She thought he’d be in Mexico City, and it would take three or four hours for him to get to Tijuana.
“Yes. I came up here a couple days ago. A personal thing.”
Like maybe the woman he was with?
“Anyway, go to the laundromat,” Roman said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
—
The laundromat contained two dozen fairly new washers and dryers, but at six-thirty in the morning only four of the machines were being used. There were two women sitting in plastic chairs, drinking coffee and chatting when Kay walked in, and they looked over at her, probably wondering why an American woman was here at this time of day. She took a seat away from the windows where she was almost hidden by one of the washing machines.
Kay could hear the two women talking; they probably didn’t think she could speak Spanish. They were going on and on about some guy named Paulo who was apparently a rat and cheating on one of the women’s daughters. They kept giving her darting glances, and Kay wished that she had something to launder so she wouldn’t look so out of place.
Roman arrived forty minutes later. He walked over and spoke to the women, and Kay wondered why. Did the women work for Roman? Were they really lookouts and not two middle-aged women doing the weekly wash?
Roman made a gesture for Kay to follow him. He opened a side door with a key and they went up a flight of stairs. On the upper floor of the laundromat were an office and two bedrooms—making Kay wonder if the laundromat was some sort of safe house used by the Policía Federal.
The office had a battered wooden desk, an old but comfortable-looking leather chair behind the desk, two wooden chairs in front of the desk, a file cabinet, and several large maps of Mexico on the walls. Behind the desk was a brightly colored Gauguin print, one showing women washing clothes in a stream. Roman’s idea of irony?
Normally, when Roman saw Kay, he hugged her tightly, kissed her on the cheek, and complimented her on her looks. This time he just took a seat behind the desk and pointed her to one of the wooden chairs. He was treating her the way a cop would treat a suspect.
“What is this place?” she asked.
Roman shrugged. “It’s a laundromat. I own it.”
Roman wore a gorgeous gray suit and a bright blue shirt with his initials monogrammed on the pocket. She had never seen him when he wasn’t dressed like a model ready to pose for the cover of GQ. He had a full head of curly dark hair and a perfectly shaped Vandyke beard. There was not a gray strand in his hair or beard, and knowing how vain he was, Kay suspected that he used dye.
“Your boss called me at four this morning and told me that you helped Tito Olivera escape from Camp Pendleton and you were probably already in Mexico with him. Mr. Davis asked for my help in finding you and sending you back to the United States.”
“Tito Olivera is dead,” Kay said. “And like I told you, Caesar Olivera kidnapped my daughter.”
Then Kay told him the whole story.
“Mora told me that Jessica is here in Tijuana,” Kay said. “I don’t think he was lying, because he’d probably want her someplace close to the border so he could exchange her for Tito. I need you to help me find out where they’re keeping her, and I need to find her fast, before Mora figures out that I don’t have Tito.”
Roman shook his head. “What you’re asking is impossible, Kay. This is a big city. There are almost two million people in the metropolitan area. If I called out a thousand men to look for her, which I could, Caesar Olivera would immediately be informed. And how would I find her? I can’t search every house in Tijuana.”
“Jessica has a cell phone. You can find her using that.”
Roman shook his head again. “Raphael Mora is an intelligent man, and he’s not ignorant when it comes to technology. He’s already dumped her cell phone.” He saw Kay start to object, and he held up his hand. “Give me the number and the name of the provider, and I’ll get someone to see if your daughter’s cell phone is still working.”
Roman made a call and asked whoever he was talking to see if he could locate Jessica’s cell phone. While they waited, Roman went out for coffee and sweet rolls. He had just returned to the laundromat when he received a call back: Jessica’s cell phone had either been destroyed or the battery had been removed, so the GPS chip wasn’t active.
“Goddamnit,” Kay muttered. She thought for a moment, then said, “Maybe we can find the place where she’s being kept through property records.”
“Kay, it would take months to identify all the property Caesar owns in Mexico, and a lot of his property is held by companies he owns and not by him personally. Or he could be keeping her in a place owned by one of his men. I’m telling you: There is no way to find your daughter, not in just a few hours.”
“What about your snitches? You must have snitches in his organization. Contact them and see if they’ve heard anything.”
“Kay, I don’t have snitches in his organization. You need to understand that it’s not like in the United States. Caesar’s people aren’t afraid of being arrested, so I can’t threaten them with jail if they refuse to talk to me. And they all know Caesar will kill them and their families if they ever do talk to me.”
“But there must be a way to find her,” Kay said again. “There has to be.”
Roman shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Kay felt herself on the verge of tears—and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried, probably ten years before when her folks died. She immediately clamped down hard on the sudden surge of emotion. There was no time for tears.
“Then I need to find some way to get to Caesar,” she said. “I’ll force him to release my daughter.”
Roman shook his head, as if he felt sorry for her. “Kay, Caesar Olivera is protected as well as the president of the United States.”
“I have to try,” Kay said. “Mora said they’re going to put Jessica in a whorehouse if they don’t kill her. She’s fifteen years old, Roman. So do you know where Caesar is?”
“Of course. I always know where Caesar is, and right now he’s at his place in Rosarito Beach.”
Kay knew that Caesar Olivera had homes all over Mexico. She also knew his primary residence was in the state of Sinaloa and it was a virtual palace containing every luxury a man with Caesar’s vast wealth might desire. His place in Rosarito Beach in the northern Baja wasn’t quite so grand, but it was still a multimillion-dollar home. It was surrounded by a high wall and had expansive views of the Pacific Ocean. Roman had once told her that Caesar bought out—or forced out—three neighbors and razed their homes so he could have more space. Kay figured that Caesar had come to Rosarito Beach because it was only twenty miles from the U.S. border, and he was waiting there now for Tito.
“I want you to take me to his place in Rosar
ito so I can see his security for myself,” Kay said.
“What do you think you’re going to do? Break in?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I can find a way to make him invite me in.”
Roman cocked his head to the side and repeated, “Invite you in. Maybe there is a way.” Then Roman looked at her, his eyes moving up and down her body as if he was making some sort of appraisal. “Yes, there might be a way,” he said again. Then he smiled and added, “But not looking the way you do.”
Kay was still wearing the blazer, T-shirt, and jeans she wore when she visited Camp Pendleton—and she looked exactly like a woman who’d been up all night moving a corpse around. She didn’t understand, however, what her appearance had to do with invading Caesar’s home.
Roman took out his cell phone, and when someone answered, he said, “This is Colonel Quinterez. I need to speak to Claudio.” There was a brief pause, then Roman interrupted whoever was speaking and said, “I know what time it is. You find that pimp and tell him to call me. If I don’t hear from him in the next fifteen minutes, I’m going to put him in a cell with two diseased queers and let them play with him for a couple of days.”
“Who’s Claudio?” Kay asked.
“Just what you heard me say: He’s a pimp. Now let me tell you a little secret about Caesar Olivera, although it’s not much of a secret since so many people know. I suspect even his lovely wife knows.”
—
Caesar Olivera,” Roman said, “has a strong sexual appetite.” Roman laughed. “In fact, he may be the horniest man in Mexico, present company not included, of course.”
“You mean he likes hookers,” Kay said, thinking of Claudio the pimp.
Roman made a Latin gesture with his right hand that Kay interpreted as Not exactly. “I’m not sure hooker is the appropriate term. Caesar has a, ah, fantasy he likes to reenact. Or maybe fantasy isn’t even correct. It’s more of—”
“Goddamnit, Roman, just spit it out! What does he do? Tie them up? Whip them? Does he like twosomes, threesomes, sex with ten-year-olds? Just tell me.”
Roman laughed. “No, no. You misunderstand. Caesar likes to have a date. An agreeable encounter. The women he sleeps with are sophisticated, intelligent, quite often university educated—”
“You mean young coeds?”
“Please, Kay, let me finish. He likes, as I was saying, beautiful, sophisticated women. These women are sometimes married; some are professionals, like lawyers or teachers. Most are high-class call girls who can pass themselves off as belonging to some other profession.
“At any rate, the woman is invited to his home, or wherever Caesar might be at the time—his yacht, a hotel, wherever. They are introduced, they have dinner together. They converse. Caesar insists on a woman who is capable of carrying on a conversation. After dinner, they go to bed and, from what I’ve been told, Caesar acts in a normal manner. No sadism, no kinkiness, just enthusiastic sex.
“After they’re finished, the woman—never Caesar—says I’m so sorry but I have to leave now. I’m catching a plane to Paris in the morning, or I must fly to L.A. for an audition. In other words, the sort of excuse a desirable, sophisticated woman might give her lover if she’s unable to spend the night. The woman leaves, money is sent to an account or mailed to her, and Caesar never sees her again. He likes variety.
“I suspect that most of these women go to bed with Caesar for the money, but some of them must think that Caesar might become so smitten that he’ll leave his wife—which Caesar would never do.”
“But why does he do it?” Kay asked. “If he wants to get laid, why not just call an escort service, get his rocks off, and get back to work?”
“I think it’s because Caesar wants to be thought of as a man who wants more than sex from a woman. He wants to do more than ‘get his rocks off,’ as you put it. I think he wants a lover, even if it’s only for the night. I also think he would consider visiting a brothel or calling out for a hooker beneath him. It would make him feel crass, shallow . . . ordinary. But I don’t really know. I’m not a psychiatrist.”
“How often does he do this?”
Roman shrugged. “Not every night, and never when his wife or his daughters are with him. But frequently. And since his wife was with him for almost a month down in Sinaloa, I would say he’s overdue.”
“And this Claudio person can tell you if he’s ordered a girl for tonight?”
“Yes. But you need to understand something, Kay. You might be able to get into the house posing as one of Caesar’s dates—you’re certainly attractive enough—but you won’t get in there with a weapon, and you won’t get out if you do something to Caesar.”
“I’ll figure it out,” Kay said. A plan was already beginning to form in her head.
Ten minutes later, Claudio called Roman back and Roman ordered him to come to the laundromat. When Claudio knocked on the office door, Roman gestured for Kay to go into a closet. She’d be able to see and hear if she left the closet door cracked open.
Claudio was a large, soft man who was dressed as fashionably as Roman. His head was shaved and he had no eyebrows; Kay thought he looked like one of Cleopatra’s eunuchs. He was wearing a double-breasted black suit with pinstripes, a bright white shirt, a cravat, and ankle-high black boots. The first thing Roman said to him was: “Where did you get those boots, Claudio?”
“England,” Claudio said. “Would you like the shoemaker’s name? But you should know that you have to go to London so he can personally measure your feet. It’s the only way he works.”
“Yes, give me his name,” Roman said—which infuriated Kay, as Roman took the time to write down the name of the shoemaker.
“Sit down, Claudio,” Roman said, and Claudio took a seat on one of the wooden chairs while Roman remained standing, resting his butt against the desk. “I want to know if Caesar Olivera has ordered a woman for tonight.”
“Really, Colonel. Would you expect me to tell you if he did? My clients rely on my discretion.”
Roman took out his gun, a nine-millimeter Beretta.
“You’re going to shoot me?” Claudio said, smiling, obviously thinking Roman was bluffing.
“No,” Roman said, and hit Claudio in the face with the Beretta, knocking him off the chair.
“Get up,” Roman said.
Claudio struggled to his feet, holding his hand against the left side of his face. Roman hadn’t drawn blood, but Claudio was going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow.
“Listen to me, pimp,” Roman said. “I won’t shoot you but I will hurt you until you tell me what I need to know. So does Caesar have a woman coming tonight?”
“Yes,” Claudio said. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting this way? I think you’ve broken my cheekbone.”
“Who is the woman?”
Claudio said she worked for an escort service in L.A., but before that she attended UCLA.
“What did she take in school?”
“Art history. Film. Drama classes. That sort of thing. She wants to be an actress. They all do.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s still in Los Angeles. She’ll be flying down this evening.”
“What’s her name?
“Sandra. Sandra Whitman. But really, Colonel, if this is another one of your schemes to get recording equipment into Mr. Olivera’s house—”
“How old is the woman?”
“Twenty-nine. Or so she says. She’s probably in her early thirties.”
“What have you told Caesar about her?”
Claudio’s fingers gently probed the spot where Roman had hit him. “Do you have any ibuprofen? I’m really in a lot of pain.”
“Answer my question. What have you told Caesar about the woman?”
“Nothing. He doesn’t want to know anything. He relies on my judgment to find him suitable co
mpanions, but he likes to learn about them himself. All he knows is that she’s a beautiful young woman from Los Angeles.”
“Is she white?”
“Yes, but Caesar doesn’t care about their ethnicity. He prefers, however, that they speak Spanish.”
“What time does he expect the woman?”
“Eight p.m. As usual.”
“Call the woman, Claudio, and tell her that Caesar has changed his mind about seeing her this evening.”
“I can’t do that,” Claudio said.
Roman pointed the Beretta at Claudio’s left foot. “Claudio, would you have to go back to London for another fitting if I shot off some of your toes?”
Claudio took out his cell phone and made the call.
“Thank you, Claudio,” Roman said, then he raised the Beretta and shot Claudio in the heart. Kay immediately came out of the closet. “Jesus, Roman! What did you do?”
“It was necessary, my dear. If I had let him leave here, he would have called Caesar and told him about this meeting. He was always more afraid of Caesar than he was of me.” Roman looked down at Claudio’s boots and muttered, “I wish he didn’t have such small feet.”
“Forget the damn boots, Roman. Goddamnit! Why didn’t you ask him about Caesar’s security before you killed him?”
“I didn’t need to ask him. I already know everything there is to know about Caesar’s security. Which is why I know that whatever you’re planning is suicidal.”
—
Roman went to one of the bedrooms down the hall from the office, pulled a blanket off a bed, and tossed the blanket over Claudio’s corpse. He took out his cell phone and said to whoever answered, “I have an item to be disposed of. I’m at the laundromat.”
He hung up and said to Kay, “Now, when you arrive at Caesar’s house . . . Please, Kay, sit down and quit pacing. Try to relax. So, as I was saying, when you arrive at Caesar’s house, your handbag will be searched and you will be patted down by a woman.”
“Will they ask to see ID?”
“Yes, but that’s not a problem. You have your passport and driver’s license with you, don’t you?”