Gone (Michael Bennett 6)

“The informant wants more money. He wants a million, and he wants half up front. What should I do?”

“Sit by the phone. I’ll call you back,” she said, hanging up.

She went back inside as Manuel came out of the bedroom in a short silk robe. Most crime lords got fat when they got rich, but not the Sun King. He worked out like a madman with weights for an hour every day and ran for another on the treadmill. He was a health-food nut. Though he was in his mid-forties, he could easily pass for thirty-five.

She couldn’t help but stare at his broad shoulders as he went into the kitchen and took some pomegranate juice out of the fridge. Not for the first time, she felt herself get aroused. When he’d asked her to be his special personal assistant for the duration of his stay in Los Angeles, she thought he might make a move, but so far, unfortunately, he’d been the perfect gentleman.

He’d even informed her that he was having a guest over a little bit later. She knew what that meant. The two whores he’d had over the night before hadn’t left until three a.m.

Then she remembered herself.

“I have news, Manuel. The FBI agent was right. The Bennetts seem to be in Susanville. We just heard from an informant who claims to know their exact location. But he wants a million, and he wants half up front.”

“A million?” Perrine said, affronted. “That’s thievery.”

“Perha

ps we could set up the informant? Force him to tell us?” Vida said, lifting her phone.

“No,” said Manuel as he poured himself some juice. “I have another idea. Send that other one up there. The one who found the last two stinking rats for us. What’s his name?”

“The Tailor?” Vida said.

“Yes, yes. The Tailor. He can easily find the Bennetts and eliminate them, especially now that we know we’re in the ballpark.”

Perrine drank some juice and smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“And you know what happens when we get in the ballpark, Vida.”

She had just forwarded Manuel’s wishes when the front doorbell rang. She looked at the security camera. There was a tall, blond woman wearing a tube top and leather miniskirt and a raincoat. Just one hooker tonight.

Terrific, Vida thought, rolling her eyes. Perhaps I’ll get to sleep before two.

Vida opened the door. The woman who stepped inside was even taller than she looked on the video screen, and very heavily made-up. Like a TSA agent, Vida put on blue rubber gloves before she went through the prostitute’s bag. All cell phones and recording devices would be left in the living room, of course. The already-agreed-upon procedure was that the sex workers would be blindfolded throughout, so as to hide Manuel’s identity. A detail the whores had no problem with, LA being a town where discretion was valued almost as much as debauchery.

As Vida was frisking the whore, she suddenly stopped and excused herself.

“Um, Manuel? A word, sir?” Vida said, knocking and entering his bedroom.

“Yes, Vida? Has my guest arrived?” Perrine said from where he lay back on the bed, smoking a cigar as he channel-surfed the seventy-inch flat screen.

“It’s about your guest, sir,” Vida said delicately. “I … I think she’s an impostor.”

“What do you mean? An impostor?”

“They sent a transvestite, Manuel,” she said. “I just frisked her, him, whatever. She is a definite he.”

The cartel king laughed as he shut off the TV. He shook his head at Vida affectionately as he stood and squeezed her cheek.

“Thank you, Vida, my innocent little country girl, but everything is completely in order,” he said as he spanked her playfully on the rump. “Now, be a love and go blindfold that vision of loveliness and send her in with the champagne.”

CHAPTER 74

IN THE AFTERMATH OF the horrific attack on Agent Mara, the entire task force began to work fourteen-hour days.

We interviewed every witness at the pool where she’d been grabbed that morning—the lifeguards, the parents of the other kids. We had spoken to her soul-broken husband, who simply told us that he had been talking to his wife when there was a loud machine sound and the screen blurred. Emily even interviewed her poor little son Ian, who was overwrought with grief.

But there was nothing. We hadn’t even found her stolen truck yet. One second, the agent had been watching her kid in the SUV, and the next, the SUV was gone, with only a pile of broken glass in its place.