orses, Perrine’s real passion was for the show horses. They walked past stalls filled with several million dollars’ worth of them. He stopped to pat and pet his favorites, She-Wolf, and Blue, and Troubled Queen. The prize horses took their names from the Jackson Pollock paintings that hung in the mansion’s front hallway.
Perrine peered into Troubled Queen’s stall at the new-born foal. It was a filly, like he’d predicted. A pale-strawberry roan as pretty as her mother. The little horse peered back at him shyly before tucking itself back in, next to its mother.
“Look! She is afraid of me, Beto!” Perrine complained. “Can you believe this? Afraid of me?”
There was a troubled look on Beto’s face.
“What is it?” Perrine asked.
“What are we to call her?”
Perrine stared at the baby horse, a finger pressed to his pursed lips. He finally raised his finger in the air like a maestro.
“We shall call her La Rose,” Perrine announced.
“La Rose,” Beto repeated reverently as Perrine patted the old man on his shoulder and turned.
What he didn’t tell Beto was that “La Rose” came from the name of the captivating Paul Delvaux painting that he’d just picked up at Sotheby’s. Eighteen million was probably a tad pricey for the Belgian surrealist, Perrine thought, rolling his sleeves back down, but, hey, you can’t take it with you.
Arthur was waiting for him outside the front door of the barn, holding his cream-colored jacket. Perrine slipped back into it and shot the cuffs.
“Arthur,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Perrine?”
“A plane will be coming in about twenty minutes with quite a few, uh, lake-house guests aboard.”
Arthur nodded without batting an eyelash. The lake house was where the men liked to blow off steam after the bonus-party festivities. Morning cleanup usually involved hoses and shovels, but boys will be boys.
“Are those new cameras that I ordered installed?”
“They went online yesterday with a closed-circuit feed into your bedroom, as you insisted,” Arthur said. “Shall I have Hector and Junior waiting with the van at the airfield?”
“Yes, you shall, Arthur. Please remind them and the rest of the staff that these are special guests. Guests who will be treated with the utmost respect.”
Perrine smiled proudly as he walked with his manservant toward his glittering pool, the tiers of manicured gardens, his magnificent mansion.
“That is, until I kill them, of course,” he said.
CHAPTER 90
AFTER ANOTHER HALF HOUR, it looked like we’d gotten everything we were going to get out of Tomás Neves.
Between dunkings, he told us he had taken Perrine to a San Diego cartel house with a tunnel in its basement that went under the border. The tunnel exited in a tire shop, where a waiting car took Perrine to a plane at the Tijuana Airport.
He claimed that the plane had taken Perrine to an estate in Mexico near Real del Monte, where a party was going to take place. A chatty Salvajes cartel underling with whom he had coordinated Perrine’s transfer had bragged to him that his older brother had been invited to a black-tie function there tonight for what was called a bonus ceremony.
Suitcases of money would be ceremoniously handed out as hookers were brought in by the busload. Neves told us it was common knowledge that nothing made Perrine happier than drinking and carousing with his most efficient and most brutal soldiers.
At first, I thought, What a load of bullshit, but then I thought again. Perrine was amazingly cocky and arrogant. What better way to show how ballsy he was than to start a war with the US and then throw a party for his men.
As Neves was disseminating this information, I was in constant contact with Emily, who was outside, working her phone, firing off everything we learned to the LAPD task force so they could compare it with the flowchart we’d been building on Perrine’s cartel. The cops and agents back at the shop were, in turn, collating everything through FBI, CIA, NSA, and DEA databases.
The first glimmer of hope came when she called into the basement.
“San Diego SWAT just hit the address Neves gave us, Mike. There really is a tunnel. And Mexican authorities confirm that a private plane did leave from the Tijuana Airport this morning at eight a.m.”
We were passing around a box of Pop-Tarts twenty minutes later, gearing up for some more tubby time with Neves, when there was a knock on the sliding-glass door.