Louis Ortega?s house was in an expensive development on the south side of the city, a golf course, lake, trees, Land Rovers and Audis and other expensive cars in the driveways.
He found Ortega?s house, parked across the street, and watched. He ate a bag of pistachio nuts he?d bought at the second convenience store.
Ortega?s home was a sprawling two-story affair with a tile roof. Stucco wall with a gate of twisted iron bars. The whole thing was meant to resemble a Spanish villa. Black Mercedes SUV in the driveway.
Mike crunched pistachios, tried to estimate what sort of man Ortega was. He?d sent Enrique Mars to kill Andrew Foley. Mike thought about Mars. When Mike had been young and fresh, a thug like Mars would not have given him much trouble. If that?s the sort of muscle Ortega had on his roster, then Mike judged Ortega to be a regional player at best.
But Ortega had also sent Meredith Cornwall-Jenkins. She was tougher, a smoother operator who somehow had access to an army helicopter. Government connections. That put her in a whole different league than Mars. It didn?t fit with Mike?s appraisal of Ortega.
In the old days, in his old neighborhood, he could have called some people, asked some questions, gotten the skinny, called in favors. Now he was in a strange town with no friends. Mike didn?t really know shit about Ortega and couldn?t think of a way to find out.
And he was out of pistachio nuts.
He got out of the Caddy, opened the trunk. He?d decided on the direct approach and needed to take along the right playthings. He stuck a revolver in his waistband, buttoned his jacket over it.
He went to the front gate, rang the buzzer next to the intercom.
?Yes?? A woman?s voice, slight Spanish accent.
?I want to speak to Louis Ortega.?
?This is his residence,? the voice said. ?Appointments should call his business office.?
?Tell him I have a message from Enrique Mars.?
A long silence. Mike figured he?d struck out and turned back toward the Caddy. Then he heard a high-pitched buzz. The gate clicked open. He pushed through, walked up the driveway to the front door. A woman let him in, gray maid?s uniform. She was young, black hair in a tight ponytail. She led him through an elegant living room, earth tones and mirrors, down a long hall where a big guy in a green jogging suit waited. He had bodyguard written all over him, stoic expression, shoulders you could park a Jeep on. The bulge in his jogging suit under his left arm said
The maid left and the big guy started frisking Mike under the arms.
?It?s in my waistband,? Mike said.
The bodyguard reached under Mike?s jacket and took the revolver, stuck it in his own waistband while he finished the frisk.
?Okay,? the bodyguard said. ?This way.?
He opened the door. Mike was surprised. He?d expected an office or den on the other side. He was half right. Bookshelves lined one wall. A desk. Large-screen TV. A bar. On the right, the room opened up to the outdoors. Big French doors flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, a kidney-shaped swimming pool. Well-manicured landscaping.
They circled the pool to a gazebo on the other side. A well-dressed man sat at a table, a folded newspaper in his lap. A pitcher of something on the table next to a glass. Margaritas. A thick cigar smoldering in an ashtray.
?I am Louis Ortega.? He was smartly dressed, tan slacks, Italian loafers, a gold pinky ring with a ruby the size of a marble. A blue silk shirt open to the chest. A hundred-dollar haircut. ?Who are you??
The bodyguard loomed directly behind Mike.
It took a second, but then the name Foley registered in Ortega?s eyes. ?You are the father??
?The uncle.?
Ortega nodded. ?You said you had a message from Enrique Mars.?
