empire surrounded by the sleek, stylish trappings of modern corporate respectability.
Lathrop took a stride or two out of the elevator toward the pretty young secretary sitting near the double doors, gave her a little smile, and waited. Their eyes met in brief, unacknowledged recognition as a dark-suited guard came around from his station, passed a metal detector wand over Lathrop, and then nodded at the secretary. She punched a button on her switchboard, spoke quietly into her headset’s mouthpiece, and the doors swung open, another guard appearing in the entrance to motion Lathrop past him into the carpeted hallway beyond.
The second man conducted Lathrop through several turns of the office-lined corridor, walking slightly ahead as if to guide him along, but that was just a formality. Lathrop knew his way around and it was no secret to the guards, the woman at the reception desk, or anyone else he passed approaching the main executive suite.
Juan Quiros was waiting for him inside, his elbows resting on his desk, his thick hands folded in front of him.
A stocky, bull-necked man with heavy features and an olive complexion, he seemed as constricted and ill at ease in a beige Italian designer suit as his predecessor Enrique had been sleek and loose, as out of place in an office setting as Enrique had been harmoniously compatible. Since his rise to ultimate power in the clan, Juan had acquired an overmanicured look from evident and increasingly frequent visits to the salon. His curly black hair had been treated with relaxers and imparted with a sprayed-on plastic gloss. His needle-sharp mustache might have been drawn with the fine point of a pencil. The eyebrows that had formed a solid bristly line above his nose before being reshaped by a series of waxings and tweezings were now neatly separated on his wide forehead, their high, thin arches giving him an appearance of perpetual surprise. But there was something in his eyes, something baleful and wolfish, the soft touch salon cosmeticians couldn’t lift away or mask.
“I thought about having you kicked the hell out of the building,” Juan said.
Lathrop glanced at the door to make sure it had been shut behind him by the departing guard.
“Always ready with a pleasant greeting,” he said to Juan.
“Pleasant doesn’t interest me,” Juan said. “I’m not sure you do, either.”
Lathrop looked at him.
“That wasn’t your attitude when I called,” Lathrop said. “You’ve changed your mind, tell me.”
Juan didn’t move or answer.
“Go on, tell me,” Lathrop said. “I’ll walk.”
Juan watched him closely, his fingers still linked together.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I hear that question a lot from people,” Lathrop said. “The smart ones have learned to ask what I’ve got, and I figured you were one of them.”
Juan’s smile showed nothing.
“Okay,” he said. “You have edge for me, talk.”
“Edge costs,” Lathrop said. “Figured you’d know that, too.”
Juan’s gaze was as empty as his smile. “I don’t spend money on thin air,” he said sullenly.
“How about on finding out who killed your cousin Armand?” Lathrop said. “And why.”
Juan regarded him without visible reaction for a moment.
“Tell you what,” he said. “The trade we’re in, we make enemies, and Armand was good at that. Maybe I got my own ideas about who would’ve killed him and am dealing with it.”
“Maybe,” Lathrop said. “Or maybe you don’t have a clue who sent that masked white man came blasting his way into that garage in Devocion. And maybe you’d better for your own health.”
Juan took a breath, his full lips parting over rows of white capped teeth. Then he slowly reclined and pulled apart his stubby hands. There were kinks of hair on their backs and on his knuckles that had escaped, or been ignored by the cosmeticians.
Lathrop waited.
“Give it to me,” Juan said at last.
“There’s more in the package and I don’t break it up,” Lathrop said. “You pay for all or nothing.”
Juan nodded, his eyes suddenly narrow and gleaming.
“We’ve done business before,” he said, “I know how it goes.”
“A minute ago you acted like you didn’t.”
Juan kept staring at him.
“Give it to me,” he said again. “Everything.”
Lathrop grinned, waited another moment. Then he stepped closer to the desk and took the seat in front of it.
“The man who killed Armand was hired by Esteban Vasquez to find out where you’re keeping his daughter and bring her back to him,” he said. “You make it worth my while, I’ll arrange to bring you that gringo’s head on a stake instead.”
Tom Ricci was in the bedroom of his rental condominium zipping the HK G36 into its case when he heard the doorbell. The sound took a moment to sink in, as if it was something new to him. He listened, thinking maybe there had been a mistake. Not many people came to call lately. And to his surprise the bell rang again.
Ricci finished packing away the carbine, propped it in a corner, left the room, and pulled the door shut behind him, listening for the solid click of the latch. Then he went into his entry hall and looked out the peephole.
He straightened up, doubly surprised now. But this time he reacted with a jolt.
He’d recognized Julia Gordian at once.
Ricci stared at the door as confusion took hold of him. His first thought was to turn back around without answering — he had no use for company, and what would she be doing here? They’d only met once or twice before that day in Big Sur and hadn’t seen each other after. It didn’t make sense and could only mean problems for him.
Ricci stared at the door, not reaching for its knob. She’d have seen his Jetta out front but that didn’t mean anything. Let her decide he was asleep, or out for a walk, or whatever. He didn’t want or need company, especially this morning. He just wanted her to leave.
He waited.
Another ring. A soft knock on her side of the door.
Ricci swore under his breath. His hand grasped the doorknob, turned it, and pulled the door half-open.
He looked at her for several seconds.
“Hi, Tom,” Julia said from the front step. She nodded toward her station wagon in the driveway. “I happened to be driving past your neighborhood this morning and figured I’d stop and say hello.”
Ricci was quiet. Julia had her black hair pulled into a loose ponytail that was kind of twisted up and clasped to the back of her head and seemed to be almost but not quite coming apart. There were three small gold rings in her left ear and two in her right and she was wearing black capri pants and flip-flop sandals and a lilac-colored sleeveless blouse with a lot of small yellow polka dots on it. In her hand, the one that hadn’t just dropped from the buzzer, was a waxed white paper bag.
Ricci kept the door partially closed between them.
“I never told you where I live,” he said.
Julia shrugged. “Are you sure?” she said.
“I’m sure,” he said.
“Guess I must have found out from somebody else, then,” she said with a smile. “Because I remembered the address while I was passing by. And since you’re you, and you’re here, and this looks like a
Ricci studied her, his eyes adjusting to the sunlight flooding over the small plot of lawn neatly maintained by the condo development’s service staff.
“Look,” he said, “I’m kind of busy.”
Julia stood there on the front step, shrugging again, her smile becoming a little sheepish.
“I don’t want to bother you,” she said softly, and held up her bag. “But I brought coffee and muffins… and, well, I haven’t had a chance… that is, much as it’s kind of late, I really want to thank you for saving my life.”
Ricci regarded her through the entryway awhile longer, hesitated. Then he grunted and pulled open the door.
