We showered together and I let her wash my back and I washed hers and neither of us talked about where I was going because she knew better than to ask when my face looked like this. She’d learned to read the difference between Quest-heading-to-the-office and Quest-heading-somewhere-that-required-a-gun. Today was the second one.
“Look out for Ren when she gets back,” I said while I got dressed. “She went to see Vivica today and that’s never easy.”
“I will.”
“And I want you to start looking at places in the city. Closer to your school and the casino. This commute is killing both of us. Find something you love and I’ll make it happen.”
“You’re telling me to pick my dream place?”
“I’m telling you to pick our dream place. Whatever you want, wherever you want it. Just make sure it’s got enough room.”
“Enough room for what?”
“For whatever comes next.” I kissed her forehead, grabbed my keys, and walked out before she could ask me what that meant. She’d figure it out.
Mateo Rios livedin a six-bedroom colonial in McLean, Virginia, behind a wrought iron gate that was more decorative than functional. The security system was high-end but not military-grade, which meant my guy had it bypassed in under four minutes. Cameras looped. Motion sensors disabled. I walked through the back door like I had a key.
The house was exactly what I expected from a man who moved cocaine and called himself a real estate developer. Marble floors, imported furniture, art on the walls that he probably bought by the square foot. A massive kitchen with a commercial range. Family photos on the mantel. A little boy in most of them, maybe six or seven, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s jaw.
I’d been watching this house for three days. I knew their schedule. LaLa dropped the boy at school at 8:15 and came back by 9:45 after hot yoga. Rios left for his office around 10:30. The housekeeper came Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today was Wednesday. No housekeeper. Just me and Italian marble and patience.
The front door opened at 9:47 AM. LaLa walked in carrying a gym bag and a green juice, hair pulled back in a ponytail, yoga pants and sneakers. She was pretty. Mid-thirties, light brown skin, a face that won beauty pageants in Bogotá before she married money and moved to Virginia. She didn’t see me until she was halfway through the foyer.
She froze. The gym bag hit the floor.
“Don’t scream,” I said. “Sit down.”
“Who are you? How did you get in my house?”
“Sit down, LaLa.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know everything about you. Your name, your son’s name, his school, your schedule. I’m not here to hurt you but I will if you make this difficult. Now sit down.”
She sat. The green juice was still in her hand and she was gripping it so tight the lid was about to pop off. Her eyes were wide and wet and scanning the room for exits or weapons or anything she could use. She wasn’t going to find any. I’d already checked.
“Your husband has been paying a woman for dominatrix services. You know what that is?”
Her face changed. Fear shifted into something else. Confirmation of something she’d suspected for a while. “Yes. I know what that is.”
“He became obsessed with her. Started stalking her. Sending money to her accounts, texting her from different numbers, tracking her movements. When she cut him off, he sent two men on motorcycles to kidnap her. They ran her car off the road and killed her security guard.”
LaLa’s eyes filled. The green juice slipped from her hand and hit the marble floor. She didn’t flinch. She just sat there processing the information through whatever version of Mateo she’d built in her head over the years.
“Did you know about any of this?” I asked.
“No.” Her voice was barely there. “He has secrets. I always knew he had secrets. But not this.”
“I believe you. Now call him. Tell him you’re not feeling well. Tell him to come home. Make it convincing.”
She picked up her phone with trembling hands and dialed. Her voice came out steady enough when he answered. “Mi amor, can you come home? I’m not feeling well. I think it’s my blood pressure again. I’m dizzy.” She paused. “Okay. Thank you. I love you too.”
She hung up. “Twenty minutes.”
“Good.”
We waited. I sat across from her with my gun visible and my eyes on the garage entrance. She cried quietly for about ten minutes and then stopped and just stared at the floor. I didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say that would make this better for her. Her husband was a predator and predators create collateral damage and she was it.
